Textarchiv - John G. C. Brainard

An Invocation

mrbot — Mon, 10 Dec 2018 21:10:07 +0000

O death! O grave! O endless world beyond!
And Thou, the Holy One, that shuttest up
What no man openeth, — that openeth
That which nor man —nor death— nor the filled grave
Can ever shut? To Thee, how reverend,
How humble, and how pure should be our prayer.
Forgive us, for what are we! What but worms
That crawl, and bask, and shine —then writhe and die
But there is hope in Heaven. I hear a voice
That says the dead are blessed, if they die
In Him who died for them. That whoso lives
Believing, shall not die eternally.
— So may we live, and so apply our hearts
To God's true wisdom in our numbered days,
That though we be cut down even as the flowers,
And though we flee like passing shadows by,
Hereafter we may bloom again,— and stand
Where all that blooms shall bloom eternally,
And shadows, like the bitter thoughts of life,
Can never flit across the holy path,
Nor darken one forgiving smile of Heaven.

John G. C. Brainard

1841

Epistle from one absent editor to another

mrbot — Fri, 07 Dec 2018 21:10:10 +0000

Subscribers to ye! J. T. B.
Where'er ye flit, where'er ye flee —
And though ye 'll na remember me
In your braw lodgin,
I trust ye 'll ha'e the grace to see
Friends wi'out dodgin.

O gin I were in stage or boat,
Wi' stuffed valise and dapper coat,
How blithely wad I ride or float
On land an' water;
But here I am, na worth a groat—
'T is nae great matter.

I hope, dear sir, it winna vex ye
To hear I borrow the Galaxy,
Wherein ye rave at sic as tax ye
Wi' a that loss —
But dinna let thae things perplex ye,
And be na cross.

I ken ye're crouse, and gi'e sma' glint
At rhyme, when there's nae meaning in 't,
And sae, my verse I weel may stint
For a' you read on 't;
And my puir muse begins to hint
There's little need on 't.

I only meant to let ye ken
That I, like ither absent men,
Have not been busy at my pen
In Hartford City,
But only scribbled now and then —
"The mair's the pity."

I greet thee frae the banks and braes
That saw me in my childish days,
Where neither sylphs nor pranking fays
Buttoned my jacket;
The nearest I saw, in my strays,
Was auld Till Becket,

May you, by Tiber's favored burn,
Or where Potomac sees the urn
That patriot-poets stop and turn
To make a verse on,
Or 'mid the rigs o' Southern corn,
Meet nae worse person.

John G. C. Brainard

1841

An Evening Cloud

mrbot — Thu, 06 Dec 2018 21:10:09 +0000

Yon cloud, 't is bright and beautiful — it floats
Alone in God's horizon —on its edge
The stars seem hung like pearls— it looks as pure
As 't were an angel's shroud— the white cymar
Of Purity just peeping through its folds,
To give a pitying look on this sad world.

Go visit it, and find that all is false;
Its glories are but fog — and its white form
Is plighted to some thunder-gust.—
The rain, the wind, the lightning have their source
In such bright meetings. Gaze not on the clouds,
However beautiful — Gaze at the sky—
The clear, blue, tranquil, fixed, and glorious sky.

John G. C. Brainard

1841

Dirge

mrbot — Thu, 06 Dec 2018 21:10:08 +0000

Toll not the bell and muffle not
The drum, nor fire the funeral shot;
Nor half way hoist our banner now —
Nor weed the arm, nor cloud the brow,—
But high to heaven be raised the eye,
And holy be the rapturous sigh:
And still be cannon, drum, and bell,
Nor let the flag of sorrow tell.

Now low are laid their honored forms,
But from the clods, and dust, and worms,
Their spirits wake, and, breathing, rise
Above the sun's own glorious skies.
And happy be their airy track—
We may not, would not, call them back;—
For patriot hands may clasp with theirs,
And Angel harps may hymn their prayers.

