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 1919 
 
 The First Easter Mi 
 
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 COMRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
THE 
 FIRST EASTER MORN 
 
 ERNEST VINTON BROWN 
 
 A Collection of Twelve Pieces of Verse by the Author of 
 "Worcester Poems" 
 
 Concord, N. H. 
 1919 
 

 Copyright by Ernest Brown, 1919. 
 
 DEC 16 1919 
 
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 C1A558932 
 
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 CONTENTS. 
 
 The First Easter Morn 1 
 
 Memorial Day 10 
 
 The Law 12 
 
 The Founders 13 
 
 Endless Love 16 
 
 Sight 17 
 
 Poe, 1809-1909 18 
 
 Questions 20 
 
 Old Home Day 21 
 
 Fair Newport 27 
 
 Flag of Freedom 29 
 
 Edition Closed 31 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THE FIRST EASTER MORN. 
 
 Birds sang as birds had never sung before; 
 Soaring aloft as if to open heaven's door 
 Ere yet the first burst of the morning ray 
 Poured over Olivet the signal of the day. 
 
 A hush not silence filled the brooding air 
 Within a garden of the Holy City where 
 Two days before had risen sobs of grief, 
 Such as hearts give when sorrow shakes belief; 
 
 Which yet believe because they have believed; 
 For love is deeper when its love is grieved. 
 
 The tumult has passed by; of crowds that 
 
 mocked-, 
 Yet cried aloud to God when mountains rocked 
 And God with darkness frowned on their 
 
 brutality; 
 
2 POEMS 
 
 Of those who pierced His bruised humanity, 
 Who touched His lips with bitter moistened rod, 
 Yet cried at last, "This is the Son of God." 
 
 The sobs which marked the end have died 
 
 away. 
 As passed with setting sun the Paschal day. 
 
 The sun which veiled itself that other noon 
 Has passed throughout its cycle and is soon 
 To come with splendor, as before the stress 
 Of heaven's travail o'er its Lord's distress. 
 
 Above the murmur of the bees, 
 
 Above the sighing of the trees, 
 
 Above the calm which marked the song. 
 
 Of angels' triumphing o'er wrong. 
 
 Came floating through the air the sound 
 
 Of steps which lightly touched the ground. 
 
 So do we hurry when our loved ones call. 
 Or mother hastens to arrest the fall 
 Or her dear child; so love now swiftly ran 
 To rescue from despair created man. 
 
 Then Mary came who bore the spotless name 
 
BROWN 3 
 
 And on her breast had nurtured him who came 
 Purer than ever she j and now had died, 
 With broken heart and cruel-pierced side, 
 The Paschal Lamb for all the human race. 
 Perfect in feature, form and heaven's grace. 
 
 And Mary came whom He had purified so pure 
 Her hope of heaven in that act was sure. 
 Though she had borne the taint of earthly sin 
 That only God's own Son could let her in. 
 
 That woman came within whose upper room 
 
 the last 
 Of earthly sacrament had been ; so also past 
 The time when one betrayed and those who 
 
 loved had slept 
 While He gave thanks for strength with which 
 
 His trust was kept, 
 
 Aud there were others in the loving throng 
 
 that came 
 Bearing the spices sweet, of every kind or 
 
 name. 
 To fitly spend upon the Lord's Anointed Son, 
 Who unto such a death was the appointed one; 
 
4 POEMS 
 
 Who in some day when hope was faint and 
 
 body weak 
 Had been made whole by words that He alone 
 
 could speak. 
 
 And she whose sins outran the rest 
 Was first to come the tomb abreast; 
 Was first to see the stone was gone 
 Which on the way had made forlorn 
 The hopes of all the mourning band, 
 For fear among them was no hand 
 To roll it from the holy room 
 Where His pierced body had its tomb. 
 
 The tidings her's to speed along ; 
 Like prelude ere the sweUing song 
 Fills nave and transcept with its power : 
 So she, that wondrous pearly hour 
 When dawn was breaking in the east. 
 Sped backward to the very least 
 Of those who turned more laggard feet 
 Than she, whose love had been so fleet. 
 To where the Holy One was laid, 
 Whom, though they loved, had been be- 
 trayed. 
 
