One Of The Signers
O storied vale of Merrimac
Rejoice through all thy shade and shine,
And from his century's sleep call back
A brave and honored son of thine.
Unveil his effigy between
The living and the dead to-day;
The fathers of the Old Thirteen
Shall witness bear as spirits may.
Unseen, unheard, his gray compeers
The shades of Lee and Jefferson,
Wise Franklin reverend with his years
And Carroll, lord of Carrollton!
Be thine henceforth a pride of place
Beyond thy namesake's over-sea,
Where scarce a stone is left to trace
The Holy House of Amesbury.
A prouder memory lingers round
The birthplace of thy true man here
Than that which haunts the refuge found
By Arthur's mythic Guinevere.
The plain deal table where he sat
And signed a nation's title-deed
Is dearer now to fame than that
Which bore the scroll of Runnymede.
Long as, on Freedom's natal morn,
Shall ring the Independence bells,
Give to thy dwellers yet unborn
The lesson which his image tells.
For in that hour of Destiny,
Which tried the men of bravest stock,
He knew the end alone must be
A free land or a traitor's block.
Among those picked and chosen men
Than his, who here first drew his breath,
No firmer fingers held the pen
Which wrote for liberty or death.
Not for their hearths and homes alone,
But for the world their work was done;
On all the winds their thought has flown
Through all the circuit of the sun.
We trace its flight by broken chains,
By songs of grateful Labor still;
To-day, in all her holy fanes,
It rings the bells of freed Brazil.
O hills that watched his boyhood's home,
O earth and air that nursed him, give,
In this memorial semblance, room
To him who shall its bronze outlive!
And thou, O Land he loved, rejoice
That in the countless years to come,
Whenever Freedom needs a voice,
These sculptured lips shall not be dumb!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Liberty-Bell
With pomp attendant, and in garlands drest,
I journey from my sacred home once more;
Not this time to the new, triumphant West,
But to a land more dear to me of yore:
A land in memory sweet as the perfume
Of twining jasmine and magnolia bloom.
Though old and broken, for that memory's sake—
The memory of honored things gone by,
I will forget my length of years, and make
This pilgrimage unto her Southern sky,
So Georgia's children, too, my face may know,
And wreathe me proudly with their mistletoe.
Their fathers knew me, and in that great hour
When in the Hall of Freedom, since my home,
They signed the Charter, born of love and power,
That made them one, I, from the lofty dome
Above them, loudly rang the brave command,
Proclaiming Liberty throughout the land!
Men pass away, but I do not forget;
And though, alas, I have been silent long,
The echoes of my ringing vibrate yet,
From pole to pole, in every freeman's song;
And she who shared my May, in my December
Shall gaze upon my face, and will remember!
Georgia, to thee I come as to my own,
Undying laurels for thy heroes bringing,
Who sacrificed themselves to right alone,
Who signed for Liberty, and set me ringing.
The word they witnessed then, I bear to all,—
We stand, united; we, divided, fall!
O Georgia! land of Gwynnett, Walton, Hall!
Whose star was one of the sublime Thirteen,—
A pledge of hope and happiness to all,
A sign of victory, wherever seen,—
That vow the Fathers made, their sons fulfill,
The stars they joined shine on, united still!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Laus Deo
It is done!
Clang of bell and roar of gun
Send the tidings up and down.
How the belfries rock and reel!
How the great guns, peal on peal,
Fling the joy from town to town!
Ring, O bells!
Every stroke exulting tells
Of the burial hour of crime.
Loud and long, that all may hear,
Ring for every listening ear
Of Eternity and Time!
Let us kneel:
God's own voice is in that peal,
And this spot is holy ground.
Lord, forgive us! What are we
That our eyes this glory see,
That our ears have heard this sound!
For the Lord
On the whirlwind is abroad;
In the earthquake He has spoken;
He has smitten with His thunder
The iron walls asunder,
And the gates of brass are broken!
