BRETHREN, GO!
A VALEDICTION.
Brethren, go! the day is bright'ning
As the sultry noon steals on,
And the fields, already whit'ning,
Tell of labor to be done.
There are toilsome days before you,
Burdens that you may not shun,
Clouds will gather darkly o'er you,
Reeds will fail you one by one.
Yet go forth to strong endeavor,
'Neath the shadow of the cross;
He who calls will leave you never,—
Never let you suffer loss!
Go; the voices of the dying
Float on every passing breeze;
Tones of wild, imploring crying
Come from lands beyond the seas!
Go where pain and sorrow languish,
Go where Sin works strife and woe,
Cleanse Earth's stain, and heal her anguish,
Jesus calls you—brethren, go!
OUR NATION'S BIRTHDAY.
JULY 1ST, 1867.
Ring out your glad peals of rejoicing!
Wake Music's enlivening strain!
Let the sound float abroad o'er your waters,
And echo through valley and plain;
From the shores of the far-distant Fundy,
To the lakes of the limitless West,
Let the sound of a People's exulting
Go forth in its joyous unrest!
For a great Christian Nation, this morning,
From fragments disjointed made one,
With the laws and the speech of old England,
Looks up to the new-risen sun;
And, scarce conscious as yet of her mission—
Of the wealth of her young, earnest life—
Starts out in the march of the nations,
To a future with perils how rife!
Yet who shall not hope for that future—
God's wide-open Book in her hand,
With her sturdy and truth-loving yeomen,
Her broad-spreading acres of land?—
And who does not welcome the rising
Of a new star of promise this morn,
Whose beams shall illumine the darkness
Of millions that yet are unborn?
Then hail we, in songs of rejoicing,
Our father-land over the sea,
Britannia, pride of the ocean,
The home of the gallant and free!—
Hail, Queen of dominions that girdle
The world like an emerald zone,
VICTORIA, Head of three Empires,
Meek Sovereign of Earth's proudest throne!
And hail to our new-born Dominion!
Hail, Canada, happy and blest!
May thy flag ever wave o'er the freest,
Most glorious clime of the West;
Be freedom thy watchword, and Onward,
Thy motto, still cherished and true,
And ever abroad on the breezes
Float thy time-honored "RED, WHITE AND BLUE."
OUR FIELD IS THE WORLD.
Our field is the world!—let us forth to the sowing,
O'er valley and mountain, o'er desert and plain,
Beside the still waters through cool meadows flowing,
O'er regions unblest by the dew and the rain;—
Let us scatter the seed, though in sorrow and weeping,
Though fields should be verdureless, wintry, and bare,
The Lord of the harvest hath still in His keeping
Each seed as it falls, and will guard it with care.
Our field is the world!—let us forth to the reaping;
The long day is waning, the eve draweth nigh;
Faint omens of storm up the heavens are creeping,
And the sigh of the tempest is heard in the sky;—
The work-hour is brief, but the rest is forever,
Then stay not for weariness, languor, or pain,
But forth to the harvest with earnest endeavor,
And gather with gladness the sheaves that remain.
Our field is the world!—let us forth to the gleaning,
The stores may be small that our labors reward,
Yet One from the height of His glory is leaning,
Attent to behold what we do for the Lord;—
Where, haply, some reaper has passed on with singing,
O'erladen with sheaves for the garner above,
May yet be some handfuls that wait for our bringing,
To crown with completeness the stores of His love.
Our field is the world!—whether sowing or reaping,
Or gleaning the handfuls that others have passed,
Or waiting the growth of the seed that, with weeping,
On rocky and desolate plains we have cast,
Yet each for his toiling, and each for his mourning,
Shall sometime rejoice when the harvest is done,
And know, in the flush of Eternity's morning,
That the toil, the reward, and the glory are one.
