THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. 275 The simple roof where prayer is made, Than Gothic groin and colonade; The living temple of the heart of man, Than Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired Milan! XXII. More dear thy equal village schools, Where rich and poor the Bible read, Than classic halls where Priestcraft rules, And Learning wears the chains of Creed; Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in The scattered sheaves of home and kin, Than the mad license following Lenten pains, Or holydays of slaves who laugh and dance in chains. XXIII. And sweet homes nestle in these dales, They hear the sound of Sabbath bells! Old home-bred virtues held their not unhonored place. XXIV. Here manhood struggles for the sake No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here Is the bad lesson learned at human rights to sneer. XXV Then let the icy North wind blow And I, who watch them through the frosty pane, XXVI. And I will trust that He who heeds Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar, XXVII. I have not seen, I may not see, My hopes for man take form in fact, But God will give the victory In due time; in that faith I act. And he who sees the future sure, The baffling present may endure, And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads The heart's desires beyond the halting step of deeds. XXVIII. And thou, my song, I send thee forth, Where harsher songs of mine have flown Go, find a place at home and hearth Where'er thy singer's name is known; Revive for him the kindly thought THE MAYFLOWERS. 277 Touched by some strain of thine, perchance may take The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy sake. THE MAYFLOWERS. The trailing arbutus, or mayflower, grows abundantly in the vicinity of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their fearful winter. SAD Mayflower! watched by winter stars, And leaves of frozen sails! What had she in those dreary hours, In common with the wild-wood flowers, Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim said, "God wills it: here our rest shall be, Oh! sacred flowers of faith and hope Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, Like love behind the manly strength So live the fathers in their sons, The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day But warmer suns ere long shall bring And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring BURIAL OF BARBOUR. BEAR him, comrades, to his grave; Shall the prairie grasses weep, In the ages yet to come, When the millions in our room, Bear him up the icy hill, And the land he came to till And his poor hut roofed with snow! One more look of that dead face, BURIAL OF BARBOUR. One more kiss, oh, widowed one! Lay your left hands on his brow, Lift your right hands up, and vow That his work shall yet be done. Patience, friends! The eye of God Watches, lidless, day and night; And our hearts, are in his sight. Every deadly threat that swells Though but whispered, He can hear ! We in suffering, they in crime, Wait the vengeance that is due; While the flag with stars bedecked 279 And the Law shakes hands with Crime, What is left us but to wait, Match our patience to our fate, And abide the better time? Patience, friends! The human heart |