THE wind is fierce and loud and high,
The angry tempest hurtles by;
With quivering keel and straining sail
The ship of State confronts the gale.
Rocks are ahead and peril near;
But still we face the storm, nor fear,
Saying this brave truth o’er and o’er:
“The nation’s heart is sound at core.”

We knew it in those darker days
When all the kind, familiar ways
And all the tenderness of life
Seemed lost in bitterness and strife;
When, torn with shot and riddled through,
Lay in the dust our Red and Blue,
Dropped by the gallant hands that bore,
“The nation’s heart is sound at core.”

We said it when the war-cloud rent,
And out of field and out of tent
The bronzèd soldiers, Blue and Gray,
Took each the peaceful homeward way;
When the foiled traitors sought to attain
By fraud what force had failed to gain, —
Heart-sick, we said the words once more:
“The nation’s heart is sound at core.”

And always, as the worst seemed near,
And stout hearts failed for very fear,
Came a great throb the country through, —
The nation’s heart still beating true!
Ah, mother-land and mother-breast,
We still will trust you and will rest;
Although waves howl and tempests lower,
Your heart, our heart, is sound at core.

THE OLD VILLAGE

IT lies among the greenest hills
New England’s depths can show;
About their base the river fills
And empties as the distant mills
Control its ebb and flow:
It had a quick life of its own,
But that was long ago.

Two centuries have rolled away
Since a small, hardy band
Turned their sad faces from the bay,
The dim sky-line where England lay,
And boldly marched inland.
Before them lay the wilderness,
Behind them lay the strand.

Bravely they plunged into the waste
By white foot never trod;
Bravely and busily they traced
The village boundaries, and placed
Their ploughs in virgin sod;
Built huts, and then a meeting-house
Where man might worship God.

The huts gave place to houses white;
The axe-affrighted woods
Shrank back to left, shrank back to right;
The valleys laughed with harvest light;
The river’s vagrant moods
Were curbed by clattering wheels, which shook
The once green solitudes.

And years flowed on, and life flowed by.
The hills were named and known.
The young looked out with eager eye
From the “old” village; by and by
They stole forth one by one,
Leaving the old folks in their homes
To labor on alone.

And one by one the old folks died,
Each in his lonely way.
The doors which once stood open wide,
To let a busy human tide
Sweep in and out all day,
Were closed; the unseeing windows stared
Just as a blind man may.

The mills, abandoned, ceased to whir;
The unchecked river ran
Its old-time courses, merrier,
And glad in spirit, as it were,
For its escape from man,
Teased the dumb wheels, and mocked and played
As only a river can.

Looking to-day across the space,
Beyond the flower-fringed track
Which once was road, the eye can trace
The outlines of a cellar-place,
A half-burned chimney-back:
They mark the ruins of a home
Now empty, cold, and black.

And here and there an old dame stands
Some farm-house window nigh,
Or, dark against the pasture-lands,
A ploughman old, with trembling hands,
Checks his team suddenly,
And turns a gray head to the road
To watch the passer-by.

Above the empty village lies
One thickly peopled spot,
Where gray stones in gray silence rise,
And tell to sunset and sunrise
Of past lives that are not, —
The lives that fought and strove and toiled
And builded. And for what?

’Tis Nature’s law in everything.
The river seeks the sea;
But not one droplet wandering
Goes ever back to feed the spring.
Such things are and must be.
The gone is gone, the lost is lost,
Fled irrevocably.

Old village on the lonely hill,
Deserted by your own,
Your spended lifelike mountain rill
Has gone to swell the tide and fill
Some sea unseen, unknown.
Let this brave thought your comfort be,
As thus you die alone.

A GREETING

OH, dear and friendly Death,
End of my road, however long it be,
Waiting with hospitable hands stretched out
And full of gifts for me!

Why do we call thee foe,
Clouding with darksome mists thy face divine?
Life, she was sweet, but poor her largess seems
When matched with thine.

Thy amaranthine blooms
Are not less lovely than her rose of joy;
And the rare, subtle perfumes which they breathe
Never the senses cloy.

Thou holdest in thy store
Full satisfaction of all doubt, reply
To question, and the golden clews to dreams
Which idly passed us by.

Darkness to tired eyes,
Perplexed with vision, blinded with long day;
Quiet to busy hands, glad to fold up
And lay their work away.

A balm for anguish past,
Rest to the long unrest which smiles did hide;
The recognitions thirsted for in vain,
And still by life denied.

A nearness, all unknown
While in these stifling, prisoning bodies pent,
Unto thy soul and mine, beloved, made one
At last in full content.

Thou bringest me mine own,
The garnered flowers which felt thy sickle keen,
And the full vision of that Face divine,
Which I have loved unseen.

Oh, dear and friendly Death,
End of my road, however long it be,
Nearing me day by day, I still can smile
Whene’er I think of thee!

CHANGELESS

WE say, “The sun has set,” and we sorrow sore
As we watch the darkness creep the landscape o’er,
And the thick shadows fall, and the night draw on;
And we mourn for the brightness lost, and the vanished sun.

And all the time the sun in the self-same place
Waits, ready to clasp the earth in his embrace,
Ready to give to all of his stintless ray;
And ’tis we who have “set,” it is we who have turned away!

“The Lord has hidden his face,” we sadly cry,
As we sit in the night of grief with no helper by.
“Guiding uncounted worlds in their courses dim,
How should our little pain be marked by him?”

But all the while that we mourn, the Lord stands near,
And the Son divine is waiting to help and hear;
And ’tis we who hide our faces, and blindly turn away,
While the Sun of the soul shines on mid the perfect day.

EASTER

FLOWERS die not in the winter-tide,
Although they wake in spring;
Pillowed ’neath mounds of fleecy snow,
While skies are gray and storm-winds blow,
All patiently they bide,
Fettered by frost, and bravely wait,
And trust in spring or soon or late.

Hope dies not in the winter-tide,
Though sore it longs for spring;
Cool morn may ripen to hot noon,
And evening dusks creep all too soon
The noonday sun to hide;
But through the night there stir and thrill
The sleeping strengths of life and will.

For souls there comes a winter-tide,
For souls there blooms a spring;
Though winter days may linger long,
And snows be deep and frosts be strong,
And faith be sorely tried,
When Christ shall shine, who is the Sun,
Spring-time shall be for every one.

Oh, mighty Lord of winter-tide!
Oh, loving Lord of spring!
Come to our hearts this Easter Day,
Melt all the prisoning ice away,
And evermore abide,
Making both good and ill to be
Thy blessed opportunity.

THE WORLD IS VAST

THE world is vast and we are small,
We are so weak and it so strong,
Onward it goes, nor cares at all
For us, – our silence or our song,
Our fast-day or our festival.

We tremble as we feel it sway
Beneath our feet as on we fare;
But, like a ball which children play,
God spins it through the far blue air.
We are his own; why should we care?