John G. C. Brainard

1841

Hymn

mrbot — Wed, 05 Dec 2018 21:10:02 +0000

To Thee, O God, the Shepherd Kings
Their earliest homage paid
And wafted upon angel wings
Their worship was conveyed.

And they who "watched their flocks by night,"
Were first to learn thy grace,—
Were first to seek by dawning light,
Their Saviour's dwelling-place.

The hills and vales, the woods and streams,
The fruits and flowers are thine;
Where'er the sun can send its beams,
Or the mild moon can shine.

By Thee, the Spring puts forth its leaves,
By Thee, comes down the rain,
By Thee, the yellow harvest sheaves
Stand ripening on the plain.

When Winter comes in storm and wrath,
Thy soothing voice is heard;
As round the Farmer's peaceful hearth
Is read Thy holy word.

Thus are we fostered by Thy care,
Supported by Thy hand;
Our heritage is rich and fair,
And this Thy chosen land.

Be Joseph yet a fruitful vine,
Whose branches leap the wall,
Make Thou its clusters ever Thine,
Jehovah, God of all.

John G. C. Brainard

1841

Charity

mrbot — Tue, 04 Dec 2018 21:10:10 +0000

Sweet Charity! thou of the kindest voice,
Of lightest hand, of softest — meekest eye,
And gentlest footstep, making but the noise
Of a good angel's pinions floating by,
Go forth! but not to dwellings where the sigh
Of poverty and wretchedness is heard,
Not to the hovel, nor the human sty,
Where conscience, O! how burningly, is seared,
Where Heaven is scarcely known, and Hell but little feared.

Sweet spirit, Go not there. There thou hast been,
And seen, nor pity, nor relief bestowed
By woman's eye, nor by the hand of men,
On them who bear such miserable load;
What votary hast Thou, at their abode?
What kind heart brings its tearful off'ring there,
And, grieved that 't is no more, lifts up to God
Its humble, earnest, holy, secret prayer,
Breathed mid the low and vile, in winter's midnight air?

Go to the rich, the gay, and the secure,
Bold be thy step, and heavy be thy hand,
Knock loud and long, at Fashion's partial door,
And swell thy voice to terror's bold command;
And he, who builds upon extortion's sand,
He, of the purple and the linen fine,
Owner of widow's stock and orphan's land,
Shall shuddering turn from his untasted wine,
And feel, that to do well, his all he should resign.

Go to the lovely, not in sighing smiles,
At which the thoughtless fool might smiling sigh,
— Scatter her freaks, her follies, and her wiles,
With the stern beauty of religion's eye;
Teach her the tear of grief— of shame to dry,
To drop on frailty meek compassion's balm,
To do aright— to feel aright— to try
Her envious, hateful passions first to calm;
Then shed upon her soul, not on her face thy charm.

Go to yon Pharisee — the heartless wretch,
That prates of holiness, and hunts for sin,
For faults of others ever on the stretch,
All gaze without, and not one glance within;
And worse, much worse, not one kind wish to win
A sinner back — but to detect, betray,
And punish. Go and tell him to begin
Anew — and point him to salvation's way,
The sermon on the mount to us poor sons of clay.

Touch not their gold, but touch— Thou canst—their heart,
For there be many, who, with open purse,
Will greet thee in that market-place, their mart
Of cold hypocrisy, or something worse:
Unkind and selfish — theirs may be the curse
"Thy money perish with thee." Learn thou them,
Sweet Charity! their kindness to disburse—
And Self's deep deadly current strong to stem;
A sigh shall win a pearl — a tear a diadem.

How blessed are thy feet. Thy footsteps stray
From open paths, and seek a grass-grown track
Through shades impervious to the gaze of day;
Onward flies light, a form that turns not back
At sight of chasm, or torrent never slack;
Quiet and bold, and sure the errand speeds,
Nor doth the kindly deed a blessing lack—
To sorrow, joy— to anguish, peace succeeds,
The eye no longer weeps, the heart no longer bleeds.

