GIFT OF 
 SEELEY W. MID!) 
 
 and 
 
 GEORGE I. COCHRAN MEYER ELSASSER 
 DR.JOHNR. HAYNKS WILLIAM L. HONNOLD 
 JAMES R. MARTIN MRS. JOSEPH F. SARTORI 
 
 to Ike 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 SOUTHERN BRANCH 
 
 JOHN FISKE
 
 PHE OLD SOUTH DDRINO THE BEIOE OF BOSTON. 1776.
 
 POEMS 
 
 THE "OLD SOUTH" 
 
 HKNRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMKS, 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, JULIA WARD HOWE, 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT HALE, AND 
 
 JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 WILLIAM F. GILL & CO 
 1877 
 
 9027T
 
 Copyright, 1877. 
 WILLIAM F. GILL. 
 
 Published tor the Benefit of the Old South Preservation Fund. 
 
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 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH 
 FLEET. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1746. 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. 
 
 FLEET with flags arrayed 
 
 Sailed from the port of Brest, 
 And the Admiral's ship displayed 
 
 The signal : " Steer south-west." 
 For this Admiral d'Anvillc 
 
 Had sworn by cross and crown 
 To ravage with fire and steel 
 
 Our helpless Boston Town.
 
 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 There were rumors in the street, 
 
 In the houses there was fear 
 Of the coming of the fleet, 
 
 And the danger hovering near ; 
 And while from mouth to mouth 
 
 Spread the tidings of dismay, 
 I stood in the Old South, 
 
 Saying humbly: "Let us pray." 
 
 "O Lord! we would not advise; 
 
 But if, in thy providence, 
 A tempest should arise 
 
 To drive the French fleet hence, 
 And scatter it far and wide, 
 
 Or sink it in the sea, 
 We should be satisfied, 
 
 And thine the glory be."
 
 This was the prayer I made, 
 
 For my soul was all on flame; 
 And even as I prayed 
 
 The answering tempest came. 
 It came with a mighty power, 
 
 Shaking the windows and walls, 
 And tolling the bell in the tower 
 
 As it tolls at funerals.
 
 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 The lightning suddenly 
 
 Unsheathed its flaming sword, 
 And I cried : " Stand still and see 
 
 The salvation of the Lord ! " 
 The heavens were black with cloud, 
 
 The sea was white with hail, 
 And ever more fierce and loud 
 
 Blew the October gale. 
 
 The fleet it overtook, 
 
 And the broad sails in the van 
 Like the tents of Cushan shook, 
 
 Or the curtains of Midian. 
 Down on the reeling decks 
 
 Crashed the o'erwhelming seas ; 
 Ah, never were there wrecks 
 
 So pitiful as these !
 
 A Ballad of the French Fleet, 
 
 Like a potter's vessel broke 
 
 The great ships of the line ; 
 They were carried away as a smoke, 
 
 Or sank like lead in the brine. 
 O Lord ! before thy path 
 
 They vanished and ceased to be, 
 When thou didst walk in \Vrath 
 
 With thine horses through the sea !
 
 8 
 
 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 THE BRAVE OLD SOUTH. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; 
 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall." 
 
 ULL seven-score years our city's pride 
 
 The comely Southern spire 
 Has cast its shadow, and defied 
 
 The storm, the foe, the fire ; 
 Sad is the sight our eyes behold ; 
 
 Woe to the three-hilled town 
 When through the land the tale is told, 
 " The brave ' Old South ' is down ! "
 
 The Brave Old South. < 
 
 Let shadows blot the starless dawn 
 
 That hears our children tell, 
 " Here rose the walls, now wrecked and gone, 
 
 Our fathers loved so well ; 
 Here, while his brethren stood aloof, 
 
 The herald's blast was blown 
 That shook St. Stephen's pillared roof, 
 
 And wrecked King George's throne !
 
 io Poems of the Old South. 
 
 " The home-bound wanderer of the main 
 
 Looked from his deck afar, 
 To where the gilded, glittering vane 
 
 Shone like the evening star, 
 And pilgrim feet from every clime 
 
 The floor with reverence trod, 
 Where holy memories made sublime 
 
 The shrine of Freedom's God ! " 
 
 The darkened skies, alas ! have seen 
 
 Our monarch tree laid low, 
 And spread in ruins o'er the green, 
 
 But Nature struck the blow; 
 No scheming thrift its downfall planned, 
 
 It felt no edge of steel, 
 No soulless hireling raised his hand 
 
 The deadly stroke to deal.
 