SAULT STE. MARIE
Laughing and singing
With rhythmical flow,
Leaping and springing,
O light-hearted Sault!—
Tossing up snowy hands
In thy glad play,
Shaking out dewy locks
Bright with the spray,—
Joyously ever
Thy bright waters go,
Yet wearying never,
O beautiful Sault!
Kingly Superior
Leaps to thy arms,
And all his broad waters
Are bright with thy charms;
They sparkle, and glitter,
And flash in their play,
Chasing ripple and rainbow
Away and away!
Weary, I ween,
Of his solemn repose,
Gaily the mighty Flood
Flashes and glows;
And, buoyantly, brightly,
Fleet-footed or slow,
Doth dance with thee lightly,
Unwearying Sault!
If I were a fairy
I'd dance with thee too,
Daily and nightly,
Unfalt'ring and true;—
In sunlight and starlight,
In darkness and day,
As free as the breezes,
As glad in our play!
We'd sing in the darkness,
We'd laugh in the light,
We'd whirl in the eddies
At noonday and night,—
We'd toss up the waters
In sunshine, to see
How they'd fling us back di'monds
And gold in their glee;—
Such amethysts, topazes,
Rubies and pearls,
As we'd strew o'er the tide
In our innocent whirls,
And never be lonely,
Or weariness know—
Ourselves, and us only—
O light-hearted Sault!
Yet the dance is thine own,
And the song and the glee,
Thou dwellest alone,
Untrammelled and free
Our ships may not glide
O'er thy bosom,—our feet
May not trace out one path,
Or explore one retreat!
We may hollow our channels
To left or to right,
And glide on our way
With thy gambols in sight,
Yet this, and this only,
Of thee we may know,
Thou lone, but not lonely,
Free, fetterless Sault!
Farewell, ye bright waters,—
We part, and for aye!—
My pathway leads on
O'er the billows away;—
These feet will grow weary
In life's busy mart,
These eyes be oft tear-dim,
And heavy this heart;
But thou wilt sing on
In thy joyous unrest,
Unchanging, unwearying,
Buoyant and blest
While the slow-footed centuries
Glide on their way,
And nations grow hoary,
And sink in decay,—
Thou, tireless and tameless,
Unchecked in thy flow,
Shalt sing on as ever,
O beautiful Sault!
BROTHER, REST.
IN MEMORY OF THE REV. J. E. V.
Rest, brother, rest! Thy eyes no more shall weep
O'er unhealed anguish and unconquered sin;
Thy peaceful slumber, tranquilized and deep,
Is marred no more by Earth's discordant din.
Calm are the skies above thy quiet bed,
And calm is Earth in Summer-glories dressed,
And cool and sweet the fresh mould richly spread
Above thy folded hands and peaceful breast.
Oh, could my voice thy placid slumber break,
And win thee back to mortal scenes again,—
Bid thee, unblamed, thy heavenly paths forsake,
Once more to walk with me 'mid care and pain,
I could not, dare not breathe the word, for thou
Hast long enough toiled where the dark curse lies
On all Earth's fairest fruitage;—brother, now
Thou seest the "goodly land" with unveiled eyes!
Oh no! I would not breathe that word, though life
For me be sadder for the smile I miss;
For thou hast gained a home unreached by strife,
Undimmed by tears—a home of changeless bliss!
There, in sweet fellowship with angels blessed,
And all the crowned and glorified above,
In thy loved Saviour's longed-for presence rest,
And bask forever in the light of LOVE!
LOVED AND LOST, —OR— THE SKY-LARK AND THE VIOLET.
VIOLET'S SONG
I.
Come down from thy dazzling sphere,
Bird of the gushing song!
Come down where the young leaves whisper low,
While the breeze steals in with a murmurous flow,
And the tender branches wave to and fro
In the soft air all day long!
I have watched thy daring wing
Cleaving the sun-bright air,
Where the snowy cloud is asleep in light,
Or dreamily floating in robes of white,
While thy soul gushed forth in its song's free might,
Till my spirit is dim with care.
