I LOVE THE LAND WHERE I WAS BORN.
[The following poem appeared in the Sherbrooke (P. Q.) Gazette, sometime in the winter of 1863, and was the last article prepared by Miss JOHNSON for the press. It is of special interest for having been written during the dark days of the war in the United States, and when the sympathy of England and Canada for the North was by many questioned.]
I love the land where I was born,
'Tis a noble land and good;
It has many a field of wheat and corn
Where once the forest stood;
It has many a town and city grand,
Where the Savage used to roam;
To the poor of every other land
It offers a peaceful home.
I'm proud of the land where I was born,
I'm proud of the Parent Isle,
Whose banners float at the gates of morn,
And the gates of eve the while.
And my pulses leap with a joyous thrill,
Wherever they take the lead,
And join their hands with a hearty will
In doing a noble deed.
There's another land that's dear to me,
For it speaks the English tongue;
Like a shoot that springs from an old oak tree,
From the English race it sprung.
It has gained a mighty place on earth,
And a mighty name has won;
It has given to sage and hero birth,
And it boasts of Washington.
But a blot, a dark and loathsome blot,
Polluted that fair young land;
God waited till his wrath was hot,
And he took his sword in hand!
He had heard the bitter wail of woe,
He had heard the clanking chain—
He rescued a nation years ago,
He will rescue one again!
There's a gathering darkness in the sky,
There's a tramp of hurrying feet;
There's a clang of arms, and a battle cry,
And two hostile armies meet.
They meet! they charge! 'tis a dreadful sight!
They wade through a gory sea;
It is life or death, it is wrong or right,
It is freedom or slavery!
The nations stand with a wondering look,
And list to the roar and din;
While History bends o'er an open book
And steadily writes therein.
And what will she say of my native land?
And what of the Parent Isle?
To the North, or South, did they give their hand,
To which did they grant a smile?
God speaks in the wind and earthquake now,
And those who have ears may hear:
To the King of kings let monarchs bow,
And let all the earth draw near.
Let the nations mark his holy laws,
For though he keeps silence long,
With fire and sword He will plead the cause
Of the weak against the strong.
Take heed and beware, my native land,—
To thy ways and words take heed!
On the side of right and freedom stand,
And say to the truth, "God speed!"
Let England herself a lesson learn,
And let her take warning too;
Let her judge as she would be judged in turn,
Let her nobly speak and do.
THE WORLD TO COME.
[Dear as Canada was to our authoress, dearer still to her heart was the true Father-Land, "the heavenly country" for which the children of faith in the olden time looked. Being born again she bore such a relationship to the world to come that we may say of her, as she does of "the bride of Christ": "The Cross was infinitely dearer to her than ten thousand worlds. It was twined around her heart with ties that nothing could ever loose. She wept, but they were mingled tears of joy and sorrow: sorrow, for she mourned that her sins had cost the life of the Son of God; joy, for she knew that that sacrifice had made a perfect atonement for her. She knew that the Father had forgiven her iniquities, and that he would no longer remember her sins. As she clung to the Cross, a bright beam of glory shone around her; she raised her tearful eyes, and a crown of everlasting beauty met her admiring gaze: she knew that crown was reserved for her, and that on her bridal day her Lord would place it on her own brow." With such an experience and such a hope, we are not surprised that she should thus discourse:]
The earth renewed presents a glorious scene:
Mountains and valleys of perpetual green;
Delicious plains, and odoriferous bowers,
Unfading forests, never-dying flowers;
Fruits that on fragrant trees immortal grow,
Rivers that murmur sweetly as they flow,
And gardens decked with everlasting spring,
And shining warblers on the tireless wing.
No howling tempest breaks the sweet repose,
No piercing thorn surrounds the blushing rose,
No sultry heat parches those blooming plains,
No night is known where day forever reigns;
No thunder's roar, no lightning's vivid glare,
No darkened sky, disturbs the beauty there.
The royal city, the divine abode
Of ransomed men and their eternal God,
Rises 'mid blooming bowers and lofty trees,
And waves its banners to the gentle breeze.
Upon its pearly gates and shining walls
A flood of everlasting glory falls,
And tinges with its own delightful glow
The lovely river murmuring below.
That river from the living fountain springs,
And, guided by the mighty King of kings,
It wanders through the saints' celestial home,
Where, robed in white, the ransomed nations roam
Through golden streets, and gardens fair and free;
And on its banks stands life's unfading tree.
All, all is bliss, and love, and glory there;
No pain, no sickness, no corroding care,
No grief, no aching hearts, no tearful eyes,
No broken bands, and there no severed ties;
For, o'er those broad and beautiful domains
The Prince of peace, the great Immanuel reigns.
The good have met, of every age and land,
Around the throne a glorious throng they stand;
The crown of life, the blood-washed robes they wear,
The conqueror's palms of victory they bear;
They bend the knee, they raise the joyful eye;
And hark! Oh, hark! that vast assembly cry:
"Worthy the Lamb to be exalted thus,
Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!"
And angels with the ransomed millions sing,
"Glory and honor to our God and King!"
TEMPERANCE
A WELCOME TO A TEMPERANCE PICNIC.
Old and young are welcome here
To the banquet we have spread:
It will cause no bitter tear
When the festal hour is fled;
It will break no mother's heart,
For the deadly bowl we shun!
Welcome then—and when we part
Blessings go with every one.
[The following lines were also written by Miss JOHNSON for a temperance picnic, held in a grove near her father's house. They were read by her brother Edwin, now a lawyer in Stanstead, P. Q.]
From north and south, from east and west
They come with banners gay;
Hope lights each eye and fills each breast,
And all are friends to-day.
