{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_24605/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_24605","id":"gutenberg_24605","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24605","summary":null,"tags":["Canadian poetry","Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian poetry"],"text":"E-text prepared by Mark C. Orton, Charles Bidwell, Beth Trapaga, and the\nProject Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n(http://www.pgdpcanada.net)\n\n\n\nGLEAMS OF SUNSHINE\n\nOptimistic Poems\n\nby\n\nJOSEPH HORATIO CHANT\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Rev. J. H. Chant]\n\n\n\nPrinted for the Author by\nWilliam Briggs\nToronto\n1915\n\nCopyright, Canada, 1915\nby J. H. Chant.\n\n\n\n\n\n _TO\n The memory of my beloved wife,\n MARY MATILDA McKIM\n Who, by her gentle disposition,\n cheerful spirit,\nsound judgment, and earnest Christian life,\n not only proved herself my true\n helpmate for over 46 years,\n but, also,\n made our home a place of constant\n peace and abounding joy,\n I dedicate this book._\n\n J. H. C.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n PAGE\n\nINVOCATION 7\n\nFATHER OF UNIVERSAL MAN 9\n\nGOD'S PLAN IS BEST 12\n\nCANADA 14\n\nLATE AUTUMN 18\n\nFRIENDSHIP 19\n\nLIFE 22\n\nTO MR. RUDYARD KIPLING 23\n\nMEN BELOW DECK 26\n\n\"OTHERS SAVE WITH FEAR\" 28\n\nTREAD SOFTLY 31\n\n\"IT WAS MY FAULT\" 34\n\nKEPT THE FLAG FLOATING 35\n\nMARY 37\n\nA WORLD REDEEMED 38\n\nALASKAN BOUNDARY SETTLEMENT 40\n\nMY PRIMROSE 42\n\nNIAGARA'S RAINBOW 44\n\nMY SISTER NELL AND I 46\n\nGATHER THE WAYSIDE FLOWERS 48\n\nHIDE THEIR SCARS 50\n\n\"ASHAMED BUT NOT AFRAID\" 52\n\nDUNBAR 54\n\nMARSTON MOOR 59\n\nOIL THE CRICKET 62\n\nTHE REAL 63\n\nVICTORY GAINED AND LIFE LOST 65\n\nTHE BAPTISM OF CLOVIS 66\n\nTHE WATER LILY 70\n\n\"HE SHALL WIPE AWAY EVERY TEAR\" 72\n\nTHE TAJ OF AGRA 73\n\nENGLAND'S BRAVE SONS 78\n\nQUEEN VICTORIA 80\n\nSILVER TONES 83\n\nGOD'S ORDER 86\n\nINFLUENCE 88\n\nUNDECAYING FRUIT 90\n\nTHE HEROES OF OUR DAY 92\n\nTHE BIG BEAR CREEK 94\n\nTHE FROST ON THE WINDOW 96\n\n\"WILT THOU HARASS A DRIVEN LEAF?\" 98\n\nA GEM 100\n\nTHE CLOUDS 101\n\nTHE MOSSES 103\n\nTHE GRANDEST THEME 105\n\nSEPTEMBER 107\n\nTHE FLOWERS 111\n\nTHE BUD 113\n\nBEAUTIFUL SKY 115\n\nBUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES 116\n\nTHE MOSS ROSE 118\n\nGOD'S CARE 120\n\nMY LOT 121\n\nGOD'S FOOT ON THE CRADLE 122\n\nGOD'S GIFTS TO BE ENJOYED 124\n\nTHE HIGHEST GOAL 126\n\nJOY IN THE MORNING 128\n\n\"HE SHALL DWELL ON HIGH\" 129\n\nBAG YOUR GAME 132\n\nOTHERS' BURDENS 135\n\nMEMORY 136\n\nTHE ROYAL WAY 138\n\n'STABLISHED 140\n\nA MEROGNOSTIC 141\n\n\"SALUT AUX BLESSIS\" 144\n\nSONNET 146\n\nBROTHERHOOD 147\n\nSHE DEARLY LOVED THE FLOWERS 149\n\nMY PANSY PETS 151\n\nLOVE BETTER THAN KNOWLEDGE 153\n\nA SUFFERING GOD 155\n\nTHE COPY 157\n\nPERFECT WORK 159\n\nTHE JOHNSTOWN DISASTER 160\n\nEYE HATH NOT SEEN 169\n\nWHAT LASTS? 171\n\nIS THERE A BRIGHTER WORLD? 173\n\nA GLIMPSE OF HEAVEN 176\n\nTHE END WE SOUGHT 178\n\nASPIRATION 179\n\nMY REST 180\n\n\"PAINT ME AS I AM, WARTS AND ALL\" 182\n\n\"I WAS THERE\" 183\n\nTRUE LOVE 185\n\nA TRUE MAN 186\n\nMY OLD SWEETHEART 187\n\n\n\n\nGleams of Sunshine\n\n\n\n\nINVOCATION\n\n\n_O Thou, who art the source of joy and light,\n The great Revealer of the will Divine;\nThyself Divine, all nature owns Thy might,\n And bows in homage at a beck of Thine,\nAfford me light to guide my unskilled hand,\nAnd by Thy Spirit all my thoughts command.\n\nTo Thy great name I dedicate my powers,\n Yielding to Thee what Thou with blood hast bought,\nResolved that Thou shalt have my days and hours,\n And for Thy sake shall every work be wrought;\nO deign to use me, if it be Thy will,\nAnd my poor heart with love and gladness fill.\n\nIf this strange impulse which I feel within\n To write this book proceeds, O Lord, from Thee,\nLet it not die, nor be defiled by sin,\n But let the work from self and sin be free,\nAnd prove a guide to home and bliss above,\nAnd help to fill this warring world with love.\n\nThe Master's touch I know it sadly lacks,\n And may not please the nice artistic taste\nOf some fine mind that naught but gold attracts;\n Some may not count these iron-filings waste;\nLike magnets, to which gold will not adhere,\nMay they find ore in this to bless and cheer.\n\nIn this plain pitcher, Lord, Thy blessing pour,\n That from it men their raging thirst may slake,\nAnd when exhausted is the scanty store,\n Then let the earthen vessel quickly break;\nIts end is gained if Thou art glorified,\nAnd men have learned to love the Christ who died.\n\nAs flowers drink in the solar rays and dew,\n And in return give bloom and odors sweet,\nSo would I to Thy Spirit's touch prove true,\n And render that return which seemeth meet;\nCome, dews of grace! Great Sun, illume my heart!\nThat I to some sad soul may joy impart._\n\n\n\n\n\nFATHER OF UNIVERSAL MAN\n\n\nFather of Universal Man,\n Where'er in this wide world he roam,\nNot known to thee by kith or clan,\n Nor height, nor breadth of mental dome,\nNor babbling tongue, nor sounding creed,\nBut by his woe and common need.\n\nThe pushing Anglo-Saxon race,\n The Celts with wealth of heart and mind,\nThe Esquimaux of leaden face,\n The Arabs whom no chain can bind,\nWith hardy Boers and all the rest,\nAre with one common Father blest.\n\nAnd all are brothers, though at times\n Our flashing swords obscure the sun.\nWe ring aloud our Christmas chimes,\n But louder sounds the booming gun,\nAnd brother is by brother slain,\nAnd kindred ties are rent in twain.\n\nYet Thou art true whate'er betide;\n Thy heart o'er human woe doth melt;\nFor men of every race Christ died,\n And, as a zone, Thy love would belt\nAll human kind from pole to pole\nInto one grand, harmonious whole.\n\nMen war with men in every clime,\n Commotions rock this earthly ball;\nOur souls are covered o'er with grime--\n Sad fruits of our Adamic fall,\nBut grace shall triumph in the end,\nAnd good the evil far transcend.\n\nThy throne remains forever firm,\n And here, amidst the strife of men,\nWe find with joy a heavenly germ\n Which shall re-stock this world again\nWith fruitful plants of righteousness,\nIf Thou, O God, but deign to bless.\n\nHelp us that we may not deny\n Our brotherhood in hour of strife;\nWhen swords shall from their scabbards fly,\n And great the sacrifice of life,\nMay we in pity o'er them bend,\nAnd help to wounded foe extend.\n\nIf we are working out Thy plan,\n Give our brave soldiers arms of steel,\nAnd may each prove himself a man--\n To God and to his nation leal,\nAnd never falter in the fight,\nBut die, if need be, for the right.\n\nMay right prevail in this dread war,\n Though we be humbled in the dust;\nTo fail our end is better far\n Then gain it, if it be unjust,\nBut if our aims with Thine agree--\nWe trust--and leave results with Thee.\n\nThe world moves on; let none essay\n To block it in its onward course,\nLest they like chaff be swept away\n As by a supernatural force;\nFor laggards progress does not wait--\nKeep pace with time or bide your fate.\n\nMay our brave foes rise in defeat\n To higher form of liberty;\nAnd Freedom's flag, as seemeth meet,\n Wave over all from sea to sea;\nPushed on as by the hand of fate\nTo nationhood, both firm and great.\n\n\n\n\nGOD'S PLAN IS BEST\n\n\nThy plan is best, though it may not agree\n With my conceptions of my needs and rights,\n And faith may fail to scale its azure heights;\nYet still I trust, and leave my cause with Thee.\n\nWith single eye I sought to do Thy will.\n I felt Thy smile and left results with Thee;\n If they have failed, then that is naught to me--\nI did my part, and am Thy servant still.\n\nThe hearts of men are in Thy mighty hand;\n Naught is concealed from Thy all-searching sight;\n Canst Thou not turn them to the left or right?\nThe raging ocean calms at Thy command.\n\nThe aching clay may circumscribe my sphere;\n Yet in confinement I may labor still\n In work which harmonizes with Thy will,\nAnd e'er rejoice to have my Master near.\n\nThoughts of Thy love will yet remain with me,\n And in my silent hours may shape assume,\n And by their measures help to lift the gloom\nOf this dark world, and bring men nearer Thee.\n\nWhate'er may come, I will not, Lord, complain;\n My plan is Thine, I have no other choice.\n In work or rest 'tis meet I should rejoice;\nContentment in my lot is blessed gain.\n\n\n\n\nCANADA\n\n\nDear Canada, our native land,\n Our love for thee grows day by day;\nOur fathers left the olden strand,\n O'er sea and rapids made their way,\nAnd by their energy and skill\n They laid thy firm foundation deep,\nAnd sowed the seed o'er vale and hill\n Which we, their sons, are called to reap.\n\nThe wilderness blooms as the rose;\n The old-time hardships are unknown;\nAnd wealth in streams of commerce flows\n From sea to sea--a nation grown--\nStill youthful, but with thews of steel\n To throttle foes that may arise;\nYet loving touch sore hearts to heal,\n And lift us nearer to the skies.\n\nWe cannot boast as blue a sky\n As smiles o'er many an Alpine plain,\nNor are our mountain peaks as high\n As theirs, yet we have other gain;\nOur hills are rich in yellow gold,\n Our plains are broad and fertile too;\nOur lakes and streams hold wealth untold,\n And grander forests never grew.\n\nOur sky is bright to healthy eyes;\n Pure ozone lades the air we breathe;\nOur climate we have learned to prize;\n Nor do we o'er our winters grieve;\nFor nature throws her ermine robe\n O'er purple hills and vales as well;\nNo portion of this earthly globe\n As gay as this, with sleigh and bell.\n\nBut soon the winter wears away,\n And plants long sheltered now are seen,\nAnd April showers and smiling May\n Soon clothe the earth in living green.\nMonotony is thus unknown--\n Each season is a glad surprise,\nIn which God's truth and love are shown,\n And hope within us never dies.\n\nOur sons, inured to noble toil,\n Grow strong in arm and broad in mind;\nSome stay at home to till the soil,\n Others in various callings find\nTheir missions--but where'er their place\n In the great drama of our day,\nThey, as a class, win in the race,\n And the behests of Heaven obey.\n\nThe gold of monarchy have we,\n Without the useless silt and dross;\nAnd like our cousins, all are free,\n Yet we have no election boss.\nNo union here of Church and State,\n Yet Church and State full well agree\nThat nations never can be great\n If they refuse to bow the knee.\n\nWe make the nation's weal or woe,\n As one may shape his future life.\n\"God's mill,\" 'tis said, \"grinds fine, tho' slow,\"\n A fact lost sight of in the strife\nFor place and power in Church and State,\n And think God cares not what we do;\nBut to our doubt he whispers \"wait,\"\n And time proves Him both just and true.\n\nFrom England and from sunny France\n Our fathers came, long years ago;\nOn Abraham's plain with sword and lance\n They fought as foes--gave blow for blow.\nThe victors and the conquered now\n Recall that day with mutual pride;\nTo their grand destiny all bow,\n And as true peers, stand side by side.\n\nSo give me Canada before\n The fairest land beneath the sky.\nWe stretch our arms from shore to shore\n And all are free, both low and high;\nAn infant nation yet, 'tis true,\n But strong in muscle and in nerve,\nWe hold our own, give all their due,\n And God's great purpose humbly serve.\n\n\n\n\nLATE AUTUMN\n\n\nThe fields lie bare before me now,\n The fruit is gathered in,\nNot even seen a grazing cow,\n Nor heard the blackbird's din.\nThe heath is brown, and ivy pale,\n The woodbine berries red,\nAnd withered leaves borne on the gale\n Sink down on peaty bed.\n\nAt morn the fence was covered o'er\n With a pale sheet of rime;\nThe earth was like a marble floor,\n But now is turned to grime.\nFor Autumn rains are falling fast,\n And swells the running brook;\nThe Indian Summer, too, is past;\n For snowfall soon we look.\n\n\n\n\nFRIENDSHIP\n\n\nWhen presses hard my load of care,\n And other friends from me depart,\nI want a friend my grief to share,\n With faithful speech and loving heart.\n\nI want a friend of noble mind,\n Who loves me more than praise or pelf,\nReproves my faults with spirit kind,\n And thinks of me as well as self--\n\nA friend whose ear is ever closed\n Against traducers' poison breath;\nAnd, though in me be not disclosed\n An equal love, yet loves till death--\n\nA friend who knows my weakness well,\n And ever seeks to calm my fears;\nIf words should fail the storm to quell,\n Will soothe my fevered heart with tears--\n\nA friend not moved by jealousy\n Should I outrun him in life's race;\nAnd though I doubt, still trusts in me\n With loyal heart and cloudless face.\n\nTrue friendship knows both joy and grief,\n The sweetest pleasure, keenest pain;\nIts sharpest pangs are ever brief,\n Mere flitting clouds before the rain.\n\nBut soon the joy returns again\n With bluer sky and brighter light;\nThe grief proves but a narrow glen\n All full of flowers, though hid from sight.\n\nAnd e'en in darkness we inhale\n The fragrant odors love emits;\nFriendship like this can never fail--\n On love's strong throne its monarch sits.\n\nTrue friendship is of greater worth\n Than words, though they were solid gold.\nTo all the glittering gems of earth\n I it prefer, a thousandfold.\n\nOne Friend I have who knows my heart,\n And loves me with a changeless love;\nI love Him, too--nor death can part\n Us two, for we will love above.\n\nA woman's love to His is faint;\n No brother cleaves as close as He;\nNo seraph words could ever paint\n The love this Friend now bears to me.\n\n\n\n\nLIFE\n\n\nOur lives seem filled with things of little worth;\n A thousand petty cares arise each day\nWhich bring our soaring thoughts from heaven to earth,\n Reminding us that we have feet of clay;\n Yet we will not from path of duty stray\nIf we amidst them all cleave to the right;\nNor great nor small are actions in His sight;\n Through lowly vale He shows our feet the way.\n\nOur early dreams may not be realized;\n The roseate sky now proves quite commonplace;\nThe constellations we so highly prized\n Have vanished all--nor left the slightest trace\n Of former glory in its azure face,\nBut high o'er all beams out the polar star\nTo guide us safe through rock and sandy bar;\n Life is complete and its cap-stone is grace.\n\n\n\n\nTO MR. RUDYARD KIPLING[1]\n\n\nTrue laureate of the Anglo-Saxon race,\n Whose words have won the hearts of young and old;\nSo free from cant, and yet replete with grace,\n Or prose or verse it glows like burnished gold;\nThy muse is ever loyal to the truth,\nAnd those who know thee best forget thy youth.\n\nUnbend thy bow and rest with us awhile;\n Thy active mind requires a healthy brain;\nDeath's shadow has gone back upon the dial,\n And thou art left a higher goal to gain;\nThe future will eclipse the brilliant past;\nFear not; thy ideal will be reached at last.\n\nTo do the grandest work one must needs be\n Endowed by Nature for the master task;\nYea more, he must possess the light to see\n Those mysteries which nature seems to mask,\nAnd this can gain but in the royal way--\n'Tis dread experience leads from gloom to-day.\n\nThe Master saw a struggling youth, and smiled,\n Pleased with his work in main; but, knowing too\nHis latent power, if it could be beguiled\n From hiding-place, much greater work would do,\nHe took His servant's hand and led the way\nThrough vale of sorrow up to brighter day.