Thine are all the gifts, O God!
Thine the broken bread;
Let the naked feet be shod,
And the starving fed.
Let Thy children, by Thy grace,
Give as they abound,
Till the poor have breathing-space,
And the lost are found.
Wiser than the miser's hoards
Is the giver's choice;
Sweeter than the song of birds
Is the thankful voice.
Welcome smiles on faces sad
As the flowers of spring;
Let the tender hearts be glad
With the joy they bring.
Happier for their pity's sake
Make their sports and plays,
And from lips of childhood take
Thy perfected praise!
THE LANDMARKS.
This poem was read at a meeting of citizens of Boston having for its object the preservation of the Old South Church famous in Colonial and Revolutionary history.
I.
THROUGH the streets of Marblehead
Fast the red-winged terror sped;
Blasting, withering, on it came,
With its hundred tongues of flame,
Where St. Michael's on its way
Stood like chained Andromeda,
Waiting on the rock, like her,
Swift doom or deliverer!
Church that, after sea-moss grew
Over walls no longer new,
Counted generations five,
Four entombed and one alive;
Heard the martial thousand tread
Battleward from Marblehead;
Saw within the rock-walled bay
Treville's liked pennons play,
And the fisher's dory met
By the barge of Lafayette,
Telling good news in advance
Of the coming fleet of France!
Church to reverend memories, dear,
Quaint in desk and chandelier;
Bell, whose century-rusted tongue
Burials tolled and bridals rung;
Loft, whose tiny organ kept
Keys that Snetzler's hand had swept;
Altar, o'er whose tablet old
Sinai's law its thunders rolled!
Suddenly the sharp cry came
"Look! St. Michael's is aflame!"
Round the low tower wall the fire
Snake-like wound its coil of ire.
Sacred in its gray respect
From the jealousies of sect,
"Save it," seemed the thought of all,
"Save it, though our roof-trees fall!"
Up the tower the young men sprung;
One, the bravest, outward swung
By the rope, whose kindling strands
Smoked beneath the holder's hands,
Smiting down with strokes of power
Burning fragments from the tower.
Then the gazing crowd beneath
Broke the painful pause of breath;
Brave men cheered from street to street,
With home's ashes at their feet;
Houseless women kerchiefs waved:
"Thank the Lord! St. Michael's saved!"
II.
In the heart of Boston town
Stands the church of old renown,
From whose walls the impulse went
Which set free a continent;
From whose pulpit's oracle
Prophecies of freedom fell;
And whose steeple-rocking din
Rang the nation's birth-day in!
Standing at this very hour
Perilled like St. Michael's tower,
Held not in the clasp of flame,
But by mammon's grasping claim.
Shall it be of Boston said
She is shamed by Marblehead?
City of our pride! as there,
Hast thou none to do and dare?
Life was risked for Michael's shrine;
Shall not wealth be staked for thine?
Woe to thee, when men shall search
Vainly for the Old South Church;
When from Neck to Boston Stone,
All thy pride of place is gone;
When from Bay and railroad car,
Stretched before them wide and far,
Men shall only see a great
Wilderness of brick and slate,
Every holy spot o'erlaid
By the commonplace of trade!
City of our love': to thee
Duty is but destiny.
True to all thy record saith,
Keep with thy traditions faith;
Ere occasion's overpast,
Hold its flowing forelock fast;
Honor still the precedents
Of a grand munificence;
In thy old historic way
Give, as thou didst yesterday
At the South-land's call, or on
Need's demand from fired St. John.
Set thy Church's muffled bell
Free the generous deed to tell.
Let thy loyal hearts rejoice
In the glad, sonorous voice,
Ringing from the brazen mouth
Of the bell of the Old South,—
Ringing clearly, with a will,
"What she was is Boston still!"
1879
GARDEN
The American Horticultural Society, 1882.
O painter of the fruits and flowers,
We own wise design,
Where these human hands of ours
May share work of Thine!
Apart from Thee we plant in vain
The root and sow the seed;
Thy early and Thy later rain,
Thy sun and dew we need.
Our toil is sweet with thankfulness,
Our burden is our boon;
The curse of Earth's gray morning is
The blessing of its noon.
Why search the wide world everywhere
For Eden's unknown ground?
That garden of the primal pair
May nevermore be found.
But, blest by Thee, our patient toil
May right the ancient wrong,
And give to every clime and soil
The beauty lost so long.
Our homestead flowers and fruited trees
May Eden's orchard shame;
We taste the tempting sweets of these
Like Eve, without her blame.
And, North and South and East and West,
The pride of every zone,
The fairest, rarest, and the best
May all be made our own.
Its earliest shrines the young world sought
In hill-groves and in bowers,
The fittest offerings thither brought
Were Thy own fruits and flowers.
And still with reverent hands we cull
Thy gifts each year renewed;
The good is always beautiful,
The beautiful is good.