All green, and bitter, and hard, and sour,
The fruit on the Tree of Life is growing;
But the genial sunshine, with quickening power,
Will sweeten its juices like nectar flowing.
For the full, fair growth of its perfect state
There is only needed the right condition.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
Till the ripening future shall bring fruition.
The fruit on the Tree of Life is growing;
But the genial sunshine, with quickening power,
Will sweeten its juices like nectar flowing.
For the full, fair growth of its perfect state
There is only needed the right condition.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
Till the ripening future shall bring fruition.
Far out in the harvest fields of Time,
The grain for the reaper is standing ready,
And they who come to the work sublime
Must toil with a patience calm and steady.
Truth never was subject to Chance or Fate—
Its sickle, so sharp, cuts clean and even.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For the seed-field of Earth yields the harvest of Heaven.
The grain for the reaper is standing ready,
And they who come to the work sublime
Must toil with a patience calm and steady.
Truth never was subject to Chance or Fate—
Its sickle, so sharp, cuts clean and even.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For the seed-field of Earth yields the harvest of Heaven.
In their quiet graves, on the green hill-side,
The sacred dust of your loved is sleeping;
And the homes where the light of their smile has died
Are filled with the sorrowful sounds of weeping.
But over the gloomy clouds of Fate,
The light of the better land is shining;
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For the cloud of Death has a silver lining.
The sacred dust of your loved is sleeping;
And the homes where the light of their smile has died
Are filled with the sorrowful sounds of weeping.
But over the gloomy clouds of Fate,
The light of the better land is shining;
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For the cloud of Death has a silver lining.
There are fair, sweet faces, and gentle eyes,
That look through the shadows and mists above you;
And the fond affection that never dies,
Still speaks from the lips of the blest who love you.
They call you up from your low estate,
To the boundless bliss of the life supernal.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For Time is short, but Life is Eternal.
That look through the shadows and mists above you;
And the fond affection that never dies,
Still speaks from the lips of the blest who love you.
They call you up from your low estate,
To the boundless bliss of the life supernal.
Then labor and wait, both early and late,
For Time is short, but Life is Eternal.
FRAE RHYMING ROBIN.
The following poem was given under the inspiration of Robert Burns, at the close of a lecture on “The Immaculate Conception.”
Guid Friends:
I will na’ weave my rhymes to-night
In winsome measure,
Or strive your fancies to delight
Wi’ songs o’ pleasure;
But gin[6] ye hae na’ heard too much
O’ solemn preachin’,
I’ll gie ye just anither touch
O’ useful teachin’.
In winsome measure,
Or strive your fancies to delight
Wi’ songs o’ pleasure;
But gin[6] ye hae na’ heard too much
O’ solemn preachin’,
I’ll gie ye just anither touch
O’ useful teachin’.
But, aiblins,[7] when ye hear my verse,
Ye may be thinkin’
That I hae sunk frae bad to warse,
And still am sinkin’;
But though I seem to fa’ from grace,
In man’s opinion,
Auld Hornie ne’er will see my face
In his dominion.
Ye may be thinkin’
That I hae sunk frae bad to warse,
And still am sinkin’;
But though I seem to fa’ from grace,
In man’s opinion,
Auld Hornie ne’er will see my face
In his dominion.
An unco[8] change will come, ere lang,
O’er all your dreamin’,
And ye shall see that right and wrang
Are much in seemin’.
Man shall na’ langer perjure love,
Nor think it treason
Anent[9] the mighty King above,
To use his reason.
O’er all your dreamin’,
And ye shall see that right and wrang
Are much in seemin’.
Man shall na’ langer perjure love,
Nor think it treason
Anent[9] the mighty King above,
To use his reason.
Ay, love and nature, frae the first,
Hae been perverted,
And man, frae Adam, will be cursed,
Till he’s converted:
For Nature will avenge her cause
On ilka[10] creature,
Who will na’ take her, wi’ her laws,
For guide and teacher.
Hae been perverted,
And man, frae Adam, will be cursed,
Till he’s converted:
For Nature will avenge her cause
On ilka[10] creature,
Who will na’ take her, wi’ her laws,
For guide and teacher.
Auld Custom is a sleekit[11] saint,
And sae is Fashion,
And baith will watch till sinners faint,
To lay the lash on;
Men follow them wi’ ane accord,
Led by their noses,
Because they cry, “Thus saith the Lord,
The God o’ Moses.”
And sae is Fashion,
And baith will watch till sinners faint,
To lay the lash on;
Men follow them wi’ ane accord,
Led by their noses,
Because they cry, “Thus saith the Lord,
The God o’ Moses.”
The time will come when man will ken
God’s word far better;
He’ll live mair in the spirit then,
Less in the letter;
And that which man ance called impure,
Through partial seein’,
He’ll find for it baith cause and cure,
In his ain bein’.