For oh, I have loved thee well,
Thou of the soaring wing!—
And I fear lest the angels that sit on high,
In the calm, still depths of the upper sky,
Will love with a tenderer love than I,
As they stoop to hear thee sing
Come down from the heights, my bird,
And warble thy lays to me!
I shall pine and droop in my grassy nook
For the passionate song that my spirit shook,
And the low, sad voice of the grieving brook
Will murmur all night of thee!
I shall sit alone—alone,
While the noontide hour steals by;
And mournful the woodland's music will be,—
Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me,—
Mournful the glory on earth and sea,—
And mournful the sunset sky!
O voice of exulting song!—
O bright, unwavering eye!—
O free wing soaring in fetterless flight
Up to the Fountain of quenchless Light!—
O, Earth that darken'st in sudden night,
I shudder, and faint, and die!
SKY-LARK'S SONG
II.
From the dewy grass upspringing—
From my wing the pearl-drops flinging—
Upward, with exultant singing,
Let me—let me fly!
Sun, with gemmed and flashing banners,
List my rapturous hosannas—
As I mount, on circling wing,
Higher, o'er the fragrant meadow,—
O'er the forest's broken shadow,—
O'er the hill-tops green and golden,—
Where the ivied ruins olden
Echo out with sudden gladness
As I break their brooding sadness
With the lays I sing!
Joy, joy!—I have caught the song
Of the angels that sit above!—
And warble in musical chorus alway
Those notes that oftentimes earthward stray
So tenderly sweet at the fall of day,
What time the rose-bud's trembling spray
Thrills with their lays of love!—
Joy, joy!—I have caught the song
Of bright ones that sit above!—
And the far-off Earth's a forgotten thing,
As I mount on free and fetterless wing,
Up to the sun-fields where they sing,
Drawn on by their soul of love!
Hush! is it a voice of Earth—
Of the far-away Earth, I hear?
Breathing of the fragrant meadow,—
Of the drooping willow's shadow,—
Of the breezes' gentle sighing,—
Of the brooklet's low replying,—
Of the blue, o'er-arching heaven,—
Of the violet-curtained even,—
Of the tender, dreamy starlight,—
Of the hushed, majestic midnight?—
And through all that murmur so sad and low,
Meanings of passionate anguish flow,
Till I feel a weight on my glancing wing
Bearing me earthward while yet I sing,
With its burden of heavy woe.
VIOLET'S SONG
III.
Bird, I am drooping in tears alone,
Pressing my cheek 'gainst the cold, grey stone,
And looking upward with aching eye,
Through the tender depths of the morning sky;—
But thy form fades out in that glorious sea
That lieth so calmly 'twixt thee and me;
A speck—it is lost in the azure deep!
And I droop in the deepening gloom, and weep
My sorrowful life away!
O voice of passionate song!—
O bright, unwavering eye!—
O free wing soaring in limitless flight
Beyond the stretch of my aching sight!
How the cold earth darkens in sudden night!
How I shudder, and faint, and die!
SKY-LARK'S SONG
IV.
Fainter and fainter—'tis heard no more—
That plaintive strain from Earth's lessening shore—
And I fling its weight from my fetterless wing,
Higher and higher in heaven to sing,
Afar from Earth's faded shore!
I shall take my seat in the clouds,
I shall sit beside the Sun,—
I shall gaze with calm, unfaltering eye
On the face of the radiant one!
O glorious, kingly Sun!—
O brightly beautiful one!—
O Monarch, sitting serenely bright,
In thy quenchless glory on heaven's height,
I am upward drawn to thee!—
And thy fiery spirit's ardent flame
Is downward-drawn to me!
Sun, with gemmed and flashing banners,
List my rapturous hosannas,
As I circle nearer,—nearer,—
Where your rays burn brighter, clearer,—
Up, on wings of strong desire,
Higher still, and ever higher!
