Was this earth sunnier in the days of old,
Or is the glory hovering o'er its hills,
And wandering thro' the unfathomable stretch
Of its old skies, of which men fondly tell,
But the gay vision of a fresher eye,
When this old race was younger, and men's steps
Went with more buoyant freedom over earth?
Or was it all a dream, a dream of youth,
When dreams are happiest? Is it still a dream,
Well-dreamt in these our days, when men look out
With sad eye on the present, as if clouds,
Unknown in other days, had settled down
Upon our hills to shut out sun and stars?
I know not. Yet I love to wander back
To this earth's younger days and earlier scenes,
In which there seems to meet both age and youth,
The blossom and the fruit, the joy of dawn,
And the grave quiet of the solemn eve.
Was the world wiser in the days of old,
When in this land our fathers died for truth,
Or is the wisdom of these ancient times,
A fable well-devised, to keep us lowly?
And are the words and thoughts of other days,
The martyr-words and thoughts, and above all
The martyr-deeds of mighty men whose hair
Grew grey before its time, whose youthful face
Grew early pale, and o'er whose thoughtful brow
Age drew its furrows, prematurely deep,-
Are these old words, and thoughts, and noble deeds,
But meant for them who heard and saw them then,
But overdated now, unsuitable
For manhood and full age, like that to which
We have attained in these our riper times?
It cannot be so; truth is ever true,
In this age or the last, and error false,
To-day as it was yesterday. No age
Can outgrow truth, or can afford to part
With the tried wisdom of the past, with words
That centuries have sifted, and on which
Ages have set their seal, and handed down
From venerable lips of solemn men,
Who learned their wisdom in a graver school,
And in an age of keener, sorer conflict
Than we have known in this gay holiday,
When truth and error are but things of taste,
Changelings of fashion, altering year by year.
Guard then those ancient wells, those living springs, Of which our fathers drank and were refreshed.
Guard then these ancient palms beneath whose shade Our fathers have sat down, and of whose fiuit
They ate and went upon their way in peace.
Part not with these old names, each one of which
Bears in its bosom precious histories,
The life-deeds and death-conflicts of the men
From out whose loins we spring, the men of might
And wisdom, who have won such victories
Of truth for us. These venerable names
And words preserve, as an inheritance
For children's children to the latest age.
Part not with these old names and words, each one
Contains an everlasting history,-
A great soul's history, which like a pearl
Within its shell lies hid. Fling not away
The shell because unpolished and uncouth,
Lest in so doing thou shouldst fling away
The gem whose lustre lies unseen within.
It is not beauty, it is truth we seek,
And it is truth that men would fling away,
Because its outward garb is rude and homely.
Yet truth is beauty, best of beauty here;
And beauty is but hidden truth unfolded,
Like blossoms from the rough brown buds of spring.
Part not with these old names. See how they shine
In these old heavens, like stars, whose rays no age
Can dim, nor boastful art of man supplant,
By lights, the invention of his fruitful skill.
They lighted up the darkness of the ways
By which our fathers walked in joy to heaven;
Not now less needful nor less glad their beams.
Part not with these old names and words, each one
Is as a seed, the womb of hidden life;
And he that flings away a seed destroys
The future harvest of a hundred fields.
Part not with these old names, in each of them
Our fathers wrapt up wisdom for their sons,
And their sons' sons down to earth's latest day.
What thoughts are clinging round them, thick as dew
Upon the fields of the fresh summer's grass,
Mellow as fruit upon the autumn-trees.
Say not, our age is wiser; if it be,
It is the wisdom which the past has given
That makes it so; for in these names is written
That wondrous wisdom that has made us wise.
THE OLD JEW ON MOUNT MORIAH.
He stood bewildered on his lonely hearth,
Sadness was written on his fixéd brow,
For he had witnessed days of holy mirth
Where silence dwells and desolation now.
The grief he felt he cared not to avow.
Calmly he stood, yet sorrowfully too,
The latest leaf upon the topmost bough
Of the green olive that so lately threw
Aloft its leafy arms when the glad spring was new.
Friendless and homeless! How unlike the past!
Once honored scion of a noble stem;
But now forsaken, desolate, the last
Bright jewel of a kingly diadem;
The last dim dew-drop of all those taat gem The still lone valley where the sunbeams fall. He trod his ancient hills, but found on them Nought but his shivered altar-shrines, for all Was tomb-like hushed, and dark as with a funeral
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