The fairest of the sister band—
With greeting most sincere,—
Magog extends an eager hand,
And bids you welcome here!
Hail, brothers in a noble cause,
'Tis well we thus should meet:
For every meeting closer draws
The bonds of union sweet.
And we who battle for the right,
And breathe the solemn vow
To win or perish in the fight,
Should be united now.
Up, brothers, up! to arms! to arms!
The sword must needs be drawn:
These are indeed no vain alarms,
The foe is marching on!
And shall he blight our happy land
With his polluting breath?
And scatter woe on every hand,
And infamy and death?
By yonder mountain and by lake
Which their approval show,—
For each beloved Township's sake,
We boldly answer—No!
Then let our banners be unfurled,
'Mid scorn or 'mid applause;
We dare proclaim to all the world
We love the temperance cause!
A LIFE-SCENE—THE LETTER.
"I'm at work upon the railroad"—
So the brother's letter ran,—
"I'm at work upon the railroad,
With the wages of a man.
"I am up at peep of morning,
And I only stop to eat;
But I bear it all extremely well
Except the noon-day heat.
"I do not feel much homesick,
Though I think of other scenes,
And what you have for dinner
When I eat my pork and beans!
"'Tis the time for pies and dumplings,
Currant jelly and all that,
For an hour in mother's pantry
I'd give my bran-new hat.
"You wrote about the chickens,
About the crops and hay;
But not a word about the colts—
The black one or the gray.
"Tell father not to worry
About that note at all:
I shall have a hundred dollars
I can send him in the fall.
"You cannot think how proudly
It makes my bosom swell,
To think that I am toiling
For those I love so well.
"Tell mother I remember
Her parting words to me;
And all that she has prayed for
I hope I yet may be.
"The workmen bring the bottle,
They say, 'Just take a sip;'
But, mother, not a single drop
Shall ever touch my lip.
"Here's a kiss for brother Charley—
The little roguish elf,
I hope he'll not forget me,—
And another for yourself.
"How much I want to see you
I will not try to tell;
I never knew I loved my home
And all my friends so well!
"My lamp is burning dimly,
So, sister dear, good-night;
Think often of your brother,
And don't forget to write."
The sister read the letter
With a look of pride and joy;
And the father and the mother said,
"God bless the darling boy!"
THE PLEDGE.
[Whether the following is a real or a supposed case we know that in this fallen world of ours there have been many sadder scenes than the one depicted; for "who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? Who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes? They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine…. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder."—Prov. 23: 29-35.]
PART I.
All day the snow came silently to earth,
Until the branches of the apple trees
Bent lower than in autumn 'neath their weight
Of glossy fruit: the youthful pines that stood,
With leafless beech and maple interspersed,
To speak of summer when all else that laughed
In balmy air with summer should depart,
Were robed in white, save where some little twig
Of deepest verdure timidly looked forth,
Like gentle Spring reclining in the arms
Of stern old Winter. Silence reigned abroad;
There was no sun, no sky, but over all
A dense dark mist which hid the blue beyond.
The cottager had tarried long that day
Within the village inn, and night drew near
And found him at his glass; then rose the wind
And hurled the snow against the window pane.
"Come, father, come;" a little hand was laid
Upon the father's arm, and into his
A pair of pleading eyes looked gently up.
"Come, father, come; the wind begins to blow,
And mother waits and watches all alone."
He heeded not the warning; to the bar
He gaily turned, and cried, "Another glass!"
The glass was drained, and yet another filled,—
And still the pleader cried, "Come, father, come."
"The night is cold," one thoughtless comrade said
"And you have far to walk; here, drink, my boy."
The child pushed back the tempter's hand, a glow
Of indignation mantling cheek and brow,—
"My mother says there's poison in the cup,
And I will never drink," he firmly said.
The father gave him an approving smile,
Patted his rounded cheek, and stroked his curls,
Then heaved a sigh—while o'er his manly face,
Which had been handsome ere the fatal wine
Disfigured it, a mournful shadow crept
And darkened all his soul. "Come, father, come:"
This time he listened, clasped the little hand,
And they went forth together in the storm.
The wind blew fiercely from the north and east,
And called its forces from the neighboring hills;
They heard the summons, eager to obey,
And swept along in one continuous roar.
They caught the snow new-fallen from the earth
And wove a sheet with which to blind the eyes
Of those two wanderers on the frozen waste.
Then night came on; dark night came suddenly,
And hid within its bosom bush and tree,
And all that stood as waymarks to their home.
The little winding path they trod that morn
Was now a path no more; yet had his brain
Been clear as on the morn, his step as firm,
The father might have found his homeward way.
But oft the earth seemed reeling 'neath his feet,
And once he fell, then nerved himself anew
To struggle with the storm.
"How long the way!
Dear father, are we almost home at last?"
Through teeth that chattered came the words half-formed,
And drops of dew stole from his anxious eyes
And turned to pearly ice-drops where they fell.
And then the father took the patient boy
Within his arms; he hugged him to his breast
And tried with steady gaze to pierce the gloom
If he might catch a glimpse of friendly lights,
Or haply of the lamp that burned for him
In his own cottage, fed by one who watched,
And wept, and prayed, and turned the cottage door
Upon its frosty hinges, till her fair cheek
Grew purple with the cold; he thought of this,
And anguish and remorse smote heavily.
But deeper grew the night; and hours that seemed
Like years to that distracted father passed.
Nearer and nearer to his aching breast
He held the child—for hope grew faint within;
Yet with that precious burden at his heart
He could not quite despair. "If I have sinned,
If I am seen in Heaven's all-searching light
Black and polluted, yet my child is pure,
And for the father's sin he should not die.
Guard him, ye angels! Save him, O my God!"