God’s word far better;
He’ll live mair in the spirit then,
Less in the letter;
And that which man ance called impure,
Through partial seein’,
He’ll find for it baith cause and cure,
In his ain bein’.
Man needna’ gae to auld lang syne
For truth to guide him,
For if he seeks, he sure will fin’
Truth close beside him.
Each gowan[12] is ordained o’ grace
To be his teacher,
And ilka toddlin’ weanie’s[13] face
Is text and preacher.
For truth to guide him,
For if he seeks, he sure will fin’
Truth close beside him.
Each gowan[12] is ordained o’ grace
To be his teacher,
And ilka toddlin’ weanie’s[13] face
Is text and preacher.
Man was na’ born a child o’ hell
Frae his creation:
The love that made him will itsel’
Be his salvation.
Each child that’s born o’ perfect love
Can be man’s saviour:
Love is his warrant frae above,
For guid behavior.
Frae his creation:
The love that made him will itsel’
Be his salvation.
Each child that’s born o’ perfect love
Can be man’s saviour:
Love is his warrant frae above,
For guid behavior.
His mither may be high or low,
A Miss or Madam;
The God within him will outgrow
The sin o’ Adam;
His only bed may be the earth,
His hame a shealin’;[14]
It will na’ change his real worth,
Or inward feelin’.
A Miss or Madam;
The God within him will outgrow
The sin o’ Adam;
His only bed may be the earth,
His hame a shealin’;[14]
It will na’ change his real worth,
Or inward feelin’.
Though born beneath the Church’s ban,
Or man’s displeasure,
He will na’ be the less a man
In mind or measure.
God’s image, stamped upon his brow,
Is his defender,
And makes him—as ye hae it now—
“Guid legal tender.”
Or man’s displeasure,
He will na’ be the less a man
In mind or measure.
God’s image, stamped upon his brow,
Is his defender,
And makes him—as ye hae it now—
“Guid legal tender.”
But ilka child that’s born o’ hate—
However lawful—
Will be the victim, sune or late,
O’ passions awful;
Will hirple[15] o’er the ways o’ life,
Wi’ friends scarce ony,
And in the dour[16] warld’s angry strife,
Find faes full mony.
However lawful—
Will be the victim, sune or late,
O’ passions awful;
Will hirple[15] o’er the ways o’ life,
Wi’ friends scarce ony,
And in the dour[16] warld’s angry strife,
Find faes full mony.
The Power aboon, sae kind and guid,
Who ever sees us,
Will gie to men, whene’er they need,
A John or Jesus.
The sin o’ Adam will na’ cause
His love to vary,
Nor need he change creation’s laws[17]
To form a Mary.
Who ever sees us,
Will gie to men, whene’er they need,
A John or Jesus.
The sin o’ Adam will na’ cause
His love to vary,
Nor need he change creation’s laws[17]
To form a Mary.
Man’s sympathies must largely share
In what is human,
And he will love the truth the mair,
That’s born o’ woman.
The De’il himsel’, at last, through love
Will be converted,
And, reckoned wi’ the saunts above,
Leave hell deserted.
In what is human,
And he will love the truth the mair,
That’s born o’ woman.
The De’il himsel’, at last, through love
Will be converted,
And, reckoned wi’ the saunts above,
Leave hell deserted.
The One who laid Creation’s plan
Knows how to end it,
Nor need he ever call on man
To help him mend it.
Then, syne[18] this Being is your friend,
And man your brither,
Gae on rejoicing to the end,
Wi’ ane anither.
Knows how to end it,
Nor need he ever call on man
To help him mend it.
Then, syne[18] this Being is your friend,
And man your brither,
Gae on rejoicing to the end,
Wi’ ane anither.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEVIL.
Given under the inspiration of Robert Burns.
Men say the De’il is dead at last,
And that his course is ended,
Which sure must be an unco loss
To those whom he befriended.
No doubt he managed to evade
The sinner’s awful sentence,
By that last trick, so often played,
Of a death-bed repentance.
And that his course is ended,
Which sure must be an unco loss
To those whom he befriended.
No doubt he managed to evade
The sinner’s awful sentence,
By that last trick, so often played,
Of a death-bed repentance.
Alas! alas! we dinna ken
What will be done without him,
For all the pious sons of men
Made such a rant about him.
Whene’er they chanced to gang agley,
Or did a deed of evil,
Or winked at sin upon “the sly,”
’Twas all laid to the Deevel.
What will be done without him,
For all the pious sons of men
Made such a rant about him.
Whene’er they chanced to gang agley,
Or did a deed of evil,
Or winked at sin upon “the sly,”
’Twas all laid to the Deevel.