BROWN 
 
 To each, new life was now inspii;d, 
 Each heart with zealous wonder fired ; 
 They quickly reached the sepulchre 
 Whose emptiness, first seen by her. 
 Proclaimed that Roman seal was broken 
 By One whose word is true as spoken, 
 Be it for gain or yet for loss. 
 At Eden, Sinai, or Cross. 
 
 Then as one tarries as loves best, 
 Back to the tomb came Mary last. 
 To wet with tears the riven ground. 
 Hoping that thus there might be found 
 Some seed of hope that, watered so, 
 Might spring to fairer form and grow 
 To bud and blossom and fruition. 
 The seed which gives to faith nutrition 
 As manna in the former day 
 Fed those when Moses led the way; 
 This bread without corruption's leaven 
 To be the living Bread of Heaven. 
 
 As Mary wept, as we would weep 
 If one were taken, in our sleep. 
 
POEMS 
 
 Whom we love dearly, 'mid her tears 
 Two angels seek to calm her fears ; 
 Who clothed in white, at either end 
 In mercy to Christ's friends attend 
 Within that sanctuary dim, 
 Upon the borrowed couch of Him 
 Who had not where to lay His head ; 
 Nor even when His body dead 
 Lay three days in encircling rock. 
 Slain Shepherd of a scattered flock. 
 
 Sat they in brightness as the sun. 
 Nay, rather of God's only Son. 
 One at the head, the other where 
 Had lain the feet wiped by her hair. 
 " Why weepest thou? " the angel said 
 Who sat where late had lain His head. 
 
 As winds drive back the mist and rain 
 
 Only to let them come again 
 
 On swa5dng wheat, thus beating out the grain 
 
 That earth may not be robbed of gain. 
 
 So weeping stayed in Mary's eyes. 
 
 And in her tempest's stilled surprise 
 
 She answered thus the angel guest 
 
BROWN 7 
 
 Who so her faithfulness would test, 
 " Because they took my Lord away 
 And I know not where he may lay." 
 
 Love for the living is not love 
 
 As love that weeps for a dead love. 
 
 As Mary bowed again to weep, 
 
 As wind sweeps o'er the grain we reap, 
 
 Swaying and beating out the wheat, 
 
 A tender voice as music sweet, 
 
 Which she knew when she'd washed His feet. 
 
 The angel's question did repeat 
 
 And grasping at the faintest hope — 
 
 All hearts at times are prone to grope — 
 
 Still full of wonder why the tomb 
 
 So soon became an empty room. 
 
 And hoping he who questions so 
 
 May know what she most seeks to know, 
 
 Mistaking in her eagerness 
 
 The garden for the wilderness, 
 
 The precious jewel for the common thing — 
 
 How oft we, too, when we should sing, 
 
 Sob o'er the things we hold, and not 
 
POEMS 
 
 Because of those we have not got. 
 So Mary having Him she sought, 
 Looked for Him now where He was not. 
 
 As sunshine drives away the rain, 
 Kissing its stricken earth again, 
 So love that weeps will find its way 
 Prepared where least it thought it lay. 
 
 The brook casts down the dam of clay. 
 The river, too, will find its way 
 Beyond the shelt'ring fern or tree 
 To lose its passion in the sea. 
 
 Out of the mist of Mary's woe. 
 
 Eternal wisdom planned it so, 
 
 She knew her Lord by her own name 
 
 As from His loving lips it came 
 
 And falling down at His bruised feet 
 
 With all her precious ointments sweet 
 
 She offered homage as before. 
 
 But not by Him is needed more 
 
 Anointing for the offering 
 
 Of Pashal Lamb or crowned king ; 
 
 While earth's fears in the grave are cast 
 
BROWN 
 
 Triumphant over death at last. 
 
 While garden woke with hum of bees, 
 The scent of rose, the sway of trees, 
 Walked Mary with the Crucified 
 Through whom is Hfe because He died. 
 
 After the gray of April morn 
 Had come the fulness of the dawn. 
 The birds which sang 'mid hush before, 
 Now sang as though through open door 
 They caught a glimpse of Paradise, 
 Oped by the purest sacrifice. 
 
10 POEMS 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 Thump ! Thump ! Thump ! 
 
 Crutch, cane and wooden stump ! 
 The Boys in Blue, in brave array. 
 Are marching in the ancient way, 
 Onled by Stars, which drew the slain 
 To battle on the Southern plain ; 
 Their ranks are thin, their hairs are gray. 
 Yet they are marching Boys today ! 
 