Thus in the depths of his own soul he prayed,
And chafed again the little trembling hands,
And kissed the cheek so cold it spoke of death.
"Let me kneel down, dear father; let me pray,
For I am weary—I will sleep awhile;
But ere I sleep, dear father, let me pray."
And round his father's neck he twined his arms,
And faintly whispered half his evening prayer.
O wretched father! O polluted man!
Is it the wind that makes thee shiver thus?
PART II.
All day the snow came silently to earth,
Until the path before the cottage door
Was even with the drift on either side.
No foot disturbed the mass of crystals white,
But when the wind began to roar and shriek,
And Night descended, with her sable wing
Darkening the scene around, a pallid face
Which had been pressed against the window pane
For half an hour, came forth into the gloom.
As looks the moon upon some stormy night
When every star is quenched, and she alone
Through rifted clouds peers forth and keeps her watch:
So looked that wife and mother as she stood
Upon the threshold gazing down the road
With chattering teeth, and limbs that quaked with cold,
Imagining she heard in every gust
The voice and footfall of the man she loved.
The hearth was piled with blazing logs that shed
A cheerful glow upon the cottage walls;
The table spread for three before it stood,
And yet the bread was all unbroken there,—
And from the cottage to the garden gate
A shivering form went flitting to and fro.
Despair was on her cheek—and in her eye
A mother's anguish: "But they might have seen
How fierce a storm was gathering—might have stayed."
And while the hope was fresh within her heart
She hurried in, but only to return
And take her station at the door again.
* * * * *
The moments slowly lengthened into hours,
The air grew chilly—for upon the hearth
A few decaying embers smoked alone;
And pale with midnight vigils and with grief
The watcher knelt to find relief in prayer.
Then hark! a sound—a footstep—and she starts!
Her heart leaps to her throat, and with a bound
She gains the cottage door—it opens wide.
A cry of joy is trembling on her lips,
For there the husband and the father stood.
She stretched her eager arms to take the boy,
But in the movement caught the father's eye
Where horror sat, and told the dreadful tale
He dared not trust his quivering lips to speak.
"My boy is dead," she cried; "my boy, my boy!"
And caught him wildly to her bursting heart.
Cold on her bosom fell the little head
Which had been pillowed there so oft in sleep,—
And as she raised the frosty lid which veiled
The violet eye beneath that lately laughed,
So deep a groan escaped her pallid lips
The guilty husband shuddered as he heard.
"Too late," he muttered in a husky tone,
And like an image of despair he stood,
Until she called him weeping to her side,
And murmured in a voice half choked with sobs:
"Nay, not too late, my husband, not too late:
God takes the child in mercy and in love,
To save the father. Shall it not be so?
Say by the love we bore this precious child,
Our own no longer—shall it not be so?"
The answer came, so low she scarcely heard,
But 'twas enough, and she looked up and smiled!
SIGHS ON MORTALITY.
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?
Why do we mourn? why do we sigh?
We who may to-morrow lie
With folded hands and death-sealed eye?
A brave and gallant heart I knew:
Like some young sturdy oak he grew
Nursed by the sun, refreshed by dew.
His hopes were bright and high their aim:
Above reproach or fear of shame
None ever lightly spoke his name.
He left our cottage blithe and gay,
And as he left we heard him say,
"I will return at close of day."
We watched him as he passed along,
He was so manly, brave and strong,
Oh, was the pride we cherished wrong?
We thought of him as one designed
To bless and elevate mankind,—
And it was well that we were blind!
We did not see the gathering frown,—
But long before the sun went down,
A dreadful rumor filled the town.
They told us gently he was dead,—
I would not credit what they said:
But when I knew it reason fled.
I woke to real life once more;
My dream of happiness was o'er—
I stood upon a desert shore.
All day I heard the billows moan,
All night I answered groan with groan,
For I was desolate and lone.
There came no message o'er the sea,
No message from the lost to me,
And I repined at God's decree.
The bolt was spared—and o'er my head
The bow of mercy shone instead,
And I at last was comforted.
Now when the billows rage and roar,
I think it shortly will be o'er,—
'Tis calm upon the other shore.
I look at Time as one who sees
A pale leaf floating on the breeze
Amid a grove of noble trees.
It fills awhile a little nook;
To-day it is—to-morrow, look!
The great white Throne! the open Book!
We stand upon a narrow space,
Eternity rolls on apace—
Where next shall be our resting-place?
LIFE.
As when the graceful bark, with spreading sails,
Glides from the port into the open sea,
Wafted along by soft and prosperous gales,
Just as the rising sun bids darkness flee;
So, like that bark, in early youth are we,
When first we launch upon the sea of life—
Our hopes as bright, our youthful souls as free,
The scene around with love and beauty rife.
And all unknown to us its griefs, its cares and strife.
The bark glides on; but, see, the azure sky
With dark and angry clouds is soon o'ercast;
The thunders roar, the forked lightnings fly,
The billows beat, and howls the midnight blast!
The trembling vessel, with dismantled mast,
The maddened waves have in their fury tossed,
Until she lies a helpless wreck at last,
Her plans all thwarted, and her hopes all crossed,
Her guiding star obscured, and her direction lost.
'Tis thus with life; at times deemed most secure,
When all seems calm, and beautiful, and fair,
Dark rocks concealed, the easier to allure,
The fragile bark in youth's bright morn ensnare;
And storms arise, and fierce the lightnings glare,
And wild and high the raging billows roll,
While sinks the heart a wreck in deep despair,
Till, brightly o'er the dark and dreary pole,
The Morning Star appears to the benighted soul!
It guides the bark across life's troubled sea,—
It points the way unto the destined shore,
Till, anchored in a blest eternity,
It buffets with the howling storm no more.