But henceforth they must bear their sin,
And come to the confession,
Without a single hope to win
A pardon for transgression;
Unless, indeed, they try the plan
Of wise old Orthodoxy,
Invented for puir sinful man,
O’ saving souls by proxy.
And come to the confession,
Without a single hope to win
A pardon for transgression;
Unless, indeed, they try the plan
Of wise old Orthodoxy,
Invented for puir sinful man,
O’ saving souls by proxy.
But hoolie! what a grand mistake
Was made at the creation,
That God should e’er a De’il make,
To peril men’s salvation.
He might have made puir man, nae doubt,
To grace a greater debtor,
Had he but left the De’il out,
Or only made man better.
Was made at the creation,
That God should e’er a De’il make,
To peril men’s salvation.
He might have made puir man, nae doubt,
To grace a greater debtor,
Had he but left the De’il out,
Or only made man better.
I wad na mock at honest faith,
Or utter thought profanely,
But then ’tis better for us baith,
That truth be spoken plainly.
The great, guid God, who loves us a’,
Is sure misrepresented,
Whene’er men say he cursed us a’
In what he could prevented.
Or utter thought profanely,
But then ’tis better for us baith,
That truth be spoken plainly.
The great, guid God, who loves us a’,
Is sure misrepresented,
Whene’er men say he cursed us a’
In what he could prevented.
And as for Hornie—Nickie-ben—
Auld cloven-foot or Deevil,—
I dinna think that he has been,
The cause o’ all man’s evil.
Now that the puir old soul is gone,
He does na’ seem so hateful,
And those who live, his loss to mourn,
Should speak na’ word ungrateful.
Auld cloven-foot or Deevil,—
I dinna think that he has been,
The cause o’ all man’s evil.
Now that the puir old soul is gone,
He does na’ seem so hateful,
And those who live, his loss to mourn,
Should speak na’ word ungrateful.
The clergy, sure, have lost a friend
Who never had a rival—
And henceforth all their hopes must end,
O’ raising a revival.
For when a rout and rant they made,
To turn puir souls frae error,
The De’il was half their stock in trade,
To fill men’s hearts wi’ terror.
Who never had a rival—
And henceforth all their hopes must end,
O’ raising a revival.
For when a rout and rant they made,
To turn puir souls frae error,
The De’il was half their stock in trade,
To fill men’s hearts wi’ terror.
The politicians might as weel
Gie o’er each vain endeavor—
What unco sorrow must they feel,
Now he is gone forever!
In all their dealings, hand in hand,
They went with him thegither,
They executed what he planned,
And each helped on the ither.
Gie o’er each vain endeavor—
What unco sorrow must they feel,
Now he is gone forever!
In all their dealings, hand in hand,
They went with him thegither,
They executed what he planned,
And each helped on the ither.
And then the long-faced, praying saints,
Who worshiped God on Sunday,
And set aside their pious feints,
To serve the De’il on Monday—
They evermore, with empty word,
Professed their hate of evil;
But while they cried “Guid Lord! Guid Lord,”
They said aside, “Guid Devil!”
Who worshiped God on Sunday,
And set aside their pious feints,
To serve the De’il on Monday—
They evermore, with empty word,
Professed their hate of evil;
But while they cried “Guid Lord! Guid Lord,”
They said aside, “Guid Devil!”
We dinna ken what caused his death,
Or ended his probation,
Whether it was that he lacked breath,
Or lacked appreciation.
Perhaps the “origin o’ Sin”
Has proved too tough a question;
He took it for his meat within,
And died o’ indigestion.
Or ended his probation,
Whether it was that he lacked breath,
Or lacked appreciation.
Perhaps the “origin o’ Sin”
Has proved too tough a question;
He took it for his meat within,
And died o’ indigestion.
Farewell! farewell! auld Nickie-ben;
We trust ye are forgiven,
For doubtless ye made haste to men’,[19]
And make your peace wi’ heaven.
We leave your burial, guid or bad,
To Truth, as undertaker,
And your puir soul, such as ye had,
Commend unto its Maker.
We trust ye are forgiven,
For doubtless ye made haste to men’,[19]
And make your peace wi’ heaven.
We leave your burial, guid or bad,
To Truth, as undertaker,
And your puir soul, such as ye had,
Commend unto its Maker.
FRATERNITY.
Could ye but ken, ye sons o’ men,
How truly ye are brithers,
Ye’d make guid speed to stand agreed,
Tho’ born o’ various mithers.
Ane common breath, ane common death,
Ane hame in Heaven above ye—
Ye are the fruit frae one great root
In the guid God who lo’es ye.
How truly ye are brithers,
Ye’d make guid speed to stand agreed,
Tho’ born o’ various mithers.
Ane common breath, ane common death,
Ane hame in Heaven above ye—
Ye are the fruit frae one great root
In the guid God who lo’es ye.
