Woe to thee, when men shall search
Vainly for the Old South Church;
When from Neck to Boston Stone,
All thy pride of place is gone;
When from Bay and railroad car,
Stretched before them wide and far,
Men shall only see a great
Wilderness of brick and slate,
Every holy spot o’erlaid
By the commonplace of trade!
City of our love! to thee
Duty is but destiny.
True to all thy record saith,
Keep with thy traditions faith;
Ere occasion ’s overpast,
Hold its flowing forelock fast;
Honor still the precedents
Of a grand munificence;
In thy old historic way
Give, as thou didst yesterday
At the South-land’s call, or on
Need’s demand from fired St. John.
Set thy Church’s muffled bell
Free the generous deed to tell.
Let thy loyal hearts rejoice
In the glad, sonorous voice,
Ringing from the brazen mouth
Of the bell of the Old South,—
Ringing clearly, with a will,
“What she was is Boston still!”
GARDEN
A hymn for the American Horticultural Society, 1882. [Originally written to be sung at an agricultural and horticultural fair in Amesbury in 1853. It was translated into Portuguese by Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil, and read at a harvest festival. It has been translated into Italian also and sung by peasants at the gathering of the vintage.]
O Painter of the fruits and flowers,
We own Thy wise design,
Whereby these human hands of ours
May share the work of Thine!
Apart from Thee we plant in vain
The root and sow the seed;
Thy early and Thy later rain,
Thy sun and dew we need.
Our toil is sweet with thankfulness,
Our burden is our boon;
The curse of Earth’s gray morning is
The blessing of its noon.
Why search the wide world everywhere
For Eden’s unknown ground?
That garden of the primal pair
May nevermore be found.
But, blest by Thee, our patient toil
May right the ancient wrong,
And give to every clime and soil
The beauty lost so long.
Our homestead flowers and fruited trees
May Eden’s orchard shame;
We taste the tempting sweets of these
Like Eve, without her blame.
And, North and South and East and West,
The pride of every zone,
The fairest, rarest, and the best
May all be made our own.
Its earliest shrines the young world sought
In hill-groves and in bowers,
The fittest offerings thither brought
Were Thy own fruits and flowers.
And still with reverent hands we cull
Thy gifts each year renewed;
The good is always beautiful,
The beautiful is good.
A GREETING
Read at Harriet Beecher Stowe’s seventieth anniversary, June 14, 1882, at a garden party at ex-Governor Claflin’s in Newtonville, Mass.
Thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers
And golden-fruited orange bowers
To this sweet, green-turfed June of ours!