Loud and long
Lift the old exulting song;
Sing with Miriam by the sea,
He has cast the mighty down;
Horse and rider sink and drown;
'He hath triumphed gloriously!'
Did we dare,
In our agony of prayer,
Ask for more than He has done?
When was ever His right hand
Over any time or land
Stretched as now beneath the sun?
How they pale,
Ancient myth and song and tale,
In this wonder of our days
When the cruel rod of war
Blossoms white with righteous law,
And the wrath of man is praise!
Blotted out!
All within and all about
Shall a fresher life begin;
Freer breathe the universe
As it rolls its heavy curse
On the dead and buried sin!
It is done!
In the circuit of the sun
Shall the sound thereof go forth.
It shall bid the sad rejoice,
It shall give the dumb a voice,
It shall belt with joy the earth!
Ring and swing,
Bells of joy! On morning's wing
Sound the song of praise abroad!
With a sound of broken chains
Tell the nations that He reigns,
Who alone is Lord and God!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rantoul
One day, along the electric wire
His manly word for Freedom sped;
We came next morn: that tongue of fire
Said only, 'He who spake is dead!'
Dead! while his voice was living yet,
In echoes round the pillared dome!
Dead! while his blotted page lay wet
With themes of state and loves of home!
Dead! in that crowning grace of time,
That triumph of life's zenith hour!
Dead! while we watched his manhood's prime
Break from the slow bud into flower!
Dead! he so great, and strong, and wise,
While the mean thousands yet drew breath;
How deepened, through that dread surprise,
The mystery and the awe of death!
From the high place whereon our votes
Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest, fell
His first words, like the prelude notes
Of some great anthem yet to swell.
We seemed to see our flag unfurled,
Our champion waiting in his place
For the last battle of the world,
The Armageddon of the race.
Through him we hoped to speak the word
Which wins the freedom of a land;
And lift, for human right, the sword
Which dropped from Hampden's dying hand.
For he had sat at Sidney's feet,
And walked with Pym and Vane apart;
And, through the centuries, felt the beat
Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart.
He knew the paths the worthies held,
Where England's best and wisest trod;
And, lingering, drank the springs that welled
Beneath the touch of Milton's rod.
No wild enthusiast of the right,
Self-poised and clear, he showed alway
The coolness of his northern night,
The ripe repose of autumn's day.
His steps were slow, yet forward still
He pressed where others paused or failed;
The calm star clomb with constant will,
The restless meteor flashed and paled.
Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew
And owned the higher ends of Law;
Still rose majestic on his view
The awful Shape the schoolman saw.
Her home the heart of God; her voice
The choral harmonies whereby
The stars, through all their spheres, rejoice,
The rhythmic rule of earth and sky.
We saw his great powers misapplied
To poor ambitions; yet, through all,
We saw him take the weaker side,
And right the wronged, and free the thrall.
Now, looking o'er the frozen North,
For one like him in word and act,
To call her old, free spirit forth,
And give her faith the life of fact,--
To break her party bonds of shame,
And labor with the zeal of him
To make the Democratic name
Of Liberty the synonyme,--
We sweep the land from hill to strand,
We seek the strong, the wise, the brave,
And, sad of heart, return to stand
In silence by a new-made grave!
There, where his breezy hills of home
Look out upon his sail-white seas,
The sounds of winds and waters come,
And shape themselves to words like these.
'Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose power
Was lent to Party over-long,
Heard the still whisper at the hour
He set his foot on Party wrong?
'The human life that closed so well
No lapse of folly now can stain
The lips whence Freedom's protest fell
No meaner thought can now profane.
'Mightier than living voice his grave
That lofty protest utters o'er;
Through roaring wind and smiting wave
It speaks his hate of wrong once more.
'Men of the North! your weak regret
Is wasted here; arise and pay
To freedom and to him your debt,
By following where he led the way!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Korner And His Sister
Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest,
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,
And, in the stillness of thy country's breast,
Thy place of memory, as an altar keepest;
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd,
Thou of the Lyre and Sword!