\n\nBy other path this height is ne'er attained,\n Nor books nor schools its hidden wealth unveil.\nPhilosophy and art have treasures gained,\n But in this quest they must forever fail--\nExperience only can the gift impart,\nBring needed light and regulate the heart.\n\nTo solace those who grieve one must have felt\n In his own heart the rending pangs of pain;\nThe heart that suffers not will never melt\n At others' woes, though free from selfish stain;\nWhat we have felt and seen we truly know,\nAnd thus endowed, our tears for others flow.\n\nSo leave thy much-loved lyre awhile unstrung\n Till health again invigorate thy frame;\nWith brain renewed, with vigorous heart and lung\n Take up thy work once more, and greater fame--\nA richer man by far than e'er before,\nFor thou hast treasure on the other shore.\n\n[Footnote 1: These lines were written directly after Mr. Kipling's\nrecovery from severe illness.]\n\n\n\n\nMEN BELOW DECK\n\n\nThe battleship its anchor weighs,\n And belches forth its thunder;\nIts commodore all classes praise,\n And at his victories wonder;\nAnd well they may--for braver man\n Ne'er wielded sword or sabre;\nBut tell me, brother, if you can,\n Who did the lowly labor.\n\nBelow the deck in engine-room,\n As oilers and coal-heavers?\nAmidst the smut and ghastly gloom,\n Who worked the iron levers?\nAnd thus it is in other lines;\n Brave men are often hidden\n\"Below the deck,\" in shops and mines,\n To higher plane unbidden.\n\nThe men on deck the praise receive,\n But meagre thanks the others;\nAs honest men they seldom grieve,\n And envy not their brothers;\nA common cause they gladly serve,\n Though in a lowly station,\nFrom path of duty never swerve--\n Loyal to God and nation.\n\nFor when the smoke has cleared away,\n And din of battle ended,\nOn upper deck, in bright array,\n By angel bands attended,\nThe whole ship's crew will then appear,\n From high and lowly station,\nAnd each the words \"well done\" shall hear,\n 'Midst shouts of acclamation.\n\n\n\n\n\"OTHERS SAVE WITH FEAR\"\n\n\nSome men there are who stand so straight,\nSo equipoised, that others' fate\nSeems to depend on their behest;\nAnd useless all our every quest\nTo gain perfection or renown,\nUnless we touch the flowing gown\nOf these high-priests, whose shadows fall\nWithin themselves, if fall at all.\n\nOthers are not as straight as these,\nBut more like rough and gnarled trees;\nBut little beauty they display;\nShadows they cast across the way;\nAnd from them men with scorning turn,\nOr, if they speak, their accents burn\nLike capsicum on chafed skin,\nAnd leave a smarting wound within.\n\nOnce noble men, when turned aside\nBy fleshly lust or sinful pride,\nEach one becomes a broken bell\nOn which the angry fiends of hell\nRing out their discord, harsh and loud,\nAs if with demon powers endowed.\nColossal once through grace they were;\nColossal still, though cleft and bare.\n\nOn northern rocks is often seen\nThe impress of some southern sheen,\nThe brightness of a warmer bloom,\nUnknown to winter's frost and gloom.\nThe fossil flower of epoch fair\nHas left its lasting impress there.\nSo in some men whose hearts are cold\nYou find a trace of days of old.\n\nWhile we deplore the Arctic chill,\nThe frigid heart, the ice-bound will,\nWe must admire the fossil trace,\nStill seen, of early days of grace.\nHiding from sight as best we can\nThe traces of the fallen man,\nWe feast our eyes upon the fair,\nThough fossil, lines that linger there.\n\nHow to restore is our concern,\nAs we o'er their declensions mourn.\nCan such dire ruin be repaired?\nOnly if God's strong arm be bared.\nBut we must do a brother's part,\nAnd try to thaw the frozen heart;\nNot by the fire of wrath above,\nBut by the melting coals of love.\n\nAs bullets smooth are farther shot,\nBecause rough angles they have not,\nSo gentle ways and loving speech\nAre sure the erring heart to reach,\nWhile jagged deeds and words unkind,\nLike pebbles rough, much friction find;\nThey fall before they reach the goal,\nAnd seldom help the needy soul.\n\nTo truth be loyal, but take a care\nThat with true zeal _tact_ have a share.\nThe lightning when it strikes the tree\nRuns with the grain, as oft you see;\nThose who at angling are adepts,\nChoose well their bait and guard their steps;\nSo if you would the sinner gain,\nBait well your hook, or mark the grain.\n\n\n\n\nTREAD SOFTLY\n\n\nIn the courts of truth tread softly,\n Though your tread be firm and bold;\nYour steps may awaken echoes,\n Resounding through years untold.\nThe trend of the age is onward,\n And you should not lag behind;\nIf men's minds are bound with fetters,\n Perchance you may some unbind.\n\nOur creed, say you, needs revising,\n In line with the growth of light;\nBe sure you have made real progress\n Before you assume the right,\nBy stroke of pen, to unsettle\n The faith of the long ago;\nFor many who err in judgment\n Stand fast to the truth they know.\n\nYou bring from the mine rare jewels,\n That you think the world should see;\nBut, perhaps, their estimation\n With your own may not agree;\nThey may lack discrimination,\n And their worth may not discern;\nSo polish them at your leisure,\n And give the world time to learn.\n\nBefore you dig up the old tree\n That sheltered in ages past\nThe earth's noblest men and women\n From the fury of the blast,\nSee that your sapling is rooted,\n And no borer at its base,\nAnd its boughs both strong and spreading,\n To cover an erring race.\n\nBear down on the lever gently,\n Or the rock may be o'erturned!\nOr, perchance, your lever shattered,\n And little experience learned!\nTake time to adjust your fulcrum,\n Then thrust home your iron bar;\nBear down and the rock is lifted,\n Is lifted without a jar.\n\nYour views are, perhaps, exotic--\n Young shoots from a tropic brain,\nThey need to be better rooted\n To endure the wind and rain;\nYou may well admire the markings\n On each graceful stem and leaf,\nBut if taken from the hot-house,\n They will surely come to grief.\n\nBefore they have wholly perished\n They may please admiring eyes,\nThe old be thrown on the dunghill,\n To receive your floral prize;\nThey adorn the porch and window,\n And brighten the wayside bed,\nBut we waken some summer morning\n To find our new treasures dead.\n\n'Tis better to make haste slowly,\n Than to antedate your day;\nThe farmer waits for the sunshine,\n To transmute the grass to hay.\nWhen the fields are ripe for harvest\n Fear neither the heat or rain,\nBut thrust in your sharpened sickle,\n And gather the golden grain.\n\n\n\n\n\"IT WAS MY FAULT\"[2]\n\n\nThose men are deemed heroes who rush on the foe\nRegardless of danger, and seek not to know\n What others may do;\nStern duty demands it--why should they falter\nIf all they hold dear is laid on the altar,\n And conscience be true?\n\nThe greatest of all is the man who can say\nWhen battle is over and foe gained the day,\n \"The fault was in me:\nMy plan miscarried through miscalculation;\nOn me rests the blame, and not on the nation:\n My soldiers are free.\"\n\nIn George Stewart White, and men of like mind,\nOur nation can rest, for in them you will find\n A true manliness;\nTheir failures acknowledged are failures no more;\nDefeat to such men only opens the door\n To future success.\n\n[Footnote 2: General White's words.]\n\n\n\n\nKEPT THE FLAG FLOATING\n\n \"Thank God, we have kept the flag floating.\"--_General White._\n\n\nSome men, like French, display much dash;\n They boldly rush upon the foe,\nTheir sword-blades like the lightning flash,\nAs they on helm or hauberk clash;\n Nor fear the foeman's blow.\nWe praise them for their gallant deeds;\nThey are the men the Empire needs.\n\nBut true as they are those who stand\n Within the fort beleaguered round;\nResources few at their command,\nTheir army but a feeble band,\n Yet bravely hold their ground;\nAnd o'er their blood-bespattered coats\nThe Union Jack in triumph floats.\n\nReduced their strength through lack of food,\n And fever germs on vitals preyed;\nYet they o'er trouble did not brood,\nBy night or day of cheerful mood;\n This burden on them weighed--\nTo keep the flag afloat--in brief,\nTill Buller came to their relief.\n\nBrave White, accept our meed of praise!\n We crown thee equal to the best\nOf heroes of the olden days,\nWhose deeds inspired the poets' lays!\n We need no further quest;\nBut this with gratitude we note,\nThy valour kept the flag afloat!\n\nValor like thine does not surprise\n When we review thy noble past;\nA hero is the one who tries,\nThough he may not to ideal rise--\n His plan may fail at last--\nYet is too brave to lay the blame\nOn others, but takes all the shame.\n\n\"The fault was mine,\" thy language then,\n Revealing the divinest grace\nPossessed by truly noble men,\nAnd, prophecy of triumph, when\n With foe brought face to face,\nThe choice remains, defeat or death,\nThe flag will float till latest breath.\n\n\n\n\nMARY\n\n\nShe brought her alabaster flask\n Well-filled with precious nard;\nNor did she deem the act a task,\n Nor look for great reward;\nShe only thought of His great love,\n And felt her gift was small\nFor Him who left His home above\n To suffer death for all.\nBut her blest Lord more highly prized\n The loving heart that gave;\nFor loveless gifts are e'er despised,\n Yet men oft seek to pave\nThe way that leads to glory land\n With deeds devoid of grace;\nBut only those who love can stand\n Approved before His face.\n\n\n\n\nA WORLD REDEEMED\n\n\nThis world is but the shadow\n Of the world that is to be,\nA ripple on the surface\n Of a deep, unfathomed sea.\nGod's plans are always perfect,\n But long ages intervene\nFrom the planning of the temple\n To the glow upon its sheen;\nBut we can be co-workers\n In accomplishing his plan;\nFor in God's purpose is a place\n For every son of man.\n\nThe germ may be developed\n In a more salubrious clime,\nAll obstacles surmounted\n In the onward march of time,\nAnd nature's forces harnessed\n Will their destiny fulfil,\nAnd things now deemed supernal\n Respond to human will;\nFor God has so adjusted\n The laws of this earthly sphere,\nThat by man's help his plans unfold,\n And order doth appear.\n\nThe words of God's own prophets\n Concerning these latter days\nOf mighty transformations,\n To our great Redeemer's praise;\nWhen wastes shall glow in beauty,\n And the savage beast be kind,\nThough they have prior fulfilment\n In the realm of soul and mind;\nWill then be more than figure,\n Though that we all count sublime;\nThe earth will wear its regal robes\n In every land and clime.\n\nThis life is but a sample\n Of the life that is to be;\nThere we know the perfect lesson,\n Here we learn the a--b--c;\nAnd the life beyond is fashioned\n By the thoughts and deeds of this;\nFitting it for realms of darkness,\n Or for never-ending bliss;\nFor those alone will sorrow\n Who receive His grace in vain,\nBut those who wrought with God will prove\n That godliness is gain.\n\n\n\n\nALASKAN BOUNDARY SETTLEMENT\n\n\nMy neighbor's farm and mine lie side by side,\nAnd nothing should our mutual trust divide;\nBut they who made th' original survey\nWere guided by the stars, the records say,\nSo that the line that marks out our domain\nIs indistinct, and puzzling doubts remain.\n\nOur farms are large, and portions near the line\nWith rocky soil and stunted spruce and pine,\nWith scarce a wigwam or a ranger's hearth,\nWe left untilled, and deemed of little worth;\nThe petals of this desert rose unfold,\nWhen man discovers mines of yellow gold.\n\n\"Where is the boundary line?\" is now the cry.\nEach stakes his claim and gives his reason why;\nOne sought an exit to the main highway,\nThe other closed the gates and gained the day\nIn custom duties on the shining ore,\nAnd stores for man and beast that inland pour.\n\nEach claimed his own, whatever that may be,\nYet, neighbors true, we feared to disagree.\nWe studied maps and treaties old and new,\nYet each his own line-fence declared was true;\nThen, to avoid unseemly strife, we chose\nTo settle our dispute as friends, not foes.\n\nMy neighbor chose three men in his employ,\nI three, at least, accepted them with joy;\nNot chosen these to arbitrate our case,\nBut from material at command to trace,\nIn harmony with law, the primal line\nFor boundary fence, between his farm and mine.\n\nI _lost my case_--all but one narrow lane!\nAll other gates are closed, but why complain?\nDiminished somewhat is my large estate,\nBut self-respect remains--nor place for hate;\nO'er our line-fence we grasp each other's hand,\nAnd for the right, united, ever stand.\n\n\n\n\nMY PRIMROSE\n\n\nMy sweet primrose with thy open face,\nAnd with fringe-like leaves, without a trace\nOf coarseness, either in flower or stem,\nAmong all my plants thou art the gem.\n\nMy lovely lilies soon disappear;\nThy bloom is constant through all the year;\nIn summer's heat and winter's cold,\nUndimmed the light of thy floral gold.\n\nOr if thy color be pink, or blue,\nOr white as snow, thou art ever true;\nMy room is bright with thy smiling eyes,\nAnd thy fragrance rare I also prize.\n\nThou hast done thy part, my little pet--\nLet me keep thy roots forever wet,\nBut guard with care all thy tender leaves\nAnd growing crown, which the earth-crust heaves.\n\nThou dost heaven-ward tend, aspiring high,\nTo kiss the stars in the vaulted sky,\nAnd they look down from the azure blue,\nMy sweet primrose--they are smiling, too.\n\n\n\n\nNIAGARA'S RAINBOW\n\n\nUpon the \"table-rock\" I stand,\n And gaze into the depths profound,\nIn ecstacy at sights so grand,\n And deafened by the sound\nOf rushing waters, as they leap\nLike maddened steeds, down hillside steep.\n\nThe falling spray my head bedews,\n As gently as a vernal shower;\nOr, as the Holy Ghost imbues\n In consecrated hour,\nThe soul that inly yearns for love,\nAnd seeks it from the throne above.\n\nBut I see more than chasm deep,\n Than falling spray and rushing tide.\nSublime, indeed, the awful leap;\n The awe will long abide--\nGod's _rainbow hangs in colors bright_,\nA thing of beauty in my sight.\n\nOur cousins on the other side\n And we too often disagree;\nPuffed up, I fear, at times, with pride,\n Each strong, and brave, and free;\nBut we forget the stormy past,\nOur lands and hearts are linked at last.\n\nThe \"Union-Jack\" hangs o'er my head,\n The \"Stars and Stripes\" my cousin rears,\nBut old-time grievances are dead\n For all the coming years;\nAs separate flags they still may wave,\nBut we are _one_ the world to save.\n\n\n\n\nMY SISTER NELL AND I\n\n\nWe strolled down by the river side,\n My sister Nell and I,\nTo watch the waters onward glide,\n And vessels passing by.\n\nOn Nature's floor of lovely green,\n Bedecked with flowers of gold,\nThe purple sassafras as sheen,\n Which trumpet vines enfold.\n\nWe played our youthful games for hours,\n And told our childish tales;\nAdorned each brow with fragrant flowers,\n And slept 'neath cooling gales.\n\nFor I was then but nine years old,\n And she was only seven;\nYet joys like ours can ne'er be told--\n They savored much of heaven.\n\nClose by the bank, in shady nooks,\n The waxen lilies grew;\nWe called them fish, and with our hooks\n To shore full many drew.\n\nWith these I made a wreath for Nell.\n She was so good and pure,\nThey seemed to suit her brow so well,\n Yet could not long endure\n\nThe heated brow and dewless air--\n The river suits them best;\nBut graced awhile her golden hair,\n As dove would silken nest.