 The Brave Old South. 
 
 ii 
 
 In bridal garlands, pale and mute, 
 
 Still pleads the storied tower; 
 These are the blossoms, but the fruit 
 
 Awaits the golden shower; 
 The spire still greets the morning sun, 
 
 Say, shall it stand or fall? 
 Help, ere the spoiler has begun ! 
 
 Help, each, and God help all !
 
 12 
 
 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 THE OLD SOUTH. 
 
 JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 WO hands the God of nature gave, 
 One swift to smite, one fond to save, 
 Betwixt the cradle and the grave. 
 
 Where Strength hews out his stony stint, 
 Where woods are felled and metals blent, 
 The right hand measures his content. 
 
 Where Skill sits tireless at her loom, 
 Where Beauty wafts her transient bloom, 
 The tender, saving hand has room.
 
 The Old South. 
 
 And Fate, as in a tourney fine, 
 
 The differing powers doth match and join, 
 
 That each may wear the crown divine. 
 
 But manhood, in his zeal and haste, 
 Leaves cruel overthrow and waste 
 Upon his pathway roughly traced.
 
 14 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 Then woman comes with patient hand, 
 With loving heart of high command, 
 To save the councils of the land. 
 
 Round this old church, so poor to see, 
 Record of years that swiftly flee, 
 She draws the chain of sympathy. 
 
 The men who make their gold their weal, 
 Who guard with powder and with steel, 
 Have not a weapon she can feel. 
 
 Before the venerable pile, 
 
 Armed with a reason and a smile, 
 
 She stations, with benignant wile. 
 
 Like Barbara Frietchie, in her day, 
 
 She has a royal will to say, 
 
 "You shall not tear one stone away.
 
 The Old South. 15 
 
 "You disavow the spirit need, 
 That avarice may build with heed 
 The gilded monuments of greed." 
 
 What hope, what help compatriots know? 
 Only this counter mandate slow, 
 The mothers will not have it so. 
 
 Mothers ! the wrongs of ages wait ! 
 Amend them, ministers of fate ! 
 Redeem the Church, reform the State !
 
 1 6 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 IN THE OLD SOUTH CHURCH. 
 
 BOSTON, 1677. 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 HE came and stood in the Old South 
 
 Church, 
 A wonder and a sign, 
 
 With a look the old-time sibyls 
 
 wore, 
 Half-crazed and half-divine. 
 
 Save the mournful sackcloth about her wound, 
 
 Unclothed as the primal mother, 
 With limbs that trembled, and eyes that blazed 
 
 With a fire she dare not smother.
 
 In the Old South Church. 17 
 
 Loose on her shoulder fell her hair, 
 
 With sprinkled ashes gray; 
 She stood in the broad aisle, strange and weird 
 
 As a soul at the judgment-day. 
 
 And the minister paused in his sermon's midst, 
 
 And the people held their breath, 
 For these were the words the maiden said. 
 
 Through lips as pale as death : 
 
 " Thus saith the Lord : ' With equal feet 
 
 All men my courts shall tread, 
 And priest and ruler no more shall eat 
 My people up like bread ! ' 
 
 " Repent, repent ! ere the Lord shall speak 
 
 In thunder, and breaking seals ! 
 Let all souls worship him in the way 
 His light within reveals ! "
 
 i8 
 
 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 She shook the dust from her naked feet, 
 
 And her sackcloth closely drew, 
 And into the porch of the awe-hushed church 
 
 She passed like a ghost from view.
 
 In the Old South Church. 19 
 
 They whipped her away at the tail o' the cart; 
 
 (Small blame to the angry town!) 
 But the words she uttered that day nor fire 
 
 Could burn nor water drown. 
 
 For now the aisles of the ancient church 
 
 By equal feet are trod ; 
 And the bell that swings in its belfry rings 
 
 Freedom to worship God ! 
 
 And now, whenever a wrong is done, 
 
 It thrills the conscious walls ; 
 The stone from the basement cries aloud, 
 
 And the beam from the timber calls ! 
 
 There are steeple-houses on every hand 
 
 And pulpits that bless and ban ; 
 And the Lord will not grudge the single church 
 
 That is set apart for man.
 
 20 
 
 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 For in two commandments are all the law 
 And the prophets under the sun ; 
 
 And the first is last, and the last is first, 
 And the twain are verily one. 
 
 So long as Boston shall Boston be, 
 
 And her bay-tides rise and fall, 
 Shall freedom stand in the Old South Church, 
 
 And plead for the rights of all !
 