 Thump ! Thump ! Thump ! 
 
 Crutch, cane and wooden stump ! 
 For - WARD ! The order sounded clear 
 To him who stood with Hst'ning ear, 
 And feet just stepping into Life 
 When Union travailed, in the strife 
 From which was born the goddess fair, 
 Whose spirit fills our breathed air. 
 
 Thump ! Thump ! Thump ! 
 Crutch, cane and wooden stump ! 
 For- ward, a pause, then MARCH, it came- 
 
BROWN 11 
 
 A march to battle for a name ; — 
 Dare much and suffer, such is fame ; — 
 That Union in exalted flight, 
 Might see the sun emerge from night 
 To nourish all the earth with right. 
 
 Thump ! Thump ! Thump ! 
 
 Crutch, cane and wooden stump ! 
 To some the weary march is long. 
 The struggle hard, to right a wrong, 
 But they who left their bodies then 
 In southern field or prison pen, 
 Fell out upon the march of life 
 To bind the wounds of civil strife. 
 
 Thump ! Thump ! Thump ! 
 
 Crutch, cane and wooden stump ! 
 The foe was met, a victory won. 
 And now detailed, by one and one, 
 They seek Headquarters up above. 
 Forget the strife and join in love. 
 While some march on, till Grand Review 
 When life ends here for Boys in Blue, 
 
12 POEMS 
 
 THE LAW. 
 
 Life is the same in law whate'er the form ; 
 The seed upspringing in the womb of earth 
 Differs in days, and shape, and name, from that 
 Which bears the superscription of the Lord. 
 Each to its t5^e is but the counterpart ; 
 Yet one who watches how and when it grows 
 Sees leaf of maple, oak, or other wood ; 
 Or Aryan flush, or Mongol sallowness. 
 Nor does life differ in the root of things, 
 Save in the substance and the sustenance ; 
 For while the tree is rooted to the place, 
 Man's root lies deeper in his old beHefs, 
 And nubbins growing on neglected corn 
 But shows the law which also gives us rogues. 
 Some roots lie near the surface of the ground, 
 While tree and man sometimes go farther down. 
 Then risen from the ground, or parent thought. 
 Both grow by season and by circumstance ; 
 The tree adds rings as sun may shine or fail, 
 The man adds wisdom as time teaches all. 
 
BROWN 13 
 
 THE FOUNDERS. 
 
 O'er seas from every clime they came, the men 
 
 to weld a nation, 
 They brought their souls, with conscience free, 
 
 to work a world's salvation. 
 
 The songs of Gallic voyageurs rang above the 
 
 chanting wildness. 
 And mingled with the savage tongue a newer 
 
 strain of mildness ; 
 The west they sought, the farther west, where 
 
 bold men might adventure, 
 Where Kf e was free, and souls were free, and 
 
 oijy God could censure. 
 
 The stream they poured into that sea beyond 
 
 the hither verging. 
 Was met by Spanish cavalier to stay its restless 
 
 surging. 
 
 Across the main which bore his name the proud 
 
 Castilian rover. 
 Who forged the cross into a sword to win a 
 
 bloody trover. 
 
14 POEMS 
 
 Had come as bannerer for Christ, without His 
 
 love so tender, 
 Yet who will say the ray he brought was not 
 
 the Light, though slender. 
 
 So drunk with power, lust and greed his race 
 
 fulfilled its mission. 
 Another risen to the need then bore the world's 
 
 contrition. 
 
 The Latin passed, the Teuton came, the God of 
 
 Commerce bringing, 
 He sang the h)rmn that Luther raised, and 
 
 through the forest ringing 
 Antiphonal the chorus rose. New Holland to the 
 
 Older, 
 While faith in God the stronger grew, and men 
 
 to priests the bolder. 
 
 But God moves swifter than the swift, more 
 
 slow than one the slowest. 
 He passes by when man would stop, and uses, 
 
 oft, the lowest. 
 
 Across the wave a new race hastens, Norseman, 
 Dane and Angle 
 
BROWN 15 
 
 Wrought into one, to found a free home in the 
 
 forest tangle ; 
 Adventure, gold and commerce, and faith in 
 
 God had beckoned. 
 He also sought an argosy, and all for Heaven 
 
 reckoned. 
 
