"T is not the forts the builder piles
That chain the earth together;
The wedded crowns, the sister isles,
Would laugh at such a tether;
The kindling thought, the throbbing words,
That set the pulses beating,
Are stronger than the myriad swords
Of mighty armies meeting.
Thus while within the banquet glows,
Without, the wild winds whistle,
We drink a triple health, - the Rose,
The Shamrock, and the Thistle !
Their blended hues shall never fade
Till War has hushed his cannon,
Close-twined as ocean-currents braid
The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon !
FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELE
IS birthday. —Nay, we need not speak
The name each heart is beating, -
Each glistening eye and flushing cheek
In light and flame repeating!
We come in one tumultuous tide,
One surge of wild emotion, -
As crowding through the Frith of Clyde
Rolls in the Western Ocean;
As when yon cloudless, quartered moon
Hangs o'er each storied river,
The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon
With sea-green wavelets quiver.
The century shrivels like a scroll,
The past becomes the present, —-
And face to face, and soul to soul,
We greet the monarch-peasant.
While Shenstone strained in feeble flights
With Corydon and Phillis,
While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights
To snatch the Bourbon lilies, -
Who heard the wailing infant's cry,
The babe beneath the sheiling,
Whose song to-night in every sky
Will shake earth's starry ceiling, ·
Whose passion-breathing voice ascends
And floats like incense o'er us,
Whose ringing lay of friendship blends
With labor's anvil chorus?
We love him, not for sweetest song,
Though never tone so tender;
We love him, even in his wrong, -
His wasteful self-surrender.
We praise him, not for gifts divine,
His Muse was born of woman,
His manhood breathes in every line,
Was ever heart more human?
'T is not the forts the builder piles
That chain the earth together;
The wedded crowns, the sister isles,
Would laugh at such a tether;
The kindling thought, the throbbing words,
That set the pulses beating,
Are stronger than the myriad swords
Of mighty armies meeting.
Thus while within the banquet glows,
Without, the wild winds whistle,
We drink a triple health,
The Shamrock, and the Thistle !
Their blended hues shall never fade
Till War has hushed his cannon,
Close-twined as ocean-currents braid
The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon !
FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELE
IS birthday. - Nay, we need not speak
The name each heart is beating, -
Each glistening eye and flushing cheek
In light and flame repeating!
We come in one tumultuous tide, -
One surge of wild emotion,
As crowding through the Frith of Clyde
Rolls in the Western Ocean;
As when yon cloudless, quartered moon
Hangs o'er each storied river,
The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon
With sea-green wavelets quiver.
The century shrivels like a scroll,
The past becomes the present,
And face to face, and soul to soul,
We greet the monarch-peasant.
While Shenstone strained in feeble flights
With Corydon and Phillis, —
While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights To snatch the Bourbon lilies,
Who heard the wailing infant's cry,
The babe beneath the sheiling,
Whose song to-night in every sky
Will shake earth's starry ceiling, -
Whose passion-breathing voice ascends
And floats like incense o'er us,
Whose ringing lay of friendship blends
With labor's anvil chorus?
We love him, not for sweetest song,
Though never tone so tender;
We love him, even in his wrong,
His wasteful self-surrender.
We praise him, not for gifts divine,
His Muse was born of woman,
His manhood breathes in every line, -
Was ever heart more human?
We love him, praise him, just for this:
In every form and feature,
Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss,
He saw his fellow-creature!
No soul could sink beneath his love, —
Not even angel blasted;
No mortal power could soar above
The pride that all outlasted!
Ay! Heaven had set one living man
Beyond the pedant's tether,
His virtues, frailties, HE may scan,
Who weighs them all together!
I fling my pebble on the cairn
Of him, though dead, undying; Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn Beneath her daisies lying.
The waning suns, the wasting globe,
Shall spare the minstrel's story,
The centuries weave his purple robe,
The mountain-mist of glory!
BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER.
HEN life hath run its largest round.
Of toil and triumph, joy and woe,
How brief a storied page is found
To compass all its outward show!
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