\n\nFrail like the lilies, too, was Nell.\n The fever's scorching blast\nSwept by, and my fair flowerette fell,\n And to the dust was cast.\n\nBut now she blooms in glory land,\n Close by the tree of Life;\nBetter to bloom at God's right hand\n Than in this world of strife.\n\nI hope some day to meet her there,\n And as in days of yore\nWe plucked the lilies, pure and fair,\n Up there we'll gather more.\n\n\n\n\nGATHER THE WAYSIDE FLOWERS\n\n\n'Tis well to have a goal in mind,\n A life-aim, high and true;\nClear as the day, and well defined,\n And ever kept in view.\nBut God has strewn along the way\n Bright flowers of every hue.\nGather the brightest while you may,\n For they were meant for you.\n\nHeaven's joy transcends the joys of earth,\n But if earth's joys be pure\nThey must have had a heavenly birth,\n And bless while they endure;\nSo pluck the flower before it fades--\n Drink from the purling stream;\nNor look for sorrow's darkening shades,\n But for the morning gleam.\n\nLife's burdens lose full half their weight\n If gay our spirits be;\nThe rest beyond we antedate,\n And serve, though ever free.\nOur lamentations all will end,\n Exchanged for smile and song,\nAnd men will mark our upward trend\n By joy-points all along.\n\nThe poet wrote, \"no room for mirth;\"\n Much less for sigh and frown.\n\"A vale of tears\" may be this earth--\n 'Tis so to every clown.\nThe desert blossoms as the rose,\n And joy flows everywhere;\nThe star of hope in brightness glows,\n No room for dark despair.\n\nBefore we reach God's heaven above,\n Enjoy His heaven below;\nAnd by the ministries of love\n A Christlike nature show;\nFor he who lives a selfish life\n Must lose the joy of this;\nFor highest good, vain is our strife,\n If man share not our bliss.\n\n\n\n\nHIDE THEIR SCARS!\n\n\nA painter, high in worldy fame,\n Was sought to reproduce by art\nA likeness of the man whose name\n Sent darts of anguish through the heart\nOf mighty monarchs in his day;\n For he by arms subdued the world.\nKingdoms and empires owned his sway\n And bowed beneath his flag unfurled.\n\nBut Alexander bore a scar,\n Deep marked upon his royal brow;\nTo paint him thus would greatly mar\n The monarch's beauty; as a slough\nWould mar the beauty of a lawn,\n Where queenly feet are wont to tread;\nOr like the cloud at early dawn,\n Which hides some glory 'neath its spread.\n\nTo leave it out would not be true,\n For Alexander bore the scar;\nThe painter this resolved to do,\n Which would be true, yet would not mar:\nTo paint the monarch's head reclined,\n With his fore-finger on his brow;\nAnd thus much grace with art combined,\n Like ornament on vessel's prow.\n\nThe finger rested on the scar,\n As if mere chance had placed it there;\nAnd hid from sight this fruit of war,\n And left a likeness true and fair.\nSo let us try, as best we can,\n To cover o'er each ugly scar\nUpon the brow of mortal man,\n So none may see it, near nor far.\n\n\n\n\n\"ASHAMED, BUT NOT AFRAID\"\n\n\nO God, I am ashamed to die,\n But not the least afraid;\nTho' death's dark shadow draweth nigh,\n Atonement has been made\n\nFor every member of our race,\n And I on it rely,\nAnd hope immortal blooms thro' grace;\n I'm not afraid to die.\n\nBut Thou hast done great things for me,\n And I have nothing done.\nTo set my sin-bound spirit free,\n Was sacrificed Thy Son;\n\nAnd every day by Thy kind hand\n Rich blessings are bestowed;\nOh, how can I before Thee stand,\n Or rest in Thine abode\n\nWith self-respect, or feel at home\n With no returns to show,\nMy whole life like the worthless foam\n On time's incessant flow.\n\nOh, that in life's great harvest field,\n I may some reaping do;\nEarly and late the sickle wield,\n And prove a reaper true.\n\nAnd when the summons comes from Thee,\n While I on Christ rely,\nThou wilt not be ashamed of me,\n Nor I ashamed to die.\n\n\n\n\nDUNBAR\n\n\nUp to Dunbar our Cromwell went,\nNot to invade was his intent;\nBut they who first King Charles sold\nNow turn their backs on friends of old,\nAnd principles they then held dear\nWere sacrificed for self, I fear.\nAnother Stuart they receive,\nWho knew too well how to deceive;\nThe most perfidious of his race,\nCorrupt in life, and void of grace,\nThe menial of the Papacy;\nAnd yet content by oath to free\nHimself from Holy See's control,\nAnd covenant to save his soul\nBy the Scotch Presbyterian mode,\nAs to the crown this paved the road.\nBut Cromwell brooked not this control;\nHe wished man free to save his soul\nAs conscience may to him dictate,\nWithout subservience to the State.\nHe saw also thro' the disguise\nOf one well versed in fraud and lies,\nAnd saw how England's liberties\nWere threatened by this scheme of his.\nSo up to Dunbar Cromwell went;\nTo break this compact his intent,\nConserve the rights of Britons true\nTo worship God in desk and pew\nAs conscience may to them dictate,\nWithout control of king, or state,\nOr Papal \"bull,\" or legate's rod--\nOnly accountable to God.\nOn Sunday night he reached Dunbar.\nFrom darkened sky gleamed not a star;\nThe way he travelled o'er was drear,\nMade doubly so by Scotchmen's fear.\nAt his approach like sheep they fled,\nMade frantic by an awful dread\nOf red-hot irons, spear, and sword,\nOf breasts thrust thro', and bodies gored,\nWhich they were told would be their lot\nWhen Cromwell came. So from each cot\nThey bore away what pleased them best,\nAnd to the flames consigned the rest.\nBut now Dunbar is reached; yet he\nFinds himself in extremity;\nMidst swamps and bogs unfit to tent,\nBy Lammermoor from hillside rent,\nLeslie in front defiant stands\nA noble army he commands\nOf thousands two score seven, or more,\nReady on Cromwell shot to pour.\nBehind the sea cut off retreat;\nWith such great odds can he compete?\nThe mountain sheep may safely tread\nThe Lammermoor, but men may dread\nTo cross this heath at any time;\nMuch more now, midst the rain and slime,\nWill Cromwell with the smaller score\nDare to cross o'er to Dunbar shore?\nTho' shipped were half his guns and men\nThe foe falls ere he turn again.\nWith foresight keen, like one inspired,\nHe saw the end ere Leslie fired.\n\"THE LORD,\" said he, as rapt he stands,\n\"HATH GIVEN THEM INTO OUR HANDS!\"\n'Tis the ninth month and second day,\nA wild, wet night, historians say.\nQuit you like men, and bravely stand;\nDeath's wrestle now is close at hand;\nHeed not the hoarse sea's doleful moan,\nAs on the cliffs its waves are thrown.\nThink not of life nor kindred dear--\nWho goes to war should nothing fear\nBut God, whose eye-lids never sleep--\nHis Israel He will safely keep.\nOh, pray! but keep your powder dry--\nYour part do, then on God rely.\nStand to your arms the whole night thro'\nOr lie awake with arms in view.\nAnd you, ye Scots, your lights blow out,\nBut stay not in your strong redoubt.\n'Midst shocks of corn your shelter seek,\nAnd rest in sleep; your foe is weak,\nYet ere another night comes 'round\nIn deeper slumber shall be found\nFull many of your stalwart host,\nAnd stilled for aye their every boast.\nIn Cromwell's camp all night was heard\nThe voice of prayer in tones which stirred\nThe tender hearts of \"Ironside\" men,\nAs never can be told by pen.\nEre shone the first faint streak of morn,\nThe Scots beneath the shocks of corn,\nStretched out full length in quiet sleep,\nHear a loud blast, and upward leap\nTo seize their arms and face the foe.\nToo late the warning! or, too slow\nTheir movements when the trump was heard,\nYet rang along the lines the word\nOf battle-cry by Leslie sent,\n\"_The Covenant! The Covenant!_\"\nWhile high and strong was Cromwell's boast,\n\"_The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts!_\"\nWith master skill he struck the blow,\nAnd when shone out the crimson glow\nOf morning sun upon the sea,\nBrave Leslie's men began to flee.\n\"_They run! Oh, I protest they run!\nLet God arise! Let God arise!\nAnd scattered be His enemies!_\"\nLoud Cromwell cried. _The work was done._\nThen rose from England's host a cry\nWhich rent the very heavens on high.\nNow halt they on the battle field\nAnd to the Lord their homage yield--\nAnd sing this song with hearts devout:\n\"_O praise the Lord, ye nations all!\nLaud Him all peoples on this ball!\nHis mercy toward us e'er is great;\nHis truth and grace for sinners wait,\n Let all the people shout!_\"\n\n\n\n\nMARSTON MOOR\n\n\nThe armies met on Marston Moor,\n'Midst lightning's flash and thunder's roar;\nAs murky clouds sweep o'er the sky,\nGod's cannonade with man's will vie.\nThe Royalists in phalanx strong,\nBy fiery Rupert led along,\nFrom Bolton's cruel massacre\nTowards York, in hope to keep it free\nFrom the Roundheads at any cost.\n\"If York be lost, my crown is lost\"--\nWrote Charles to this trusted chief,\nAnd he must bring it prompt relief.\nThe foe's true strength he did not know,\nBut dazzled much by victory's glow\nHe hoped with ease to overthrow\n The untrained volunteers;\nNor did he for brave Cromwell care,\nTho' he had asked \"is Cromwell there?\"\n Would not his grenadiers\nScatter those yeomen to their fields,\nTo hold their ploughs instead of shields?\nThus confident of great success\nHe asked his chaplain now to bless\nFrom God's own word their going out,\nAnd seemed to hear the victor's shout,\nWhile from the ranks of Roundheads rose\nTriumphant hymns, ere came the blows.\nNow Rupert madly dashes out,\n\"_God and the King!_\" his battle shout;\nCharges the parliamentary ranks\nIn centre, heedless of the flanks,\nDefeats Lord Fairfax and Leven,\nScatters like leaves their untrained men.\nRemorselessly he hewed them down,\nAnd chased their leaders far from town.\nBut Cromwell kept his men restrained\nTill Rupert thought the victory gained.\nHis eye was all ablaze with fire,\nAnd burned his soul with righteous ire;\nThen sharp and passionate came the cry,\n\"_Charge, in the name of the Most High!_\"\nHis features now most clearly show\nA strange, enthusiastic glow.\nWith zeal he wraps himself about,\nAnd fires men's hearts with glance and shout.\n\"For God and king,\" is Rupert's cry.\n\"_For truth and peace we dare to die!_\"\nShouts Cromwell, all the lines along,\nWhich holds as with a mighty thong\nTh' immortal hosts of Puritans,\nWhile on them fall the Royal bans.\nAs Roundheads, Rupert them derides;\nNot Roundheads now, but _Ironsides_.\nThe heavens were black, the storm still raged,\nAs tho' with earth a war it waged,\nBut raged a fiercer war just then,\nNot forces blind, but men with men;\nFor two score thousand men were there;\nAnd booming cannon rent the air.\n\n\nThe Cavaliers were scattered wide,\nBrought to the dust their haughty pride;\nAcross the beanfield Rupert fled,\nHis standard gone, his garments red;\nHis men by many hundreds turned\nTo ask for mercy, nor were spurned;\nWhile he left all and to York sped,\nHeedless of stores, or Royal dead.\nTo Cromwell's swords as stubble they,\nAnd _Truth and Peace_ had gained the day.\n\n\n\n\nOIL THE CRICKET\n\n\n\"Mamma, what noises do I hear?\n They keep me wide awake.\"\n\"The chirping crickets, little dear;\n What funny noise they make!\"\n\n\"Yes, ma, but touch their tongues with oil,\n To take the squeak away;\nFor soon it will their voices spoil,\n To squeak thus night and day.\"\n\nWell done, my little girl of three;\n 'Twould tune our speaking gear\nTo utter sweeter melody\n For your attentive ear,\n\nIf it were oiled a little, too,\n For harsh too oft its tones;\nThough formed to thrill with pleasure true,\n It gives forth shrieks and groans,\n\nWhich fall discordant on the ear,\n And budding pleasures spoil,\nAnd speaking gear, likewise I fear;\n So bring along the oil.\n\n\n\n\nTHE REAL\n\n\nThe leaf is faded, and decayed the flower,\nThe birds have ceased to sing in wayside bower,\nThe babbling brook is silenced by the cold,\nAnd hill and vale the frost and snow enfold.\nThe life we see seems hasting to the tomb\nNor sun, nor star, relieves the dismal gloom;\nThe good man suffers with the base and vile,\nAnd honesty and truth give place to guile.\n\n\nThings are not always as they seem to be;\nThe outer surface only man may see.\nThe summer sleeps beneath the quilt of snow,\nBehind the clouds is hid the solar glow,\nThe babbling brook will burst its icy bands,\nAnd birds will sing, and trees will clap their hands.\nThe fallen leaf has left a bud behind,\nAnd flowers will bloom of brightest hue and kind;\nFor when we look beneath the outward crust\nWith vision clear, and free from worldly lust,\nWe will behold a brighter world than this,\nWith less of curse and much of noble bliss;\nFor God's kind hand in all our conflicts here\nIs clearly seen and doubts must disappear;\nThe end He has in view is most benign;\nThe fire will dross consume and gold refine.\n\n\n\n\nVICTORY GAINED AND LIFE LOST\n\n\nAs fought the Paladins of old,\nWith gleaming swords and spirit bold,\nTo thwart the schemes of base Lothar,\nGive France to Karl in holy war,\n So would we battle for the right,\n Tho' we may perish in the fight.\n\nOur trusty blade, not made of steel,\nWhile wounding deep, doth also heal;\nWith this, and clad in Christian mail,\nThe hosts of sin we would assail,\n To gain the world for Christ, tho' we\n Should fall while shouting victory!\n\n\n\n\nTHE BAPTISM OF CLOVIS\n\n\nFive hundred years have nearly passed away\n Since that glad morn, when o'er fair Bethl'hem's plain\nA light resplendent as the glow of day,\n Shone down from heaven, and holy angels deign\nTo sing the sweetest song e'er heard by mortal ear,\nWhich fills sad hearts with joy and drives away their fear.\n\nClovis, of the brave Franks, the king, and sheen,\n Heard from Aurelian of a maid to wed,\nMatchless in feature, and of graceful mein--\n \"Zenobia, of the Alps,\" Aurelian said,\n\"The daughter of Chilperic, the Burgundian king,\nClotilda is her name; fair maids her praises sing.\n\n\"She dwells among the Alps, in forest glade,\n And by the shore of its most famous lake;\nBut fairer than that land is this fair maid;\n And brighter than its peaks at morn's awake;\nA Christian girl is she, whose heart God has renewed,\nAnd her fine, comely mind with grace and truth embued.\"\n\nThen Clovis, by Aurelian, sent a ring\n To this fair damsel, whom he hoped to wed;\nShe took the ring; and soon fair songsters sing\n The marriage hymn, as he to altar led\nThis lovely Christian maid. They plight their nuptial vows;\nAnd the old priest invoked a blessing on their brows.\n\nThen on her head a coronet was placed,\n And she sat down by Clovis on his throne;\nAnd never was a throne so highly graced,\n Nor ever monarch felt less sad and lone;\nHe found in her a bride, and counsellor, as well,\nAnd happy are the men who in her palace dwell.\n\nIn tones of eloquence and words of power,\n The wond'rous story of the cross she told;\nChrist's lowly birth, pure life, and of the hour\n When He, to bring us to the heavenly fold,\nBore on the cross our sins, and opened mercy's door,\nThen from the dead arose to reign for evermore.\n\nSoon on Tolbiac's bloody field the king\n Led on his troops against a mighty foe;\nA foe too strong; for soon, though no weakling,\n Clovis retreats--his men returned no blow;\nBut fled as timid sheep before a beast of prey;\nThe conquering Alemanni will surely win the day.\n\n\"O king! cry on Clotilda's Christ for aid!\"\n Shouted Aurelian, as the monarch fled;\nThen, on his helmet, Clovis his hand laid,\n And lifting it, these words the monarch said:\n\"My gods have failed to help: O Christ, Clotilda's God,\nGrant me Thy mighty aid, and I will kiss Thy rod.