BOSTON HYMN.

253

BOSTON HYMN.

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came,

As they sat by the sea-side,
And filled their hearts with flame.

God said, I am tired of Kings,
I suffer them no more;

Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.

A field of havoc and war,

Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel, his name is Freedom,
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west,
And fend you with his wing.

Lo! I uncover the land

Which I hid of old time in the West,
As the sculptor uncovers his statue,
When he has wrought his best.

254

BOSTON HYMN.

I show Columbia, of the rocks
Which dip their foot in the seas,
And soar to the air-borne flocks
Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.

I will divide my goods;
Call in the wretch and slave:
None shall rule but the humble,
And none but toil shall have.

I will have never a noble,
No lineage counted great :
Fishers and choppers and ploughmen
Shall constitute a State.

Go, cut down trees in the forest,
And trim the straightest boughs;

Cut down trees in the forest,
And build me a wooden house.

Call the people together,
The young men and the sires,
The digger in the harvest-field,
Hireling and him that hires.

And here in a pine State-house
They shall choose men to rule

BOSTON HYMN.

In every needful faculty,

In church and state and school.

Lo, now! if these poor men

Can govern the land and sea,

"

And make just laws below the sun,
As planets faithful be.

And ye shall succor men;
'Tis nobleness to serve;

Help them who cannot help again ;
Beware from right to swerve.

I break your bonds and masterships,
And I unchain the slave:

Free be his heart and hand henceforth,
As wind and wandering wave.

I cause from every creature
His proper good to flow :

So much as he is and doeth,
So much he shall bestow.

But, laying his hands on another
To coin his labor and sweat,

255

256

BOSTON HYMN.

Pay ransom to the owner,

And fill the bag to the brim!

Who is the owner? The slave is owner,
And ever was. Pay him!

O North! give him beauty for rags,
And honor, O South! for his shame ;
Nevada ! coin thy golden crags
With Freedom's image and name.

Come East and West and North,

By races, as snow-flakes,

And carry My purpose forth,

Which neither halts nor shakes.

My will fulfilled shall be,
For, in daylight or in dark,
My thunderbolt has eyes to see
His way home to the mark.

TO MY CHILDREN.

257

TO MY CHILDREN.

BY A SOLDIER IN THE ARMY.

DARLINGS-I am weary pining :

Shadows fall across my way;

I can hardly see the lining.
Of the clouds - the silver lining,
Turning darkness into day.

I am weary of the sighing;

Moaning wailing through the air;
Breaking hearts, in anguish crying
For the lost ones for the dying,
Sobbing anguish of despair.

I am weary of the fighting:

Brothers, red with brother's gore.
Only, that the wrong we're righting,-
Truth and Honor's battle fighting,
I would draw my sword no more.

I am pining, dearest, pining,
For your kisses on my cheek;

For

-

your dear arms round me twining; For your soft eyes on me shining;

For your lov'd words; darlings - speak!