Be ours that star to guide us safely o'er!
To us, oh, may its precious light be given!
And though the tempests beat and billows roar,
And though we now by adverse winds are driven,
We'll safely anchor soon in the blest port of Heaven!
THE SILENT ARMY.
Life is the road to death. No one can lose the way—'tis sure and plain. Whatever paths we take all end the same. Some walk in sunshine, and some beneath a cloud; some gather flowers and some the thorn; but at the gate all stand alike: nor poverty, nor wealth can enter there.
To those who smile, and those who weep,
To those who sing, and those who sigh,
There comes the same long final sleep,—
There comes the time when each must die.
We watch the faces as they pass—
We say of some, "How very fair":
Nor think how soon the churchyard grass
Will thrive upon the beauty there.
The objects of our love we take
Close to our hearts and call them ours!
They are the gods we ne'er forsake,
But crown them every morn with flowers.
We dip them o'er and o'er again
In love's immortal fount; but when
We find that all has been in vain,
God shield us in our anguish then.
The Death-drum beats, the roll is called,
New names are on the list to-day:
Some answer calm and unappalled
As if 'twere pleasure to obey.
For life to them was full of pain,
Death opened wide the only door,
While others weep and plead in vain
For just one little moment more.
Through all the springs that come and go,
At noon, at night, at early dawn,
Through summer's heat and winter's snow,
That silent army marches on!
On, on forever to the tomb!
They pitch no tents along the way;
On, on, it is the common doom,
There's no return and no delay.
They take no purse nor scrip with them
However rich they were before;
The brow of beauty wears no gem,
And slaves are men—and kings no more.
From every land, and sea, and clime,
Through all the ages that are gone,
Through all the years of future time,
That host has marched—will still march on.
And shall we of to-morrow boast?
This very night may seal our doom
And find us with that shadowy host,
Whose line of march is for the tomb!
Death and the tomb! our hearts rebel,
And wonder why such things should be;
Great God, who doeth all things well,
We leave these mysteries with Thee!
Thou knowest why, and we shall know
When raised in triumph from the grave,
Redeemed from death, and sin, and woe,
Through Him who hath the power to save.
THE DYING WARRIOR.
A warrior lay, with a heaving breast,
On the field of the dying and dead;
His cheek was pale and his lips compressed,
And the fading light from the distant west
Shone o'er his gory bed.
The night came on, and the moon arose
With her soft and tremulous glow;
She shed her light o'er friends and o'er foes,
All sleeping together in dull repose
On the battle-field below.
The warrior gazed with a mournful sigh
On the blue and the star-spangled dome;
While tears shone bright in his sunken eye,
And vivid thoughts like the lightning fly
To his childhood's distant home.
He thought of the mother who used to bend
O'er his couch, when in sorrow and pain—
Who to his complaints an ear would lend;
But alas! he knew that that dearest friend
Would never bend o'er him again.
He thought of the scenes where once he strayed
With his brothers in days of yore;
He thought of the stream, the peaceful glade,
The cottage that stood in the dark green shade,
With the vines around the door.
He thought, with a pang of dark despair,
'Twas the hour they all used to meet
With grateful heart for the evening prayer;
He thought of the group that were gathered there;
He thought—of a vacant seat.
He knew that a fervent prayer would rise
For the loved and the long-absent one;
He knew that the tears would flow from their eyes,
And his father's voice would be choked with sighs,
As he prayed for his erring son.
He knew for him they would all implore
A renewed and a sanctified heart;
That when the toils of this life were o'er
They all might embrace each other once more,
Never, no never to part!
One trembling hand to his brow he pressed,
And the tears of contrition he shed;
He implored for pardon, a home with the blest;
Then he wrapped his cloak round his gory breast,
And the warrior's spirit fled!
ON SEEING A SKULL
This morning while examining a skull strange emotions took possession of me—such as I never before experienced. That senseless skull had once been the seat of deep thought and powerful passions; beaming eyes once glistened brightly where now there was only a hollow space; that head was once proudly erected, and the form that supported it once mingled in the busy scenes of life. But now what a change! His very name is forgotten—himself but a handful of dust. O mortals! behold, and learn a lesson. His body has long since mouldered away and mingled with the parent earth,—this skull alone remains; and yet the time will surely come, and cannot be far distant, when "the bones shall come together—bone to his bone"; when the sinews and the flesh shall come upon them, the skin cover them, and the breath entering the body the dead shall live! Will this skull come forward at "the resurrection of the just," or ——? Oh, what an awful thought! My very blood runs cold, and a shudder steals over me. O thou great Mediator of mankind, intercede for me before thy Father's throne, that ere it is everlastingly too late my unworthy name may be written in the Lamb's book of life. (July 5, 1852.)
THOUGHTS ON DEATH.
A bride but yesterday—all hope and love,—
Flowers at her feet and cloudless skies above,
Bright buds of promise twining round her brow,
Approach—approach and gaze upon her now!
Come not in festal robes as once ye came,
The bride is here but she is not the same
As when ye saw her to the altar led,
And called down blessings on her fair young head.
The cheek is pale that with the rose could vie,
There is no lustre in that rayless eye,
Upon those pallid lips there is no breath,
And she alas is now the bride of Death!
Henceforth what soul will ever dare to trust
In things that crumble at a breath to dust?
And who would dream of earthly joy and bliss
Taught by a lesson terrible as this?
Short-sighted mortal hastening to the tomb,
Gaze on the scene, and realize thy doom!
All tongues and nations mingle with the clay;
Art thou less subject unto death than they?
The conquerors of the world have left their throne
Before a mandate mightier than their own,—
Rank, pride and power have sunk into the grave,
And Caesar moulders with the meanest slave.