\"\n\nOn the French pennons triumph perches now;\n The foe is routed by Clotilda's God;\nAnd Clovis wished to have upon his brow\n The symbol of her faith; for 'neath the rod\nOf the eternal King he bows his regal will,\nAnd waits, with heart devout, Christ's purpose to fulfil.\n\nOn Rheims now dawns a cloudless Christmas morn;\n And flags of silk and satin grace each tower;\nThis is the day Clotilda's Christ was born,\n And to His cause a great triumphal hour,\nFor see, on carpet stretched from church to palace door,\nA grand procession march, of two-score priests or more!\n\nRemigius had led the way, and then,\n Assisted by his priests, on monarch's brow,\nAnd on the brows of full six thousand men,\n As they before the holy altar bow;\nThe water from the font he sprinkled down like rain,\nThankful that his blest Lord so many hearts should gain.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WATER LILY\n\n\nThis lovely lily, so pure and white,\nSeems covered o'er with celestial light;\nAs if it grew on the \"Tree of Life,\"\nAnd not down here, in this world of strife;\nToo pure for earth it now seems to be;\nMy queenly wife, it was meant for thee.\n\nIts wax-like petals with graceful bend,\nDrink in the sunbeams as they descend;\nAnd lade with fragrance the heated air\nAs it floats around us everywhere;\nAnd the world grows better by its advent,\nThis lovely lily, so kindly sent.\n\nIt rested once on its crystal bed;\nNeither wind, nor wave, occasioned dread;\nAdmired by all as they passed it by,\nThough the contrast oft produced a sigh;\nIn purer soil than affords this earth\nThis lovely lily must have had its birth.\n\nDive down in search, where the root is found;\nIn vain you look for the purer ground;\nThe root is fixed in the foulest mud;\nAnd from it grows this pure lily bud;\nWhile speckled frogs, and the slimy eels,\nAround its roots find their daily meals.\n\nAs lilies fair from the foul mud grow,\nSo oft it is with good men below;\nIn daily life they absorb the pure,\nAnd the adverse elements endure;\nAnd rise, through grace, to a higher sphere,\nTheir hearts in heaven, and their root down here.\n\nThough foul the world where they have their growth,\nUnfit the soil, and the climate both,\nThe blood of Christ does their stains remove;\nHis power to keep they all daily prove;\nAs lilies pure are these plants of grace,\nThough growing now in so foul a place.\n\n\n\n\n\"HE SHALL WIPE AWAY EVERY TEAR\"\n\n\nEvery tear that dims the eye,\n Or bedews the careworn cheek,\nWill our God, who reigns on high,\n With a hand so kind and meek,\nWipe away, nor leave a trace\nOf its stain on eye or face.\n\nHe alone life's ills can right.\n Each His tender pity needs;\nNone are hidden from His sight;\n \"_Every tear_,\" the promise reads--\nEvery tear shall cease to flow,\nCease, likewise, the cause of woe.\n\nO may I in Him confide\n While I tread this vale of tears!\nWalking closely by His side\n He will dissipate my fears,\nAnd when ends the weary strife,\nMay I share the tearless life!\n\n\n\n\nTHE TAJ OF AGRA\n\n\nThe Shah Jehan sat with his much-loved wife,\n The Empress Mahal, one hot summer day,\nIn a cool arbor far from courtly strife,\n Close by the Jumna, winding on its way.\n\nIn silence played they long their game of chess,\n But Jehan's eyes rose oft to Mahal's brow,\nHis ardent love he could not well repress,\n Nor tried--she was his own rich jewel now.\n\nHe stayed the game to breathe some words of love\n And press her lips with lips that knew no guile,\nAnd felt the thrill, and peace like white-winged dove\n Flew down, and she repaid with loving smile.\n\nThen said, \"What would you do if I should die?\"\n He paused a moment, some bright thought to woo,\nAnd then, in solemn tone, made this reply:\n \"This thing, by Allah's help, I'll surely do:\n\n\"I'll build upon the spot where we now sit\n The grandest tomb a woman ever had;\nAll sombre tints I deem would be unfit;\n For never have such tints thy bosom clad.\n\n\"Of pure white marble shall its walls be built,\n Adorned with gold, and earth's most costly gems;\nEach minaret shall glow like jewelled hilt,\n Sarcophagus surpass kings' diadems.\n\n\"Then to the world it shall the truth proclaim\n That Moomtaza surpassed all woman kind,\nAnd I esteemed her more than gold or fame:\n Thus cycles vast will find our names combined.\"\n\nThe summer breeze now sighed among the flowers\n As they play on with solemn thoughts; and sweet\nAs running brook passed by the pleasant hours,\n And likewise passed the burning summer heat.\n\nAnd like the fading day, the Empress, too,\n For scarce a year had passed ere set her sun,\nBut Shah Jehan, to promise ever true,\n Thought of the tomb his loving wife had won.\n\nNo common architect would he engage;\n From far and near he sought with eager heart.\nAt last there came one Issa, gifted sage,\n Whose plan pleased the great shah in whole and part.\n\nOn the same spot where they that day had played\n The game of chess, and he the promise gave,\nThe massive stone foundation strong was laid,\n On which would rest a palace o'er her grave.\n\nThen Issa disappeared, but where, none knew;\n Cast in the Jumna stream, by foes, some thought.\nThey dragged the stream, nor came the slightest clue,\n And on his fate the oracles were dumb.\n\nThe years rolled by, yet Jehan rested not,\n Tho' hope, so long delayed, engendered gloom,\nContent to live himself in any cot;\n But no inferior hand must touch her tomb.\n\nSeven years had gone, when Issa came again,\n And offered this excuse for his delay,\n\"The soil is spongy all along this glen--\n To have it settle I have stayed away.\n\n\"I now can build on base that will not sink,\n Though pierced the clouds which bend so kindly down,\n'Twere fit this long delay, dost thou not think?\n So chide me not nor on thy servant frown.\"\n\nThen on this base as firm as granite rock,\n He built its walls as fair as falling snow,\nAnd built them well, nor storm, nor earthquake shock\n Has moved, tho' built two hundred years ago.\n\nFor ten long years wrought twenty thousand men,\n While many thousand carts the marble drew;\nAnd proud Jehan told o'er his love again;\n To love so Jacob-like the years seemed few.\n\nFrom every part of his domain they brought\n Rare gems and precious stones of every hue;\nSkilled hands, in form of birds and flowers inwrought\n In snow-white walls, these gems the building through,\n\nThe name of God, one hundred times save one,\n On the sarcophagus, by cunning hand,\nThen lined with gold ere they pronounced it done;\n But then the grandest tomb in any land.\n\nBy Titans built, it seems, as mountain high\n Of pure white marble, based on pink sandstone;\nIn length it is a thousand feet well nigh,\n Its width three hundred feet by measure shown.\n\nIt seems a temple of the living _One_,\n Though tomb to hide the dust of Jehan's queen.\nIt serves each purpose well--her course was run,\n Returned to God, love must the dust ensheen.\n\nTo many hearts it speaks of God and rest,\n And lifts our thoughts above the things of earth;\nIt teaches us that love will give its best,\n And then regard its gifts of little worth.\n\n\n\n\nENGLAND'S BRAVE SONS\n\n\nThe yeoman lays aside his soil-stained smock,\n And from his herd selects a trusty steed,\n And sallies forth to help in hour of need;\n Nor dreads the battle's shock.\n\nThe artisan from mine, or shop, or store,\n Responds at duty's call without delay,\n Nor stops to ask, \"What will my nation pay?\"\n It calls--what needs he more?\n\nThe man of law--the herald of the cross--\n The painter, skilled--he of the healing art--\n The man of trade--come each with loyal heart,\n Nor calculates his loss.\n\nBut brave as these are those of noble birth;\n Genteel in manner, but with athlete frames,\n They do full honor to their ancient names,\n And prove by deeds their worth.\n\nPalatial homes have they and wealth untold;\n Nor need to labor, and no cause for fret,\n But deeds of noble sires they ne'er forget;\n Deem honor more than gold.\n\nBrave lads are these on whom we may rely.\n They go uncalled, content the gaps to fill,\n And in their places fall, if God so will,\n For they fear not to die.\n\nThe whole Empire is loyal to the core.\n From far-off East, brave Indians seek the fray,\n And on French soil have clearly shown that they\n Were true to flag they bore.\n\nTheir old-time leader greets his men once more,\n Bestows his parting blessing ere his death,\n And praised their valor with his final breath,\n Then crossed to _other_ shore.\n\nOur own brave youth by thousands answer call,\n And in our common cause enroll their names;\n With cultured minds and well-developed frames\n They stand like granite wall.\n\nFor _truth_ and _brotherhood_ all face the foe;\n Themselves they cannot save, but others may.\n But, live or die, they hope to win the day.\n To sacrifice they go!\n\n\n\n\nQUEEN VICTORIA\n\nA Prize Birthday Poem, 1885.\n\n\nWe do not sing of vast domain--\n Empires as vast as ours are seen,\nAnd o'er their millions despots reign;\n We sing the virtues of our Queen.\n\nWe think of her when but a maid\n The message came, \"_the King is dead!_\"\nAnd at her feet a crown was laid;\n In deep distress of mind, she said:\n\n\"_In my behalf I ask your prayers._\"\n Then falling on her knees to pray,\nShe told the Lord her fears and cares,\n And sought from Him strength for her day.\n\nHe seemed to say, \"_Child, do not fear;\n I will uphold thee with my hand,\nAnd I will make thy pathway clear,\n Thy throne establish in the land._\"\n\n'Twas thus began Victoria's reign,\n And God has made her throne secure;\nHer enemies will plot in vain,\n For it is destined to endure.\n\nBut while she sits on regal throne,\n And acts full well a regal part,\nShe reigns not on the throne alone,\n She reigns to-day in England's heart.\n\nHer queenly heart with pity throbs\n For every suffering subject's woes;\nIn lowly cot, 'midst groans and sobs,\n She like a ray of sunshine goes.\n\nAs sweet perfume by outward gale\n Is carried far o'er sea and land,\nSo queenly virtues never fail\n To touch true hearts on every strand.\n\nIn every land, her name is blest;\n She is beloved by old and young;\nFrom pole to pole, from east to west,\n The song, \"God save the Queen,\" is sung.\n\nThrough sorrows deep her path has led,\n And tender ties have sundered been;\nBright hopes were buried with her dead,\n And love has kept their memory green.\n\nBy grief secluded from the world,\n Her path through lonely years she trod,\nAnd oft her life has been imperilled;\n But she has leaned upon her God.\n\nAnd as she wept a nation's tears\n In heartfelt sympathy were shed;\nForgetting their own griefs and biers,\n They wept beside the royal dead.\n\nWith grateful hearts her natal day\n We loyal Britons hail again,\nAnd join with millions as they pray\n \"_God bless our Queen! Long may she reign!_\"\n\nAnd when at last life's glories fade,\n And robes of state are laid aside,\nWhen nature's debt to dust is paid\n And charms no more earth's pomp and pride,\n\nMay angel bands her spirit bear\n Up to the palace of her King,\nWhere she a fadeless crown shall wear,\n And the new song with rapture sing.\n\n\n\n\nSILVER TONES\n\n\nA stately church by pious hands erected long ago,\nWas found to lack a vesper bell, by which the poor might know\nThe hour of prayer, the hour of mass, and who had lately died,\nThe hour when gent and bonny lass, so timid at his side,\nWould stand before the surpliced priest, and twain would pledge\n their troth,\nThe hour in which the priest would vent on heretic his wrath.\nThe faithful then were called upon to bring from home and mine\nThe metal for the holy bell, which must be strong and fine.\nIn smelting pot of massive size they placed the needed ore;\nA molten mass it soon became, but ere in mould they pour,\nAnd thus provide a bell for God to grace His temple fair,\nIn crowds the people came, to see the metal glowing there.\nThen as they passed, with hearts devout, each took a silver coin\nAnd dropped it in the glowing mass--no priest did this enjoin.\nThey wished to show their grateful love to Him who bore their sin;\nA simple form which love took on, not done God's grace to win.\nNor did they hope to win applause from priest and saintly friar;\nIf God were pleased they asked no more, nor more did they desire;\nNor did they deem their silver lost, though little dreamed they then\nThe grand result of their small gifts, which now is known to men.\nTheir coins were for a moment seen, like flakes of snow on sward,\nAnd then they melted out of sight, yet, seen by their blest Lord,\nThey mingled with the glowing mass, and when in high church tower\nThe bell was hung and daily rung, all people felt its power.\nIts booming tones were soft and sweet, and echoed o'er their hills\nIn a grand symphony of praise, subduing all their wills,\nAnd calling forth from old and young a burst of rapturous praise.\nTheir gifts, though small, were not despised; God turned them into lays.\nThis world is one great smelting pot in which life's ore is cast,\nAnd from it God will some day bring a bell, destined to last\nAnd ring aloud in thunder tones wherever man is found.\nOh, may we, by kind words and deeds, give it a silver sound!\nEach word though short, each deed though small, if for the Master's sake\nAre said and done, like silver coin, our blessed Lord will take,\nAnd skillfully will blend them with the coarser ore of earth,\nAnd grander music none have heard e'er since time had its birth.\nThen from this bell of silver tone will sound o'er hill and vale:\n\"The work men do in Jesus' name is never known to fail.\"\n\n\n\n\nGOD'S ORDER\n\n\nEvery flower that decks the way,\nWhether it be dun or gay,\nFills a place in God's great plan,\nServing Him, while pleasing man.\nEvery star that gilds the night\nWith its beams of silver light\nHas its mission to fulfil,\nAs assigned it by God's will.\n\nFeathered songsters all declare\nAs they cleave the ambient air,\n\"He who made us made our lays,\nGiving each a note of praise;\nEach one's note, unique and sweet,\nHelps to make the song complete;\nVarious tones, yet all agree,\nForming one grand symphony.\"\n\nSo, also, does God's own hand\nFix in place each grain of sand,\nTiny though that grain may be\nHangs on it the destiny\nOf a world, yea, systems whole,\nAs they in their orbits roll;\nShould it from its globe remove,\nWorlds would clash and chaos prove.\n\nWhen we reach the world of mind\nLaw and order still we find;\nIn God's purpose is a plan\nFor the life of every man.\nFree, he may his own course choose,\nHelp divine through pride refuse,\nBut disorder will ensue--\nLife a wreck! Yet God is true.\n\n\n\n\nINFLUENCE\n\n\nIn gentle showers the rain descends,\n And softly falls the dew.\nThe dewdrop with the raindrop blends;\nThe tiny stream they form then wends\n Its way the grasses through.\n\nAnd kindred streams with it combine\n And form a rivulet;\nThen on it runs like trailing vine,\nLays bare the roots of oak and pine,\n And other brooks are met.\n\nThe swelling stream meanders on,\n Gives power to busy mills,\nAnd bears huge ships its breast upon,\nGives drink to kine and lovely fawn,\n And drinks up other rills.\n\nA lady's foot had changed its course,\n And drank it dry a lamb,\nHad they but sought it at its source;\nBut now it rushes on with force\n And leaps the mighty dam.