 The wilderness is full of faith in God and one 
 
 another, 
 And he beneath the open sky finds every man 
 
 his brother. 
 
 The time fulfilled which God had set, the world 
 
 in childbirth quivered ; 
 Full-formed, a nation then received the trust 
 
 to it delivered ; 
 In union of its parts was typed the miracle 
 
 unending, 
 That race in race and faith in faith will find its 
 
 perfect blending. 
 
 O'er sea from every clime they come, the men 
 
 who weld the nation. 
 They bring their souls with conscience free to 
 
 work their own salvation. 
 
16 POEMS 
 
 ENDLESS LOVE. 
 
 I knew her in the olden age, the golden age of 
 
 youth, 
 When I was Boaz, lord of fields, when she was 
 
 gleaning Ruth ; 
 I loved her when at Haran's well I first with 
 
 Rachel stood ; 
 In Eden I beheld her form and knew that she 
 
 was good ; 
 When she wore Sheba's regal crown, magnifi- 
 cent with gold, 
 I laid my wisdom at her feet^ the greatest 
 
 wealth of old ; 
 And Esther, who it was I raised to sit upon my 
 
 throne. 
 Most beautiful yet humble queen, who dared 
 
 approach alone. 
 Was mine to love through age-long years ; but 
 
 Love is ever new. 
 And all the Love which I have known is that I 
 
 give to You. 
 
BROWN 17 
 
 SIGHT. 
 
 In every place my feet have pressed 
 Some bent twig or crushed plant 
 
 Marked where they struck the mere ; 
 Yet those who passed with larger view 
 Saw not a living thing deformed, 
 
 But said : A man passed here. 
 
18 POEMS 
 
 POE. 
 1809—1909. 
 
 I see them on the streets of ancient Greece, 
 With clacking tongue in each thin visaged face, 
 In gossip free discuss their Homer bhnd, 
 With whisperings of his poetic grace, 
 Yet telling each new comer, " Homer's blind." 
 
 He died, still blind, and then his song was heard 
 Repeated on the frontier line of man. 
 The rugged song of every age and clime ; 
 The clackers, also dead, are mute, and scan 
 No more the verse that knows not time. 
 
 Then rose the clamor of the sons of them. 
 To claim the birth of him who sang, though 
 
 blind ; 
 Disputing, while the song still vibrant rang, 
 The deathless music which all ages bind, 
 The song our matchless blinded Homer sang. 
 
BROWN 19 
 
 What matter if our Poe is now distraught 
 By critics; clackers of a later age. 
 Disputing where his birth and what his place ? 
 He still remains our lasting heritage, 
 Weird mystic singer for the human race, 
 
20 POEMS 
 
 QUESTIONS. 
 
 Tossed on a sea, the fragment of a plan, 
 Who knows the mission to be wrought by man? 
 But, though to desert solitude they tend. 
 Wind, tide and current all respect the end. 
 
 Make or mar, break or bend, 
 Ceaseless effort changes end. 
 Idle words are more than sound, 
 Even space has weight and bound, 
 Limitless is limited. 
 Life succeeds what we call dead. 
 
BROWN 21 
 
 OLD HOME DAY. 
 1905. 
 
 This is the day of all days to him who has heard 
 the call 
 Of the wood, the field and the waterfall, 
 And in the shade of the maple tree heard the 
 cricket sing, 
 Or the tinkling bells that the cattle bring 
 Home at the close of the summer day, or the 
 varied noise 
 Of the farm we knew in those days as boys. 
 
 Daily to each comes the toil that is ours to do, 
 
 Be it here where nature is close to you, 
 Or, be it thither, where Hf e has called with its 
 mystery. 
 For the soul attuned to that single key ; 
 None of the thousands I know can do what is 
 duty mine. 
 And the task for you — ^it is only thine. 
 
22 POEMS 
 
 Some in the forest still slay the pine, where its 
 odor heals 
 As the air is clove by the blow it feels ; 
 Some in the city, with heart and brain of the 
 fibre here. 
 Feel the hot blood leap, as they sometimes 
 hear 
 Deep in their souls, the sweet call of home — 
 which they knew so well 
 They can tell each bound, be it rock or dell. 
 Good for the heart is that call to home which is 
 made today. 
 To the many here, and to those away. 
 