VIOLET'S SONG
V.
I droop by the cold, grey stone!—
I faint in the smitten day!—
I hear not the song of my own free bird
Whose joyous music my glad heart stirred
But yester-morn! I can see no more
The humming-bird's wing as it flutters o'er
The fragrant clover-bloom!
The brook, with a far-off, sorrowful tone,
Seemeth in measureless grief to moan
As it hurrieth on its way—
The breath of my lost perfume
Floats on the wandering breeze,
Over the meadow's perishing bloom,
Over the cold, blue seas!
I would not gather it back,
I would not fill anew
With love's pure incense my broken urn,
For the lost can never more return
From the sky's encompassing blue!
It is well!—I would not hang
A weight on his fetterless wing;
For was he not made for the sun-bright sky?—
To face the glories that burn on high?—
And I, to sit 'mid Earth's fading bloom,
And waste my life in the faint perfume
I fling to the thankless breeze?—
Let him cleave the azure infinite!—
Let him pour his soul out in song's free might!—
Till the white-robed seraphs that dwell in light
Shall stoop to hear him sing!—
Be it mine to fade ere the day-beams die,
And alone in the sighing grass to lie,
With my dull face turned to the tearless sky,
A faded, forgotten thing!
THE GRACIOUS PROVIDER.
"They need not go away!" the Master said,
"Give ye to them." Ah, Lord, behold our store—
These loaves, these fishes,—see, we have no more!
How shall this fainting throng with these be fed?
"Make them sit down!"—and the disciples sped
To do His will. He blessed, and brake, and gave
And as they ate, each heart grew strong and brave,
Filled, till they craved no more, with hallowed bread.
Thus, when our hearts grow faint, and stores are small,
And thou demandest all that we possess,
O, help us, Lord, to bring that little all,
Knowing shouldst thou the gift accept and bless,
Our worthless store, so changed and glorified,
Ourselves shall feed, and fainting throngs beside.
REST IN HEAVEN
When tossed on time's tempestuous tide,
By angry storms resistless driven,
One hope can bid our fears subside—
It is the hope of rest in Heaven.
With trusting heart we lift our eyes
Above the dark clouds, tempest-driven,
And view, beyond those troubled skies,
The peaceful, stormless rest of Heaven.
No more to shed the exile's tears,—
No more the heart by anguish riven,—
No longer bent 'neath toilful years,—
How sweet will be the rest of Heaven
GOOD NIGHT
Good night, good night!—the day
Slowly has borne away,
Music and light;
Once more the starry train
Sweeps over vale and plain,
Soft falls the dews again—
Good night-good night!
Day's weary toils are done,
Set is the glorious sun,
Faded the light;—
Now, to the weary breast
Ever a welcome guest,—
Comes the sweet hour of rest—
Good night—good night!
Evening's cool shadows lie
Calmly o'er earth and sky;
And, from the height
Of the far, wooded hill,
Sends the lone whip-poor-will,
Softer and sweeter still,
Plaintive good night.
Gently let slumber lie
On every weary eye
Tired of the light!
E'en as the folded flowers
Sleep in the forest bowers,
Rest, through the silent hours—
Good night—good night!
THE OLD CHURCH CHOIR
I am slowly treading the mazy track
That leadeth, through sunshine and shadows, back—
Through freshest meads where the dews yet cling
As erst they did to each lowly thing,
Where flowers bloom and where streamlets flow
With the tender music of long ago—
To the far-off past that, through mists of tears,
In its spring time loveliness still appears,
And wooes me back to the gleaming shore
Of sunny years that return no more.
And to night, all weary, and sad, and lone,
I return in thought to those bright years flown,
Whose lingering sweetness, e'en yet, I feel
Like the breath of flower-scents over me steal
I am treading o'er mounds where the dead repose,—
I am stirring the dust of life's perished rose,—
I am rustling the withered leaves that lie
Thick in the pathway of Memory,—
And calling out from each lonely hill
Echoes of voices forever still.