\n\nThus is it with our influence here;\n Each look, each word, each deed,\nIs like the rain, or dewdrop clear--\nThough tiny things they now appear,\n They to the ocean lead.\n\nAs grains of sand make up the hill\n Which towers above the plain,\nAnd drops combine to swell the rill\nWhich helps the mighty sea to fill,\n So does our influence gain.\n\n\n\n\nUNDECAYING FRUIT\n\n\nDoomed to decay are all things here;\n Whate'er their form or worth,\nColor and beauty disappear,\n Or turn to mother earth.\n\nThe luscious fruits which please the taste\n And please the eye as well,\nSometimes reduced to rot and waste,\n Ere from the tree they fell--\n\nSome gathered with a gentle hand,\n And stored away with care,\nTo serve a place in banquet grand,\n Some favorite peach or pear,\n\nIs found diseased in skin and core,\n And loathsome to the sight,\nWhen 'tis too late to gather more,\n And comes the festal night.\n\nSo is it with all earthly joy--\n It pleases for a time,\nAs toy may please a growing boy,\n Though costing but a dime;\n\nBut soon he tires and asks for more,\n Appropriate to his age;\nSo, though a man may higher soar\n And greater aims engage\n\nHis active mind, he, like the child,\n Soon looks for something new.\nToo oft are men by this beguiled\n And fail to find the true.\n\nBut he who goes to Christ for rest,\n Finds fruit that ne'er decays.\nHe sups with Christ as welcome guest,\n And glory crowns his days.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEROES OF OUR DAY\n\n\nHeroic deeds in every age\n Command the world's esteem;\nEach finds a place in history's page,\n 'Midst gloom a glory beam.\n\nAnd we full oft revert to this,\n To show man's true descent\nFrom Him who is the source of bliss,\n Tho' now by passions rent.\n\nBut we need not consult the past;\n The present bears this fruit:\nThe hero race will ever last;\n The tree is sound at root.\n\nAnd never has the world excelled\n The present in this line;\nOur loving Lord has not withheld\n From us this trait divine.\n\nAnd we should not from them withhold\n The praise we feel is due\nFor deeds of love, and actions bold,\n For spirit kind and true.\n\nTheir worth we now should recognize,\n Not chant it o'er their graves;\nThe hero of the past we prize,\n No less the man who braves\n\nThe dangers of the present hour,\n The sneers which now are rife,\nNot for the sake of earthly power,\n Nor yet to save his life.\n\nBut for the good of fellow man,\n And for his Master's sake,\nHe shuns no cross, and fears no ban;\n 'Tis these a hero make.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BIG BEAR CREEK\n\n\nThe waters of the Big Bear creek\n Glide slowly on their way;\nThe western lakes they surely seek,\n Which they will reach some day;\n\nBut sluggishly they seek their end--\n They scarcely seem to move;\nYet through the fields and round each bend\n Their progress daily prove.\n\nBy debris borne upon their breast,\n And strewn along each shore,\nThey slowly move, but never rest,\n Yet turbid evermore.\n\nBut when they reach the Johnson bend\n And the Sni Chartna meet,\nThe turbid and the sky-blue blend--\n The union is complete.\n\nAnd soon is lost all trace of mud;\n Of azure tint the whole;\nWith heaven's own hue the rolling flood\n Has gained the long-sought goal.\n\nSo is it with the soul renewed\n While on its heaven-bound way,\nWith grace divine it is embued,\n Yet shows the trace of clay.\n\nAnd though to rest it never halts,\n Its progress is so slow;\nAlas, it has too many faults,\n Nor much of heavenly glow.\n\nBut when God's sanctifying grace\n Shall meet it from above,\nYou seek in vain for sinful trace--\n It now is full of love.\n\nA new impulse it then receives\n Which speeds it on its way;\nTo it no stain of sin now cleaves--\n It seeks its perfect day.\n\nAnd as the azure stream has found\n Its home in brimming lake,\nSo shall the soul thus heavenward bound\n Of God's own joy partake.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FROST ON THE WINDOW\n\n\nFeathery frost on the window-pane,\nWho placed you there? \"I cannot explain,\"\nEach little feather at once replied;\n\"But this I know, I'm the children's pride,\nAs they think I fell from an angel's wing,\nAnd coming to earth must rich blessings bring.\n\n\"I once formed part of a lovely bay;\nThe sun shone out, and I turned to spray,\nAnd rose aloft on the ambient air,\nTo the regions high where all is rare;\nThen I mingled with my old friends again,\nWho were my neighbors in the haunts of men.\n\n\"On the blustering wind, I rode along,\nSometimes hard tossed by the tempest strong,\nAnd then at rest, as when in the bay,\nThough much enlarged, the wise savants say;\nThough I cannot tell you how long my sleep,\nWith a chill I woke and began to weep.\n\n\"And my ample form much smaller grew,\nBy the cold compressed to a drop of dew;\nThen down I fell, swift as bounding deer,\nAnd knew no more till I fell right here;\nBut how I became so like a feather\nIs problem I can unravel never.\n\n\"But, oh, how the sun begins to burn!\nI think I must to the clouds return.\nFarewell, my boy! but you must not fret;\nWe meet again, as we now have met,\nIf not as a feather, perhaps a tree,\nOr whatever the Wise One may make of me.\"\n\n\n\n\n\"WILT THOU HARASS A DRIVEN LEAF?\"\n\n\nO harass not a driven leaf,\n Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue;\nA life so brief load not with grief,\n Nor with thine arrow pierce me through.\n\nThe fragile leaf, by tempest tost,\n Is scarcely worth a passing thought;\nThe brook is crossed, and then is lost;\n There let it lie, a thing of naught.\n\nThe stubble dry ne'er grows again;\n To golden grain it gave its sap.\nIt died, and then 'twas left by men\n To rot betimes, or some mishap.\n\nAm I not like the stubble dry\n And fragile leaf by tempest strewed?\nMust I not die, then tell me why\n A thing so frail is thus pursued?\n\nA voice replies: \"Thy life is frail,\n Much like the leaf and stubble dry;\nThy strength must fail, and as the gale\n Bears them away, so must thou die;\n\n\"But live again, in bliss, or pain;\n For death to man does not end all;\nLife is not vain, if thou but gain\n A _home in heaven_, when I shall call!\n\n\"To fit thy soul for endless rest,\n I harass now the driven leaf,\nBut though sore pressed and grief distressed,\n The life of sorrow will be brief.\n\n\"And when released from suffering clay,\n Thy blood-bought spirit shall arise\nTo endless day. Then thou shalt say,\n _The ways of God are good and wise._\"\n\n\n\n\nA GEM\n\n\nThe gem is not this ode itself;\nHardly can it aspire so high.\nEarth has its gems; but all its wealth,\n\nIncreased by thousands, cannot buy\nMan's _soul_, the gem of priceless worth,\nMade in God's image at its birth;\nOrdained to live for evermore;\nRedeemed by blood from sin and hell;\nTransformed by grace, God's love to tell;\nAnd at His feet its homage pour.\nLordly are its endowments, too;\n\nSuperb its destiny, if true;\nOnly below, said one who knew,\nUnfallen angels round God's throne.\nLord, may this gem be Thine alone.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CLOUDS\n\n\nA grand stairway do these clouds appear\nAs they heavenward rise, tier upon tier,\nWith clearly-marked space of blue between,\nCompared with which human art looks mean.\n\nDo the angels tread this grand staircase,\nWhen they come to earth to bless our race,\nAnd lend their aid to each struggling soul\nAs he ascends toward the heavenly goal?\n\nWas this the ladder by Jacob seen,\nThat reached from heaven to the mattress green\nOn which he lay all the lonely night\nTill God afforded the blessed sight,\n\nAnd made him feel, tho' an exile here,\nHis father's God would be ever near--\nThe servant's cry would to heaven arise,\nAnd blessings fall from the bending skies?\n\nBut no staircase do the angels need;\nThey come to earth at a greater speed,\nNot step by step, nor on eagle's wing,\nNor beams of light do their message bring.\n\nThough heaven be far beyond mortal ken,\nAssisted by all the arts of men,\nA moment's time and the space is passed,\nAnd heaven's best gifts at our feet are cast.\n\nNot a cloud stairway, nor ladder long,\nConnects this earth with the land of song;\nThe Saviour bends from the opening skies--\nHe smiles in love, and our souls arise.\n\nAs flakes of steel to the magnet fly,\nAnd mists ascend to the sun on high,\nSo we are drawn by the cords of love\nFrom the earth below to thrones above.\n\nO lift me up from my bed of clay,\nTo dwell with Thee in the realms of day.\nIf 'tis Thy will I should tarry still,\nPrepare me, Lord, for Thy Holy Hill.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOSSES\n\n\nExquisite mosses, so lovely and green,\nCovering the rocks with emerald sheen;\nHiding the scars which convulsions have made;\nBlessing the mound where our angel was laid;\nForming a carpet on which we may tread;\nClothing with beauty the rotten and dead;\nSheathing from storm-blasts the young forest tree--\nBeautiful mosses, examples for me.\n\nTrod under foot by all kinds of men;\nGracing the mountain or hid in the fen;\nNever adorning the brow of the fair;\nSeldom deemed worthy some corner to share\nIn the bouquets that are cast in the way\nPrincely feet tread on reception's proud day;\nThe glory of roses do not attain;\nBeautiful mosses, ye grow not in vain.\n\nAnswer the end by your Maker designed.\nHumble your bloom, but your mission is kind.\nThose will most prize you who knew you the best.\nCover me o'er when I lie down to rest;\nCover, likewise, in the marble my name,\nHiding forever that index of shame;\nBut tell to the world, \"as life he passed through,\nHe covered some scars and aimed to be true.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE GRANDEST THEME\n\n\nThe grandest theme for tongue, or pen,\n Is not the heavens supernal;\nNor mighty deeds of God-like men,\n Though they may be eternal;\n\nNor Alpine heights, nor lovely vale,\n With brooks and grazing cattle;\nNor awful roar of rushing gale,\n Beyond the noise of battle;\n\nNor clashing arms, nor trembling earth;\n Nor heaving waves of ocean;\nNor record of a nation's birth;\n Nor heaven's cloud-cars in motion.\n\nThe grandest theme, for tongue, or pen,\n Above all else in glory;\nWhich suits alike, all sinful men,\n Is the sweet Gospel story,\n\nWhich tells me of my Saviour's love\n And infinite compassion,\nWhich brought Him from His throne above\n To Calvary's cross and passion.\n\nAnd now the holy angels sing,\n With blood-washed souls in glory,\nA song which makes heaven's arches ring\n About this Gospel story.\n\n\n\n\nSEPTEMBER\n\n\nThe hills are clad in purple and in gold,\n The ripened maize is gathered in the shock,\nThe frost has kissed the nuts, their shells unfold,\n And fallen leaves are floating on the lock.\n\nThe flowers their many-colored petals drop;\n But seed-pods full and ripe they leave behind,\nA prophecy of more abundant crop,\n And proof that nature in decay is kind.\n\nBut still the dahlia blooms, and pansies, too;\n The golden-rod still rears its yellow crest.\nThe sumach bobs are now of crimson hue,\n The luscious grape has donned its purple vest.\n\nThe forest trees, so long arrayed in green,\n Wear now a robe like Joseph's coat of old,\nBrighter than that on eastern satrap seen,\n Tho' clad was he in purple and fine gold.\n\nThe woodbine twined about the giant oak\n Blends with its purple-red a brighter shade.\nCo-mingled thus our praises they evoke,\n Tho' we know well this glory soon must fade.\n\nThe fields are green with grass and new-sown wheat,\n Tho' here and there a brown stalk may appear,\nA dying rag-weed, ripened by the heat,\n To reproduce an hundred-fold next year.\n\nThe melon yellows in the kindly sun,\n The peach puts on its blush like virtuous maid,\nThe gourd its snow-white band like brow of nun,\n While flower and gum the air with fragrance lade.\n\nThe swallows gather on the fence and wire,\n Chatter a loud farewell to barn and nest,\nAnd then on wings which never seem to tire\n They fly away in southern bowers to rest.\n\nThe thrush no longer sings its tender song\n In osage thicket, or in locust hedge,\nBut pipes its notes the negro boys among,\n On cotton plant, or Alabama sedge.\n\nThe blackbird lingers by the flowing brook,\n Or perches proudly on the shock of corn;\nThe lark still hovers round its meadow nook,\n And soars and sings as on a vernal morn.\n\nThe robin, too, is loth to quit the lawn\n And visits yet his nest beneath the eaves;\nI hear his cheering notes at early dawn--\n To part with these old friends my spirit grieves.\n\nBut soon these feathered songsters must away,\n Ere winter's frosts shall chill them thro' and thro';\nIn other lands they find the summer day,\n The opening flower, and the refreshing dew.\n\nThe air, tho' chill, is not surcharged with death,\n But health-inspiring germs it bears along.\nWe drink in vigor with our every breath,\n And life appears like spring, each day a song.\n\nGod spreads a carpet for our weary feet,\n Richer than those which grace the palace floor;\nThe rainbow hues are in it all complete,\n And tints, I think, of full a thousand more.\n\nGod with His hands of wind for woof collects\n The forest leaves, and weaves them with the grass,\nWith nap of richest hues the fabric decks,\n And spreads it out for feet of every class.\n\nA haze at times may veil the smiling sky,\n The sun his golden locks exchange for gray;\nBut soon a western blast comes sweeping by--\n The mists depart, and glory crowns the day.\n\nThe lowing cattle roam from field to field;\n No more content in narrow bounds to stay;\nThe ozone in the autumn air has healed\n Their every ill, and lo, the dull beasts play.\n\nThis season has its lesson each should learn--\n The fading leaf reminds us of our doom;\nBut whether like the stately tree, or fern,\n In hope we travel onward to the tomb.\n\nWe look not for the Winter, but the Spring,\n When we shall glow in beauty from the skies;\nEach now his tribute sheaf of praise should bring,\n Then hear his Lord's \"Well done!\" O glorious prize.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLOWERS\n\n\nSome flowers are brighter far in hue\n Than others by their side,\nBut God baptizes all with dew,\n And spreads His mantle wide\nTo cover all for half the day,\n From rays of scorching sun,\nThough some may shine in colors gay,\n And some in sober dun.\n\nAnd I account each one my friend,\n The stately and the plain.\nDiverse their hue, but not their end;\n For me none bloom in vain;\nFor all proclaim their Maker's skill,\n And point to bloom above;\nIn God's great plan their part fulfil,\n And whisper \"God is _love_.\"\n\nThe fragrance lades the summer air\n With health-inspiring germs,\nAscend on high as nature's prayer,\n Suggesting well the terms\nOf God-accepted prayer from man,\n Odors of grateful praise;\nFor though in penitence began,\n It ends in joyful lays.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BUD\n\n\nThe winter through I lay asleep,\n Unconscious and unseen;\nThe howling winds disturbed me not,\n Nor felt the frost tho' keen.\nThick blankets covered me about,\n And kept me dry and warm,\nAnd weeks and months passed quickly by\n And I received no harm.\nAt last I felt uneasy in\n My cosy little cot,\nTho' it was lined with softest down.\n The cause I knew not what.