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ODES AND HYMNS, 
 
 WRITTEN AND DESIGNED FOR THE 
 
 Berkshire Jubilee. 
 
 BY EZEKIEL BACON. 
 
 Preliminary Note. 
 
 The following Odes and Hymns, designed for the sacred and 
 secular services of the Berkshiiie Jubilee, were written pur- 
 suant to the invitation of the general Committee in the City of 
 New- York, having that matter in charge. They are now respect, 
 fully submitted in this form by the author to his brother emi- 
 grants, as the most desirable mode in which he would wish to 
 offer his small contribution to the services of an occasion in which 
 his heart has taken a deep interest, and are affectionately dedi. 
 cated to his former fellow-citizens of Berkshire ; a community 
 with whom it has been his good fortune in other years, in com- 
 mon with his and their revered ancestors, to hold many inter, 
 esting civil and social relations ; and towards whom he shall 
 ever cherish, and takes pleasure now in expressing the moat 
 heart-felt gratitude for the many unmerited favors received sA 
 their hand, in days that are past. 
 Utiea, N. Y. August 15, 1844^ 
 
<s>^js^ ^sf^ 2isTiHsr^. 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S RETURN. 
 
 Hark ! from our " Father land" we hear 
 
 It's fond inviting voice ; 
 " Haste to your natal Jubilee, 
 
 And with my sons rejoice.'* 
 
 We come, we come, from distant climes, 
 
 With joy to greet the day, 
 And in thy sacred temples here 
 
 Once more our vows to pay. 
 
 We come from Maine's stern rock-bound coasts 
 
 From homes upon the deep, 
 From where bloom Vine and Orange groves, 
 
 And balmy Zephyrs sleep. 
 
 Where e'er our wandering feet may roam. 
 
 Where e'er our lot is cast, 
 To thee dear land our hearts still turn. 
 
 Our first-love, — and our last. 
 
 For on thy fair and fostering soil 
 Our cradled limbs were rocked ; 
 
 To thee our early years were given, 
 Our ripe affections locked. 
 
3 
 
 And tliougli the bosoms kind that nursed 
 
 Our infancy may rest 
 Within their " dark and narrow bed," 
 
 In clay cold vestments drest ; 
 
 The temples where we humbly knelt 
 No more may lift their spires ; 
 
 And in the old paternal halls 
 May cease their wonted fires ; 
 
 Yet long those sainted names shall Hve, 
 " The memories of the just ;'* 
 
 The holy Fanes our feet have trod 
 Though mouldered long in dust 
 
 Within these pleasant peaceful vales. 
 Temples more glorious rise, 
 
 As through their hallowed portals pass 
 Fresh Pilgrims to the skies. 
 
 OUR " FATHER LAND." 
 
 Good " Father Land !" thy landscapes fair 
 
 Salute our wistful eyes, 
 Compared with thine no fields so green, 
 
 So bright no other skies ! 
 
 Land of our youth ! wide spread thy vales 
 In flowery verdure drest, 
 
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 Where once we thought, hfe's journey done. 
 To lay us down and rest. 
 
 For here enshrined in humble hope 
 
 Beneath thy peaceful soil, 
 The spirits of our Fathers find 
 
 Repose from earth-born toil. 
 
 Thy rushing streams, expanded pools, 
 
 The well-remembered groves 
 Where nature's songsters trilled their notes. 
 
 And maidens told their loves ; 
 
 The pastures trod by grazing herds, 
 
 Thy meadow's florid pride ; 
 Thy harvests waving in the breeze 
 
 Upon the mountain side ; 
 
 Thy swelling hills, thy gentle rills. 
 
 Each knoll, and brook, and tree • 
 The greensward dales through which we strayed. 
 
 When « whisthng o'er the lea." ' 
 
 Here stood, where now they stand no more, * 
 
 Ihe old paternal halls ; 
 The stranger's hand long since has razed 
 
 iheir ancient^time-worn walls. 
 
 " Rocked by the storm of thousand years - 
 " OviL Elm" still lifts its head, 
 
Though on its scathed yet vigorous form 
 The Hghtning's bolt hath sped. 
 
 But where the Patriot and the Sage, 
 « The Fathers,— where are they ?" 
 
 The guides and guardians of our youth ?— 
 The}' all have " passed away." 
 
 Here dwelt the objects of our love, 
 
 The hopes of better days, 
 Before our weary feet had trod 
 
 Life's devious thorny ways. 
 
 Here rest the visions of the past, 
 
 The friends of other years ; 
 We scarce recall thine altered face, 
 
 Seen through thick mists of , tears. 
 
 Dear « Father Land '."—that long lost face 
 With joy once more we view, 
 
 Before of life and thee we take 
 Our long and last adieu I 
 
 OUR NATIVE VALE. 
 
 Dear native Vale ! upon thy placid breast 
 We love to gaze, our hearts delight to rest. 
 As by thy quiet and unruffled side 
 The gentle Housatonic's waters glide. 
 
We love those peaceful and composed retreats^ 
 On which no wave tumultuous ever beats, 
 But calm seclusion from the world's alarms, 
 Protects thy borders 'midst conflicting storms. 
 
 Yet no austere dark anchorite art thou. 
 With aspect gloomy, melancholy brow ; 
 Here the swift wheel of life moves ever round. 
 The stirring notes of industry resound ; 
 
 Fast by the embowering groves, whose noontide 
 
 shades. 
 With foliage green overspread embosomed glades ; 
 The toil-worn laborer luring to repose 
 His weary limbs, his cheerful task to close. 
 
