A love that marries lands to lands, The passion of two title-deeds, That loosely rivets two cold hands, Large-limbed, the friend of sun and air, With glad, strong soul, that seemed to wear Such was the love from which we sprang, Which through life's toils and troubles sang Life lay before us bare and broad, To conquer with two hands alone, But we had faith in man and God, And proudly claimed our Father's throne; We made our vassal of the Now, And, from its want and woe and wrong, Our hearts rose lightly as a bough From which a bird hath soared in song. Among our sires no high-born chief Set his mailed heel upon the poor; With larger heart within the breast, Large heart by suffering made divine,We draw our lineage from the Oppressed: Not from the sceptred brutes who reigned, But from the humble souls who bore, And so a godlike patience gained, Which, suffering much, could suffer more, Which learned forgiveness, and the grace That cometh of a bended knee,· From martyrs such as these we trace Our royal genealogy. There's not a great soul gone before Who, when the world took side with power, All hero-spirits plain and grand, Let others boast of ancestors Who handed down some idle right Of marching ever in the van, Of giving ourselves to steel and flame, Where aught 's to be achieved for man. And is not this a family-tree Worth keeping fair from age to age? Was ever such an ancestry Gold-blazoned on the herald's page? In dear New England let us still Maintain our race and title pure, The men and women of heart and will, The monarchs who ENDURE. ABOVE AND BELOW. I. O DWELLERS in the valley-land, Who in deep twilight grope and cower, Till the slow mountain's dial-hand Shortens to noon's triumphal hour, While sit idle, ye do ye think The Lord's great work sits idle too? That light dare not o'erleap the brink Of morn, because 't is dark with you? Though yet your valleys skulk in night, In God's ripe fields the day is cried, And reapers, with their sickles bright, The night-shed tears of Earth she dries! The Lord wants reapers: O, mount up, Before night comes, and says, "Too late!" Stay not for taking scrip or cup, The Master hungers while ye wait : "T is from these heights alone your eyes The advancing spears of day can see, Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise, To break your long captivity. II. Lone watcher on the mountain-height! The first long surf of climbing light Flood all the thirsty east with gold; |