Ashtabula telegraph. (Ashtabula, Ohio) 1874-1880, 1877-07-13

4 PATRIOTIC HYMN.

/ 1na
of JuIv celebration in Woodstock, Ct, by DR..
Holmes. It has character enough about it to
make it agreeable reading for any scholar or
person of literary taste. or any one who can
trace with pleasure the harmonious flow of
the patriot numbers, breathing the history of
a nation just entering upon the threshold OF
its second centennial. Having Perused it our
sell with something of enjoyment, ii is pre-
sented to our readers, in the trust that they,
too, will catch and relish some of its inspira-
tion:
The Ship Of State, above her skies are blue,
But still she rocks little, it is true,
And there are passengers, whose faces
white
Show they don't feel as happy as they
might.
Yet. on the whole, her crew are quite con-
! tent,
Since its wild fury the typhOon has spent;
And willing. if her pilot thinks it best,
| To head little nearer South by West.
And this they feel, the ship came too near
wreck
In the long quarrel for the quarter deck.
Now. when she glides serenely on her way,
The shadows past, where dread explosives
The stiff obstruetives churlish game to try,
Let sleeping dogs and still torpedoes lie.
And so give YOU all The Ship of State!
Freedoms last venture is her priceless
freight.
God speed her, keep her, bless her, while
she steers
Amid the breakers of unsOunded years.
Lead her through dangers path with even
keel
And guide the honest hand that holds her
wheel.
After reading this sentiment, DIR. Holmes
Immediately went on to read the poem
which he had prepared for the occasion. As
he read it with that wonderful grace of elOcu-
ton which characteriZes his platform utter
ances, and as. in that peculiar dryness of hu-
NOR for which he is noted, he brought out
the salient points of the poem, his audience
was quickly moved, and there is no doubt
that this was. at 'east to the assemblage, the
most interesting feature of the day:
Not to myself this breath of vesper song,
Not to these patient friends-this kindly
throng,
Not to this hallowed morning, though it be
Our Summer Christmas, freedoms jubilee,
When every summit, tOpmast, steeple,
That owns her empire spreads her starry
Its bloOd-streaked hues in heavens benig-
nant dew
Washed clean from every crimson stain
they knew.
No, not to these the passing thrills belong,
That steal my breath to hush themselves
with song,
These moments are all memOry's; have
come
To speak with lips that rather should be
dumb;
For what are words? At every step tread
The dust that wore the footprints of the
dead,
But for whose life nv life had never known
This faded vesture which it calls its own.
Here sleeps my fathers sire, and they who
gave
That earlier life, here found their peaceful
In days gone by sought the hallowed
ground;
Climbed yon long slope, the sacred spot
found
Where all unsullied, lies the Winter snow,
Where all ungathered, Springs pale viOlets
blow,
And tracked from stone to stone the Saxon
name
That marks the blood 1 need not blush to
claim,
Blood such as warmed the Pilgrim sons of
toll,
Who held from God the charter of the SOIL |
/ come an alien to your hills and plains, |
Yet feel your birthright tingling in my |
veins;
Mine are. this changing prospects sun and |
shade,
In full-blown Summers bridal pomp array
ed:
Mine these fair hillsides and the wales be-
tween;
Mine the sweet streams that lent their
Frightening green;
I breat6ed your air-the sunlit landscape
smiled;
touch your soil-it knows its children's
child;
Throned in my heart your heritage is mine;
I claim it all by memory's right divine.
Waking, l dream. Before my vacant |
eyes,
In long procession, shadowy forms arise;
Far through the vista of the silent years
l see venturous band; the pioneers
Who let the sunlight through the forests
gloom,
Who bade the harvest wave, the garden
bloom.
Hark! loud resounds the bare-armed set
tiers axe
See where the stealthy panther left its
tracks!
As fierce as stealthily oreeps the skulking
foe,
With stone-tipped shaft and sinnew-cord-
ed bow;
Soon shall he vanish from his ancient
reign.
Leave his last oornfield to the coming train,
Quit the green margin of the wave he
drinks
For haunts that hide the wildcat and the
lynx.
But who the youth his glistening axe
that swings
To smite the pine that shows a hundred |
rings?
His features! Something in his looks l find |
That calls the semblance of my race to
mind.
His name? Ny own, and that which goes
before
The same that once the loved disciple bore.
Young, brave, discreet, the father of line |
Whose voiceless lives have found voice in |
mine;
Trimmed by unnumbered currents though |
they be,
Thanks for the ruddy drops l claim from
theel
The seasons pass; the roses come and go;
Shows fall and melt; the waters freeze and |
flow;
The boys are men; the girls, grown tall |
and fair,
Have found their mates; gravestone here
and there
Tells where the fathers lie; the silvered |
hair
OF some bent patriarch yet recalls the time
That saw his feet the northern hillside |
climb,
A pilgrim from the pilgrims far away,
The godly man, the dwellers by the bay.
On many hearthstone burns the cheer
full fire;
The sehool-house-poreh, the heavenward |
pointing spire,
Proclaim, in letters every eye can read,
knowledge and faith, the New Worlds |
simple creed.
Hushl tbs the Sabbath's silence-stricken
morn:
No feet must wander through the tasselled
corn;
No merry children laugh around the door;