Gloucester
by Hiram Rich

Let statue, picture, park., and hall, 
Ballad, flag, and festival, 
The past restore, the day adorn, 
And make to-morrow a new morn. 
Emerson

There was an island . . . and sweet single roses. 
Higginson's Journal, 1629. 

When ships were divers leagues distant and had not made land, 
so fragrant and odoriferous was the land to the mariners, that they 
knew they were not far from the shore. 
Scottaw's Narrative 



" We need a town," the Ages said, 
"Beyond the willing sea, 
Wherein to grow in other air 
Our infant, liberty. 

"Though sorrow visit there the child, 
Though care may seek her door, 
Who hears her footfall once will hear 
And love it evermore. 

"A homespun town we need," they said, 
"With honor in the web, 
And men who dare to build and sail, 
Let fortune flow or ebb. 

"Divide your kingdoms where you may, 
Or hold the hills in fee, 
But lay no lien on the deep, 
For all men own the sea." 

II 

O mariners, who sail in quest, 
Untroubled there, the main, 
The deep-blue deep is all your own, — 
What more is there to gain? 

What more is there to win, O ship? 
Ne'er let a chance persuade! 
Thou'rt sailing by a haven here 
As fine as God hath made. 

Why sail this harbor by? Come in! 
Some reef may be thy woe; 
For thee the land hath waited long, 
For thee the roses blow. 

The island-roses, captain bold, 
Invite thee and thy crew; 
Their perfume is as sweet as if 
They drank of England's dew. 

In vain, O valiant Captain Smith, 
Thy labors we invite: 
Now other hands will build the town 
And its proud records write. 

III 

Old England had grown roses long 
As she had grown her men: 
Ah! where were sweeter roses? Where 
Was manhood braver? When? 

Old England gave her gravest, best, — 
Who else could rear the New? 
The land was not a land forlorn 
That grew the men she grew. 

IV 

See Conant and his comrades build 
On this fair headland green! 
Undoing all their hands have done, 
Alas! they leave the scene. 

They leave the wilderness as wild 
As ever wildness were: 
Who now will build the town to stay 
And wear their heart for her? 

V 

"Sweet single roses," blow your breath 
Beyond the harbor-line! 
For men are sailing on a quest 
With thoughts of home and kine. 

With thoughts of hearth and kine they come 
And cast their anchor down: 
These are the men with hope in hand 
To build your needed town. 

Lured by a rose's breath, are these 
The men to hew and fell? 
What armor of the soul they have 
To ward a witch's spell? 
They were the men to plant a town 
On this reluctant soil; 
The common weal was in their work 
As light is in the oil. 

How soon they see in ev'ry oak 
The promise of a sill! 
Their hearth-light in the pine they see, — 
These men of sight and will. 


In many a boulder, too, they seek 
The coming doorstep stone; 
How sweet to hew when what is hewn 
Becomes at once one's own! 

And yet they thought it sweeter far 
To hear some brother's call, 
Then answer it and feel within, — 
One’s own is not one's all. 

Saw they not more than hearth and sill 
They had no sight, alas! — 
The Lord they saw, as men should see, — 
For men are more than grass. 

And so they builded to the Lord: 
They knew when all is known, 
Or give or keep, or sow or sing, 
One's all is not one's own. 

VI 

O single roses, sweet, that lured 
These sailing men to land, — 
These men with sight and will to see, 
With hope in either hand, — 

We thank thee for the men who threw 
Their idle anchor down, 
Who felt thee as a breath of home, 
Whose love begat our town. 

VII 

O fields of by-gone battle-days, 
Where hold you now her sons? — 
"'T was here the maddest charge was made 
That ever silenced guns: 

"The day was deathful here, O God! 
The turf is sweet and dear: 
Cape Ann, the tide of battle turned, 
Thy fallen sons lie here." 
O favored field, complete thy tale! 
Was that day lost or won? 
"No day was ever lost by him 
Who fell with duty done." 

O famous field, bethink once more! 
Was the day won or lost? 
"The doubtful day is never won 
By those who count the cost?" 

Hear, hear, old Cape, from fields renowned 
Comes home the proud reply, — 
"Thy sons make sweet the turf they trod, 
And lustrous where they lie." 

VIII 

Men know thy hidden grief, O Cape, 
Whose losses leave no scar: 
Thy looked-for sons who come no more, 
By the sea ennobled are. 

IX 

Ah! truant sons and daughters, now, 
What shall your province be? 
A thousand hearts are here as one, — 
Keep you the happy key! 

For you the lanes are all in bloom 
To lead where once they led; 
You seek no by-way here alone, — 
To-day there are no dead. 

Float down the golden harbor-tide 
Within the sunset glow! 
The snowy squadrons cloud the bay, — 
For you their pennons flow. 

Dream over all your dreams! Beyond 
Their hills of lavender 
Are sails that never nearer come, — 
The ships that ever were, — 

The dream-bound ships that seem to wait 
For something from the hills; 
The lucky wind, that knows their need, 
To-day their coming wills. 

O seaport, look! thy craft are not 
The waiting wealth of dreams, 
For flight is in their supple sails 
And sinew in their beams. 

X 
O city dear, thy hammers find 
A purpose in the stone: 
Thy weal and woe are in the sea, — 
The sea, that mocks thy moan. 

Come woe or weal, thy women mate 
Thy well-rewarded men: 
Now, where is woman dearer? Where 
Was manhood braver? When? 

XI 

O brothers, sisters, have we built 
As He would have us build? 
Hath heart or hand been loth to turn 
From heart or hand unfilled? 

Our fathers builded in their day 
Not for the day alone; 
Their common love the common weal, 
Day unto day hath shown. 

XII 
"O sons of mine, thy Cape hath been 
For centuries my stay; 
Go, serve her well and love her well," — 
Let Massachusetts say! 

Aye, Massachusetts, mother dear, 
We will be all we may; — 
God keep thee, rare old COMMONWEALTH, 
From border-line to bay!