Let Earth be glad! for that great work is done,
Which makes, at last, the Old and New World one!
Let all mankind rejoice! for time nor space
Shall check the progress of the human race!
Though Nature heaved the Continents apart,
She cast in one great mould the human heart;
She framed on one great plan the human mind
And gave man speech to link him to his kind;
So that, though plains and mountains intervene,
Or oceans, broad and stormy, roll between,
If there but be a courier for the thought—
Swift-winged or slow—the land and seas are nought,
And man is nearer to his brother brought.
First, ere the dawn of letters was, or burst
The light of science on the world, men, nurs’t
In distant solitudes apart, did send,
Their skin-clad heralds forth to thread the woods,
Scale mountain-peaks, or swim the sudden floods,
And bear their messages of peace or war.
Next, beasts were tamed to drag the rolling car,
Or speed the mounted rider on his track;
And then came, too, the vessels, oar-propelled,
Which fled the ocean, as the clouds grew black,
And safe near shore their prudent courses held.
Next came the winged ships, which, brave and free,
Did skim the bosom of the bounding sea,
And dared the storms and darkness in their flight,
Yet drifted far before the winds and night,
Or lay within the dead calm’s grasp of might.
Then, sea-divided nations nearer came,
Stood face to face, spake each the other’s name,
In friendship grew, and learned the truth sublime,
That Man is Man in every age and clime!
They nearer were by months and years—but space
Must still be shortened in Improvement’s race,
And steam came next to wake the world from sleep,
And launch her black-plumed warriors of the deep;
The which, in calm or storm, rode onward still,
And braved the raging elements at will.
Then distance, which from calms’ and storms’ delays
Grew into months, was shortened into days,
And Science’ self declared her wildest dream
Reached not beyond this miracle of steam!
But steam hath not the lightning’s wondrous power,
Though, Titan-like, mid Science’ sons it tower
And wrestle with the ocean in his wrath,
And sweep the wild waves foaming from its path.
A mightier monarch is that subtler thing,
Which gives to human thought a thought-swift wing;
Which speaks in thunder like a God,
Or humbly stoops to kiss the lifted rod;
Ascends to Night’s dim, solitary throne,
And clothes it with a splendor not its own—
A ghastly grandeur and a ghostly sheen,
Through which the pale stars tremble as they’re seen;
Descends to fire the far horizon’s rim,
And paints Mount Etnas in the cloudland grim;
Or, proud to own fair Science’ rightful sway,
Low bends along th’ electric wire to play,
And, helping out the ever-wondrous plan,
Becomes, in sooth, an errand-boy for man!
This Power it was, which, not content with aught
As yet achieved by human will or thought,
Disdained the slow account of months or days,
In navigation of the ocean ways,
And days would shorten into hours, and these
To minutes, in the face of sounding seas.
If Thought might not be borne upon the foam
Of furrowing keel, with speed that Thought should roam,
It then should walk, like light, the ocean’s bed,
And laugh to scorn the winds and waves o’er head!
Beneath the reach of storm or wreck, down where
The skeletons of men and navies are,
Its silent steps should be; while o’er its path
The monsters of the deep, in sport or wrath,
The waters lashed, till like a pot should boil
The sea, and fierce Arion seize the upcast spoil.
America! to thee belongs the praise
Of this great crowning deed of modern days.
’T was Franklin called the wonder from on high;
’T was Morse who bade it on man’s errands fly—
’T was he foretold its pathway ’neath the sea:
A daring Field fulfilled the prophecy!
’T was fitting that a great, free land like this,
Should give the lightning’s voice to Liberty;
Should wing the heralds of Earth’s happiness,
And sing, beneath the ever-sounding sea,
The fair, the bright millennial days to be.
Now may, ere long, the sword be sheathed to rust,
The helmet laid in undistinguished dust;
The thund’rous chariot pause in mid career,
Its crimsoned wheels no more through blood to steer;
The red-hoofed steed from fields of death be led,
Or turned to pasture where the armies bled;
For Nation unto Nation soon shall be
Together brought in knitted unity,
And man be bound to man by that strong chain,
Which, linking land to land, and main to main,
Shall vibrate to the voice of Peace, and be
A throbbing heartstring of Humanity!
Oh must I fling my harp aside,
Nor longer let it soothe my heart?
No! sooner might the tender bride
From th’ first night’s nuptial chamber part!
No! sooner might the warrior cast
His martial plume of glory down,
Or worshipt monarch fling in dust
His royal sceptre and his crown!
Must all that ever smoothed my way
Along the tedious path of time,
Or kept me for some glimpse of day,
Or held my desperate hand from crime;
Must all, that I have loved so dear,
When every other source of joy
Had fled, be careless thrown away
As if it were some idle toy?
Oh no—that harp may all be rough
And grating to another’s ear—
So let it be—it is enough
That unto me it still is dear!
If, in the silent midnight, I
Have oft my weeping heart beguiled,—
If oft when gloom surrounded me,
My spirit o’er its strains have smiled.
It were a folly strange indeed
To cast that solace from my breast!
It were but wishing yet to bleed
Without one certain place of rest;
It were to drink the bitterest gall,
To add but poison to a wound,
And find new pangs of sorrowing
Where hitherto they were not found.
It were to plunge within the deep
Of wilderness and night—where grope
Worse ills than e’er disturbed the sleep
Of minds forsook of peace and hope!
Oh, tell me not to spurn this harp,
Although it may not be divine,
For thou hast felt no pangs, as I,
And my sad soul’s unlike to thine.
’Tis sweet, when mournfulness enshrouds
The spirit sorrowing and pale,
And gather round the angry clouds,
To take the harp and tune its wail.
’Tis sweet, when calmly broods the night,
To wander forth where waters roll,
And, mingling with the waves its voice,
To rouse the passions of the soul!
Then, off with ye! who coldly tell
Me my loved harp to fling away—
I’d rather bid all friends farewell,
Than have the folly to obey!
For friends are but a fleeting trust,
As transient as the evening’s blush;
But, true to me in all my moods,
My harp shall ne’er its soothings hush!