For still a smirk or a favor
Can hide the face of the false;
And the old-time Faith seeks braver
Upholders, and sacreder walls.
Yea, cunning is Christian evil,
And subtle the conscience' snare;
But virtue's volcanic upheaval
Shall cast fine device to the air!
Too long has the land's soul slumbered,
And triumph bred dangerous ease,—
Our victories all unnumbered,
Our feet on the down-bowed seas.
Come, then, simple and stalwart
Life of the earlier days!
Come! Far better than all were it—
Our precepts, our prayers, and our lays—
That the heart of the people should tremble
Accord to some mighty one's voice,
The helpless atoms assemble
In music, their valor to poise.
Come to us, mountain-dweller,
Leader, wherever thou art,
Skilled from thy cradle, a queller
Of serpents, and sound to the heart!
Modest, and mighty, and tender,
Man of an iron mold,
Learned or unlearned, our defender,
American-souled!
THE SILENT TIDE
A tangled orchard round the farm-house spreads,
Wherein it stands home-like, but desolate,
'Midst crowded and uneven-statured sheds,
Alike by rain and sunshine sadly stained.
A quiet country-road before the door
Runs, gathering close its ruts to scale the hill—
A sudden bluff on the New Hampshire coast,
That rises rough against the sea, and hangs
Crested above the bowlder-sprinkled beach.
And on the road white houses small are strung
Like threaded beads, with intervals. The church
Tops the rough hill; then comes the wheelwright's shop.
From orchard, church, and shop you hear the sea,
And from the farm-house windows see it strike
Sharp gleams through slender arching apple-boughs.