Rest, bard! rest, soldier! by the father's hand
Here shall the child of after years be led,
With his wreath-offering silently to stand,
In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead.
Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod
With freedom and with God.
The oak wav'd proudly o'er thy burial-rite,
On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee,
And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight
Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er thee.
And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token,
That Lyre and Sword were broken.
Thou hast a hero's tomb: a lowlier bed
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying,
The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair, young head
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave
She pined to share thy grave.
Fame was thy gift from others; but for her,
To whom the wide world held that only spot,
She loved thee! lovely in your lives ye were,
And in your early deaths divided not.
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy:–What hath she?
Her own blest place by thee!
It was thy spirit, brother! which had made
The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play'd,
And sent glad singing thro' the free blue sky.
Ye were but two and when that spirit pass'd,
Wo to the one, the last!
Wo, yet not long! She linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast,
Once, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.
Too sad a smile! its living light was o'er,
It answer'd hers no more.
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled;
What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted?
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead!
Softly she perish'd: be the Flower deplor'd
Here with the Lyre and Sword!
Have ye not met ere now? so let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years,
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,
That love, where love is but a fount of tears.
Brother, sweet sister! peace around ye dwell:
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Naples
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C. WATERSTON, OF BOSTON.
Fold her, O Father, in Thine arms,
And let her henceforth be
A messenger of love between
Our human hearts and Thee.
I give thee joy!--I know to thee
The dearest spot on earth must be
Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea;
Where, near her sweetest poet's tomb,
The land of Virgil gave thee room
To lay thy flower with her perpetual bloom.
I know that when the sky shut down
Behind thee on the gleaming town,
On Baiae's baths and Posilippo's crown;
And, through thy tears, the mocking day
Burned Ischia's mountain lines away,
And Capri melted in its sunny bay;
Through thy great farewell sorrow shot
The sharp pang of a bitter thought
That slaves must tread around that holy spot.
Thou knewest not the land was blest
In giving thy beloved rest,
Holding the fond hope closer to her breast,
That every sweet and saintly grave
Was freedom's prophecy, and gave
The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.
That pledge is answered. To thy ear
The unchained city sends its cheer,
And, tuned to joy, the muffled bells of fear
Ring Victor in. The land sits free
And happy by the summer sea,
And Bourbon Naples now is Italy!
She smiles above her broken chain
The languid smile that follows pain,
Stretching her cramped limbs to the sun again.
Oh, joy for all, who hear her call
From gray Camaldoli's convent-wall
And Elmo's towers to freedom's carnival!
A new life breathes among her vines
And olives, like the breath of pines
Blown downward from the breezy Apennines.
Lean, O my friend, to meet that breath,
Rejoice as one who witnesseth
Beauty from ashes rise, and life from death!
Thy sorrow shall no more be pain,
Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain,
Writing the grave with flowers: 'Arisen again!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Country
WE give thy natal day to hope,
O Country of our love and prayer!
Thy way is down no fatal slope,
But up to freer sun and air.
Tried as by furnace-fires, and yet
By God's grace only stronger made,
In future tasks before thee set
Thou shalt not lack the old-time aid.
The fathers sleep, but men remain
As wise, as true, and brave as they;
Why count the loss and not the gain?
The best is that we have to-day.
Whate'er of folly, shame, or crime,
Withhin thy mighty bounds transpires,
With speed defying space and time
Comes to us on the accusing wires;
While of thy wealth of noble deeds,
Thy homes of peace, thy votes unsold,
The love that pleads for human needs,
The wrong redressed, but half is told!
We read each felon's chronicle,
His acts, his words, his gallows-mood;
We know the single sinner well
And not the nine and ninety good.
Yet if, on daily scandals fed,
We seem at times to doubt thy worth,
We know thee still, when all is said,
The best and dearest spot on earth.
