Occasional Poems | Page 2

for thy wise design?Whereby these human hands of ours?In Nature's garden work with Thine.
And thanks that from our daily need?The joy of simple faith is born;?That he who smites the summer weed,?May trust Thee for the autumn corn.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;?Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall;?Who sows a field, or trains a flower,?Or plants a tree, is more than all.
For he who blesses most is blest;?And God and man shall own his worth?Who toils to leave as his bequest?An added beauty to the earth.
And, soon or late, to all that sow,?The time of harvest shall be given;?The flower shall bloom, the fruit shall grow,?If not on earth, at last in heaven.
KENOZA LAKE.
This beautiful lake in East Haverhill was the "Great Pond" the writer's boyhood. In 1859 a movement was made for improving its shores as a public park. At the opening of the park, August 31, 1859, the poem which gave it the name of Kenoza (in Indian language signifying Pickerel) was read.
As Adam did in Paradise,?To-day the primal right we claim?Fair mirror of the woods and skies,?We give to thee a name.
Lake of the pickerel!--let no more?The echoes answer back, "Great Pond,"?But sweet Kenoza, from thy shore?And watching hills beyond,
Let Indian ghosts, if such there be?Who ply unseen their shadowy lines,?Call back the ancient name to thee,?As with the voice of pines.
The shores we trod as barefoot boys,?The nutted woods we wandered through,?To friendship, love, and social joys?We consecrate anew.
Here shall the tender song be sung,?And memory's dirges soft and low,?And wit shall sparkle on the tongue,?And mirth shall overflow,
Harmless as summer lightning plays?From a low, hidden cloud by night,?A light to set the hills ablaze,?But not a bolt to smite.
In sunny South and prairied West?Are exiled hearts remembering still,?As bees their hive, as birds their nest,?The homes of Haverhill.
They join us in our rites to-day;?And, listening, we may hear, erelong,?From inland lake and ocean bay,?The echoes of our song.
Kenoza! o'er no sweeter lake?Shall morning break or noon-cloud sail,--?No fairer face than thine shall take?The sunset's golden veil.
Long be it ere the tide of trade?Shall break with harsh-resounding din?The quiet of thy banks of shade,?And hills that fold thee in.
Still let thy woodlands hide the hare,?The shy loon sound his trumpet-note,?Wing-weary from his fields of air,?The wild-goose on thee float.
Thy peace rebuke our feverish stir,?Thy beauty our deforming strife;?Thy woods and waters minister?The healing of their life.
And sinless Mirth, from care released,?Behold, unawed, thy mirrored sky,?Smiling as smiled on Cana's feast?The Master's loving eye.
And when the summer day grows dim,?And light mists walk thy mimic sea,?Revive in us the thought of Him?Who walked on Galilee!
FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL
The Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine?Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more;?The woven wreaths of oak and pine?Are dust along the Isthmian shore.
But beauty hath its homage still,?And nature holds us still in debt;?And woman's grace and household skill,?And manhood's toil, are honored yet.
And we, to-day, amidst our flowers?And fruits, have come to own again?The blessings of the summer hours,?The early and the latter rain;
To see our Father's hand once more?Reverse for us the plenteous horn?Of autumn, filled and running o'er?With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!
Once more the liberal year laughs out?O'er richer stores than gems or gold;?Once more with harvest-song and shout?Is Nature's bloodless triumph told.
Our common mother rests and sings,?Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;?Her lap is full of goodly things,?Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.
Oh, favors every year made new!?Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine sent?The bounty overruns our due,?The fulness shames our discontent.
We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on;?We murmur, but the corn-ears fill,?We choose the shadow, but the sun?That casts it shines behind us still.
God gives us with our rugged soil?The power to make it Eden-fair,?And richer fruits to crown our toil?Than summer-wedded islands bear.
Who murmurs at his lot to-day??Who scorns his native fruit and bloom??Or sighs for dainties far away,?Beside the bounteous board of home?
Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm?Can change a rocky soil to gold,--?That brave and generous lives can warm?A clime with northern ices cold.
And let these altars, wreathed with flowers?And piled with fruits, awake again?Thanksgivings for the golden hours,?The early and the latter rain!?1859
THE QUAKER ALUMNI.
Read at the Friends' School Anniversary, Providence, R. I., 6th mo., 1860.
From the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine,?Grave men, sober matrons, you gather again;?And, with hearts warmer grown as your heads grow more cool, Play over the old game of going to school.
All your strifes and vexations, your whims and complaints,?(You were not saints yourselves, if the children of saints!) All your petty self-seekings and rivalries done,?Round the dear Alma Mater your hearts beat as one!
How widely soe'er you have strayed from the fold,?Though your "thee" has grown "you," and your drab blue and gold, To the old friendly speech