And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy and tall and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold
Communion with his Maker.
No traces of man's pomp or pride; no silks
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter; no fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here; Thou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees
In music; Thou art in the cooler breath,
That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with Thee.
Here is continual worship; Nature here,
In the tranquillity that Thou dost love,
Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around,
From perch to perch the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
Of half the mighty forests, tells no tale
Of all the good it does.
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of Thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak
By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated-not a prince,
In all the proud old world beyond the deep,
Ere wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower,
With scented breath, and looks so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mold,
An emanation of th' indwelling life,
A visible token of the upholding love,
That are the soul of this wide universe.
My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me-the perpetual work
Of Thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd
Forever. Written on Thy work I read
The lesson of Thine own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die; but see, again,
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay,
Youth presses-ever gay and beautiful youth-
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors
Molder beneath them.
O, there is not lost
One of Earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies,
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy Death; yea, seats himself
Upon the sepulcher, and blooms and smiles,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods
And drowns the villages; when, at Thy call,
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities; who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by!
Oh, from these sterner aspects of Thy face
Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad, unchain'd elements, to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, Thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of Thy works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.
Lesson talk. This selection lends itself particularly to practise in deep-toned voice, in which the orotund quality prevails. The student should endeavor to realize the depth and majesty of the thought, as well as its spirit of praise and devotion. The general movement is dignified and stately, with occasional swelling and increasing intensity of the voice. The rate should not be so slow as to suggest tardiness, nor so uniform as to be monotonous. All the effects of variety, depth, fulness, animation, and intensity, should be brought to the reading aloud of this inspiring poem. Consult your dictionary for the pronunciation of all doubtful words, such as: architrave, boughs, sanctuaries, columns, humble, nature, solitude, solitary, herbs, grandeur.
Men-from every rank,
Fresh and free and frank;
Men of thought and reading,
Men of light and leading,
Men of loyal breeding,
The nation's welfare speeding:
Men of faith and not of fiction,
Men of lofty aim in action;
Give us Men-I say again,
Give us Men!
Strong and stalwart ones;
Men whom highest hope inspires,
Men whom purest honor fires,
Men who trample self beneath them,
Men who make their country wreath them As her noble sons,
Worthy of their sires;
Men who never shame their mothers,
Men who never fail their brothers,
True, however false are others:
Give us Men-I say again,
Give us Men!
Men who, when the tempest gathers,
Grasp the standard of their fathers
In the thickest fight:
Men who strike for home and altar,
(Let the coward cringe and falter),
God defend the right!
True as truth tho lorn and lonely,
Tender, as the brave are only;
Men who tread where saints have trod,
Men for Country-Home-and God:
Give us Men! I say again-again-
Give us Men!
Honor is the subject of my story,
I can not tell what you and other men
Think of this life; but for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was born free as Cæsar; so were you;
We both have fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he.
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber, chafing with her shores,
Cæsar said to me "Darest thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me, into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word,
Accoutered as I was, I plunged in,
And bade him follow; so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roared, and we did buffet it;
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,
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