From the warm Mexic Gulf, or where
Belted with flowers Los Angeles
Basks in the semi-tropic air,
To where Katahdin's cedar trees
Are dwarfed and bent by Northern winds,
Thy plenty's horn is yearly filled;
Alone, the rounding century finds
Thy liberal soil by free hands tilled.
A refuge for the wronged and poor,
Thy generous heart has borne the blame
That, with them, through thy open door,
The old world's evil outcasts came.
But, with thy just and equal rule,
And labor's need and breadth of lands,
Free press and rostrum, church and school,
Thy sure, if slow, transforming hands
Shall mould even them to thy design,
Making a blessing of the ban;
And Freedom's chemistry combine
The alien elements of man.
The power that broke their prison bar
And set the dusky millions free,
And welded in the flame of war
The Union fast to Liberty,
Shall if not deal with other ills,
Redress the red man's grievance, break
The Circean cup which shames and kills
And Labor full requital make?
Alone to such as fitly bear
Thy civic honors bid them fall?
And call thy daughters forth to share
The rights and duties pledged to all?
Give every child his right of school,
Merge private greed in public good,
And spare a treasury overfull
The tax upon a poor man's food?
No lack was in thy primal stock,
No weakling founders builded here;
Thine were the men of Plymouth Rock,
The Huguenot and Cavalier;
And they whose firm endurance gained
The freedom of the souls of men,
Whose hands, unstained with blood, maintained
The swordless commonwealth of Penn.
And thine shall be the power of all
To do the work which duty bids,
And make the people's council hall
As lasting as the Pyramids!
Well have thy later years made good
Thy brave-said word a century back,
The pledge of human brotherhood,
The equal claim of white and black.
That word still echoes round the world,
And all who hear it turn to thee,
And read upon thy flag unfurled
The prophecies of destiny.
Thy great world-lesson all shall learn,
The nations in thy school shall sit,
Earth's farthest mountain-tops shall burn
With watch-fires from thy own uplit.
Great without seeking to be great
By fraud or conquest, rich in gold,
But richer in the large estate
Of virtue which thy children hold,
With peace that comes of purity
And strength to simple justice due,
So runs our loyal dream of thee;
God of our fathers! make it true.
O Land of lands! to thee we give
Our prayers, our hopes, our service free;
For thee thy sons shall nobly live,
And at thy need shall die for thee!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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True Liberty
The day in which one celebrates, Independence of a union of states,
Independence from powers outside; freedom that was once denied,
The freest nation in this world, a point that others sometimes herald,
Causing many who are weary in heart, to come here for a fresh start.
A day of real joyous celebration, all across this now powerful nation,
As our voices together are raised, with full hearts a nation is praised,
Festive fireworks are always planned, in many cities across this land,
Celebrating what many of us see, as the greatest nation in all history.
Liberty we celebrate by proclamation, extends to all within this nation,
However that liberty extends only, to the borders of this dear country,
Beyond the borders and the sea, the nation’s people may not be free,
When many travel to other lands, freedoms turn into other’s demands.
Demands which turn into bondage, leaving this land of great privilege,
Privileges that others only dream of, as they look to this land we love,
A land that is so blessed by God, many agree, on this day with a nod,
But, forgetting Him most of the year; living so privileged, without fear.
There’s a freedom many don’t know, as their freedoms for them grow,
Liberty, from the bondage of sin, that captivates our land from within,
That freedom which we celebrate, doesn’t free men from Satan’s hate,
As the Devil leads a war against God, all across this land that we trod.
Freedom from such an evil foe, comes only when the Savior we know,
Who left all the Glory of Eternity, coming to earth to set captives free,
The only true freedom on this earth, comes to man, by a spiritual birth,
Through the Liberty in Jesus Christ, when in Him they receive New Life.
(Copyright ©07/2008)
Ring Them Bells
Ring them bells yea heathen from the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide
And the world's on it's side
And time is running backwards and so is the bride
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells!