Canst thou escape his all-destroying breath
And bid defiance to the victor Death?
What strange enchantment has allured thine eyes?
Shake off the spell! immortal soul, arise!
Oh, burst thy fetters ere it be too late,
Regain thy freedom and thy lost estate,—
A thousand angels hover round thy track,
They plead with thee, they long to lead thee back.
The sacrifice too great? bethink thee, soul!
A few more suns above thy head may roll,
A few at most and thou wilt trembling stand
Just on the borders of the spirit land.
Who ever stood there calm and undismayed,
And smiled to see all earthly prospects fade?
Not he who lived for things of time alone,
Who won a name, a fortune or a throne;
Who added field to field, and store to store,
And cried at last, "Oh, for one moment more!"
But he whose eye could pierce the dreary tomb,
He who could say amid the gathering gloom,—
"There is my home and there my Saviour stands
With smiling brow and with extended hands!"
Would'st thou depart with that exulting cry,
In glorious hope of immortality?
Thy heart all joy, and praise thy latest breath?
The holy life insures the happy death!
Oh, thou wilt wonder in that trying hour.
When home, and love, and friendship lose their power
To cheer and comfort, thou could'st ever prize
What then will sink to nothing in thine eyes—
Time for repentance then? beware! beware!
How many souls are yearly shipwrecked there!
Like him of old they cry—"Go now thy way"—
And keep repentance for their dying day;
But God is jealous of his honor still,
He asks a ready mind, a hearty will,
And those who through a life-time break his laws,
Despite his mercy and his glorious cause,
Who seek their own enjoyment and their ease,
And only yield when death demandeth these,—
May find too late they were deceived at last,
And mourn the summer and the harvest past!
There's not in heaven itself a lovelier sight,
Nor one which angels view with more delight,
Than youthful soldiers of Immanuel's cross,
In life's glad morning counting all as loss,
Since they have proved a dying Saviour's love,
And placed their treasures and their hearts above.
Let pleasure woo them with her syren voice,
They heed her not—they've made a nobler choice;
Let others walk the shining path of fame,
They dare to suffer poverty and shame,
And turning from the world's enchanted bowers,
To consecrate their youth and all their powers
To Him they serve, and even here they find
More real pleasure than they e'er resigned.
The best they have in early life they bring
A free-will offering to their God and King;
And in that hour when heart and flesh shall fail,
Their song of triumph ringing through the vale,
Will mingle with the anthems of the blest,
Who wait to hail them to their heavenly rest.
Would'st thou depart with that exulting cry
In glorious hope of immortality?
I read an answer in that beaming face,
Behold thy Saviour—fly to his embrace!
THE BATTLE-FIELD.
Strewn on the battle-plain,
After the fight was done,
And the bloody victory won,
Were a thousand heaps of slain.
Rider and horse there lay,
But the war-steed neighed no more,
And the gallant form he bore
Upon that eventful day,
Shattered, and marred, and ghastly pale,
Had fallen beneath the deadly hail.
Prince and peasant were there!
Rich and poor, master and slave,
Wise and simple, timid and brave;
Old men with snow-white hair,
Young men of noble birth,
Boys just from their native shore,
And the homes they shall see no more,
Stretched on the cold, damp earth;
And mother and sister may watch in vain,
They never shall press those lips again.
Clasped in a fond embrace
Was a young and gentle pair,
And the love that was pictured there
Made holy that dreadful place.
Near by a chieftain bled,
While his faithful dog still kept
A mournful watch where he slept,
And mourned above the dead,
Then gazed on the pallid lips and brow:
It is death—does he comprehend it now?
Just as they fell they lay—
Struck down in the dreadful strife;
And the latest look they wore in life
Death had not taken away:
Some with a pleasant smile,
Foeman with foemen at peace,
Croat, and Frank, and Tyrolese,
All in one ghastly pile,
From the Seine, the Po, and the Land of Song,
Oh, where were the souls of that countless throng?
Gone to the bar of God!
Gone from the battle's din,
Gone with their weight of sin,
To the solemn bar of God!
Woe to ambition and pride!
Woe to the tyrant king
Who dares from his subjects wring
What God has never denied!
Aye, woe to him, for the record stands,
And the blood of the slain is on his hands.
DEAD AND FORGOT.
Dead and forgot!
How sad the lot
When wintry tempests blow
To lie all cold
'Neath the churchyard mould,
And in a year or so
To have our very name unsaid,
Unless it chance to fall
From careless lips that say, "She's dead,"—
She's dead, and that is all!
But sadder still
That one should fill
The place we thought our own:
That a form more light,
And an eye more bright
Should guard our dear hearth-stone;
That where we strayed another's feet
At morn and eve should roam,
And another's voice—perchance more sweet—
Make music in our home!
That where we locked
Our hands and talked
Amid our chosen flowers,
The lips we pressed
Should be caressed
By other lips than ours,—
That other eyes should watch for him,
And other arms embrace,
Until our image growing dim
Yield to another's face.
And this is love!
O injured Dove!
Thy wings have many a stain:
But pure and white
In the Land of Light
They shall be spread again;
The deep, true love our spirits crave
Earth has never supplied;
Nor till we leave the dreary grave
Shall we be satisfied.
DEAR EMILY.
Dear Emily, sweet Emily!
So early gone to rest,
I love to think of thee as one
Among the good and blest,—
No shadow on thy radiant eye,
No sorrow in thy breast.
Dear Emily, sweet Emily!
I cannot call thee dead:
'Tis true I do not see thy face
Nor hear thy gentle tread;
Yet in my heart of hearts, sweet friend,
Thou never canst be dead.
When by the solemn stream of death
We parted long ago,
How little of the world we knew!
