HYMN

SUNG AT THE SECOND CHURCH, BOSTON, AT THE ORDINA

TION OF REV. CHANDLER ROBBINS.

WE love the venerable house

Our fathers built to God;

In heaven are kept their grateful vows,
Their dust endears the sod.

Here holy thoughts a light have shed
From many a radiant face,

And prayers of humble virtue made
The perfume of the place.

And anxious hearts have pondered here

The mystery of life,

And prayed the eternal Light to clear
Their doubts, and aid their strife.

From humble tenements around
Came up the pensive train,
And in the church a blessing found
That filled their homes again;

For faith and peace and mighty love
That from the Godhead flow,

Showed them the life of Heaven above
Springs from the life below.

They live with God; their homes are dust; Yet here their children pray,

And in this fleeting lifetime trust

To find the narrow way.

On him who by the altar stands,
On him thy blessing fall,

Speak through his lips thy pure commands,
Thou heart that lovest all.

CONCORD FIGHT.

HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and Thee.

BOSTON HYMN.

READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863.

THE word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came,
As they sat by the seaside,

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.

Think ye I made this ball

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 the statue When he has wrought his best;

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 ploughmmen
Shall constitute a state.

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

Cut down trees in the forest,
And build ne 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
In every needful faculty,

In church, and state, and school.