\nI struggled hard to free myself,\n But struggled all in vain;\nMy blankets felt the strain, 'tis true,\n And opened to the rain,\nBut just enough for me to see\n The frowning sky o'erhead;\nI closed my eyes, in sad affright,\n And wished that I was dead.\n\nBut soon a change came o'er my frame,\n Much like electric shock;\nOh, how I longed for some rare key\n With which I might unlock\nMy prison door, for I now felt\n The breath of coming Spring,\nAnd heard, likewise, her merry laugh,\n Like silver bells its ring.\nMy lips were close to blanket rent,\n I ceased my useless strife,\nAnd she bent over me in love,\n And kissed me into life.\n\n\n\n\nBEAUTIFUL SKY\n\n\nO beautiful sky of every hue;\nGolden and purple, crimson and blue,\nWith some sombre lines thrown in between,\nAnd some bright spots of emerald green.\n The earth is wed to the sun it seems,\nAnd to grace the robe of his royal bride\nNo pains are spared, nor a tint untried,\n And thus complete it with glory gleams.\n\nHe wields his brush as an artist now;\nLo beauty glows on the earth's fair brow!\nAnd the lovely flowers at once arise\nTo match the glow of the radiant skies,\n The sparkling dewdrops at morn are seen,\nClose nestling among the petals rare,\nLike crystal studs in a maiden's hair,\n Brighter then gems which adorn a queen.\n\n\n\n\nBUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES\n\n\nButtercups and daisies growing everywhere,\nIn the field of clover, on the hillside fair,\nAnd in lovely valley, tilled with greatest care.\n\nNaught but weeds and rubbish, in the farmer's eyes,\nDrawing off the nurture from the grain they prize,\nAnd their great luxuriance sore their patience tries.\n\nBut the dews of heaven give them richest bloom,\nAnd their smiling beauty drives away our gloom;\nFor such little beauties surely there is room.\n\nIn this world of sorrow flowers ne'er bloom in vain,\nThough they in their blooming sap the golden grain,\nAnd drink in the moisture of the latter rain;\n\nFor our Heavenly Father deemed it wise and good\nTo diffuse this beauty with the grain for food.\nAnd this wise arrangement He has never rued.\n\nTeaching us this lesson we are slow to learn;\nMan lives not for eating, nor for duties stern,\nBut to serve God's pleasure, then to Him return.\n\nRoom for joy is given and for purest bliss,\nAnd we may all find them in a world like this,\nIf our aims are sordid all this gold we miss;\n\nBut if we are faithful and to God inclined,\nSeeing Him in nature, and of heavenly mind,\nAiming to be like Him, and by grace refined,\n\nWe shall live forever where there is no gloom;\nThough the path to glory leadeth through the tomb;\nBut a moment's darkness--flowers that ever bloom.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOSS ROSE\n\n\n'Tis said, long since an angel came to earth,\n Sent by his Lord, to help with loving hand\nA suffering one, afflicted from his birth.\n The limb was healed as by divine command,\nBut He felt weak, for strength from Him had gone,\n A sacrifice which love could not withhold;\nSo he sought shelter till the morning dawn,\n But none received--they prized not love, but gold.\n\nThen 'neath a rose bush did the angel lie,\n And rested well until the break of day,\nWhen much refreshed he sought his home on high,\n But ere he started on his upward way,\nHe said to sheltering rose, in loving voice,\n \"What man refused thou hast afforded me.\nWhat is thy wish? Make known to me thy choice;\n The God of love and power will grant it thee!\"\n\n\"I ask no brighter hue,\" the rose replied,\n \"Both old and young smile on me as they pass,\nMy buds adorn the bosom of the bride,\n And hide among the locks of lovely lass;\nWith fragrance, too, I own myself content,\n For naught on earth surpasses me in this;\nBut if, indeed, my Maker thee has sent\n I ask but this, to consummate my bliss:\n\n\"I feel the cold, both in my bark and bud,\n When Autumn winds sweep o'er the western hill,\nAnd frozen dewdrops oft my branches stud,\n Which mar my beauty and my juices chill.\nGive me an extra garb, 'tis all I lack.\"\n \"Thou hast thy wish, I shelter found in thee,\nI take delight in kind to pay thee back.\n Let softest moss thy extra garment be.\"\n\nThen touched the angel bark, and bud, and leaf,\n And soft green moss suffused it o'er and o'er.\nHe lingered near it for a moment brief,\n Plucked off a bud, which he to heaven bore;\nAnd now the rose smiles at the raging storm,\n Defies the wind and nipping frost as well;\nIts fragrance still retains, and lovely form,\n While nestling budlets this old story tell.\n\n\n\n\nGOD'S CARE\n\n\nI fear not, my Father, the tempest's loud roar,\nNor dread the huge breakers on the rock-girded shore;\nThy presence is with me, my refuge is near,\nWith help all-sufficient; oh, why should I fear?\nTho' billows of sorrow should roll o'er my head,\nMy sun sink in darkness, and joys be all dead,\nThy presence will cheer me, and spectres will flee,\nFor who can molest me while trusting in thee?\n\n\n\n\nMY LOT\n\n\nMy lot on earth is not all mirth,\n Nor is it constant gloom;\nSome joys decay and fall away,\n But leave much lasting bloom.\nMy wishes are not always met,\n And cares press hard at times;\nYet joyous strains ne'er sink to fret,\n Tho' dollars shrink to dimes.\n\nMy earthly lot boasts not a cot,\n No foot of land I own,\nNo bank account nor phosphate mount,\n Nor credit for a loan;\nBut I can read my title clear\n To mansion, robe, and crown;\nI couple these with lot down here,\n And sing, tho' foes may frown.\n\n\n\n\nGOD'S FOOT ON THE CRADLE\n\n\nThe air is chill with the frost of doubt,\n And men's hearts are sadly failing;\nThey do not hear the great Victor's shout;\n But indulge in bitter wailing.\n\"The old gives place to the new,\" they say,\n \"And fond hopes are daily buried;\nOur cherished views are oft borne away,\n As if by the tempest hurried.\n\n\"The world is stirred to its very heart,\n And the Church shares the commotion;\nWith systems old, we are loathe to part,\n To sail on an unknown ocean.\nThe world now heaves like the great sea's breast,\n And rocks like an infant's cradle;\nAnd looking up, by sore grief oppressed,\n We find the sky draped in sable.\"\n\nI will not fear, though the earth should rock,\n If God's foot be on the cradle;\nBut rest in peace midst the tempest's shock,\n Rejoicing that God is able\nTo still the world with His mighty hand,\n If His timid child should waken;\nOr, if it rock, He will by me stand;\n And my heart shall not be shaken.\n\n\n\n\nGOD'S GIFTS TO BE ENJOYED\n\n\nFrom God's all bounteous hand descend\n Rare gifts in rich effusion,\nAnd with those gifts no poisons blend,\n Nor is their end delusion;\nSo do not spurn if He bestow\n Those forms arrayed in beauty;\nIf thus His gifts with radiance glow,\n Enjoyment is a duty.\n\nCome, deck your brows with leaves and flowers,\n Ye fair ones, nothing fearing;\nAdorn your homes and train your bowers\n Nor deem this sin's appearing;\nWe do not fit ourselves for bliss\n By scorning all adorning;\nWe may enjoy the good of this\n And share heaven's brighter morning.\n\nA garment plain may have its stain,\n And saintly brows lack sweetness;\nBut he who would heaven's glory gain\n Must here acquire a meetness;\nSo eat and drink, rejoice and sing,\n But don't forget the ending;\nThe bells of earth more sweetly ring\n If we are heavenward tending.\n\nThe world we use, but not abuse,\n If we enjoy its beauty;\nAnd they who all its joys refuse\n Miss privilege and duty.\nThen prize earth's joys, but prize much more\n The bloom beyond the river;\nGod's gifts enjoy, but e'er adore\n The ever blessed Giver.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HIGHEST GOAL\n\n\nThe highest goal is not success,\n If that be made the aim;\nBut faithfulness, tho' counted less,\nIs what God promises to bless:\n These goals are not the same.\n\nAnd if I am to do my best\n In every line of life,\nMy effort will be surely blest,\nAnd I will find in toil sweet rest,\n Tho' in a world of strife.\n\nAnd when before the throne I stand\n To answer for the use\nOf gifts received from God's own hand,\nHe will not then, in wrath, demand\n From me some strong excuse,\n\nTo show why I had not attained\n The goal of grand success,\nSuch as some noted men have gained,\nFor if my work is not sin-stained\n God will my failures bless.\n\nAnd I will hear Him say, \"My son,\n A throne thou hast attained;\nWithout applause thy race was run,\n'Midst failures oft thy work was done,\n _Life's highest goal is gained_.\"\n\n\n\n\nJOY IN THE MORNING\n\n\nThe night of affliction, with its long hours of sadness,\n Will soon pass away to be remembered no more;\nAnd the weeping will end in a morning of gladness;\n For no sorrow is known on the evergreen shore.\n\nIn this world we shall have tribulation and sorrow;\n 'Tis enough for the subject to be as his king;\nBut if we are faithful, joy will come with the morrow,\n And with the blood-washed a new song shall we sing.\n\n\n\n\n\"HE SHALL DWELL ON HIGH\"\n\n(Isaiah 33:16)\n\n\nTossed about in strange commotion\nLike the surface of the ocean\nWhen the wind, its waters lashing,\nSends great billows, roaring, dashing\nO'er the breakers, which for ages\nHave withstood the storms it wages,\nSee those clouds, so like this ocean,\nHow they whirl in strange commotion.\n\nDust and vapor now are meeting,\nEach the other wildly greeting;\nAs one hand another grasping,\nSo are these each other clasping;\nNow they whirl in form fantastic\nAnd great trees with boughs elastic\nWith loud moans are lowly bending,\nLeaves and fruit to earth descending.\n\nEyes 'most blinded, nerves all shaken,\nBy this fearful storm o'ertaken,\nAs it swept on toward the sunrise;\nYet, I chanced to lift my dim eyes\nUpward, when, O sight entrancing,\nI beheld, to west advancing,\nOther clouds, in higher current,\nUnlike earth's, so wild and errant.\n\nFar above the wild commotion,\nLike great ships on peaceful ocean,\nFloating westward, grand and steady,\nWere those clouds, as if made ready,\nAs great cars, with grand pavilions,\nTo convey the ransomed millions\nFrom this earth where storms are raging\nTo that land of charms engaging.\n\nLife on earth is a probation;\nStorms fit well in this relation;\nYet, above, are peaceful regions,\nWhere ne'er come hell's dreaded legions.\nLooking toward the things eternal,\nWe may rise to realms supernal,\nWhere earth's dust will not defile us\nNor the cunning foe beguile us.\n\nTo this higher plain, O lift me,\nGracious Lord! ere Satan sift me,\nFar above this noisy Babel;\nFar above earth's clouds, all sable;\nUp so far no darts can reach me,\nWhere the Holy Ghost will teach me;\nAnd, in perfect peace abiding,\nI will sing while heavenward riding!\n\n\n\n\nBAG YOUR GAME\n\n\nTwo men, well versed in use of arms,\n Set out, 'tis said, in search of game.\nEach felt that hunting had its charms,\n Yet widely differed they in aim.\nBoth felt their need of wholesome food\n For present use and winter's store;\nBut one was of a careless mood--\n Than the day's sport he asked no more.\n\nNo game he bagged from morn till night,\n Content to show his master skill\nIn hitting every bird at sight,\n And shooting down the deer at will.\nGrand sport he deemed it, day by day,\n As in the tangled forest brake\nHe brought the bounding stag to bay,\n Or shot the wood-duck in the lake.\n\nAs he each night to home returned\n He sang the pleasure of the chase;\nBut had not yet the lesson learned\n That he was loser in the race.\nYet, when sat in the winter's cold\n And game had fled to warmer clime,\nHe had no stock to sell for gold,\n Nor food: and past his harvest time.\n\nThe chase the other prized as well;\n But bagged his game as best he could,\nAnd thus had lots of pelts to sell--\n For self and wife the choicest food.\nIn the pursuit of game a thrill\n Of keenest joy shot through his heart;\nBut joy complete he knew not till\n He went his way joy to impart.\n\nWhile he with wife and children shared\n The roasted duck and venison,\nHe felt he as a king had fared;\n And though of earth a denizen,\nSuch food would give both strength and cheer\n To meet lifes daily toil aright,\nAnd winter months he did not fear,\n His larder filled, and prospect bright.\n\nThe search for Truth with pleasure thrills;\n To find it, we our end attain--\nPossessed, new joy the spirit fills,\n And to retain is highest gain.\nThe pleasure of pursuit is lost\n If truth itself is not secured.\nO buy the truth at any cost,\n And from your aim be not allured!\n\n\n\n\nOTHERS' BURDENS\n\n\nMy greatest grief is not my own;\n That often proves a blessing,\nFor in my grief God's care is shown,\nAnd as I am not left alone,\n It never proves distressing;\n\nBut when my brother's grief I bear\n The weight then seems excessive;\nHis heavy load I inly share,\nAnd loaded down by double care,\n My burden feels oppressive.\n\nYet I remember Him who bore\n The world's great load of sorrow,\nAnd know that He on me will pour\nThe needed grace to bear the more,\n To-day and on the morrow.\n\n\n\n\nMEMORY\n\n\nRemembrance of the past will joy impart\n If in that past the conscience was supreme;\nBut if the soul be made an auction mart,\n And thoughts and deeds be sold for what you deem\nThe price of virtue, then the called-up past\nWill be like hooks of steel to hold thee fast.\n\nOr like the stings those nettles left behind\n Which I so fondly handled in my play;\nI deemed the friend who warned me true and kind,\n And in great haste I threw the weeds away,\nBut soon the burning flesh reminded me\n'Twere safer far from all such weeds to flee.\n\nThe cloud that flitted o'er the saintly brow\n Which now a crown of life so well adorns,\nWhen you by ways and means you know not now,\n Did what your soul with holy horror scorns,\nWill stay with you long as you live on earth,\nAnd be like gall to spoil your cup of mirth.\n\nThe smiles of those we bless are lasting, too;\n We feel their cheering glow each cloudy day.\nAs falls on wilted flower the healing dew,\n So they refresh, and chase our gloom away;\nWe feel though weak we have not lived in vain,\nAnd know God smiles tho' we cannot explain.\n\nThe footprints on the rock time wears away;\n The rock itself soon crumbles into dust;\nBut memories of the past have come to stay,\n Nor flood, nor fire, nor the consuming rust,\nCan ever from the soul the past erase.\nGuard thou thy life, O man, with heavenly grace.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROYAL WAY\n\n\nPerfection ever is the price of toil.\n Of marchings long, and hardships by the way,\n Of burdens borne, oft in the heat of day,\n'Tis then as right the victor claims the spoil.\n\nThe world admires the wreath upon his brow,\n But he alone can tell how much it cost,\n And how to gain it he had all things lost.\nResults men see, but not the _when_, or _how_.\n\nThe stately elm which rears its head so high,\n And spreads abroad so gracefully its boughs,\n Beneath which may repose a herd of cows,\nGrows under ground as well as toward the sky.\n\nThe bridge which spans the swiftly-flowing stream\n O'er which the iron horse, by night and day,\n With heavy tread speeds on its busy way,\nRests not on sand, nor slender post and beam.\n\nBelow the shifting sand, on solid rock,\n The mason safely laid the buttress stone,\n And labored long before his work was shown;\nBut he built well--his work endures each shock.\n\nThis work takes time; we chafe at the delay\n And try to gain the summit at a bound,\n But find full soon our hopes dashed to the ground;\nYet there remains for all the _royal way_.