But I have lived to know
How friendship fades, how love decays,
How all things change below.
Time changes some, and absence some,
And envy—oh, the shame!
Of those who played together once
Some rise to wealth and fame,
While in the vale of poverty
The rest remain the same.
But nothing now can come between
Thy heart and mine, sweet friend!
With every image of the past
Thy memory will blend,
And what thou wast in early life
Thou wilt be to the end.
I love to think—oh, call it not
A fancy wild and vain—
That thou hast seen and pitied me
Through all these years of pain;
But I shall know how that has been
When we two meet again.
My bleeding feet have left their mark
Wherever they have passed;
But now the sun is getting low,
The shadows lengthen fast,
And Emily, dear Emily,
All will be well at last!
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
She sleeps the quiet sleep of death and I survive. But for what purpose? why was not I called first to explore the untried regions of eternity? 'Tis known only to Him whose mighty arm often spares the humble flower while the waving trees that stand around it are torn from their roots by the roaring tempest. She has gone before me, and yet how long may it be ere I shall follow her? O solemn thought!—well might it sink deeply into my heart, and taking root there spring forth yielding fruits of repentance. Soon may Death, the great enemy of mankind, add one more ghastly victim to the lifeless piles that lie heaped together in every clime and on every shore; and when my death- knell shall sound will it be the signal of a spirit wailing in the regions of the lost, or rejoicing in the bright realms of everlasting bliss? It is for me, and me alone to decide. Perhaps it is for this that my life has been spared—that I might make a firm and decided choice; and shall I still draw back? shall I still hesitate and remain inactive? No, no; for "now is the accepted time, and now is the day of salvation."
THE HEAVENLY HELPER.
What strange lessons I am every day learning! Thank God for them. They are very unpleasant to human nature, but they are leading me to place less confidence in earthly love and more in heavenly. I have leaned too much upon an arm of flesh, and it is right I should suffer for it. Sweet Saviour, fold me in thine arms; comfort me with thy love; and as soon as thou seest best let me go and live with thee forever.
All earthly hopes have passed away,
Stay with me, O my Saviour, stay:
Thy blessed smile is all the light
That breaks upon my dismal night.
I cling to thee—thou must not go;
Oh, let me tell thee every woe
And whisper in thy ready ear
What other friends would frown to hear.
Distressed in body and in mind,
Diseased and wretched, poor and blind,
I only care to see thy face,—
I only sigh for thy embrace.
I droop, I faint beneath the rod,
It is so heavy, O my God!
Spare me, I cry, in mercy spare—
But thou refusest still the prayer!
Sometimes I murmur and repine,
Prefer my stubborn will to thine,
And doubt if love or anger deal
The dreadful anguish that I feel.
Then suddenly before me stands,—
With bleeding side, and feet, and hands,—
The Lamb that groaned and died for me,
That I might live eternally.
Such love o'erwhelms me, and with shame
I call upon thy holy name;
Forgive me, O thou blessed One,
And let thy will, not mine, be done.
O my Redeemer, Friend and Guide,
Take health, take what thou wilt beside,
But let me see the lovely face
That makes a heaven of every place.
Nay, turn not from my earnest prayer!
Thy smile can save me from despair;
The shadows deepen round my way,
Stay with me, O my Saviour, stay.
Who save thee, O God, knoweth the human heart? Pity me, for thy rod is heavy. My earthly hopes are all torn and crushed,—oh, may they turn heaven-ward and there find support and nourishment. This is Father's discipline, shall I murmur? Nay, but rather rejoice that he does not leave me to myself but deals with me as a child—chastening, rebuking, scourging and refining: preparing me by all these afflictions for the "rest that remaineth for the people of God." And sweet the rest will be after such a weary journey! How I shall fold my hands upon the bosom that shall never again be troubled, and say in all sincerity: I thank thee, O God, for the sweet that was mingled in my earthly cup, but more do I thank thee for the bitter.
THE PROMISE.
"In early life I'm called to part
With all I hold so dear;
Strong tendrils bind my yearning heart,
But cannot keep me here.
"I am resigned; yet tears will fall,
Sad thoughts steal over me;
And dost thou know that with them all
Are mingling thoughts of thee?
"We have been friends in hopes and fears
In joys and griefs the same—
Since first we learned in childhood's years
To lisp each other's name.
"In quiet grove, in lonely dell,
In meadows green and fair,
Beside the stream we loved so well,
If one then both were there.
"Together we our plans have laid
With hopeful brow and heart,—
When roving 'neath the summer shade,
But never thought to part.
"The spring will come, the trees will wave
As when we saw them last,
But thou wilt linger by my grave,
And muse upon the past.
"Beyond the portals of the tomb
I look with joyful eye:
A glorious light dispels the gloom,
'Tis not so hard to die.
"There is a home of rest divine—
A home prepared for me;
But hours of darkness will be thine,
For this I cling to thee.
"Hark! 'tis the angel choirs above;
I've but one earthly care,—
Oh, promise me by all our love
That thou wilt meet me there."
That earnest look—I see it still,
That voice—I hear it yet;
And death this aching heart shall chill
Before it can forget.
The flowers have faded one by one,
The summer birds are flown,
And 'neath a cold autumnal sun
I wander forth alone.
The yellow leaves are falling fast
Along the river side,—
I watch them borne upon the blast,
And on the swelling tide.
I think how all things earthly fade,
Then wipe the tears that flow,
As memory brings the promise made
So many years ago.
THE DEAD CHRIST.
The last expiring groan was hushed; the beaming eye was closed—it wept no longer over the sins of a perverse race. Those gentle and lovely features were robed with the pallid hue of death, and the heart that melted at the sorrows of mankind beat no longer. The grave, the cold grave, rejoicingly closed its dreary portals upon his sacred form; and he, the lowly and despised Nazarene, who found no resting- place for his weary head, slept quietly in a borrowed sepulchre.