All high and low, all empty show,
All envious differences,
Will fade from sight and vanish quite,
When men come to their senses.
Each living man works out the plan
For which he was intended,
And he does best, who will na’ rest
Until his work is ended.
All envious differences,
Will fade from sight and vanish quite,
When men come to their senses.
Each living man works out the plan
For which he was intended,
And he does best, who will na’ rest
Until his work is ended.
Your neebors’ blame, or sinful shame,
Should gie your soul na’ pleasure,
For while ye judge, wi’ cruel grudge,
You fill your ain sad measure.
The De’il himsel’ could scarcely tell
Which o’ ye was the better;
He wad be laith to leave ye baith,
While either was his debtor.
Should gie your soul na’ pleasure,
For while ye judge, wi’ cruel grudge,
You fill your ain sad measure.
The De’il himsel’ could scarcely tell
Which o’ ye was the better;
He wad be laith to leave ye baith,
While either was his debtor.
Here in life’s school wi’ pain and dool,[20]
You get your education,
While mony a trip and sinful slip
Helps on the soul’s salvation.
The unco skeigh,[21] wi’ heads full high,
Wha feel themselves maist holy,
Oft learn through sin how to begin
True life amang the lowly.
You get your education,
While mony a trip and sinful slip
Helps on the soul’s salvation.
The unco skeigh,[21] wi’ heads full high,
Wha feel themselves maist holy,
Oft learn through sin how to begin
True life amang the lowly.
Baith you and I may gang agley,[22]
For ’tis a common failin’;
But hauld away! we need na’ stay
A weepin’ and a wailin’.
The God aboon cares not how soon
We leave our sins behind us;
He does not hate us in that state,
Nor set the De’il to mind us.
For ’tis a common failin’;
But hauld away! we need na’ stay
A weepin’ and a wailin’.
The God aboon cares not how soon
We leave our sins behind us;
He does not hate us in that state,
Nor set the De’il to mind us.
And as for Hell, o’ which men tell,
I’m sure o’ the opinion,
There’s na’ such place o’ “saving grace”
In all the Lord’s dominion.
And those who rave, puir souls to save,
Wi’ long-faced, pious fleechin’,[23]
Will find far hence, that common sense
Is better than such preachin’.
I’m sure o’ the opinion,
There’s na’ such place o’ “saving grace”
In all the Lord’s dominion.
And those who rave, puir souls to save,
Wi’ long-faced, pious fleechin’,[23]
Will find far hence, that common sense
Is better than such preachin’.
That which ye ca’ the power o’ law,
Is but a puir invention;
It counts the deed as evil seed,
But winks at the intention.
Could men but be mair truly free,
In some things less restrickéd,
The world wad find the human kind
Wad na’ be half sae wicked.
Is but a puir invention;
It counts the deed as evil seed,
But winks at the intention.
Could men but be mair truly free,
In some things less restrickéd,
The world wad find the human kind
Wad na’ be half sae wicked.
The pent-up steed kept short o’ feed
Is wildest in his roamin’;
And dammed-up streams, wi’ angry gleams,
Dash o’er each hindrance foamin’.
Therefore (I pray take what I say
In spirit, not in letter)
Mankind should be like rivers, free—
The less they’re damned the better.
Is wildest in his roamin’;
And dammed-up streams, wi’ angry gleams,
Dash o’er each hindrance foamin’.
Therefore (I pray take what I say
In spirit, not in letter)
Mankind should be like rivers, free—
The less they’re damned the better.
You need na’ heed the grousome creed
Which tells ye o’ God’s anger;
On Nature’s page frae age to age,
His love is written stranger.
God’s providence, in ony sense,
Has never been one-sided,
And for the weal o’ chick, or chiel,
He amply has provided.
Which tells ye o’ God’s anger;
On Nature’s page frae age to age,
His love is written stranger.
God’s providence, in ony sense,
Has never been one-sided,
And for the weal o’ chick, or chiel,
He amply has provided.
The winter’s snaw, the birken shaw,[24]
The gowans[25] brightly springing,
The murky night, the rosy light,
The laverocks[26] gayly singing,
The spring’s return, the wimplin burn,[27]
The cushat[28] fondly mated,
All join to tell how unco well
God lo’es all things created.
The gowans[25] brightly springing,
The murky night, the rosy light,
The laverocks[26] gayly singing,
The spring’s return, the wimplin burn,[27]
The cushat[28] fondly mated,
All join to tell how unco well
God lo’es all things created.
Then dinna strive to live and thrive
Sae selfish and unthinkin’,
But firmly stand, and lend a hand
To keep the weak frae sinkin’.
’Tis love can make, for love’s sweet sake,
A trusty fier[29] in sorrow,
Wha spends his gear[30] wi’out a fear
O’ what may be to-morrow.