\n\nAnd he who would true eminence attain\n Must heed the word of Him who came to serve,\n Nor from this path a single moment swerve,\nIf he the great reward would surely gain.\n\nThis is the royal way--_to serve in love_--\n Servant to servants ever aim to be\n Like Him who gave His life to ransom thee;\nThen shalt thou sit with Him on throne above.\n\n\n\n\n'STABLISHED\n\n\nThe well-built house with walls of brick, or stone,\nMay tremble some if struck by the cyclone;\nThe most established saint may trials feel,\nAs flint may turn the edge of finest steel.\nSatanic hosts may rush in like a flood,\nAllied with foes of our own flesh and blood,\nThe elements of earth and hell combine,\nYet tho' he trembles, stands in strength divine;\nHe rests secure on the unyielding rock.\nThe top may sway, but base feels not the shock;\nHis heart is fixed, nor earth nor hell can move;\nThey wrench not loose, but his allegiance prove.\nChrist wept with Mary at her brother's grave;\nLaid down His life a rebel world to save;\nTried, like ourselves, and like us too, infirm,\nYet knew no sin in either root or germ;\nLet us be like Him while we sojourn here,\nThen storms and earthquakes we need never fear.\n\n\n\n\nA MEROGNOSTIC\n\n\nI know in part, but know not all,\n The part I know is known;\nWhat know I not I hope with Paul\n To know before the throne.\nTill then where knowledge fails I trust\n The truth God has revealed,\nAs known by me, forever must\n Be like the truth concealed.\n\nI know God _is_, tho' hid from sight,\n And know He cares for me;\nIn blessing me He takes delight,\n And I by faith can see\nHis skilful hand and loving heart,\n In all my life's affairs,\nAnd feel content to know but part\n If He knows all my cares.\n\nI know God gave His Son to die\n A sacrifice for man,\nAnd live all who on Him rely,\n And meet His claims I can,\nYet I know not how in Him meet\n The human and divine;\nBut God He is, and at His feet\n I fall, and feel Him mine.\n\nNor do I understand the change\n The spirit wrought in me;\nA work so great exceeds my range,\n But I can feel and see\nThe inward peace, and outward trend,\n And hear likewise His voice,\nThe outward with the inward blend,\n And answer to my choice.\n\nI know not how mind touches mind\n And thoughts spring into life;\nNor know the mystic bands which bind,\n Like husband to the wife,\nMy loving Lord and my poor soul,\n But this I know full well,\nIf I submit to His control\n I cannot sink to hell.\n\nI know the world shakes to its base,\n And man still wars with man,\nThe bane of sin rests on our race,\n And Satan leads the van;\nBut hope exults within my breast\n Tho 'darkness shrouds the sky;\nGod is the friend of the oppressed,\n The good will never die.\n\nI know not why my plans should fail\n When I have plan'd for God,\nAnd on this ground my foes assail,\n But I still kiss the rod,\nFor tho' I cannot tell the why\n My heart is filled with peace;\nI can on my dear Lord rely,\n And wait for my release.\n\nI know He is both true and kind,\n And has my good at heart.\nHis discipline will only bind\n With cords which naught can part,\nMy heart's affections to His throne,\n And fit me for my rest,\nNor do I tread life's path alone;\n _He knows_, and I am blest.\n\n\n\n\n\"SALUT AUX BLESSIS\"\n\n\nA group of mounted officers\n Ride up and fall in line;\nTheir gleaming swords hang at their sides,\n Chevrons their arms entwine;\nThey bare their heads as pass along\n A train of wounded men,\nTheir shattered comrades from the field\n They ne'er may meet again.\n\n\"_Salut aux Blessis!_\" loud they cry.\n The wounded soldiers hear,\nAnd for a time forget their pain,\n And swell the lusty cheer.\nThus should it be in other lines;\n The men who lead the van\nShould e'er accord a brother's cheer\n To every wounded man.\n\nThe \"rank and file\" the wounds receive;\n Sometimes the leader, too;\nBut honest wounds none should despise;\n The bearer may be true.\nHe stood his ground 'gainst mighty odds,\n And dared the shot and shell;\nSo bare your heads, ye scarless ones,\n And say, \"_Thou hast done well!_\"\n\n\n\n\nSONNET\n\n\nEach human life with mysteries is replete;\n They press upon us in its early dawn,\n And multiply apace as years roll on,\nAnd at each turn we must their problems meet.\nReason is blind, and fails their end to see,\n Misjudges God and gathers only woe,\n And from this spring much turbid waters flow.\nOnly the pure in heart from doubt are free;\nThey read aright the writing on the wall\n Which solves the problems of our earthly lot;\n To them God draws aside the veil, and shows\n The golden threads with which the garment glows,\n And why one dwells in palace, one in cot,\nAnd how His love is working good to all.\n\n\n\n\nBROTHERHOOD\n\n\nIs brotherhood to flesh confined?\n Is there no kinship of the soul?\nTo have it thus, I am resigned,\n If 'tis my God-appointed goal;\nFor there are those whom I hold dear,\n Who claim with me a common sire,\nThat we, with one accord, revere,\n And love holds out midst flood and fire.\n\nBut is the family so small\n Of which I fondly claim a part?\nIs there no other I may call\n A brother, and within my heart\nCherish for him, whate'er his name,\n Or rank, or color, or his creed,\nA love of pure and changeless flame,\n And feel I render but his meed?\n\nThank God for brotherhood so broad\n That all the human race may share\nA kinship, never yet outlawed,\n Tho' types of it have been too rare.\nBut bigotry is doomed to die,\n And hate, a relic of the past;\nThe golden age is drawing nigh,\n And all one family at last!\n\n\n\n\nSHE DEARLY LOVED THE FLOWERS\n\n\nI saw her first when she was old,\n Her form devoid of grace;\nHer locks that once were yellow gold\n Were white, and on her face\nWere furrows deep, which told of pain,\n And toil, and worldly fret,\nWhich all, alas, had been in vain,\n But nature claimed the debt.\n\nHer eyes were gray and lacked in glow,\n Her voice some thought was gruff,\nAnd when excited was not slow\n To use a sharp rebuff;\nFor she in speech was free from art;\n Men feared her verbal stroke,\nAnd yet they said, \"She has a heart;\n She never wears a cloak.\"\n\nHer creed, perhaps, was heterodox,\n If creed she ever had.\nShe knew far more of pans and crocks,\n But this was not her fad;\nHer light, I fear, did not shine out\n In pious talk and airs,\nIn fact I entertain a doubt\n If she oft said her prayers.\n\nHer light, if dim, was never hid,\n Yet looked not for applause;\nFor kindly deeds she often did,\n In line with highest laws.\nShe lacked it may be that rare grace\n Which some I know endowers,\nYet good in her I gladly trace--\n _She dearly loved the flowers._\n\n\n\n\nMY PANSY PETS\n\n\nMy pansy pets are sleeping well\n Beneath their quilt of snow;\nHow they can breathe I cannot tell,\n Nor how their rootlets grow;\nBut soon the snow will melt away\n And April showers descend;\nThen shall appear in colors gay\n Each little pansy friend.\n\nOf pride it may not show a trace;\n Of lowly mind, alway;\nBut will not blush to show its face\n All through the lifelong day:\nIts fragrance other flowers surpass,\n In form more stately, too.\nBut when you see my pets in mass,\n Thank God they ever grew.\n\nFor though the human face may frown,\n Or show a heart of guile,\nMy pansy pets as you look down\n Will look at you and smile;\nNor will they murmur if you should\n Pluck off their brightest bloom;\nTheir mission is to do us good,\n And smile away our gloom.\n\n\n\n\nLOVE BETTER THAN KNOWLEDGE\n\n\nO Thou Eternal One, look down\n Upon an erring child of earth;\nThy handiwork with knowledge crown,\n Or life will seem of little worth;\nBy Thine own light illume my way,\nAnd turn this darkness into day.\n\nI hear a whisper in my heart--\n \"Than knowledge, better far is love;\nThy knowledge here is but in part,\n The perfect waits for Thee above:\nWalk now by faith, and leave to me\nThe things now wrap'd in mystery.\"\n\nWeighed down with mysteries profound\n I lean upon Thy loving breast;\nThe great unknown still girts me round,\n But Thou art mine, and here I rest;\nUnsolved the mysteries remain;\nBut they no longer give me pain.\n\nMy finite mind may never grasp\n The thought of Thy immensity;\nBut I Thy hand more firmly clasp--\n To feel Thee near suffices me;\nFor Thou art knowledge, power, and love,\nThe same in earth and heaven above.\n\n\n\n\nA SUFFERING GOD\n\n\nMan is like God in miniature,\n When he is at his best;\nHis motives and impulses pure,\n His heart and will at rest;\nNo conflict in himself is felt,\n His light no earthly beam,\nWhile love encircles like a belt,\n And conscience is supreme.\n\nAs thus endowed a creature may\n The keenest sufferings feel;\nNot such as rack the frame of clay,\n Which art of man may heal;\nBut pain untold at others' woes,\n And deadly blight of sin,\nWhich right and virtue overthrows,\n And blackens all within.\n\nAnd may not God have suffered much\n Ere reached the gory cross?\nDid not our woe the God-heart touch?\n Did He not feel our loss?\nThe \"Man of Sorrows\" we adore,\n And own His sufferings real;\nBut suffered He as God before;\n For God can sorrow feel.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COPY\n\n\nLooking o'er this written page,\n Many blurs and blots are seen;\nCrooked strokes, at every stage--\n Oh, that it again were clean,\nAs at first I found it, when\nI defiled it with my pen!\n\nGladly would I all erase;\n But along the lines of blue\nYou could still the failure trace\n In the paper's darkened hue;\nThough the words could not be seen,\nYou could trace where they had been.\n\nI will try to do my best,\n Though my ideal be not gained;\nOn the Master's scrip shall rest\n Eager eyes, till is attained\nSome resemblance to His hand;\nIf no more I can command.\n\nLike my life, this written sheet,\n So unlike the pattern given;\nCrooked strokes, I oft repeat;\n Oh, that from it could be riven\nAll the blurs and blots of sin;\nAll the self that's found within.\n\n_I_ can not the past erase.\n _Christ_ shall blot the crooked out,\nLeaving not the slightest trace\n Of my sin, the lines about;\nAnd will give me grace to write\nPages pleasing in His sight.\n\nI will try to do my best,\n As He gives me strength and light,\nLeaving with Him all the rest;\n He will keep life's pages white;\nAnd the copy shall be shown\nPerfected, before His throne.\n\n\n\n\nPERFECT WORK\n\n\nAn artist skilled beyond the sons of men\n With pleasure scanned the pictures on the wall,\nRare works of art, each one pronounced a gem,\n The product of his hand, both great and small;\nEach filled its place in the designer's plan;\nConceived in full before the work began.\n\nPleased was the artist with results as shown;\n But his ideal was not as yet attained;\nIt needed this, as palace needs a throne,\n But _throne_ a _king_--then is perfection gained,\nWhen his great masterpiece hangs in its place,\nAnd the great artist looks in his own face.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JOHNSTOWN DISASTER, 1889\n\n\nLook down, ye Alleghenies, into the Conemaugh vale,\nAnd see the rising waters, and hear the bitter wail;\nThe swollen streams now empty their contents in the lake,\nThe waters rise to kiss the skies and walls of granite shake.\n\nOh, hear that awful booming; the dam has given way!\nAn avalanche of water God's hand alone can stay!\nOh, leap, ye hills, before it and keep this torrent back,\nOr devastated towns and homes will mark its onward track!\n\nLook down, ye Alleghenies, upon this vale of woe;\nTen thousand corpses at your base their soulless faces show;\nSome hid beneath the debris, some covered o'er with slime,\nTheir spirits fled to meet their God, beyond the shores of time.\nThe aged sire and lassie; the careworn mother, too,\nWith her strong son, whom she had hoped would guard life's journey thro',\nAre lying there together, the old and young alike;\nTheir plans and purposes cut off, no power to love or strike.\n\nBow down, ye Alleghenies, and weep o'er thousands slain,\nWho yesterday were all intent this present world to gain.\nTheir active brain is sleeping, their busy hands are still,\nBright hopes are blasted in an hour, ambitions cease to thrill;\nTheir mansions, with their bodies, the flood has borne away--\nThe rich and poor together rest till resurrection day.\n\nNow leap for joy, ye mountains, for all is not in vain!\nFor as it was in Noah's flood, it ever will remain!\nGod cares for those who love Him; He holds them in His hand,\nAnd wind and wave obey His will, and rest at His command;\nSome sank beneath the freshet, and now with others lie,\nBut God prepared another ark to bear their souls on high.\n\nSee, floating with the wreckage, borne onward by the tide,\nA loving mother with her babe close sheltered at her side;\nOne hand has grasped a rafter, the other guards her child;\nOh, how she pleads with God and man in accents loud and wild!\nMen hear but give no answer, no human hand can save;\nHer voice, alas, is hushed in death by the relentless wave;\n\nBut God has heard her pleading, and now His angel bears\nTheir deathless souls to dwell with Him, where free from toils and cares,\nHer voice rings out in gladness the notes of that blest psalm\nThe prophet heard the elders sing, of \"Moses and the Lamb.\"\n\nAnd see this lovely maiden, a mother's hope and pride,\nThe sunbeam of a Christian home, and the affianced bride\nOf one who loved her dearly, and loved her not in vain,\nFor he had won a loyal heart, and hand without a stain;\nBut he lies 'neath the billows, and she will join him soon.\nHark! hark! she sings in accents sweet, to old familiar tune!\n \"_Jesus, lover of my soul,\n Let me to Thy bosom fly_,\" etc.\n\nHer prayer, also, is answered, for see, the roof is bare!\nThe current swept the slippery raft, the maiden is not there!\nAn angel band descended, her lover led the way,\nAnd now she joins her loved and lost in realms of endless day!\n\nLook down, ye Alleghenies, from your colossal heights,\nAnd witness an heroic deed, bright gleam 'midst horrid sights.\nSee, _Periton_ has mounted his famous large bay steed,\nAnd flies, not to the mountains, but at his greatest speed\nHe gallops down the valley, to warn of pending fate,\nAnd cries aloud, \"Flee for your lives! flee, ere it be too late!\nThe Conemaugh dam is broken, destruction comes apace!\nLeave all and to the mountains flee; leave all and win the race!\"\n\nEach creek becomes a river, each pool a little sea,\nThe tidal wave comes rushing on, men know not where to flee,\nBut on he rides, still shouting, as angels did of old,\n\"Flee! Flee ye to the mountain! Flee! forsake your homes and gold!\"\n\nHis horse now shares his spirit, and leaps each swollen stream.\nWith panting flanks and nostrils wide, and breath like scalding steam,\nHe dashes down the roadway, and fairly seems to fly,\nObedient to his rider's rein, resolved to do or die.\n\nSome heed our hero's warning. See, toward the hills they fly!\nWill _Periton_ now turn aside, or like a hero die?\nStraight on he goes, brave fellow; to turn aside he scorned,\nHis life he deems of little worth if other men be warned.\n\nWe honor those brave soldiers, who scaled the rampart height,\nTo plant the standard of their queen in the defence of right,\nThe fire was hot before them, and bursting shells o'erhead,\nYet on they pressed, till bullet-pierced they fell--our honored dead;\nBut he, I hold, was braver, who ran his race alone,\nNo comrade's cheer to urge him on, no bugle blast was blown,\nNor grand review to follow if he should win the day;\nBut thoughts of self were all too weak his onward course to stay.