And I pause again where I stood of yore
In the Sabbath light at an old church door,
And, ling'ring a moment, I turn to view
The green hills leaning against the blue
As erewhile they stood in the golden calm
Of morning's sunlight and breath of balm,
With clustering verdure, and blossoming trees,
And gush of bird song and hum of bees,
And glancing shadows that came and went
Of soft clouds high in the firmament,
Floating away in their robes of white
On snowy pinions through realms of light.
And I see again through the azure sky
The same white cloudlets still floating by;
And a greener line through the meadow shows
Where a little streamlet still, singing, flows;
And out from a woodland there floats again
Of joyous warblers the old, sweet strain;
While still, with serious, reverent air,
Aged and young seek the house of prayer.
And with them I enter the narrow door
That open stands as it stood of yore;
And look up again at the windows tall,—
At the narrow aisles and the naked wall,—
At the high, straight pulpit with cushion red,
And its worn, old Bible still open spread,—
At the pews where, unhindered, the slant rays fall,—
At the long, plain gallery over all
Where maid and matron, and son and sire,
Together sang in the old church-choir.
And again, as I listen, I seem to hear
The strains of old, half-forgotten Mear,
And solemn China, and grave Dundee,
And stately Rockingham, calm and free,
And rare Old-Hundred's majestic swell,
And tender Hebron we loved so well,
And tuneful Stonefield's melodies sweet,
Bridgewater, Windham, and Silver-street,
And rich St. Martin, and yet again
Old Coronation's exultant strain,
And sweet Devizes' slow, warbled tone,
Resounding Lenox and Arlington,
And gentle Boyleston, and many more
Which Memory holds in her treasured store,
That rise and fall on the tranquil air,
As they did of old, in this house of prayer;
Where, Sabbath by Sabbath, for many a year,
Often and often we sang them here.
For many a year—but they all are flown,
The band is broken, and hushed each tone,
And voices that mingled in tuneful breath,
Are silent now in the hush of death!
Scattered like Autumn-leaves far and near
Are those who clustered together here,—
Gone, like flowers in the swift stream cast,
Like wandering birds when the summer's past,
Like perfume shed in the tempest's track,
Never again to be gathered back!
I am thinking now of a young, fair face,
A brow of beauty, a form of grace,
The tender tones of whose sweet voice long
Swelled richly forth in our Sabbath-song;
But she laid her own, in a loved one's hand,
And he led her forth to a distant land,
Where a home, all radiant with love's pure beam,
Fulfilled her girlhood's enraptured dream;—
Yet she only pined 'neath the stranger's sky,
And he brought her back to her own—to die!
The breath of Spring-time was on the plain,
And flowers were bursting to life again,
And birds were carolling full and free
On the leafy boughs of the forest tree,
When the sweetest voice in our tuneful throng
Faltered and failed from our choral song,
And we laid her down at her pure life's close,
Peaceful and pale in her last repose.
The silvery Thames, as it glides along,
Murmurs anear her its old, sweet song;—
The tuneful robin sings still, as when
He warbled for her in the woodland glen;—
The star she loved, through the long, still night
Keeps his old, calm watch 'mid the planets bright;—
Her favorite flowers are still as fair
As when twined 'mid the braids of her raven hair;—
But the voice we missed in that far-off Spring
Is only heard where the angels sing!
And yet another,—I see him now,
With his manly bearing and noble brow—
Who turned away from our old church-choir,
To sing with the angels in worship higher
—As an alien bird 'neath inclement skies
Foldeth its pinions to earth and dies,
So he, o'erwearied with life's unrest,
Folded his mantle around his breast,
And, meekly bowing his weary head,
Went down to rest with the quiet dead,
And long were the hearts that had loved him lone
For the absent form and the missing tone!
There was still another. I yet behold
That form as I saw it in days of old,
As we stood in the calm of those Sabbath days,
And mingled our voices in hymns of praise.