 The Old South Meeting-House. 
 
 21 
 
 THE OLD SOUTH MEETING 
 HOUSE, 
 
 BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 
 
 O hide the time-stains on our wall, 
 Let every tattered banner fall ! 
 The Bourbon lilies, green and old, 
 That flauntered once, in burnished gold 
 The oriflamme of France that fell 
 That day when sunburned PepperelL 
 His shotted salvos fired so well, 
 The Fleur de Lys trailed sulky down, 
 And Louisburg was George's town. 
 The Bourbon yields it, in despair, 
 To Saxon arm and Pilgrim prayer.
 
 22 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 Hang there the Lion and the Tower, 
 The trophies of an earlier hour, 
 Pale emblems of Castilian pride, 
 That shrouded Winslow when he died 
 Beneath Jamaica's palm. 
 Hang there, and there, the dusty rags 
 Which once were jaunty battle-flags, 
 And, for a week, in triumph vain, 
 Gay flaunted over blue Champlain, 
 'Gayly had circled half the world, 
 Until they drooped, disgraced and furled, 
 That day the Hampshire line 
 Stood to its arms at dress parade, 
 Beneath the Stars and Stripes arrayed, 
 
 And Massachusetts Pine, 
 To see the great atonement made 
 
 By Riedesel and Burgoyne.
 
 The Old South Meeting-House. 
 
 Eagles which Caesar's hand had fed, 
 Banners whicn Charlemagne had led 
 
 A thousand years before, 
 A dozing empire meanly gave 
 To be the eagles of a slave, 
 And let the mean Elector wave 
 
 Those banners on our shore.
 
 24 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 The mean Elector basely sold 
 Eagle and flag for George's gold ; 
 
 And, in the storm of war, 
 In crash of battle, thick and dark, 
 Beneath the rifle-shot of Stark, 
 The war-worn staff, the crest of gold, 
 
 The scutcheon proud and storied fold, 
 In surges of defeat were rolled ! 
 So even Roman banners fall 
 To screen the time-stains on our walls ! 
 Beneath the war-flag's faded fold 
 I see our sovereigns of old 
 On magic canvas there.
 
 The Old South Meeting-- House. 25 
 
 The tired face of " baby Charles " 
 Looks sadly down from Pilgrim walls, 
 
 Half pride and half despair, 
 Doubtful to flatter or to strike, 
 
 To cozen or to dare. 
 His steel-clad charger he bestrides, 
 As if to smite the Ironsides, 
 When Rupert with his squadron rides ; 
 Yet such his gloomy brow and eye, 
 You wonder if he will not try 
 Once more the magic of a lie 
 
 To lift him from his care. 
 
 Hold still your truncheon ! If it moves, 
 The ire of Cromwell's rage it braves ! 
 
 For the next picture shows 
 The grim Protector on his steed, 
 Ready to pray, to strike, to lead,
 
 26 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 Dare all for England, which he saves, 
 New England, which he loves. 
 
 These are Vandycks. Tis Kneller there 
 Has pictured a more peaceful pair: 
 There Orange gives his last command, 
 The charter gives to Mather's hand ; 
 And, blooming there, the queenly she, 
 Who takes, " now counsel, and now tea," 
 Confounding Blenheim and Bohea, 
 
 Careless of war's alarm, 
 Yet, as of old the virgin Queen, 
 When armed for victory, might press 
 The smoky fire-lock of " Brown Bess," 
 So Anna, in a fond caress, 
 Rests on a black " Queen's arm." 
 
 Beneath those forms another band, 
 Silent but eloquent, shall stand.
 
 The Old South Meeting-House. 
 
 There is no uttered voice nor speech 
 
 As still of liberty they teach ; 
 
 No language and no sound is heard, 
 
 Yet still the everlasting word 
 
 Goes forth to thrill the land. 
 
 Story and Greenough shall compel 
 
 The silent marble forms to tell
 
 28 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 The lesson that they told so well 
 
 Lessons of Fate and Awe ; 
 Franklin still point the common place 
 
 Of Liberty and Law. 
 Adams shall look in Otis' face, 
 Blazing with Freedom's soul, 
 And Molyneux see Hancock trace 
 The fatal word which frees a race, 
 There, in New England's well-earned place, 
 The head of Freedom's roll. 
 