 Thy leaping hillocks, and thy lowly dells 
 Where the fair Nymph Hygeia ever dwells. 
 Still as in pristine loveliness appear. 
 As rising halos on life's waning year. 
 
 JVo slavish chain constrains the free-born mind. 
 No manacles the fettered muscles bind ; 
 But free as nature's denizens man trills 
 His gladsome paeans o'er his native hills. 
 
 Such be our safe retreat when round the world, 
 By life's rude waves our shattered barques are 
 hurled ; 
 
Such peaceful port inviting to repose, 
 'Midst sheltering groves, near Sharon's deathless 
 Rose. 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S HOPE. 
 
 When erst the chosen tribes 
 
 Broke from the oppressor's rod, 
 
 To Palestine they took their way, 
 Their guardian — Israel's God. 
 
 Beneath the Almighty arm, 
 
 Upheld by heavenly might, 
 His cloud — their beacon in the day, 
 
 His fire — their guide by night. 
 
 On Jordan's palmy banks, 
 
 Genesareth's fair shore. 
 Their heritage from him who blest 
 
 Their basket and their store. 
 
 So when from bigot realms 
 
 The Pilgrim race was driven. 
 
 To this fair land they bent their course, 
 And trusted all — to Heaven. 
 
 And when by stern decree 
 
 The Hebrew race was riven, 
 
 Worn wanderers o'er a homeless world, 
 Deserted e'en by Heaven ; 
 
8 
 
 Where e'er their lot is cast, 
 
 Where e'er their footsteps roam, 
 
 Jerusalem is still their joy, 
 Their ever-present home. 
 
 With all of Israel's zeal. 
 
 With all his fervent prayer, 
 
 The wanderer from the Pilgrim land 
 Rests his affections there. 
 
 There passed his youthful dreams ; 
 
 There broke his morning sun. 
 And there he prays may set its beams. 
 
 When life's swift race is run ! 
 
 Long as in Israel's heart 
 
 Jerusalem shall stand, — 
 So long,— in the worn Pilgrim's breast 
 
 Shall dwell — his Father-Land. 
 
 THE RETURNING EMIGRANT'S SAL- 
 UTATION. 
 
 Tune—" Heber's Missionary/ Hymn:' 
 
 From Maine's bleak snow capped Mountains 
 
 From Georgia's scorching sand ; 
 From where the King of Fountains 
 
Breaks on the wasting strand ; 
 From many a distant dwelling, 
 
 From Homes beyond the deep, — 
 We come, with full hearts swelling, 
 
 Our Jubilee to keep. 
 
 We come, our memories meeting, 
 
 With visions of the past ; 
 We come, with rapture greeting 
 
 Our first love and — our last. 
 In vain though glittering treasure 
 
 May tempt our feet to stray. 
 Our hearts from thee can never 
 
 By Gold be torn away. 
 
 What though more balmy breezes 
 
 May blow on India's strand. 
 That breeze our heart more pleases 
 
 Which fans our native land. 
 And though more mighty fountains 
 
 May lave far idcher shores, 
 Still brighter from her mountains 
 
 Our HousATONic pours. 
 
 Here sleep our gentle Mothers, 
 Companions of the blest ; 
 
 And here in peaceful slumbers, 
 Our sainted Fathers rest. 
 
10 
 
 Here passed our youthful dreamlngs, 
 Here rose our morning sun ; 
 
 And here in Hfe's late gleamings, 
 We would its sands should run. 
 
 Thrice welcome then ye Mountains, 
 
 Which greet our wistful eyes !— 
 All hail ye healthful fountains 
 
 Which in yon hillocks rise ! — 
 Those fountains yet may perish, 
 
 Those hills no longer stand, 
 The Pilgrim still shall cherish 
 
 His own loved natal land. 
 
 PARTING JUBILEE HYMN. 
 
 Tune—" Old Hundred^ 
 Our Father's God !-^before thy throne, 
 
 We bow with reverence and adore ; 
 Tiiy hand it was, that led them forth. 
 
 And placed their feet on this far shore. 
 
 Through seas of storm, their course they laid ; 
 
 O'er billows rude their barque was driven ; 
 Their faith in Thee, they ne'er forsook. 
 
 And ventured all for truth and Heaven. 
 
11 
 
 Thy Providence, which safely led, . 
 
 Through savage beasts, more savage men 
 The wandering footsteps of their sons, 
 
 Now brings them to this Home again. 
 
 And wlien in distant, future years. 
 
 As new born generations rise, 
 May they, as with our Fathers, we 
 
 Find " BETTER Homes" beyond the skies. 
 
 THE PARTING HAND. 
 
 Tune—" Auld Lang Syne:' 
 Can brother Pilgrims be forgot. 
 And never brought to mind ? 
 Shall by-gone days not be recalled, 
 And years of auld lang syne ? 
 
 For auld lang syne my friend, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 
 We'll grasp the hand of friendship now, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We all have trod life's toilsome round, 
 And tried each varied clime ; 
 We've wandered many a weary step, 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne my friend, &c. 
 
12 
 
 We too have felt dame fortune's freaks, 
 (We hope she yet mr^y shine ;) 
 While waters wide between us rolled, 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne my friend, &c. 
 
 And here's a parting hand, my friend. 
 Give me that hand of thine ; 
 We'll take once more a hearty shake, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne my friend, &c.- 
 
 And sure you'll ken tliis parting tear, 
 As sure as I will thi^^e ; 
 So here's to all a kin ^t 'Farewell, 
 For auld lang syne. « 
 
 For auld lang syne my friend, &c. 
 
 PD 18 1 
 
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