Lo, Plenty springs beneath thy verdant tread,
And Art, reviving, lifts to heaven her head.
White o'er the billows moves th' adventurous sail,
And riches pour to land with every gale.
The city sees its splendid domes increase,
With all the grandeur and the fame of Greece;
The country smiles in richer verdure crowned,
While cheerful toil and rustic mirth resound;
And Science sees her favorite mansions rise,
Till Harvard's turrets tremble in the skies;
Till other Miltons stretch a loftier flight,
And other Newtons tread new fields of light.
Hail, hail, the distant beauty of our land,
That Hope has pictured with a glowing hand!
Roll on, ye happy years, in rapture roll;
Pour all your promise on th' impatient soul-
The brilliant promise of a lovelier day,
Of purer light, and clear, unclouded ray.
Fathers, your sons shall then in virtues shine,
That raise the human nearer the divine.
Mothers, your daughters, more accomplished then,
Shall smile with sweeter smiles on worthier men.
Then public good, on private virtue built,
Shall stand unmoved by vice, unstained by guilt.
Then, guided by the wisdom from above,
We all shall harmonize in perfect love;
Shall cast the trophies of our wars away,
And nobler honors to the world display.
IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN WORDS TO A CANON, FOR THREE VOICES, BY J. H. C. BOMHARDT.
THE day of life is not all desolate;
Paternal Love o'er all presideth;
And though the doubting heart
May mourn when hopes depart,
Serenely Faith amid the storm abideth.
The darkest clouds of Fate
Are bright when Love confideth.
Concord, N. H., August 22, 1831.
We are not absent, dear.
Of all the happy throng you see, Not one in spirit is more near,
Or breathes a heartier wish, than we. So take our kiss, and with it share A brother's, sister's love and prayer.
May He who blessed your early lot
With all that makes a happy home, O'erwatch, with equal love, the spot That waits your life in years to come. Trust Him, let weal or woe betide; Trust; and what can you ask beside?
FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.
We rear not a temple, like Judah's of old,
Whose portals were marble, whose vaultings were gold;
No incense is lighted, no victims are slain,
No monarch kneels praying to hallow the fane.
More simple and lowly the walls that we raise,
And humbler the pomp of procession and praise,
Where the heart is the altar whence incense shall roll,
And Messiah the King who shall pray for the soul.
O Father, come in! but not in the cloud
Which filled the bright courts where thy chosen ones bowed; But come in that spirit of glory and grace,
Which beams on the soul and illumines the race.
O, come in the power of thy life-giving Word,
And reveal to each heart its Redeemer and Lord;
Till Faith bring the peace to the penitent given,
And Love fill the air with the fragrance of heaven.
The pomp of Moriah has long passed away,
And soon shall our frailer erection decay;
But the souls that are builded in worship and love Shall be temples to God, everlasting above.
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