Ring them bells Saint Peter where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand so the people will know
That the rush hour is now on the wheel and the plow and the sun is going down upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells Saint Martha for the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know that God is one
For the shepherd is asleep where the willows weep
And the mountains are filled with little lost sheep
Ring them bells for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells for all of us who are left
Ring them bells for the chosen few who would judge the many when the game is through
Ring them bells for the time that flies
song performed by by Heart from Desire Walks On
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chosen People
Glory is on our way[? ]
Worship the sun, great spirit.
Born of the mother earth,
Seek for the true white brother.
We are the chosen people, give back our sacred land.
We are the four grandfathers, a destiny for man.
It is written in our prophecy,
[it is written in our prophecy]
That we shall find the true white brother,
[we shall find the true white brother]
Who will help us, joined together, to build humanity.
There is a place for everyone.
We are the chosen people, give back our holy land.
We are the ever forest, we are great spirits hand.
She will call us soon,
She will shake her body,
Bringing your land to ruin.
Why will the world not hear us?
We are most ancient teachers, we know great spirits plan.
We learned by natures secrets, the inner side of man.
We are the chosen people, give back our sacred land.
We are the four grandfathers, a destiny for man.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pilgrim Song
Written for the Society of Mayflower Descendants in the State of Pennsylvania
Pilgrims of the trackless deep,
Leaving all, our fathers came,
Life and liberty to keep
In Jehovah's awful name.
Neither pillared flame nor cloud
Made the wild, for them, rejoice,
But their hearts, with sorrow bowed,
In the darkness heard His voice.
Things above them they divined—
Thoughts of God, forever true,
And the deathless Compact signed—
Building better than they knew:
Building liberty not planned,
Law that ampler life controls,
All the greatness of our land
Lying shadowed in their souls.
In the days that shall succeed,
Prouder boast no time shall grant
Than to be of them, indeed,
Children of their Covenant:
Children of the promised day,
Bound by hope and memory,
Brave, devoted, wise, as they—
Strong with love's humility.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Reflecting On Independence
We have freedom living every day, a liberty no man can take away,
Not the rights, a nation may give, in the land that one may now live,
It is a freedom they cannot herald, a freedom apart from this world,
The freedom Christians speak of, that comes from our Lord above.
Dispensed by The Lord and Creator, to all who come to The Savior,
A freedom in our Lord Jesus Christ, granted to us for all of this life,
Once we accept Christ in our heart, God’s Liberty shall never depart,
When in Christ, you become free; God’s Liberty carries into Eternity.
A nation’s laws we have now learned, by leaders can be overturned,
When by evil, they are driven; to repeal rights men were once given.
Under assault is our Godly Faith, we receive, strictly through Grace,
We see many rights slipping away, as moral laws continue to decay.
Rights established by any nation, lack a firm and Godly Foundation,
The laws built upon shifting sand, in coming days just will not stand,
As the nation faces amoral blight, as immorality then becomes right,
With righteousness all in the past, personal freedom just will not last.
Reflecting on Independence friend, will our Personal Freedoms end?
Here, where our fathers achieved, the liberty, we as citizens received,
It is times like this we are assured, of the Freedom in Christ our Lord,
That no nation can take from us, once in Christ we have put our trust.
(Copyright ©07/2009)
Stranger In A Strange Land
Was many years ago that I left home and came this way
I was a young man full of hopes and dreams
But now it seems that all is lost and nothing gained
Sometimes things aint what they seem
No brave new world no brave new world
Night and day I scan horizon sea and sky
My spirit wanders endlessly
Until the day will dawn and friends from home discover why
Hear me calling rescue me
Set me free, set me free
Lost in this place and leave no trace
Stranger in a strange land
Land of ice and snow
Trapped inside this prison
Lost and far from home
One hundred years have gone and men again they come that way
To find the answer to the mistery
They found his body lying where if fell that day
Preserved in time for all to see
No brave new world no brave new world
Lost in this place to leave no trace
What became off men that started
All are gone and souls departed
Left me here in this prison
So all alone
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymn I
O THOU, whose presence went before
Our fathers in their weary way,
As with Thy chosen moved of yore
The fire by night, the cloud by day!