Sae selfish and unthinkin’,
But firmly stand, and lend a hand
To keep the weak frae sinkin’.
’Tis love can make, for love’s sweet sake,
A trusty fier[29] in sorrow,
Wha spends his gear[30] wi’out a fear
O’ what may be to-morrow.
The preachers say, there’s far awa’
A land o’ milk and honey,
Where all is free as barley brie,
And wi’out price or money;
But here the meat o’ love is sweet,
For souls in sinful blindness,
And there’s a milk that’s guid for ilk[31]—
“The milk o’ human kindness.”
A land o’ milk and honey,
Where all is free as barley brie,
And wi’out price or money;
But here the meat o’ love is sweet,
For souls in sinful blindness,
And there’s a milk that’s guid for ilk[31]—
“The milk o’ human kindness.”
OWEENA.
Once, when Death, the mighty hunter,
Bent his bow and sent an arrow
Through the shadows of the forest,
Harming not the Bear or Panther,
Harming not the Owl or Raven,
In the bosom of Oweena,
Fairest of the Indian maidens,
Was the fatal arrow hidden.
Bent his bow and sent an arrow
Through the shadows of the forest,
Harming not the Bear or Panther,
Harming not the Owl or Raven,
In the bosom of Oweena,
Fairest of the Indian maidens,
Was the fatal arrow hidden.
On the lodge of Massa-wam-sett
Fell a deep and dreadful shadow;
He, the wise and warlike Sachem,
Mourned in silence for Oweena;
But the mother, Nah-me-o-ka,
Like a tall pine in the tempest,
Tossed her arms in wildest anguish,
Pouring forth her lamentation:
Fell a deep and dreadful shadow;
He, the wise and warlike Sachem,
Mourned in silence for Oweena;
But the mother, Nah-me-o-ka,
Like a tall pine in the tempest,
Tossed her arms in wildest anguish,
Pouring forth her lamentation:
“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su![34]
O my darling! my Oweena!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men—[35]
I shall never see thee more!
O my darling! my Oweena!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men—[35]
I shall never see thee more!
“Ho-bo-mo-co, evil Spirit,
Hiding darkly in the forest,
Making shadow in the sunshine,
You have stolen her away.
Hiding darkly in the forest,
Making shadow in the sunshine,
You have stolen her away.
“She was like the flowers in spring time,
She was like the singing waters,
She was like the summer sunshine,
Neen wo-ma-su! She is dead!
She was like the singing waters,
She was like the summer sunshine,
Neen wo-ma-su! She is dead!
“Hear me! Hear me, O Great Spirit!
I will bring thee Bear and Bison,
I will bring thee Beads and Wampum;
Wilt thou give her back to me?
I will bring thee Bear and Bison,
I will bring thee Beads and Wampum;
Wilt thou give her back to me?
“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!
O my darling! My Oweena!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,
I shall never see thee more!”
O my darling! My Oweena!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,
I shall never see thee more!”
Ceaseless was her plaintive wailing,
Even when the fair Oweena
Slept beneath the pine trees’ shadow,
In the green and silent forest,
Where the birds sang in the branches,
Where the roses of the summer,
And the vines, with slender fingers,
Clasped their loving hands above her.
Even when the fair Oweena
Slept beneath the pine trees’ shadow,
In the green and silent forest,
Where the birds sang in the branches,
Where the roses of the summer,
And the vines, with slender fingers,
Clasped their loving hands above her.
From the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,
While the brave old chieftain slumbered,
In the silence of the midnight,
To the grave stole Nah-me-o-ka,
Pouring forth her lamentations:
“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,
I shall never see thee more!”
While the brave old chieftain slumbered,
In the silence of the midnight,
To the grave stole Nah-me-o-ka,
Pouring forth her lamentations:
“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!
Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,
I shall never see thee more!”
Once, the tempest, on its war-path,
Painted all the sky with blackness,
Sped the arrows of the lightning,
And the war-whoop of the thunder,
Made the mighty forest tremble.
But it moved not Nah-me-o-ka,
Only moaning, “Neen wo-ma-su!
I shall never see thee more!”
Painted all the sky with blackness,
Sped the arrows of the lightning,
And the war-whoop of the thunder,
Made the mighty forest tremble.
But it moved not Nah-me-o-ka,
Only moaning, “Neen wo-ma-su!
I shall never see thee more!”
All the forest leaves were weeping,
And the black wings of the darkness,
Brooding over Nah-me-o-ka,
Filled her with a chilling shudder:
And the thunder seemed to mutter
With a cruel exultation,
“You shall never see her more.”
But thereafter came a whisper—
And the black wings of the darkness,
Brooding over Nah-me-o-ka,
Filled her with a chilling shudder:
And the thunder seemed to mutter
With a cruel exultation,
“You shall never see her more.”
