Too long ye till exhausted lands and reap
Thin crops that ne'er your weary toil requite:
Too long your laggard oxen labouring creep
Up the wide furrows, and full idly smite
The weed-encircled ridge, the rocky mound:
Will ye not quit these fields now barren found?
Ah! ye are old, yet not too old to be
Brave travellers o'er bald custom's boundary;—
Then each, let each his robe around him fling,
And with his little one, his child, set free,
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
See, on the strand, watching the waves that sweep
Their creamy ripples up the sandy bight,
Your child waits, leaping as the wavelets leap,
The faery infant of the infinite!
Ah! happy child, with what new wonders crowned
He'll turn to thee to fathom and expound;
Asking, enquiring, looking unto thee
To solve the universe, its destiny;—
And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling,
Asking, enquiring,—whispering, may not we
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
Oh, linger not, no longer vainly weep
O'er vanished hopes, but with new strength unite;
Oh, linger not! But let your glad eyes keep
Watch on this guiding star that beams so bright
Around your brows be this phylacter bound,—
Let Truth be king and let his praise resound!
Oh, linger not! Let earth, and sky, and sea,
To sound his praises let all hearts agree;
Still loud, and louder, let your pæans ring,
Go forth, go forth, in glad exultancy
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
Envoy.
Thou art the king, O Truth! we bend the knee
To thee; we own thy wondrous sovranty;
And still thy praises in our songs we'll sing,
Bidding all people with blithe minstrelsy
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
Samuel Waddington.
THE GLORY OF THE YEAR.
When Spring came softly breathing o'er the land,
With warmer sunshine and sweet April shower;
Bidding the silken willow leaves expand;
Calling to hill and meadow, bee and flower,
Bright with new life and beauty; on light wing
Bringing the birds again to love and sing;
And waking in the heart its joy amain,
With old fond hopes and memories in its train;
Childishly glad mid universal cheer,
How oft we sang the half-forgotten strain:
"Now we behold the glory of the year!"
When Summer by her fervid breezes fanned,
With footstep free and proud in restless power,
With plump, round cheek to ruddy beauty tanned,
In blooming loveliness came to her bower,
Her golden tresses loosely wandering
In wild luxuriance,—then pretty Spring
Seemed but a playful sister, pettish, vain.
How well we loved the passionate Summer's reign!
How day by day our empress grew more dear!
"Beyond," we asked, "what fairer can remain?
Now we behold the glory of the year!"
But when grave Autumn's ever bounteous hand
Poured round our feet the riches of her dower:
The pulpy fruit, the nut's sweet ripened gland,
The largess free to gleaner and to plower,
And all the Summer sought in vain to bring;
When stood the hills in glorious garmenting;
Shadowed by low-hung skies of sober grain,
No more could our ennobled thoughts sustain
Regretful memory of Summer sere,—
"What of the past!" we cried in quick disdain;
"Now we behold the glory of the year!"