\n\nSpur up your steed, brave fellow--the flood is at his heels!\nToo late! the waves now gird him round; the gallant rider reels;\nEntombed beneath the debris his warning voice is stilled,\nBut he, I trust, ran not in vain; his mission is fulfilled.\n\nLike Jesus, he saved others, yet _would_ not save himself;\nThe plaudits of the world sought not, but scorned its praise and pelf.\nHe still sat in the saddle, and held the guiding rein,\nYet wind and wave awoke him not, and thunders roared in vain.\nHis spirit had ascended, death set the hero free,\nAnd God shall say in His great day, \"_Thou didst it unto Me!_\"\n\nLook down, ye Alleghenies, with ever-darkening frown,\nUpon the selfishness which caused the ruin of Johnstown.\nA reservoir was fashioned, of full three miles in length,\nAn inland lake, kept back by dam of insufficient strength;\nNo mills were driven by it; no water-works supplied;\nA few rich men, for selfish sport, claimed all these waters wide.\n\nThey rode upon its surface in skiff, and bark canoe,\nShot grouse and duck, caught fish and eel, and held their title true;\nFor other people's safety took not a single thought--\nTen thousand lives were less to them than fish thus daily caught.\nThe dam revealed its weakness by frequent leaks, but they\nTurned not aside to strengthen it till came the fateful day;\nBut God, who rules the nations, to whom all bow the knee,\nWill say to them on judgment day, \"_Ye did it not to Me._\"\n\n\n\n\nEYE HATH NOT SEEN\n\n\nSomewhere in the realms supernal\n Is a home prepared for me,\nWhere my joys shall be eternal,\n And my spirit ever free;\n Mortal vision helps not here,\nGod conceals it from my sight,\nBy effulgent beams of light;\n Oh that He would bring it near!\n\nBut I hear a voice say, softly,\n \"Be content to leave it so,\nFor God's thoughts are far too lofty\n For a man like thee to know;\n Human spirits must be free\nFrom their tenements of clay,\nEre they bear that full-orbed day,\n Bide thy time and thou shalt see.\"\n\nI cannot draw back the curtain\n That conceals the glory land,\nYet my hope is sure and certain,\n For the tracings of God's hand\n On the outside do appear,\nLike the cherubim of old,\nWrought in needle-work and gold,\n Bringing all the glory near.\n\nHe who made the lovely flowers\n Which adorn both shrub and tree,\nClimbing vine, and shady bowers,\n In this beauty speaks to me:\n 'Tis the curtain of His tent,\nHiding much, yet much reveals,\nType of the Elysian fields;\n Glory streams thro' woof and rent.\n\n\n\n\nWHAT LASTS?\n\n\nThe words we speak on the empty air,\nAre never lost, but recorded there;\nThe process we may not comprehend,\nNor how the words with the air may blend,\nBut science shows what results may be;\nAccept the fact, is enough for me.\n\nThe waves of sound may have died away\nAs ripples faint on a sheltered bay;\nBut though now faint will be heard again,\nBy God, ourselves, and the sons of men.\nAs sound e'en now may be multiplied;\nThe faintest moan like the roaring tide;\nThe housefly's tread with its tiny feet\nLike tramp of horse on the stone-paved street.\n\nSo, though now faint, will those voices be,\nWhen Christ shall come in His majesty;\nOur quicken'd sense will the echo hear,\nLike blast of horn to the timid deer.\n\nIn pleasant tones will the echoes be,\nOf words of love and of happy glee,\nWhich we address to the friends we love,\nOr offer up to our Lord above.\n\nBut, unlike those, all the echoes heard,\nOf angry tones, and each sword-like word;\nAs we here mete to our fellow men,\nThe Judge shall mete in full measure then.\n\nThe thoughts we think may be lasting, too,\nThough not inscribed on the azure blue;\nOn the tissued walls of the soul's great dome,\nMay be found those thoughts ne'er more to roam.\nAnd like our thoughts, may we not become\nThe thought we think, be ourselves the sum?\nMay thoughts of God on my heart be graved,\nAnd I be known as a _sinner saved_.\n\n\n\n\nIS THERE A BRIGHTER WORLD?\n\n\nBeneath the surface of a shallow lake,\n Where grasses rank and mammoth rushes grow,\nAnd playful fish their bright fins nimbly shake,\n Or madly chase each other to and fro,\nThe larva of the dragon-fly submerged,\n In family large, had taken their abode,\nAnd tho' the waves around them daily surged,\n Upon the bending grass they safely rode.\n\nContent were they with life as there enjoyed;\n To brighter world they never had aspired,\nHad they not felt unfilled an aching void,\n And heard a whisper of a life attired\nIn sapphire robes, 'midst gleams of golden light,\n Above their present world, so dank and chill,\nWhere all day long they wing their happy flight\n From roses sweet to lovely daffodil.\n\nBut some essayed to doubt if it were so.\n Who ever had returned to make it known?\nOne volunteered that he would upward go,\n To bring report; but he was not full grown,\nAnd fainted when he reached the surface air,\n And falling, round a reed his form he curled,\nThen cried, \"Delusion! I have been up there.\n And could not find a trace of brighter world.\"\n\nYet others could not still the voice within,\n Nor disregard tradition's hopeful tale.\nThey called a council; but it caused some din,\n And all their efforts seemed at first to fail,\nTill one wise head suggested this compact,\n Expressed, no doubt, in dragon larva lore;\nThat if that brighter life were actual fact,\n And all who rose in golden sunshine soar,\n\nEach must return to tell the joyful tale,\n And o'er the waters shake his sapphire wings,\nSo all may see, and their bright comrade hail,\n And talk about the tidings which he brings.\nNow each returns, clad in his bright array;\n Skims o'er the grassy lake with gauze-like wings,\nAttracts their notice by his plumage gay,\n And they collect to hear the news he brings.\n\nThen, holding fast, he buzzes out his song,\n And seeks to woo them to a brighter world.\nAnd he succeeds; for see, the larva strong\n Climb up the grass, and soon in light enfurled,\nThey wait the growth of wings, then burst their shells,\n Shake loose the gauzy folds, and soar away;\nBut soon come back again their joy to tell,\n And help their brothers to a brighter day.\n\nPerhaps our loved ones do not always stay\n In far-off heaven, and leave their comrades lone;\nTho' yet unseen, may hover round our way,\n And see our toil, and hear our daily moan;\nAnd tho' we cannot see their lovely forms,\n Nor hear full well the whispers of their voice,\nMay shield us oft in life's tempestuous storms,\n And when we victories gain, with us rejoice.\n\nThey whisper _thoughts_, perhaps, if not word sounds,\n And help to waken longings for our rest;\nAnd thus allure our hearts beyond earth's bounds\n To joy and home, upon our Saviour's breast.\n\nO may I heed the whispers which they bring,\n And seek the grace which will my heart prepare\nTo climb from earth and take on angel wing,\n Then soar aloft, to find my home up _there_!\n\n\n\n\nA GLIMPSE OF HEAVEN\n\n\nAs the caged eagle neared the mountain range,\n O'er which he oft had soared on pinions strong,\nHe clapped his wings, moved by some impulse strange,\n And then fell dead his prison floor along.\n\nSo Moses stood on Pisgah's heights alone,\n With sight undimmed, and unabated strength;\nHe gazed with rapture on the vision shown,\n Of the fair land in all its breadth and length;\n\nHe saw the vale of Eschol clad with vine,\n Mount Libbanus adorned with lordly trees,\nGilead and Achor, with their lowing kine,\n And verdant Sharon swept by the sea breeze;\n\nHe saw the spot where Jacob's ladder stood,\n The oaks at Mamre where their father prayed,\nSaw Bashan with its pastures and its wood,\n And the rude cave where Abram Sarah laid.\n\nSaw the whole land--its hills and vales and streams,\n Its lakes and pools, its vineyards and its groves,\nA wealth and glory far beyond his dreams;\n Better, it seemed, than all earth's treasure troves.\n\nGod then revealed a glimpse of His own face,\n Which Moses once desired, but God withheld,\nBut finished now the God-ordained race,\n The battle fought, and every passion quelled.\n\nAs he beholds the glory of his Lord,\n And looks within the pearly gates ajar,\nSnaps, in an instant, life's frail brittle cord,\n And he is where the holy angels are.\n\nSo is it, likewise, with most dying saints;\n They see e'en here the beatific sight;\nThe spirit then breaks thro' this world's restraints,\n And enters into heaven's effulgent light.\n\nNot sorrow snaps the silver cord, but joy;\n Not woe, but bliss, expands the golden bowl.\nThe pitcher breaks when free from earth's alloy,\n And fails the wheel when heaven has filled the soul.\n\n\n\n\nTHE END WE SOUGHT\n\n\nThe end we sought is not attained,\n But wisdom has been won,\nAnd thus a higher goal is gained.\n_That_ like the moon has sadly waned,\n While _this_ shines as the sun.\n\nA shorter route to India's strand\n Columbus failed to find.\nThat was an object truly grand,\nBut in the wealth of this fair land\n Grandeur and good combine.\n\n\n\n\nASPIRATION\n\n\nI stand to-day on higher ground\n Than ever reached before,\nYet from this summit I have found,\n Outlined full many more,\nWhich seem to pierce the vaulted sky,\n And prove my effort vain\nBut God will set my feet on high,\n Thro' grace I shall attain.\n\nYet higher still my ideal stands,\n Its peak but dimly seen,\nBut hope impels, and love commands,\n And faith discerns its sheen;\nAnd when I reach its shining height\n Heaven's gate will open wide;\nI'll see the beatific sight,\n And rest at Jesus' side.\n\n\n\n\nMY REST\n\n\nI would not cherish a wish or thought\n Displeasing, Lord, to Thee;\nThy will is good, and with wisdom fraught,\n And that suffices me.\nI cannot alter a plan of Thine,\n And would not if I could;\nI acquiesce in the will divine,\n And find my highest good.\n\nAt times my vessel drifts near the shore,\n And the beacon lights expire,\nThe surf-capped waves swell more and more,\n And threaten with ruin dire;\nBut only the surface sea is rough;\n The ocean's depths are calm,\nAnd a star affords me light enough,\n The Star of Bethlehem.\n\nAnd by its light I discern the sand\n And rocks along the coast,\nAnd turn away toward a fairer land,\n And standing at my post,\nI guide my bark thro' the tempest wild,\n Borne on by wind and tide,\nTill God receives His weak, erring child,\n And shelters near His side.\n\n\"Lo, I come, O Lord, to do Thy will!\"\n Shines from my star divine,\nAnd my heart cries out, \"In me fulfill\n Also, Thy wise design.\"\nI would not alter a plan of thine\n If I the power possessed;\nMy will is lost in the will divine,\n 'Tis here I find my rest.\n\n\n\n\n\"PAINT ME AS I AM, WARTS AND ALL\"--_Cromwell_.\n\n\nBrave soul, 'twere well if all the same would say,\nAnd artists aim their patron's wish t'obey.\nWhat signifies a wart, or e'en a scar?\nLeave both, skilled hand, and paint us as we are.\nThe crowfeet paint, the wrinkles on the brow,\nThe hollow cheek, the form inclined to bow,\nThe tear-dim'd eye, the hair well streaked with gray,\nThe hardened hand, begrim'd with soot and clay,\nAnd if you use the seer's revealing glass,\nRemember this, \"_All flesh is as the grass._\"\n\n\n\n\n\"I WAS THERE\"\n\n\nWhen the French soldier from the field returned,\n Begrimed with smoke and blood, he felt content,\nAs from Napoleon he this fact had learned,\n That thro' his marshall, medals would be sent,\nThe name of battlefield each one would bear,\nAnd, also, in large letters, \"_I was there._\"\n\nIn others' triumphs we may well rejoice,\n If in their triumphs good to us redounds;\nBut in the glory we can have no choice,\n And our rejoicings are but empty sounds.\nIf you would in the victor's glory share,\nBe then prepared to add this, \"_I was there!_\"\n\nThe victor's joy belongs to him alone;\n He stood his ground 'midst storms of shot and shell;\nThro' his brave stand the foe has been o'erthrown,\n And he alone the victor's tale can tell.\nHe now lies down to die 'neath glory's glare,\nFor he can say to others, \"_I was there!_\"\n\nNot in some neutral nook must we remain;\n The battle rages, we must share the strife;\nThe world, once lost, we must for Christ regain,\n And each lay hold upon eternal life.\nWho share His conflicts will His glory share;\nThen looking down to earth say, \"_I was there!_\"\n\nThose who before the throne are robed in white,\n Passed thro' the conflict and the foe o'ercame;\nBoldly they stood as champions for the right,\n And thus have won thro' grace enduring fame,\nAnd when the roll is called, each will declare,\n\"_Here am I, Lord, I fought for Thee down there!_\"\n\n\n\n\nTRUE LOVE\n\n\nHe loves not much who loves not honor more;\n If men lack this then love must lack as well;\n If this possessed no tongue love's depths can tell;\nThe heart an ocean filled from shore to shore.\n\nSeeing in him the possibility\n Of likeness to the great and Blessed One;\n It may be even now in him begun.\nI love him much for what I hope to be,\n\nAnd show my love by yielding him his due;\n For sentimental love is ever vain,\n It cannot peace, much less heaven's favor gain;\nBut those who love in deed are blessed and true.\n\n\n\n\nA TRUE MAN\n\n\nWith purpose strong to do or die,\n The race of life he ran,\nWith love supreme to God on high,\n And equal love to man.\n\nSome flaws the earthen vessel marred,\n Which all could clearly see;\nWithin was found the precious nard;\n From guile his heart was free.\n\nIn motive e'er is found the sin;\n Let that to God be true,\nAnd he the Judge's smile will win,\n And man's approval too.\n\n\n\n\nMY OLD SWEETHEART\n\n\nMy old sweetheart is away to-day;\n I feel as I did of old,\nIn my courting days, when far away\n I yearned for her more than gold.\n\nI thought of her handsome, smiling face,\n Her noble and cultured brow,\nOf her gentle ways, and charming grace;\n I missed her less then than now.\n\nThrough the long years of our wedded life,\n Now nearly a full two score,\nShe has proved herself a loving wife,\n And a sweetheart evermore.\n\nOur love has grown with the flight of time,\n As the mountain stream may grow;\nOr as a tree in a genial clime\n When free from the frost and snow.\n\nThe tempest may madly rage without,\n We have lasting peace within;\nAnd confidence ne'er gives place to doubt,\n Nor concord to noisy din.\n\nShe will soon return again to me,\n From her visit in the West,\nAnd the dear face that I long to see\n Will be nestling on my breast.\n\nAnd I will feel as in olden time,\n With a love not dreamed of then;\nNo happier man in any clime\n Is known to the sons of men.\n\nAnd when we part at the silent tomb,\n 'Twill be but a passing day\nBefore we meet where there is no gloom,\n And sweethearts forever stay.\n\n\nFull forty-six years of wedded life,\n Enjoyed with my sweetheart here;\nThey were happy years, devoid of strife,\n And full of Christian cheer;\nThen her Master called her spirit home,\nAnd I am left to walk alone.\n\nEre long my journey, too, will end,\n And my spirit to God arise;\nPerhaps he may my sweetheart send\n To escort me to the skies;\nAnd there with our Saviour we shall be,\nYet sweethearts still through eternity.","title":"Gleams of Sunshine: Optimistic Poems","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":21773}