But thereafter came a whisper—
“I am with you, O my mother!
For I cannot turn my footsteps
To the land of the Great Spirit,
While I hear your mournful wailing,
Calling, calling me again.
For I cannot turn my footsteps
To the land of the Great Spirit,
While I hear your mournful wailing,
Calling, calling me again.
“In the hunting-grounds beyond me
There are sunshine, peace and plenty,
But I wander, sad and lonely,
In the land of death and darkness,
Listening only to your cry.
There are sunshine, peace and plenty,
But I wander, sad and lonely,
In the land of death and darkness,
Listening only to your cry.
“Let me go to the Great Spirit,
To the lodge of peace and plenty,
To the land of summer sunshine,
That with life and strength and gladness,
I may meet you yet again.”
To the lodge of peace and plenty,
To the land of summer sunshine,
That with life and strength and gladness,
I may meet you yet again.”
Then the soft hand of Oweena
Gently lifted Nah-me-o-ka,
Who with wondering eyes beheld her,
Like a light amid the darkness.
And Oweena safely led her
Through the tempest and the midnight,
To the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,
Kissed her tenderly—and vanished.
Gently lifted Nah-me-o-ka,
Who with wondering eyes beheld her,
Like a light amid the darkness.
And Oweena safely led her
Through the tempest and the midnight,
To the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,
Kissed her tenderly—and vanished.
From that time did Nah-me-o-ka
Dry her tears, and cease her moaning,
For she said, “I will not keep her
From the land of summer sunshine,
From the home of peace and plenty,
From the lodge of the Great Spirit.
Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!
In the land of the Hereafter
I shall meet her yet again.”
Dry her tears, and cease her moaning,
For she said, “I will not keep her
From the land of summer sunshine,
From the home of peace and plenty,
From the lodge of the Great Spirit.
Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!
In the land of the Hereafter
I shall meet her yet again.”
GONE IS GONE, AND DEAD IS DEAD.
“On returning to the inn, he found there a wandering minstrel—a woman—singing, and accompanying her voice with the music of a harp. The burden of her song was, ‘Gone is gone, and dead is dead.’ The utter hopelessness of these words filled his soul with anguish. ‘O,’ he exclaimed, ‘thou loved and lost one! patient and long-suffering, would that I could call thee back again, not to forgive me—O, no!—but rather that I might have the consolation of showing thee, by my repentance, how differently I would conduct towards thee now.”—Jean Paul Richter.
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead!”
Words to hopeless sorrow wed—
Words from deepest anguish wrung,
Which a lonely wand’rer sung,
While her harp prolonged the strain,
Like a spirit’s cry of pain
When all hope with life is fled:
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Words to hopeless sorrow wed—
Words from deepest anguish wrung,
Which a lonely wand’rer sung,
While her harp prolonged the strain,
Like a spirit’s cry of pain
When all hope with life is fled:
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Mournful singer! hearts unknown
Thrill responsive to that tone;
By a common weal and woe,
Kindred sorrows all must know.
Lips all tremulous with pain
Oft repeat that sad refrain
When the fatal shaft is sped—
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Thrill responsive to that tone;
By a common weal and woe,
Kindred sorrows all must know.
Lips all tremulous with pain
Oft repeat that sad refrain
When the fatal shaft is sped—
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Pain and death are everywhere—
In the earth, and sea, and air;
And the sunshine’s golden glance,
And the heaven’s serene expanse,
With a silence calm and high,
Seem to mock that mournful cry
Wrung from hearts by hope unfed—
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
In the earth, and sea, and air;
And the sunshine’s golden glance,
And the heaven’s serene expanse,
With a silence calm and high,
Seem to mock that mournful cry
Wrung from hearts by hope unfed—
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
O, ye sorrowing ones, arise;
Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes;
Lift your faces to the light;
Read Death’s mystery aright.
Life unfolds from life within,
And with death does life begin.
Of the soul can ne’er be said,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes;
Lift your faces to the light;
Read Death’s mystery aright.
Life unfolds from life within,
And with death does life begin.
Of the soul can ne’er be said,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
As the stars, which, one by one,
Lit their torches at the sun,
And across ethereal space
Swept each to its destined place,
So the soul’s Promethean fire,
Kindled never to expire,
On its course immortal sped,
Is not gone, and is not dead.
Lit their torches at the sun,
And across ethereal space
Swept each to its destined place,
So the soul’s Promethean fire,
Kindled never to expire,
On its course immortal sped,
Is not gone, and is not dead.
By a Power to thought unknown,
Love shall ever seek its own.
Sundered not by time or space,
With no distant dwelling-place,
Soul shall answer unto soul,
As the needle to the pole.
Leaving grief’s lament unsaid,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Love shall ever seek its own.
