Peaceful be thy slumbers, brother, There’s no prouder grave for thee, Well may pine for thee a mother, Flower of ocean’s chivalry!
Still may I love, beloved of thee, My own fair city of the sea! Where moulders back to kindred dust The mother who my childhood nurst, And strove, with ill-requited toil, To till a rough, ungrateful soil; Yet kindly spared by Heaven to know That Faith’s reward is sure, though slow, And see the prophet’s mantle grace The rudest scion of her race.
And while around thy seaward shore The Atlantic doth its surges pour, (Those verdant isles, thy bosom-gems) May Temples be thy diadems; Spire after spire in beauty rise, Still pointing upward to the skies, Unwritten sermons, and rebukes of love, To point thy toiling throngs to worlds above.
[Written for the Semi-centennial Celebration at Bowdoin College, August 31, 1852.]
From waves that break to break again, From winds that die to gather might, How pleasant on the stormy main Appears the sailor’s native height.
And sweet, I ween, the graceful tears That glisten in the wand’rer’s eye, As haunts and homes of early years Begemmed with morning’s dewdrops lie.
Borne on the fragrant breath of morn, His lazy vessel stems the tide Among the fields of waving corn That nestle on the river’s side.
His mother’s cottage through the leaves Gleams like a rainbow seen at night, While all the visions fancy weaves Are stirring at the well-known sight.
But sweeter memories cluster here Than ever stirred a seaman’s breast, Than e’er provoked his grateful tear, Or wooed the mariner to rest.
’Twas here our life of life began-- The spirit felt its dormant power; ’Twas here the child became a man-- The opening bud became a flower.
And from Niagara’s distant roar And homes beside the heaving sea, Rank upon rank thy children pour, And gather to thy Jubilee.
On these old trees each nestling leaf, The murmur of yon flowing stream, Has power to stir a buried grief, Or to recall some youthful dream.
Each path that skirts the tangled wood, Or winds amidst its secret maze, Worn by the feet of those we loved, Brings back the forms of other days.
Of those whose smile was heaven to thee, Whose voice a richer music made Than brooks that murmur to the sea, Or birds that warble in the shade.