C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Julia Taft Bayne (1845–1933)
The Hadley Weathercock
O
Steadfast and true; I never flit:
Summer and winter, night and day,
The merry winds around me play;
And far below my gilded feet
The generations come and go
In one unceasing ebb and flow,
Year after year in Hadley street,
I nothing care—I only know
God sits above, he wills it so;
While roundabout, and roundabout, and roundabout I go,
The way o’ the wind, the changing wind, the way o’ the wind to show.
A century since have turned to mold;
And all the crowds who saw me new
In seventeen hundred fifty-two,
(A noble town was Hadley then,
And beautiful as one could find,)
Dead, long years dead, and out of mind,
Those stately dames and gallant men!
But I abide, while they are low.
God ruleth all, he wills it so:
And roundabout, and roundabout, and roundabout I go,
The way o’ the wind, the changing wind, the way o’ the wind to show.
I saw an army marching forth;
And when the wind was hushed and still,
I heard them talk of Bunker Hill.
From Saratoga, bold Burgoyne
(His sullen redcoats, past the town,
To Aqua Vitæ’s plain marched down)
In Hadley mansion stopped to dine.
The new State comes! The King must go!
Glory to God who wills it so!
And roundabout, and roundabout, and roundabout I go,
The way o’ the wind, the changing wind, the way o’ the wind to show.
In Hadley street the same unrest.
On every breeze that hither comes,
I hear the rolling of the drums,
And well do I know the warning;
The wind blows north, the wind blows south,
The ball has left the cannon’s mouth,
And the land is filled with mourning.
In Freedom’s name they struck the blow:
The Land is One, God wills it so.
And roundabout, and roundabout, and roundabout I go,
The way o’ the wind, the changing wind, the way o’ the wind to show.
Unchanging, sure, I’m ever found.
In calm or tempest, sun or rain,
No eye inquires of me in vain.
Though many a man betray his trust,
Though some may honor sell, or buy,
Like Peter some their Lord deny,
Yet here I preach till I am rust:
Blow high, blow low, come weal, or woe,
God sits above, he wills it so.
Then roundabout, and roundabout, and roundabout I go,
The way o’ the wind, the changing wind, the way o’ the wind to show.