Sundered not by time or space,
With no distant dwelling-place,
Soul shall answer unto soul,
As the needle to the pole.
Leaving grief’s lament unsaid,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Evermore Love’s quickening breath
Calls the living soul from death;
And the resurrection’s power
Comes to every dying hour.
When the soul, with vision clear,
Learns that Heaven is always near,
Never more shall it be said,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Calls the living soul from death;
And the resurrection’s power
Comes to every dying hour.
When the soul, with vision clear,
Learns that Heaven is always near,
Never more shall it be said,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
THE SPIRIT TEACHER.
Far in the land of Love and Light,
Where Death’s cold touch can never blight
The buds most precious to the sight—
The Power Divine
Hath given to my fostering care,
A youthful band of spirits fair.
Thus are they mine.
Where Death’s cold touch can never blight
The buds most precious to the sight—
The Power Divine
Hath given to my fostering care,
A youthful band of spirits fair.
Thus are they mine.
Sweet blossoms from the earthly spring—
Weak fledglings with the untried wing—
Dear lambs—such as the angels bring,
With tenderest love,
From earthly storms and tempests cold,
Safe to the warm and sheltering fold,
In heaven above.
Weak fledglings with the untried wing—
Dear lambs—such as the angels bring,
With tenderest love,
From earthly storms and tempests cold,
Safe to the warm and sheltering fold,
In heaven above.
O, gentle mothers of the earth,
Who gave these precious spirits birth,
Your homes have lost their sounds of mirth
And childish glee;
But not in Death’s embrace they sleep—
Nay, gentle mothers, cease to weep—
They dwell with me.
Who gave these precious spirits birth,
Your homes have lost their sounds of mirth
And childish glee;
But not in Death’s embrace they sleep—
Nay, gentle mothers, cease to weep—
They dwell with me.
There, ’mid the amaranthine bowers,
Through all the long, bright, gladsome hours,
Your loved ones tend their birds and flowers,
And often come
With gifts of love and garlands bright,
To gladden, with their forms of light,
Your earthly home.
Through all the long, bright, gladsome hours,
Your loved ones tend their birds and flowers,
And often come
With gifts of love and garlands bright,
To gladden, with their forms of light,
Your earthly home.
Their gentle lips to yours are pressed,
Their heads are pillowed on your breast,
And in your loving arms they rest,
For they are given
By Him whose ways are ever kind,
As precious links of love, to bind
Your souls to heaven.
Their heads are pillowed on your breast,
And in your loving arms they rest,
For they are given
By Him whose ways are ever kind,
As precious links of love, to bind
Your souls to heaven.
O, could the sunshine of the heart
Dispel the blinding tears that start,
And all your doubts and fears depart—
Those forms, concealed
Like blossoms ’neath the shades of night,
Before your spirit’s quickening sight
Would stand revealed.
Dispel the blinding tears that start,
And all your doubts and fears depart—
Those forms, concealed
Like blossoms ’neath the shades of night,
Before your spirit’s quickening sight
Would stand revealed.
They still are yours, and yet are mine;
I teach them of the Life Divine,
And lead them to the truth’s pure shrine,
That evermore,
Through heavenly wisdom understood,
The True, the Beautiful, the Good,
They may adore.
I teach them of the Life Divine,
And lead them to the truth’s pure shrine,
That evermore,
Through heavenly wisdom understood,
The True, the Beautiful, the Good,
They may adore.
They know no griefs, they shed no tears,
For perfect love dispels their fears,
And through their life’s eternal years,
They haste to meet
The humblest duty of the way,
And every call of love obey
With willing feet.
For perfect love dispels their fears,
And through their life’s eternal years,
They haste to meet
The humblest duty of the way,
And every call of love obey
With willing feet.
O, ye who tears of anguish shed
Above some empty cradle-bed,
Where once reposed a precious head—
Be reconciled.
For yet your longing eyes shall see,
In heaven’s broad sunshine, glad and free,
Your spirit child.
Above some empty cradle-bed,
Where once reposed a precious head—
Be reconciled.
For yet your longing eyes shall see,
In heaven’s broad sunshine, glad and free,
Your spirit child.
They are all there—they are all there—
The young, the beautiful, the fair;
They know no want, they feel no care.
They are not dead;
But quickened in their spirit’s powers,
Life crowns with her immortal flowers
Each shining head.
The young, the beautiful, the fair;
They know no want, they feel no care.
They are not dead;
But quickened in their spirit’s powers,
Life crowns with her immortal flowers
Each shining head.
Some are no longer weak and small,
But fair, and beautiful, and tall;
And yet I call them children all,
For they believe,
With child-like faith, the truths I teach,
And render back in simple speech
What they receive.