When from each temple of the free,
A nation's song ascends to Heaven,
Most Holy Father! unto Thee
May not our humble prayer be given?
Thy children all, though hue and form
Are varied in Thine own good will,
With Thy own holy breathings warm,
And fashioned in Thine image still.
We thank Thee, Father! hill and plain
Around us wave their fruits once more,
And clustered vine, and blossomed grain,
Are bending round each cottage door.
And peace is here; and hope and love
Are round us as a mantle thrown,
And unto Thee, supreme above,
The knee of prayer is bowed alone.
But oh, for those this day can bring,
As unto us, no joyful thrill;
For those who, under Freedom's wing,
Are bound in Slavery's fetters still:
For those to whom Thy written word
Of light and love is never given;
For those whose ears have never heard
The promise and the hope of heaven!
For broken heart, and clouded mind,
Whereon no human mercies fall;
Oh, be Thy gracious love inclined,
Who, as a Father, pitiest all!
And grant, O Father! that the time
Of Earth's deliverance may be near,
When every land and tongue and clime
The message of Thy love shall hear;
When, smitten as with fire from heaven,
The captive's chain shall sink in dust,
And to his fettered soul be given
The glorious freedom of the just!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Naples – 1860
I GIVE thee joy!—I know to thee
The dearest spot on earth must be
Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea;
Where, near her sweetest poet’s tomb,
The land of Virgil gave thee room
To lay thy flower with her perpetual bloom.
I know that when the sky shut down
Behind thee on the gleaming town,
On Baiae’s baths and Posilippo’s crown;
And, through thy tears, the mocking day
Burned Ischia’s mountain lines away,
And Capri melted in its sunny bay;
Through thy great farewell sorrow shot
The sharp pang of a bitter thought
That slaves must tread around that holy spot.
Thou knewest not the land was blest
In giving thy beloved rest,
Holding the fond hope closer to her breast,
That every sweet and saintly grave
Was freedom’s prophecy, and gave
The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.
That pledge is answered. To thy ear
The unchained city sends its cheer,
And, tuned to joy, the muffled bells of fear
Ring Victor in. The land sits free
And happy by the summer sea,
And Bourbon Naples now is Italy!
She smiles above her broken chain
The languid smile that follows pain,
Stretching her cramped limbs to the sun again.
Oh, joy for all, who hear her call
From gray Camaldoli’s convent wall
And Elmo’s towers to freedom’s carnival!
A new life breathes among her vines
And olives, like the breath of pines
Blown downward from the breezy Apennines.
Lean, O my friend, to meet that breath,
Rejoice as one who witnesseth
Beauty from ashes rise, and life from death!
Thy sorrow shall no more be pain,
Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain,
Writing the grave with flowers: “Arisen again!”
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Easter Eve
At length the worst is o'er, and Thou art laid
Deep in Thy darksome bed;
All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone
Thy sacred form is gone;
Around those lips where power and mercy hung,
The dews of deaths have clung;
The dull earth o'er Thee, and Thy foes around,
Thou sleep'st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound.
Sleep'st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled,
At large among the dead?
Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voice
Wake Abraham to rejoice,
Or in some drearier scene Thine eye controls
The thronging band of souls;
That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agony
Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.
Where'er Thou roam'st, one happy soul, we know,
Seen at Thy side in woe,
Waits on Thy triumphs--even as all the blest
With him and Thee shall rest.
Each on his cross; by Thee we hang a while,
Watching Thy patient smile,
Till we have learned to say, "'Tis justly done,
Only in glory, LORD, Thy sinful servant own."
Soon wilt Thou take us to Thy tranquil bower
To rest one little hour,
Till Thine elect are numbered, and the grave
Call Thee to come and save:
Then on Thy bosom borne shall we descend
Again with earth to blend,
Earth all refined with bright supernal fires,
Tinctured with holy blood, and winged with pure desires.
