Come, let us join this festal lay—
Hurra, Hurra,
Come, let us join this festal lay,
And let our anthems all be gay,
And sing aloud for this glad day
Should brighten every heart:—
We’ll sing of heroes who have fought—
Hurra, Hurra,
We’ll sing of heroes who have fought,
Who to their country’s altar brought,
And on her sacred ensign wrought,
The tree of liberty.
We’ll sing of martyrs who have died—
Hurra, Hurra,
We’ll sing of martyrs who have died,
From severed ranks, as side by side
They bravely stemmed the gory tide.
To ransom brother man.
Our glorious banner’s now unfurled—
Hurra, Hurra,
Our glorious banner’s now unfurled,
May it soon wave o’er all the world,
And every traitor standard hurled
From pinnacle to earth.
With gifted leaders in our van—
Hurra, Hurra,
With gifted leaders in our van,
The bright and noblest of our land,
Let patriots shout, as, hand in hand,
They welcome this glad day.
Sleep, love sleep,
The night winds sigh,
In soft lullaby.
The Lark is at rest
With the dew on her breast.
So close those dear eyes,
That borrowed their hue
From the heavens so blue,
Sleep, love sleep.
Sleep, love sleep,
The pale moon looks down
On the valleys around,
The Glow Moth is flying,
Th’ South wind is sighing,
And I am low lying,
With lute deftly strung,
To pour out my song,
Sleep, love sleep.
Just look, ’tis a quarter past six, love—
And not even the fires are caught;
Well, you know I must be at the office—
But, as usual, the breakfast’ll be late.
Now hurry and wake up the children;
And dress them as fast as you can;
“Poor dearies,” I know they’ll be tardy,
Dear me, “what a slow, poky man!”
Have the tenderloin broiled nice and juicy—
Have the toast browned and buttered all right;
And be sure you settle the coffee:
Be sure that the silver is bright.
When ready, just run up and call me—
At eight, to the office I go,
Lest poverty, grim, should overtake us—
“ ’Tis bread and butter,” you know.
The bottom from stocks may fall out,
My bonds may get below par;
Then surely, I seldom could spare you
A nickel, to buy a cigar.
All ready? Now, while I am eating,
Just bring up my wheel to the door;
Then wash up the dishes; and, mind now.
Have dinner promptly at four;
For to-night is our Woman’s Convention,
And I am to speak first, you know—
The men veto us in private,
But in public they shout, “That’s so.”
So “bye-bye”—In case of a rap, love,
Before opening the door, you must look;
O! how could a civilized woman
Exist, without a man cook.
Come Peace, on snowy pinions,
Come, nestle like a dove;
Encircle earth’s dominions
With harmony and love.
Let anger, pride and malice,
And strife forgotten lie;
Nor from their venomed chalice,
Quaff more bitter draughts and die.
Come Peace, with arms extended,
Come, brood o’er this fair land;
Let battle scenes be ended,
And heart be joined with hand.
Let fields now crimsoned over,
With the life-blood of the brave,
Loom as monuments of warning,
Shine, as beacon lights to save.
Come Peace, a welcome waits thee,
From many a stricken life;
And many a heart-crushed mourner,
Now weary of the strife;
Methinks e’en now a footfall
Breaks like music on my ear,
As the distant sound of gladness,
When ’tis borne on summer’s air.
May the echoes prove prophetic;
May thy murmurs from afar
Shed a radiance as refulgent,
Beam as bright as Bethlehem’s Star.
And the hearts that have been riven,
And the bosoms that have bled,
Soon will change their griefs to gladness,
Yield to God and earth their dead.
Yon may speak of a grave in a distant land,
Or of one ’neath ocean’s foam,
Where the dolphins play o’er the sunny spray,
Far from the dear old home;
Where the coral peaks form a glorious tomb,
And the mighty waters lave,
But there is naught in the wide world sought
Like the heart’s deep anguished grave.
You may tell of a grave ’neath the burning sands
Of the tropics fevered zone;
Where silence reigns o’er the desert plains
So desolate, so forlorn.
Where the lion’s roar is the liveliest sound
That o’er that waste is heard—
And the forest bird hymns a plaintive lay,
A requiem for the dead.
Again you may tell of a grave unsought
Far from the home of youth;
Where the willow weeps as the exile sleeps
Akin to Mother Earth.
But O! methinks, there’s not a woe
That can the bosom cleave,
Or as deeply wound, as the lowly mound
O’er the heart’s deep, anguished grave.
All hail! thou gorgeous sunset,
With thy gold and purple clouds,
Tinting the vast horizon,
Like shadowy, fleecy shrouds.
The mountain crests are glowing,
The hills are crimson dyed,
The very air seems blushing,
Bathed in thy amber tide.
Soon the twilight shadows falling
Will thy glory chase away,
And weary man will welcome
The closing of the day.
Then the moon in silvery brightness,
Will show her pale, sad face;
And the stars as her attendants,
Will stud infinite space.
Low down amid the valley
Soon we’ll hear the night-bird’s song,
Calling softly to the south wind,
That the day of toil is done.
Then hail! thou glorious sunset,
Who in fullness can portray
The varied, wondrous beauty
Of a summer’s sunset day.
The Past, it is fraught with many a feeling
Of pleasure, of sadness, of joy, and of pain;
And ’tis sweet of an eve when dewdrops are falling,
To reflect on the days that can ne’er come again.
The Past, it is pleasant! Ah, memory recalls
The period of childhood, when joyous and free,
With innocence crowned, in purity robed,
We revelled in gladness and sported in glee.
The Past, it is saddening! full many a loved one
That joined in each pleasure, partook of each pain,
Have passed on before, to the spirit land flown,
And left us below, till their prize we attain.
The Past’s irrevocable! every word we’ve spoken,
Or action committed, been stamp’d with its seal
Immortal, enduring, ’twill stand sure forever,
As no time can efface, nor effulgence reveal.
Then, then, should the Present be valued and
