Not as we hoped; but what are we? Above our broken dreams and plans God lays, with wiser hand than man's, The corner-stones of liberty. I cavil not with Him: the voice That freedom's blessed gospel tells Is sweet to me as silver bells, Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice! Dear friends still toiling in the sun; Ye dearer ones who, gone before, Are watching from the eternal shore The slow work by your hands begun, Rejoice with me! The chastening rod Blossoms with love; the furnace heat Grows cool beneath His blessed feet Whose form is as the Son of God! Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springs Are sweetened; on our ground of grief Rise day by day in strong relief The prophecies of better things. Rejoice in hope! The day and night Are one with God, and one with them Who see by faith the cloudy hem Of Judgment fringed with Mercy's light 1862. THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. THE flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell. And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms. What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain And yellow locks of corn? Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain. Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm. She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return. She sees with clearer eve than ours The good of suffering born,-- The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her corn. Oh, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies Oh, give to us her finer ear Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in. 1862. HYMN, SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF ST. HELENA'S ISLAND, S. C. OH, none in all the world before Were ever glad as we! We're free on Carolina's shore, We're all at home and free. Thou Friend and Helper of the poor, Who suffered for our sake, To open every prison door, And every yoke to break! Bend low Thy pitying face and mild, And help us sing and pray; The hand that blessed the little child, Upon our foreheads lay. We hear no more the driver's horn, No more the whip we fear, This holy day that saw Thee born Was never half so dear. The very oaks are greener clad, The waters brighter smile; Oh, never shone a day so glad On sweet St. Helen's Isle.