Meanwhile with every son and saint of Thine
Along the glorious line,
Sitting by turns beneath Thy sacred feet
We'll hold communion sweet,
Know them by look and voice, and thank them all
For helping us in thrall,
For words of hope, and bright examples given
To show through moonless skies that there is light in Heaven.
O come that day, when in this restless heart
Earth shall resign her part,
When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest,
My soul with Thee be blest!
But stay, presumptuous--CHRIST with Thee abides
In the rock's dreary sides:
He from this stone will wring Celestial dew
If but this prisoner's heart he faithful found and true.
When tears are spent, and then art left alone
With ghosts of blessings gone,
Think thou art taken from the cross, and laid
In JESUS' burial shade;
Take Moses' rod, the rod of prayer, and call
Out of the rocky wall
The fount of holy blood; and lift on high
Thy grovelling soul that feels so desolate and dry.
Prisoner of Hope thou art--look up and sing
In hope of promised spring.
As in the pit his father's darling lay
Beside the desert way,
And knew not how, but knew his GOD would save
E'en from that living grave,
So, buried with our LORD, we'll chose our eyes
To the decaying world, till Angels bid us rise.
poem by John Keble
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Psalm XC
O God, the everlasting One,
In Thee alone, from sire to son,
Through generations all, our race
Hath found a sure abiding place.
Before the mountains rose from earth,
Before the world itself had birth,
Ere yet the heav'ns were spread abroad,
Thou wast and art eternal God.
But man, the creature of Thy breath,
Thou humblest to the deeps of death;
Few days and sad thou giv'st and then
“Return,” Thou say'st, “ye sons of men.”
For, lo, the space of thousand years
To Thine unchanging eye appears
As yesterday to mortal sight,
When passed, or as a watch of night.
As comes a flood on those who sleep,
So over man Thy wrath doth sweep.
As fades the freshness of the grass,
So swiftly doth his vigour pass.
As grass at morn he flourisheth;
Cut down, at eve he lies in death;
Like flame Thy wrath against us burns,
And all our life to anguish turns.
Thou our iniquities hast set
Before Thy face, unpardon'd yet;
Our secret sins, in darkness done,
Thy light reveals them ev'ry one.
And all our days beneath the blast
Of Thy consuming wrath are past;
Our barren lives from year to year
Ev'n as an idle tale appear.
In seventy years our race is run,
And what if here and there an one,
Through greater strength four-score attains
He only added sorrow gains.
And soon the longest life is o'er,
We pass away and are no more.
Oh, who Thine anger can express,
Thine ire is as Thine awfulness.
Lord, teach us so our days to count,
That as we mark their small amount,
Our hearts we may the more apply
To learn Thy wisdom ere we die.
Return, Oh God. How long wilt Thou
Thy grace withhold? Oh, even now,
In mercy hear Thy servant's voice,
That all our days we may rejoice.
According as the days have been
Wherein we have but sorrow seen,
According to our years of ill
Do Thou our lives with gladness fill.
Give Thou to us Thy works to know;
Thy glory to our children show,
And on Thy servants let there rest
The beauty of the Holiest.
To all the work we do on earth
Give Thou, O Lord, enduring worth;
Yea, that our handwork may endure,
Do Thou, Eternal, make it sure.
