Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round
the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks,
he bade me go my way; For He who turns the courses
of the streamlet of the glen, And the river of great
waters, had turned the hearts of men.
Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath
my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls
of the sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill and
stream and woodland lay, And softer lapsed on sunnier
sands the waters of the bay.
Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises
be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his hand-maid
free; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty
are afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare which
for the poor is laid!
Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening’s twilight
calm Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the
grateful psalm; Let all dear hearts with me rejoice,
as did the saints of old, When of the Lord’s
good angel the rescued Peter told.
And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men
of wrong, The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay
His hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked
rulers in His avenging hour! Woe to the wolves
who seek the flocks to raven and devour!
But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart
be glad, And let the mourning ones again with robes
of praise be clad. For He who cooled the furnace,
and smoothed the stormy wave, And tamed the Chaldean
lions, is mighty still to save! 1843.
The following ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous
legends connected with the famous General ——,
of Hampton, New Hampshire, who was regarded by his
neighbors as a Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary.
I give the story, as I heard it when a child, from
a venerable family visitant.
Dark the halls, and cold the feast,
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest.
All is over, all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!
Blooming girl and manhood gray,
Autumn in the arms of May!
Hushed within and hushed without,
Dancing feet and wrestlers’ shout;
Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,
Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the graveyard trees,
And the great sea-waves below,
Pulse of the midnight beating slow.
From the brief dream of a bride
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half-uttered shriek and start,—
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?
Lightly from the bridal bed
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks
Through her lips and changing cheeks.
From the oaken mantel glowing,
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror’s antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.