—Ah! little we dreamed as we saw him there
In his proud, young beauty, with brow so fair,
And eye so lustrous, and tones so clear,
That the cruel spoiler was then so near;—
We dreamed it not, till we saw the light
Of his clear eyes growing so strangely bright.
And the flush of health on his cheek give place
To the deadly hectic's burning trace!
There's a tranquil isle amid Southern seas—
A fair isle, swept by no wintry breeze—
Where the wandering zephyr through long, bright hours
Gathers the perfume of orange bowers,
And roses droop in the fragrant bloom
Of their summer life o'er a nameless tomb,
—In that nameless tomb he is laid to rest,
And the dust of the stranger is on his breast,
And the breath of the South sweeps its viewless lyre
O'er another lost from our old church-choir
One dreamt of wealth on a distant shore,
And he wandered far to return no more,
For the deadly pestilence swept his path,
And the strong man drooped 'neath its burning wrath,
And he sleeps alone in the shining dust
Whose golden promises mocked his trust!
By a lonely lake in the boundless West,
Another reposes in dreamless rest,—
And yet another—her pure life done—
Slumbers far off toward the setting sun,
And the youngest voice in our old church-choir
Is to-day attuned to a seraph's lyre
That old church choir—I am standing lone
Where we stood together in days by gone,
But the tranquil air by no voice is stirred
Save the lonely call of a distant bird.
The grey, old church is no longer seen,
But the rank grass over its site grows green,
And, 'mid the tomb-stones, with sighing breath,
The sad wind whispers of change and death
Hush! is it fancy?—or do I hear
A far-off melody, faint yet clear,
Of gentle voices, sweet tones of yore,
Tenderly borne from an unseen shore?
—Ah! loved, long parted, ye're joined once more
In the Sabbath light of a changeless shore!
And there, with never a jarring note,
Your joyous anthems forever float
In sweet accord with the seraph strains
That sweep unchecked o'er celestial plains;
And I long to rejoin you in regions higher,
Loved ones, long lost from our old church-choir!
NO OTHER NAME
"For there is none other name under heaven, given among
men, whereby we must be saved."
Jesus! the only name that's given,
Through which salvation we may claim;
This, this alone, we breathe to Heaven,
For God accepts no other name.
No other name when skies are bright.
And sunshine glows on field and flower;
No other name when, dark as night,
The heavy clouds tempestuous lower.
No other name when, drooping low,
O'erburdened by sin's heavy load,
The contrite spirit pines to know
The way to hope, to Heaven, to God.
No other name when, like a flood,
Temptations beat upon the soul;
Faith, breathing that one name to God,
The raging billows shall control.
In peace or conflict, toil or rest,
In wealth or want, in praise or blame,
Still wear it graven on thy breast,
And, dying, plead no other name!
HEART-PICTURES
Two pictures, strangely beautiful, I hold
In Mem'ry's chambers, stored with loving care
Among the precious things I prized of old,
And hid away with tender tear and prayer
The first, an aged woman's placid face
Full of the saintly calm of well spent years,
Yet bearing in its pensive lines the trace
Of weariness, and care, and many tears.
We sat together in our Sabbath-place,
Through the hushed hours of many a holy day,
And sweet it was to watch the gentle grace
Of that bowed form with those who knelt to pray,
And lifted face, when swelled the sacred psalm,
And the rich promise of God's word was shed
Upon her waiting heart like heavenly balm,
And all our souls with angels' meat were fed.
There came a day when missing was that face,—
The form so meekly bent in prayer was gone,—
Those lifted eyes, so radiant with praise,
Beyond the spheres in saintly beauty shone!—
Another crowned one swelling Heaven's high train—
Another loved one missed from our low shrine,—
Hers, the rich wealth of Heaven's eternal gain,—
A tearful trust, a tender memory, mine!
