WAITING BY THE GATE

BESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now, There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow;

ΙΟ

His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his

power.

I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and
fair.

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

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Oh, crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!

Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not

where !

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then

withdrawn ;

But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird

sings on,

And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out,

The sweet smile quenched for ever, and stilled the sprightly shout.

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Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region, so enter, side by side,
The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of

pride.

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars

grey,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing

near,

38 As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

NOT YET

Он, country, marvel of the earth!
Oh, realm to sudden greatness grown!
The age that gloried in thy birth,
Shall it behold thee overthrown ?
Shall traitors lay that greatness low?
No, land of Hope and Blessing, No!

And we, who wear thy glorious name,
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,
When those whom thou hast trusted aim
The death blow at thy generous heart?
Forth goes the battle cry, and lo!
Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land,
The power that rules from sea to sea,
Bled they in vain, or vainly planned
To leave their country great and free?
Their sleeping ashes, from below,
Send up the thrilling murmur, No!

Knit they the gentle ties which long
These sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong

For idle hands in sport to tear ?
For scornful hands aside to throw ?
No, by our fathers' memory, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways,

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain-crest,

The hoarse Atlantic, with its bays,

The calm, broad Ocean of the West,

And Mississippi's torrent-flow,

And loud Niagara, answer, No!

ΙΟ

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Not yet the hour is nigh when they
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit,
Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say,
'Proud country, welcome to the pit!
So soon art thou, like us, brought low!
No, sullen group of shadows, No!

For now, behold, the arm that gave
The victory in our fathers' day,
Strong, as of old, to guard and save—

That mighty arm which none can stay-
On clouds above and fields below,
Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!
July 1861.

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL

LAY down the axe; fling by the spade;
Leave in its track the toiling plough;
The rifle and the bayonet blade

For arms like yours were fitter now;
And let the hands that ply the pen
Quit the light task, and learn to wield
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein
The charger on the battle-field.

Our country calls; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green.

Strike to defend the gentlest sway

That Time in all his course has seen.

See, from a thousand coverts—see,

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;
They rush to smite her down, and we
Must beat the banded traitors back.

Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,
And moved as soon to fear and flight,

Men of the glade and forest! leave

Your woodcraft for the field of fight.

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ΙΟ

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The arms that wield the axe must pour
An iron tempest on the foe;
His serried ranks shall reel before
The arm that lays the panther low.
And ye, who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake,
Come, for the land ye love, to form

A bulwark that no foe can break.
Stand, like your own grey cliffs that mock
The whirlwind, stand in her defence;
The blast as soon shall move the rock
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.
And ye, whose homes are by her grand
Swift rivers, rising far away,
Come from the depth of her green land,
As mighty in your march as they;
As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourne,
With sudden floods to drown the plains
And sweep along the woods uptorn.
And ye, who throng, beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand,
In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,
He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim,
A helpless wreck, against his shore.
Few, few were they whose swords of old
Won the fair land in which we dwell;

But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well.
Strike, for that broad and goodly land,
Blow after blow, till men shall see

That Might and Right move hand in hand,
And glorious must their triumph be.

September 1861.

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