Occasional Poems | Page 7

works of Thine,
The solemn minarets of the
pine,
And awful Shasta's icy shrine,--
Where swell Thy hymns from wave and gale,
And organ-thunders
never fail,
Behind the cataract's silver veil,
Our puny walls to Thee we raise,
Our poor reed-music sounds Thy
praise:
Forgive, O Lord, our childish ways!
For, kneeling on these altar-stairs,
We urge Thee not with selfish
prayers,
Nor murmur at our daily cares.

Before Thee, in an evil day,
Our country's bleeding heart we lay,

And dare not ask Thy hand to stay;
But, through the war-cloud, pray to Thee
For union, but a union free,

With peace that comes of purity!
That Thou wilt bare Thy arm to, save
And, smiting through this Red
Sea wave,
Make broad a pathway for the slave!
For us, confessing all our need,
We trust nor rite nor word nor deed,

Nor yet the broken staff of creed.
Assured alone that Thou art good
To each, as to the multitude,

Eternal Love and Fatherhood,--
Weak, sinful, blind, to Thee we kneel,
Stretch dumbly forth our hands,
and feel
Our weakness is our strong appeal.
So, by these Western gates of Even
We wait to see with Thy forgiven

The opening Golden Gate of Heaven!
Suffice it now. In time to be
Shall holier altars rise to Thee,--
Thy
Church our broad humanity
White flowers of love its walls shall climb,
Soft bells of peace shall
ring its chime,
Its days shall all be holy time.
A sweeter song shall then be heard,--
The music of the world's accord

Confessing Christ, the Inward Word!
That song shall swell from shore to shore,
One hope, one faith, one
love, restore
The seamless robe that Jesus wore.
HYMN
FOR THE HOUSE OF WORSHIP AT GEORGETOWN,


ERECTED IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER.
The giver of the house was the late George Peabody,
of London.
Thou dwellest not, O Lord of all
In temples which thy children raise;

Our work to thine is mean and small,
And brief to thy eternal days.
Forgive the weakness and the pride,
If marred thereby our gift may be,

For love, at least, has sanctified
The altar that we rear to thee.
The heart and not the hand has wrought
From sunken base to tower
above
The image of a tender thought,
The memory of a deathless
love!
And though should never sound of speech
Or organ echo from its
wall,
Its stones would pious lessons teach,
Its shade in benedictions
fall.
Here should the dove of peace be found,
And blessings and not curses
given;
Nor strife profane, nor hatred wound,
The mingled loves of
earth and heaven.
Thou, who didst soothe with dying breath
The dear one watching by
Thy cross,
Forgetful of the pains of death
In sorrow for her mighty
loss,
In memory of that tender claim,
O Mother-born, the offering take,

And make it worthy of Thy name,
And bless it for a mother's sake!

1868.
A SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATION.
Read at the President's Levee, Brown University,
29th 6th month,
1870.
To-day the plant by Williams set
Its summer bloom discloses;
The

wilding sweethrier of his prayers
Is crowned with cultured roses.
Once more the Island State repeats
The lesson that he taught her,

And binds his pearl of charity
Upon her brown-locked daughter.
Is 't fancy that he watches still
His Providence plantations?
That
still the careful Founder takes
A part on these occasions.
Methinks I see that reverend form,
Which all of us so well know
He
rises up to speak; he jogs
The presidential elbow.
"Good friends," he says, "you reap a field
I sowed in self-denial,

For toleration had its griefs
And charity its trial.
"Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More,
To him must needs be given

Who heareth heresy and leaves
The heretic to Heaven!
"I hear again the snuffled tones,
I see in dreary vision
Dyspeptic
dreamers, spiritual bores,
And prophets with a mission.
"Each zealot thrust before my eyes
His Scripture-garbled label;
All
creeds were shouted in my ears
As with the tongues of Babel.
"Scourged at one cart-tail, each denied
The hope of every other;

Each martyr shook his branded fist
At the conscience of his brother!
"How cleft the dreary drone of man.
The shriller pipe of woman,
As
Gorton led his saints elect,
Who held all things in common!
"Their gay robes trailed in ditch and swamp,
And torn by thorn and
thicket,
The dancing-girls of Merry Mount
Came dragging to my
wicket.
"Shrill Anabaptists, shorn of ears;
Gray witch-wives, hobbling slowly;

And Antinomians, free of law,
Whose very sins were holy.

"Hoarse ranters, crazed Fifth Monarchists,
Of stripes and bondage
braggarts,
Pale Churchmen, with singed rubrics snatched
From
Puritanic fagots.
"And last, not least, the Quakers came,
With tongues still sore from
burning,
The Bay State's dust from off their feet
Before my
threshold spurning;
"A motley host, the Lord's debris,
Faith's odds and ends together;

Well might I shrink from guests with lungs
Tough as their breeches
leather
"If, when the hangman at their heels
Came, rope in hand to catch
them,
I took the hunted outcasts in,
I never sent to fetch them.
"I fed, but spared them not a whit;
I gave to all who walked in,
Not
clams and succotash alone,
But stronger meat of doctrine.
"I proved the prophets false, I pricked
The bubble of perfection,

And clapped upon their inner light
The snuffers of election.
"And looking