 Eyes that have blurred with the many days of 
 our books or toil 
 Are the ones which see in this rocky soil 
 Gold of the spirit, the coin which only can pur- 
 chase peace ; 
 And in this our wealth is to find increase. 
 Such we must spend to receive the blessing of 
 peace today 
 ThBt our eyes behold, as strife never may. 
 
BROWN 23 
 
 Here in this field, barefooted, the boy used to 
 spread the hay 
 While his thoughts would wander far, far 
 away, 
 Where, in the shade of some restful nook, was 
 a pebbly brook. 
 Which he longed to wade with pole, line and 
 hook. 
 Over the fence by the wayside, here, was the 
 place to find 
 The most luscious berries of all their kind. 
 
 Over this knoll was the trysting place where the 
 boys for miles 
 Laid their plans of state, with most subtle 
 wiles, 
 Hard for the farmer to circumvent with their 
 tasks, or school. 
 For a farmer's boy is not near a fool. 
 
 School ? It was down in the valley, here, where 
 
 the cool wood lay 
 Not a quarter mile from its door this way. 
 Many a boy on its brick-red walls rudely carved 
 
 his mark, 
 
24 POEMS 
 
 Now effaced by a paint that is white and stark. 
 Why must the world be so hard on us,^when 
 the boys some back, — 
 To remove our dearest landmarks, alack ! 
 
 Ours was a school where the floors sloped down, 
 and the planken seats 
 Gave as firm foundation as e'er one meets. 
 Paint was not present, nor varnish, then, though 
 the ruler bore 
 Just a little trace where it'd been before. 
 
 But, let us linger no longer, there, where we 
 wouldn't then 
 When we thought it nought but an irksome 
 pen. 
 Crossing the road, let us hasten to where the 
 pond remains, 
 Though the wood is gone for the woodman's 
 gains. 
 Dear were those trees, and we knew them all — 
 as a boy knows men ; — 
 But the pond! How small it has grown since 
 then! 
 
BROWN 25 
 
 Yet, it is good for a cooling plunge ere we climb 
 the hill 
 To the piles of quartz which remain there 
 stiU— 
 Diamonds, we thought, in our callow days, as 
 they sparkled there, 
 And they all were free as the very air. 
 
 Here we can see what was ours before the be- 
 ginning was ; 
 What was given us by the First Great Cause. 
 Pause but a moment of time ere meeting to- 
 morrow's task ; 
 Is it hard to see in the fields, I ask. 
 Strangers at toil where a greybeard then, with 
 his wrinkled face. 
 Was so dear he seems to still haunt the place? 
 
 Yea ! But it passes ; his toil is done. And his 
 
 helpmeet, too. 
 
 Is at rest ; their work has passed on to you. 
 
 Work ? Is it never completed, then ? Must we 
 
 toil as they. 
 
 Sow the seed, reap harvest, and pass away ? 
 
26 POEMS 
 
 Yea! Though we sow in the city. Yea! 
 Though the stranger here ; 
 Though he enter the holiest place, why fear ? 
 Children of his will pass over steps we have trod 
 before ; 
 And to them this place will be teaching more. 
 Then when our children forget the granite, that 
 made our bone. 
 They will be the very foundation stone, 
 Bearing the cares of the nation, e'en as these 
 hills the state, 
 And in them love of home will not abate. 
 
BROWN 27 
 
 FAIR NEWPORT. 
 
 Farewell, dear scenes, where happy days were 
 
 spent, 
 Instinct with pleasures of contented mind ; 
 Where circling hills receive the morning's kiss. 
 And peaceful ways the winding valleys find ; 
 
 Where nature lends her varied tints and shades. 
 To crown the heights with living diadems. 
 And jeweled rivers running at their feet 
 Enrich their robes with beauty's regal gems. 
 
 The wind swings low the censer of the pine, 
 And lades the air with richness of its balm, 
 While sun and moon resplendently renew 
 The overspreading restfulness and calm. 
 
 The clust'ring hamlets of the village creep 
 Across the slopes and through the lesser plains, 
 Expressing differed minds of those within, 
 Whose fellowship the social law constrains. 
 
