Hark the glad sound! the Savior comes,
The Savior promis'd long;
Let ev'ry heart prepare a throne,
And ev'ry voice a song.

On him the Spirit, largely pour'd,
Exerts its sacred fire;
Wisdom and might and zeal and love
His holy breast inspire.

He comes, the pris'ners to release,
In cruel bondage held;
The gates of brass before him burst,
The iron fetters yield.

He comes, from thickest films of vice
To clear the mental ray,
And on the eye-balls of the blind
To pour celestial day.

A lad knows nothing of the woes
That we poor lasses bear,
Among his comrades blithe he goes
And friends his sorrows share.

He has his games, whene'er he please,
He strolls from street to street,
He finds delight in all he sees,
His eyes bright colours meet.

But we poor girls are hid away
We never see the light,
We brood in solitude by day
And weep alone at night.

We live as though in dungeons sealed
Where no men ever come:
Unkissed, uncourted, unrevealed,
Pale prisoners of the home.

The fog is heavy to-night and the sad horns are droning.
What so sad as a bank of mist that cannot weep into rain?
A little, old man comes down the road where you and I are moaning;
A little, old man who sings a song and here is the rune's refrain:
Somewhere, sometime the glory;
Somewhere the sun.
I'll read me on to the end of the story:
God's will be done.

O little, old man you shame me; for the weak oft shame the strong.
The fog is heavy to-night and the sad horns are crying.
What so sad as a pair of lips that cannot break into song;

The summer dawn is breaking
On Auburn's tangled bowers,
The golden light is waking
On Harvard's ancient towers;
The sun is in the sky
That must see us do or die,
Ere it shine on the line
Of the Class OF '29.

At last the day is ended,
The tutor screws no more,
By doubt and fear attended

Behold the Christian Hero arm'd,
With Helmet, Breast-Plate, Shield!
And be not for his fate alarm'd,
He will maintain the field.

The Sword of Justice will defend
Religion's sacred laws:
And ever prove a constant friend
To Champions in her cause.

The holy Martyrs burnt or slain,
Disgrace fair Hist'ry's page;
Their steady faith defied the pain.
Caus'd by Enthusiasts rage.

By Fire their worth was tried like gold,
Freed from the base alloy;
They sought their Maker to behold
In scenes of endless joy.

The soldier worn with wars, delights in peace,
The pilgrim in his ease, when toils are past;
The ship to gain the port, when storms do cease;
And I rejoice discharged from Love at last,
Whom while I served, peace, rest, and land I lost,
With wars, with toils, with storms, worn, tired and tost.

Sweet liberty now gives me leave to sing,
What world it was, where Love the rule did bear;
How foolish chance by lots ruled ev'ry thing,
How error was main sail, each wave a tear,
The master Love himself, deep sighs were wind,

A truce all lamentable cries!
Elysium's festal shouts arise
And drown each note of woe—
The rapturous Elysian life
Skims gently past all worldly strife,
As streams through pastures flow.

With her benign and youthful mien
There hovers o'er the ample scene
An everlasting May:
The hours escape in golden dreams,
The soul to boundless limits streams,
Truth tears the veil away.

Here an unbroken strain of bliss
Wells undulating through the heart.
The very name of grief we miss,
And “Rapture” stands for sorrow's smart.

A SENTIMENT OFFERED AT THE DINNER TO H. I. H. THE PRINCE NAPOLEON, AT THE REVERE HOUSE, SEPTEMBER
25, 1861

The land of sunshine and of song!
Her name your hearts divine;
To her the banquet's vows belong
Whose breasts have poured its wine;
Our trusty friend, our true ally
Through varied change and chance:
So, fill your flashing goblets high, —
I give you, Vive LA F RANCE !

Above our hosts in triple folds
The selfsame colors spread,
Where Valor's faithful arm upholds
The blue, the white, the red;

Such dismal moaning as a storm precedes
With smothered echoes fills the house of woe,
The death-chime from the Minster tower pleads!
A youth is carried forth with footsteps slow.
A stripling — not yet ripened for the tomb,
Plucked prematurely in his early days,
His pulses strong, his cheeks in ruddy bloom,
The fire yet flashing from his eager gaze. —
A son — his mother's darling (you may tell
From that long lamentable cry of pain)
My bosom friend — alas! my brother too —
An ye be men, follow the mournful train!

On the mountain's top appearing,
Lo the sacred herald stands;
Welcome news to pris'ners bearing,
Pris'ners long in hostile lands:
Mourning captive!
God himself will loose thy bands.

Has thy night been long and mournful,
All thy friends unfaithful prov'd?
Have thy foes been proud and scornful,
By thy sighs and tears unmov'd?
Cease thy mourning,
Africa is well-belov'd.

God, thy God, will now restore thee,
He himself appears thy friend;
All thy foes shall flee before thee,
Here their boasts and triumphs end;