THE COMPLAINT.
Ah! many springs have come and gone,
And called me forth in vain;
Now winter folds the winding-sheet
Round nature's breast again.
Young hands have gathered bright, wild flowers,
Young feet have trod the grass,
But I have watched in solitude
The mournful shadows pass.
Young hands have gathered brighter flowers
From wisdom's pleasant tree—
But darker still the shadows fall,
There are no flowers for me!
No flowers! where shadows deepest lie
Amid the wint'ry gloom,
Thank God, I see with kindling eye
The Rose of Sharon bloom!
It is enough—my earthly hopes
Are fading one by one;
My God and my Redeemer lives,
And may his will be done.
I know that in a better world
I shall look back and say
I never could have reached my home
By any other way.
And such a home! no frightful dreams,
No wakings to despair—
No cries of—God remove the cup,
Or give me strength to bear!
No pillows wet with burning tears,—
No longings wild and vain
To wander in the pleasant fields,
Or dear old woods again!
But love and peace, and endless joy,
And rest to me how strange!
Lord give me patience to await
The happy, happy change!
THE MIXED CUP.
Joy and sorrow, are they not mingled in every cup? We call some happy, others unfortunate; and so they appear to us. But could we draw aside the curtain that conceals the mysteries of the human heart what problems would be solved, and how often we should be lead to exclaim, "God dealeth justly: pain and pleasure are more equally distributed than we imagined"! But this may not be. We judge according to appearances, and this is one great source of misery; for, in our grief, we imagine others are more favored than we, and for the blessings we do enjoy we are not thankful. Oh, the great mercy of God! What a wonder it is that he does not smite us to the earth when we dare murmur at his dealings!
I SHALL DEPART.
When the flowers of Summer die,
When the birds of Summer fly,
When the winds of Autumn sigh,
I shall depart.
When the mourning Earth receives
Last of all the faded leaves,—
When the wailing forest grieves,
I shall depart.
When are garnered grain and fruit,
When all insect life is mute,
I shall drop my broken lute;
I shall depart.
When the fields are brown and bare,
Nothing left that's good or fair,
And the hoar-frost gathers there,
I shall depart.
Not with you, O songsters, no!
To no Southern clime I go,—
By a way none living know
I shall depart.
Many aching hearts may yearn,
Many lamps till midnight burn,
But I never shall return,
When I depart.
Trembling, fearing, sorely tried,
Waiting for the ebbing tide,
Who, oh! who will be my guide
When I depart?
Once the river cold and black
Rolled its waves affrighted back,—
I shall see a shining track
When I depart.
There my God and Saviour passed,
He will be my guide at last,—
Clinging to his merits fast,
I shall depart.
—Written in 1858.
TIME FLIES.
Tears are coming, years are going,
Be they fraught with joy or pain,—
Like a river they are flowing
To the everlasting main!
On the banks are thorns and roses,
And we take of both a share
Till the ocean round us closes,
And we drop our anchor—where?
If the future were uncertain,
If across the mighty deep,
Brushing back the misty curtain
Angel pinions did not sweep,—
If there were no bright to-morrow
For our day of toil and strife,
Burdened with its weight of sorrow,
What a curse were human life!
Locks are whitening, cheeks are paling,
With each month and year that flies;
Youth and vigor both are failing,
But the spirit never dies!
Short indeed is our probation,
Dark and certain is the tomb,—
But the Lamp of revelation
Dissipates the fearful gloom.
Oh, we take our life too sadly,
Ever grieve and mourn too much,
Turn to ashes what would gladly
Turn to gold beneath our touch.
'Tis because that in our blindness
We imagine God is blind,—
'Tis because we doubt his kindness,
That we cannot be resigned.
Nature cries amid the trials
That beset our thorny path:
"God outpoureth all the vials
Of his anger and his wrath!"
Such complaints are more surprising
Since the declaration runs:
"If ye be without chastising,
Then indeed, ye are not sons."
All our future course He seeth
Better than we see our past,
And whatever he decreeth
We shall understand at last.
Let us then in our affliction
Meekly trust our gracious Lord,—
Well assured his benediction
Will ere long be our reward.
Let us beautify the present,—
There is much we all can do
That will make the year more pleasant,
For ourselves and others too.
A VOICE FROM A SICK-ROOM.
[At one time Miss Johnson seems to have entertained the idea of writing for publication a series of articles entitled "Voices from a Sick-room." Whether she ever wrote more than one or not I cannot say. The following is the only one we can find among her manuscripts, and it is so thrillingly interesting as to make us wish for more. It is dated Sept. 5, 1859.]
Draw the curtains—shut out the light of heaven; the inner world is so full of darkness that the sunshine of the outer world becomes painful by contrast. Hush, little bird! don't sing to-day. There—all is dark and still. Now, O wretched heart, exult in thy wretchedness; draw the dark, heavy curtains of despair around thee; shut out the light of hope and love; hush the voice of praise and thanksgiving. Think of all thou hast suffered; think of thy present misery; crowd the future with black-robed phantoms; people every nook and corner with horrible faces, and over all let the thunder crash and bellow, and the winds moan and shriek, as they moan and shriek only when the great are dying.
