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And Bryant-the world never rings to his fame,
But our bosoms beat high to

brother's fair name.

Of HISTORIANS next, lo! the lengthening procession: First, Bradford, Old Colony's honest expression; Then Allen, whose ardor no industry dims,

With his five hundred Lives, and his six hundred Hymns; Then the many fair writers in Sparks's Biography, First trying their hands in small historiography; As Upham, the eloquent champion of Vane; And Peabody, guessing the matter out plain; And Francis, portraying, as true pen should paint, The career of the Indians' apostle and saint. Next Quincy, who wrote his great father's career, And has added his mother's within the last year; Then Irving, who brings to his volumes of truth The grace that adorned the light tales of his youth; And Sparks, with his chapters transparent as day, Inflexibly true, like the man they display; And Bancroft, laborious, brilliant, and terse, Enrobing grave truth in the diction of verse. And Prescott, so favored beyond poet's dream, To find, and then equal, that great epic theme. When the nation's historical fame they discuss, We will claim that that "thunder" belongs all to us.

Thus far of the living. But let me pass on To utter the eminent names that are gone.

They speak, though they live not; their tones and their looks

Come back with their souls, when we turn to their books. Thus Tudor, Peirce, Frisbie, and Thacher, still live; Dehon, Haven, Stearns, and the Abbotts survive;

Amidst us do Parker and Bancroft still stand,
And Bowditch and Buckminster hallow our band.

Then pledge we in love, without fear or misgiving, To the fame of the dead, and the hopes of the living. We are proud of their works, we are proud of their number;

Their honor is ours, and our love shall not slumber.
Let Fame sound her trumpet, and tell to the breeze,
And the breeze to the nations o'er mountains and seas,
That our ancient fraternity, headed by STORY,
Quaffs to its authors the wine-cup of glory.




September 28, 1835.


WE praise the Lord, who o'er the sea

Our exiled fathers led,

And on them in the wilderness

His light and glory shed.

In want and fear, for many a year,
They spread their scanty board;
Yet loud and strong their grateful song
The Giver's hand adored.

Two hundred years have passed away;
The desert frowns no more;
And glory, such as Judah knew,
Crowns hill-side, vale, and shore.
Then louder still, o'er plain and hill,
Send forth the shout of praise,
And bid it run from sire to son,

Through all succeeding days.



July, 1842.


FAREWELL, dear scenes of study and devotion,
Shades of the soul, in saintly musing trod;
Where, far from earth, and rude life's vain commotion,
We walked in truth's bright beam,

And drank of faith's pure stream,
And sought a true alliance with the Son of God.

Those precious days of preparation ended,
Trembling our steps forsake the cherished sod;
Like Him, on whom the anointing dove descended,
We stand at life's broad gate,

And, looking upward, wait

The unction that shall seal us for the church of God.

Sin, sloth, and self, abjured before the altar,
With fresh resolve our pilgrim path we plod;
Help, Lord, from heaven, that ne'er our feet may falter;
But gird our steadfast youth

With boldness, love, and truth,

And fill our trusting bosoms with the peace of God.


We fear no conflicts with Christ's banner o'er us;
We dread no ill beneath our Shepherd's rod;
His strength and peace, his cross and heaven, before us,
Shall arm our feeble faith,

And quell the darts of death,

And win immortal succor through the grace of God.

Glory and honor be to Him forever,

Who aids and cheers us with auspicious nod; To him be consecrate all high endeavor;


For him all toils be done,

For him all trophies won,

grace shall crown our souls before the throne of God.

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