 The tumbling waters of the narrow vale 
 Bring commerce steaming through its open gate, 
 
28 POEMS 
 
 To pause within the threshold of the town 
 As though it entered too precipitate. 
 
 And worship, here, the soul prepares for God 
 In temples wrought by the Almighty's hand. 
 While man has built his altars visible. 
 At which his spirit's fervency is fanned. 
 
 Within the mill Religion's sister. Toil, 
 Enslaves to whirring wheels the captive hands. 
 But leaves the mind unfettered, in its power 
 To bring to pass what Labor's heart commands. 
 
 When brilliant night succeeds the splendid day, 
 
 Each hero finds his heroine and home 
 
 The perfect magnet of his soul's desire. 
 
 To hold the steps that otherwise might roam. 
 
 When shadows creep along the village streets, 
 Like ghostly knights upon a holy quest. 
 The cup they seek is found in every home 
 Where love abides an ever welcome guest. 
 So, as the stars their vigils keep o'er you. 
 Farewell, dear scenes, where happy days were 
 
 spent. 
 If they be past they will not be forgot ; 
 Though roamers wander, you remain content. 
 
BROWN 29 
 
 FLAG OF FREEDOM. 
 
 O'er us floats the Flag of Freedom 
 Blazoned with the starry dome; 
 
 Bars of red for Life and Honor, 
 Stripes of white for Faith and Home. 
 
 Flag of Flags! The Flag of Freedom! 
 
 Hope of millions yet to be ! 
 Born amid the pangs of warfare, 
 
 Dearest emblem of the free! 
 
 'Neath its folds the brave have battled, 
 
 It has gladdened dying eyes; 
 While the slave has been made holy. 
 
 By that flag which helped him rise. 
 
 And while we remember fathers. 
 
 By whose valor it was won, 
 There can never f oeman mar it, — 
 
 Traitor hide it from the sun. 
 
 One by one its stars have gathered. 
 Burst through scattered clouds of night, 
 
 And the glory of the vision 
 Gave the world new gleams of light. 
 
30 POEMS 
 
 Now are other constellations 
 Flashing out in darkened lands, 
 
 Where the might of human longings 
 Has cast off their strangling bands. 
 
 Not a nation knew the meaning 
 When we trooped our Colors Three, 
 
 But they learn the lesson, slowly. 
 One by one are struggling free. 
 
 All the races march beneath it, 
 
 S5mibol of a world to be. 
 When their blood, which dyes its crimson. 
 
 Shall have made our brothers free. 
 
 Call the roll of all the nations! 
 
 Who is for Democracy? 
 Seven seas return their answers. 
 
 Voices crying "Liberty." 
 
 France, who helped to weave the fabric 
 
 Of Old Glory, with her brave. 
 Was the first to catch its radiance — 
 
 Welcome it beyond the wave. 
 
 Now, with flag of France entwining. 
 Till the world shall be made free. 
 
 Let the Stars and Stripes be herald 
 Of a World Democracy. 
 
BROWN 31 
 
 EDITION CLOSED. 
 
 The form is full ; naught's left upon the bank, 
 The last stick dumped, last galley proved, 
 
 The last sheet bears the impress of the world ; 
 And how can we who made it stand unmoved? 
 
 Its grime has mingled daily with our sweat, 
 Its joys and sorrows compassed all the earth. 
 
 And now it bears the last sweet word we wrought 
 Of those in death, in marriage, or in birth. 
 
 Our veins were quickened as we wrought ; 
 
 And pens, supplanted by the latter-day ma- 
 chine. 
 Wrote in the tale what we had learned in school. 
 
 Not childhood's, but the later man's, I ween. 
 
 Or else the tale embellished by its head 
 Became to others living " takes " of thought. 
 
 Reformed as magic by the nimble hand 
 Which dumped the " stick " wherein itself was 
 wrought. 
 
32 POEMS 
 
 God bless the "devil" in whose kindly care 
 All trusted as the proof was "pulled " — 
 
 In which the reader found our sins, 
 And sent them back to us where we had 
 bulled. 
 
 The form is full. The last line's locked in place ; 
 
 The mallet, quoin and apron laid aside. 
 Our work is done and so we say. Good Night, 
 
 And leave what we had been before it died. 
 
 June 30, 1913. 
 
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