Ah, what sad havoc do sickness and pain make of the poor body; but sadder still when they trample on the bright inhabitant within, and make it a slave to tremble at their bidding! "Bring chains—bring chains," cries the fell destroyer; and ere she has time to rally her forces around her, or even think of resistance, the poor Soul has become a helpless captive, and Disease wears a smile of triumph upon her ghastly cheek, and again lifts up her voice to shout "victory." And a complete victory it is: Self-control, Pride, Ambition—all are humbled; Hope is shrouded in sackcloth, and if she ever speaks it is only to whisper: "There is one secret passage by which thou mayest yet escape, but it winds through the kingdom of Death and the Grave." Reason herself grows pale and trembles, lest she lose her throne; for the thousands of obedient servants, which have never before disputed her authority, are all up in arms against her. Every nerve begins to quiver and vibrate; the whole body is in commotion; and no wonder the trembling Soul sits down amid the ruins of her former self and makes the whole place doleful with her cries and lamentations.
Don't chide her: she is no criminal waiting the demands of justice, but a prisoner of war, and therefore should be dealt kindly with. Don't gaze at her through her prison bars, as though she were a wild beast caged, or some curious object kept only for a show; but go to her enveloped in the mantle of love, upon your lips the honey-dew of human kindness, and in your heart the melting tenderness of Christian affection. Don't tell her she is escaping many trials and temptations to which she would be exposed if she came in contact with the busy world around her. Go to the imprisoned eagle, and, as he looks up longingly into the deep blue sky and beats his wings in agony, comfort him with the assurance that his wants are provided for, and he himself safe from the arts of the fowler! Aye, tell this to the free-born eagle, but disgust not the ever-yearning, restless Soul with such mockeries. She may listen, but she laughs you to scorn in secret and prays Heaven to be delivered from such comforters. She knows her struggles and temptations are inward; and she knows too, for that very reason, they are more terrible. There greater battles have been fought than the blood-dyed fields of Europe ever witnessed. Magentas and Solferinas fatten with the blood of heroes, but she carries on a never ending warfare "with principalities and powers"—the numberless host of hell—and legions of native passions.
Deal gently with her. Would you win her confidence? There is but one passage to her affections. Speak that word—bolt and bar fly open: she takes you by the hand and welcomes you to her most sacred and secluded retreat. That word is sympathy: let her feel it in your tender embrace, see it in the glance of your eye, hear it in the modulation of your voice. It is for this she yearns and sighs, and refuses to be comforted where it is not.
Bring her flowers—sweet, beautiful flowers. They are meet companions for her solitude. Gather blossoms from the whitening apple-bough, violets from the meadow, dandelions from the wayside. She will fold them more tenderly to her bosom than the rarest plants, for their faces are old, familiar ones, and she imagines they wear a look of pity.
But there are more precious things than human sympathy; there are sweeter flowers than violets or roses. They bloom on the prayer-consecrated mountains of Judea, amid the ancient olives of Gethsemane, along the Dolorous Way trodden by the Man of Sorrows, beneath the shadows of the Cross, and around the borrowed Sepulchre. Oh, gather them with no sparing hand: there are enough for you and her—enough for every sorrowing heart in the universe. Take them to the poor sufferer. Their fragrance will make the lonely chamber like a garden of spices; the tearful eyes will turn heavenward, and the pale lips—tremulous with contrition will whisper, "Father; forgive me, for I knew not what I did when I murmured at thy dealings." Then a solemn hush will follow—a holy twilight of the soul,—as if the sorrows of earth were blending with the joys of heaven, the pains of mortality with the blessedness of the angelic bards. Oh, these are the flowers for a sickroom! How dreary and desolate does it seem without them! The strong and healthy may live on, careless and irreligious, but what would become of the poor, grief-stricken, despairing Soul if she could not repose quietly in the bosom her Beloved, and say with child-like simplicity, morning and evening, "Our Father who art in heaven!"
SONGS OF HOPE
"HE GIVETH SONGS IN THE NIGHT."
Gloriously the sun sinks behind the western hills. Half the sky seems on fire, and the other half wreathed with light fantastic clouds. All nature is beautiful—can I be sad? Nay; away with sadness, away with sorrow; I will forget everything my strangeness, my blasted hopes, and seek for happiness where happiness only is to be found, in the sacred Oracles of God.—July 14, 1852.
God sometimes speaks in earthquake and in storm,
But oftener in the "still small voice" of love:
He urges men as loving fathers plead.
God is our Father, yet we shun his face
And hide ourselves when at the cool of day
He walketh in the garden!
How sweet the thought that God, our heavenly Father, is omniscient. Our griefs are not hidden from him. He knows our hearts, and with all this knowledge he is good—so tender, so pitiful! Oh, to love him as he deserves! Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing his praises! Tell the sick, tell the sorrowing, tell the broken-hearted of this God; tell the wretched, the guilty, the wayward prodigal of this gracious Father.
THE LAST GOOD NIGHT.
[In the day of health and prosperity everybody feels like singing, but "in the night" of adversity grace must produce the song of holy confidence and hope. Such a song is the following, which has probably been printed oftener than any other of Miss JOHNSON'S poems. It has appeared in several papers; finds a place in Dewart's "Selections from Canadian Poets"; was set to music by George F. Root, and appears in his "School for the Cabinet Organ." With many it has been a favorite.]
Mother, good night! my work is done,—
I go to rest with the setting sun:
But not to wake with the morning light,
So, dearest mother, a long good night!
Father, good night! the shadows glide
Silently down to the river's side,—
The river itself with stars is bright,
So, dearest father, a long good night!
Sisters, good night! the roses close
Their dewy eyes for the night's repose—
And a strange, damp mist obscures my sight,
So, dearest sisters, a long good night!
Brothers, good night! the sunset flush
Has died away, and a midnight hush
Has settled o'er plain and mountain height,
So, dearest brothers, a long good night!
Good night! good night! nay, do not weep:
I'm weary of earth, I long to sleep—
I shall wake again with the dawning light
Of eternal day—good night, good night!