 These are not all. The past is gone, 
 But other victories shall be won, 
 For which the time-worn tale we read 
 Is but the sowing of the seed. 
 The harvest shall be gathered when 
 Our children's children meet again 
 Upon this time-worn floor;
 
 The Old South Meeting-House. 29 
 
 When ruddy drops flush living cheek, 
 
 And tribunes of the people speak 
 
 As living man can speak to living men ; 
 
 When future Adamses conspire ; 
 
 When other Danas feed the fire, 
 
 Each grandson worthy of his sire ; 
 
 When other Phillipses shall tell 
 
 Again the tale he tells so well ; 
 
 When other Minots shall record 
 
 The victories of some other Ward, 
 
 And other Prescotts tell the story 
 
 Of other Warrens' death and glory ; 
 
 When, in some crisis of the land, 
 
 Some other Quincy takes the stand, 
 
 To teach, to quicken, to command, 
 
 To speak with prophet's power 
 Of Liberty and Law combined, 
 Of Justice close with Mercy joined,
 
 30 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 United in one heart and mind : 
 
 That talisman of victory find 
 
 In which our laurels all are twined ; 
 
 And, for one struggle more, 
 Forget our things which lie behind 
 
 And reach to those before !
 
 The "Old SoutJi" Speaks. 31 
 
 THE "OLD SOUTH" SPEAKS. 
 
 BY JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 
 
 AM a building old and famous, 
 llf Which every Boston boy can see, 
 
 The Old South Meeting-House my name is, 
 
 That no one else shall take from me. 
 If any other church has reckoned 
 
 To carve my name upon its stone, 
 Let that be " Old South Church the Second," 
 Or " Old South, Junior," till I'm gone. 
 
 'Tis true I'm old and somewhat lonely, 
 My dear companions mostly fled ; 
 
 Of all I knew King's Chapel only, 
 
 Still lifts in peace her old gray head.
 
 32 Poems of ihe Old South. 
 
 In our accordant bells, the story 
 
 Of foeman strife sounds far away ; 
 
 I was a Whig and she a Tory, 
 But we forget all that to-day. 
 
 Sometimes it may have been vexatious 
 
 The Governor and suite to see 
 Go there from out his palace spacious, 
 
 Instead of coming here, to me. 
 And then, when Andros seized our meeting, 
 
 And brought his prayer-books, as you know, 
 No matter ! all these griefs are fleeting ; 
 
 And that was settled, long ago. 
 
 As business life around us hardens, 
 Before it, taste and memories bow ; 
 
 Those grand old homesteads and their gardens, 
 We've no such buildings left us now !
 
 The "Old South" Speaks. 33 
 
 The Province-house was banished lately, 
 
 That shops might stand in lengthened row, 
 
 But how I miss that mansion stately, 
 Its courts, its Indian with his bow ! 
 
 i 
 
 Dear Paddock's elms ! my friends archaic, 
 
 Horse-railroads brought you to your doom ; 
 The City Fathers, too prosaic, 
 
 Destroyed you in your summer bloom. 
 I heard with grief, Improvement summon 
 
 Old Brattle-church its square to flee ; 
 I look in vain across the Common, 
 
 The Hancock House no more I see. 
 
 All human things are evanescent; 
 
 Old Boston now is nearly gone ; 
 And yet it would be very pleasant 
 
 To see the Twentieth Century born,
 
 34 Poems of the Old South. 
 
 To be the link, together keeping 
 
 Three centuries with one life instilled, 
 
 Down time's majestic stream still sweeping, - 
 An ark, with sacred memories filled. 
 
 So sacred ! is there aught surrounding 
 
 Our lives like that great Past behind, 
 Where Courage, Freedom, Faith, abounding, 
 
 One mighty cord of honor twined? 
 A cord no rushing years can sever, 
 
 So long as, looking up to me, 
 Floating around my walls forever, 
 
 Those pure Ideals all shall see. 
 
 But when your children tire of keeping 
 The landmarks of their fathers' day, 
 
 Forget the ashes 'round them sleeping, 
 And cast their sacred shrines away,
 
 The u Old South " Speaks. 35 
 
 Let monuments of peace and war go, 
 Keep only Cotton, Leather, Pork ; 
 
 Boston will be a poor Chicago, 
 Or else a miniature New York. 
 
 My time-stained walls the crosses cover, 
 
 Of well-spent years the living proof; 
 The ghosts of patriots 'round me hover 
 
 Whose voices rang beneath my roof. 
 Though prouder domes are elsewhere swelling, 
 
 And loftier spires salute the morn, 
 Let Boston save the plain old dwelling 
 
 Where Freedom for mankind was born. 
 
 90275
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
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