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Land of the Free (c) 3-29-08
Land of the Free home of the brave
Land of disease home of the slave
Freedom of religion Freedom of speech
Freedom of press and freedom to breach
Freedom to steal freedom to take
Freedom to carry guns and Freedom to break
The laws of the man and the laws of the word
Freedom from peace but to still use the bird
The only home of brave and Land of the Free
The land who rules based off democracy
Freedom to starve and Freedom to be poor
Freedom to break and enter someone’s door
Freedom to lay off workers and close off jobs
Freedom to take what they want and to rob
Freedom of abortion Freedom of extortion
Freedom to own land and give everyone their portion
Freedom for action by any means necessary
But what their picture of that can really be scary
Freedom to wage war without our consent for our hours to be spent
Freedom to take our money then make us pay rent
Land of the prospering riches and of those who don’t care for the
People who live in the FREE old America
Copyright 3-29-08 ©® Corey Threet
PLEASE COMMENT!
poem by Corey Threet
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To A Young Mother On The Birth Of Her First Born Child
Young mother! proudly throbs thine heart, and well may it rejoice,
Well may’st thou raise to Heaven above in grateful prayer thy voice:
A gift hath been bestowed on thee, a gift of priceless worth,
Far dearer to thy woman’s heart than all the wealth of earth.
What store of deep and holy joy is opened to thy thought—
Glad, sunny dreams of future days, with bliss and rapture fraught;
Of hopes as varied, yet as bright, as beams of April sun,
And plans and wishes centred all within thy darling one!
While others seek in changing scenes earth’s happiness to gain,
In fashion’s halls to win a joy as dazzling as ’tis vain—
A bliss more holy far is thine, far sweeter and more deep,
To watch beside thine infant’s couch and bend above his sleep.
What joy for thee to ling’ring gaze within those cloudless eyes,
Turning upon thee with a glance of such sweet, strange surprise,
Or press a mother’s loving kiss upon that fair, white brow,
Of all earth’s weight of sin and care and pain unconscious now.
Then, as thy loved one’s sleeping breath so softly fans thy cheek,
And gazing on that tiny form, so lovely, yet so weak,
A dream comes o’er thee of the time when nobly at thy side
Thy cherished son shall proudly stand, in manhood’s lofty pride.
Yet a sad change steals slowly o’er thy tender, loving eye,
Thou twin’st him closer to thy heart, with fond and anxious sigh,
Feeling, however bright his course he too must suff’ring know,
Like all earth’s children taste alike life’s cup of care and woe.
But, oh! it lies within thy power to give to him a spell
To guard him in the darkest hour from sorrow safe and well;
Thou’lt find it in the narrow path the great and good have trod—
And thou thyself wilt teach it him—the knowledge of his God!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Landmarks
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!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Freed Islands
A FEW brief years have passed away
Since Britain drove her million slaves
Beneath the tropic's fiery ray:
God willed their freedom; and to-day
Life blooms above those island graves!
He spoke! across the Carib Sea,
We heard the clash of breaking chains,
And felt the heart-throb of the free,
The first, strong pulse of liberty
Which thrilled along the bondman's veins.
Though long delayed, and far, and slow,
The Briton's triumph shall be ours:
Wears slavery here a prouder brow
Than that which twelve short years ago
Scowled darkly from her island bowers?
Mighty alike for good or ill
With mother-land, we fully share
The Saxon strength, the nerve of steel,
The tireless energy of will,
The power to do, the pride to dare.
What she has done can we not do?
Our hour and men are both at hand;
The blast which Freedom's angel blew
O'er her green islands, echoes through
Each valley of our forest land.
Hear it, old Europe! we have sworn
The death of slavery. When it falls,
Look to your vassals in their turn,
Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn,
Your prisons and your palace walls!
O kingly mockers! scoffing show
What deeds in Freedom's name we do;
Yet know that every taunt ye throw
Across the waters, goads our slow
Progression towards the right and true.
Not always shall your outraged poor,
Appalled by democratic crime,
Grind as their fathers ground before;
The hour which sees our prison door
Swing wide shall be their triumph time.
On then, my brothers! every blow
Ye deal is felt the wide earth through;
Whatever here uplifts the low
Or humbles Freedom's hateful foe,
Blesses the Old World through the New.
Take heart! The promised hour draws near;
I hear the downward beat of wings,
And Freedom's trumpet sounding clear:
'Joy to the people! woe and fear
To new-world tyrants, old-world kings!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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