John G. C. Brainard

1841

I know a brook

mrbot — Tue, 04 Dec 2018 21:10:02 +0000

I know a brook that winds its way along
A dull and stony margin —dwarfish trees
And barren vegetation mark its course.
The stern, bold grandeur of the granite rock
Frowns not upon it— and the smooth, green lawn
Slopes not to meet it. Nothing there is seen
Save one pure limpid spring, perennial,
That oozes from the rock and from the moss.
There, all that flourishes of bright and green
Is clustered, there the freshest of the grass
Laves in the welling rill. No man would think
In such a cold and barren spot, to find
Any thing sweet, or pure, or beautiful;
But yet, I say, it is the loveliest gush
—'T is so sequestered, and so arboured o'er
With nature's wildness in its summer glow —
The loveliest gush that ever spouted out
Upon my wandering path. Through mud and mire,
O'er many a bramble, many a jagged shoot
I stumbled, ere I found it. There I placed
A frail memorial— that, when again
I should revisit it, the thought might come
Of the dull tide of life, and that pure spring
Which he who drinks of never shall thirst more.

John G. C. Brainard

1841

Is it fancy, or is it fact?

mrbot — Fri, 16 Nov 2018 21:10:02 +0000

No more will I love, for my Mother is fled,
My Brother is gone to the seas for his bread,
And O, my poor Father by whom I am fed,
How cold is his hand when I take it.
He has cares, he has sorrows, and wild is his smile
When I strive all his harrowing thoughts to beguile;
I gaze on his anguish, and fancy the while
That his heart wants but little to break it.

No more will I love —for my lover is gone,
At noonday the grasshopper sits by the stone,
And at twilight the whip-poor-will utters his moan
Where deep in the wood he is buried.
'T was there that he wished to be laid, for 't was there
That truth told its tale, and that love breathed its prayer,
And the heart taught the tongue a sad promise to swear
That he and his love should be married.

He's wedded to dust, and I'm wedded to woe,
My Father's distracted, and where shall I go—
Should I follow my mother — O misery — no,
I am not, I am not her daughter.
One hope I can cherish— one form I can seek,
On one breast I can sigh, to one heart I can speak,
And the tear I next shed shall fall full on his cheek—
The brother that ventured the water.

John G. C. Brainard

1841

Stifled with sweets

mrbot — Mon, 12 Nov 2018 21:10:08 +0000

Was I not served in open day
With buds and flowers! — and whence came they?
In the still night, as poets tell,
Queen Mab rings out her little bell,
And sends her sylphs on moonlight beams,
To weave our happy, youthful dreams,
(—Ere morning crimsons for the day
That comes to chase them all away —)
To whisper in the slumberer's ear,
Thoughts full of young and buoyant cheer;
To put such nectar to the lip
As waking mortals never sip —
To place a rosebud on each eye,
To purify the sleeper's sigh,
And best of all, beside his couch
Leave on his cheek a Fairy's touch.
But who, in honest open day,
Sends buds and flowers — and whence come they?

John G. C. Brainard

1841

Āes Alienum

mrbot — Sat, 03 Nov 2018 21:10:02 +0000

Hispania! O, Hispania! once my home —
How hath thy fall degraded every son
Who owns thee for a birth-place. They who walk
Thy marbled courts and holy sanctuaries,
Or tread thy olive groves, and pluck the grapes
That cluster there — or dance the saraband
By moonlight, to some Moorish melody —
Or whistle with the Muleteer, along
Thy goat-climbed rocks and awful precipices;
How do the nations scorn them and deride!
And they who wander where a Spanish tongue
Was never heard, and where a Spanish heart
Had never beat before, how poor, how shunned,
Avoided, undervalued, and debased,
Move they among the foreign multitudes!
Once I was bright to the world's eye, and passed
Among the nobles of my native land
In Spain's armorial bearings, decked and stampt
With Royalty's insignia, and I claimed
And took the station of my high descent;
But the cold world has cut a cantle out
From my escutcheon— and now here I am,
A poor, depreciated pistareen. This coin, now seldom seen, was formerly valued at twenty cents; but when the above was written passed for but eighteen.

John G. C. Brainard

1841