But fair, and beautiful, and tall;
And yet I call them children all,
For they believe,
With child-like faith, the truths I teach,
And render back in simple speech
What they receive.
They are more precious in my sight
Than all the radiant gems of light
That on the royal brow of night
Arise and shine;
And through a pure maternal love,
Known even in the world above,
I call them mine.
Than all the radiant gems of light
That on the royal brow of night
Arise and shine;
And through a pure maternal love,
Known even in the world above,
I call them mine.
O, ask them not for earth again,
The bitter cup of grief to drain,
To tread in sorrow and in pain
Life’s thorny track.
Love’s rainbow arch to heaven they crossed;
Gone, but not dead—unseen, not lost—
Call them not back.
The bitter cup of grief to drain,
To tread in sorrow and in pain
Life’s thorny track.
Love’s rainbow arch to heaven they crossed;
Gone, but not dead—unseen, not lost—
Call them not back.
O, gentle mothers, cease to weep;
The faithful shepherd of the sheep
The tender little lambs will keep.
’Mid shadows dim,
Lean calmly on the Father’s breast—
“He giveth his belovéd rest”—
Trust ye in him.
The faithful shepherd of the sheep
The tender little lambs will keep.
’Mid shadows dim,
Lean calmly on the Father’s breast—
“He giveth his belovéd rest”—
Trust ye in him.
LITTLE NELL.
A POEM FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE LYCEUM.
Clear the wintry sky was glowing,
Sharp and loud the wind was blowing,
Icy cold the stream was flowing
In the little woodland dell,
When, with pitcher clasped so tightly,
Tripping cheerfully and lightly,
With her soft eyes smiling brightly,
To the spring came little Nell.
Sharp and loud the wind was blowing,
Icy cold the stream was flowing
In the little woodland dell,
When, with pitcher clasped so tightly,
Tripping cheerfully and lightly,
With her soft eyes smiling brightly,
To the spring came little Nell.
Late to bed and early rising,
With a patience quite surprising,
And without the least advising,
Faithful as a little dove—
Thus she toiled for her sick mother,
For, poor child! there was none other,
Not a sister or a brother,
Who could share her work of love.
With a patience quite surprising,
And without the least advising,
Faithful as a little dove—
Thus she toiled for her sick mother,
For, poor child! there was none other,
Not a sister or a brother,
Who could share her work of love.
As she stooped to dip the water,
Straight the cruel north wind caught her,
Down upon the ground it brought her,
And the little pitcher fell.
But with merry laugh upspringing,
And again the pitcher bringing,
As she filled it, gayly singing,
Homeward hastened little Nell.
Straight the cruel north wind caught her,
Down upon the ground it brought her,
And the little pitcher fell.
But with merry laugh upspringing,
And again the pitcher bringing,
As she filled it, gayly singing,
Homeward hastened little Nell.
“Ho!” cried Jack Frost, “if I catch her,
Such cold feet and hands I’ll fetch her,
I will make her drop her pitcher—
Little good-for-nothing thing!
Let me only once get at her,
It will be no trifling matter!
I will make her teeth to chatter
So, she will not dare to sing.”
Such cold feet and hands I’ll fetch her,
I will make her drop her pitcher—
Little good-for-nothing thing!
Let me only once get at her,
It will be no trifling matter!
I will make her teeth to chatter
So, she will not dare to sing.”
“Holy angels, guard us ever,
God himself forsakes us never,”
Sung the maiden, blithe as ever—
“We are his forevermore.”
Then the wild wind beating o’er her,
Rudely on her way it bore her,
Heaping up the snow before her,
Till she reached the cottage door.
God himself forsakes us never,”
Sung the maiden, blithe as ever—
“We are his forevermore.”
Then the wild wind beating o’er her,
Rudely on her way it bore her,
Heaping up the snow before her,
Till she reached the cottage door.
Scarcely had her mother missed her.
Hastening quickly to assist her,
Tenderly she stooped and kissed her,
And the poor, sick mother smiled.
Closely to her heart she pressed her,
Looking up to heaven she blessed her,
And before her God, confessed her
As His gift—that precious child.
Hastening quickly to assist her,
Tenderly she stooped and kissed her,
And the poor, sick mother smiled.
Closely to her heart she pressed her,
Looking up to heaven she blessed her,
And before her God, confessed her
As His gift—that precious child.
Now, one little word of teaching—
Though I am not fond of preaching—
Yet most earnestly beseeching,
I would say to children small—
Learn that duties, howe’er lowly,
Done in love, will make life holy,
And will bring, though ofttimes slowly,
Sure and sweet reward to all.
Though I am not fond of preaching—
Yet most earnestly beseeching,
I would say to children small—
Learn that duties, howe’er lowly,
Done in love, will make life holy,
And will bring, though ofttimes slowly,
Sure and sweet reward to all.