The other picture is a young, fair child—
A gentle boy, with curls of clustered gold,
And calm, dark eyes that seldom more than smiled
As though his life had grown too grave and old—
Too full of earnest thought, and anxious quest,
And silent searchings after things unseen;—
And yet, the quiet child seemed strangely blest,
As one who inly feels Heaven's peace serene.
So close beside me, in his Sabbath-place,
He sat or stood, my hand I might have laid
Upon his rippling curls, or dropped a kiss
Upon his fair, white forehead while he prayed.
Frail, beauteous boy!—upon his little feet—
Though all unheard by love's quick ear attent—
E'en then Death's chilling waters sternly beat,
And with his sweet child-hymns their murmurs blent.
One Sabbath day there was an empty seat—
I could not see for blinding tears that hour—
But by and by, where Living waters meet
In God's fair Paradise, I saw my flower,
And ceased to weep!-Henceforth with loving care,
These precious pictures in my heart I shrine—
Food for sweet thought, incentive to sweet prayer—
My own, until I reach their home and mine!
FELLOWSHIP WITH CHRIST
To pray as Jesus prayed,
When faithless brethren sleep,—
To weep the ruin sin has made—
The only ones that weep,—
To bear the heavy cross,—
To toil, yet murmur not,—
To suffer pain, reproach, and loss,—
Be such our earthly lot.
Yet oh, how richly blest
The Master's cup to share,—
The aching grief that wrung His breast,—
His broken-hearted prayer,—
If thus we may but gain
One sheaf of golden wheat
Gleaned from Earth's sultry harvest-plain,
To lay at His dear feet!—
If thus we may but win
One precious earthly gem
Snatched from the mire of vice and sin,
For His rich diadem!—
Here, sorrow, patience, prayer;
In Heaven, the rich reward!
Here, the sharp thorns, the cross,—and there
"Forever with the Lord"!
AN ALLEGORY
AN OLD LESSON IN A NEW DRESS.
"Here is a lantern, my little boy,"
Said a father to his child,
"And yonder's a wood, a lonely wood,
Tangled, and rough, and wild;
And now, this night,—this very hour,
Though gloomy and dark it be,
By the single light of this lamp alone,
You must cross the wild to me!
"I'll be on the farther side, my son,
So follow the path you see,
And at the end of this narrow way,
Awaiting you, I will be!"
Thus bidden, the child set out, but soon,
With the gloomy waste ahead,
Oppressed with terror and doubt he stopped,
Shaking with fear and dread.
"Father!—father!—I cannot see!—
The forest is thick and black,
I'm sure there is danger ahead of me,
Please, father, call me back!"
But the father's voice through the gloomy wild,
In answering accents said,—
"Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child,
And don't look too far ahead!"
Thus cheered, the child pressed trustingly on,
Though trembling much with fear,
For around, beyond, and overhead,
The forest was dark and drear,
And ever, to keep his courage up,
To himself he softly said,—
"He told me to keep in the light of my lamp,
And not look too far ahead!"
At length the other side was gained,
And lo, the father was there!
To welcome his child from the dreary wild,
Where darkness and danger were;
And, "why did you fear, my son?" he said,
"You had plenty of light, you see,
Though it lit but a step at a time, enough
To guide you safely to me!
"And besides, I was just ahead in the dark—
Though you did not see me at all—
To be sure that no evil or accident
Should my darling child befall;
Then remember, my son, in life's darkest ways
The simple words that I said,—
'Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child,
And not look too far ahead?'"
THE CRY OF THE KARENS
Lines written after hearing a returned missionary relate some of the traditions, and speak of the long-cherished hopes of this interesting people.
A voice from the distant East—
A voice from a far-off shore—
A voice from the perishing tribes of Earth
Has wandered the blue seas o'er!
It comes with a lingering cry,
With a wail of anguish and pain,—
"O brothers,—our brothers!—why
Do we look for you still in vain?
"We are weary,—we droop,—we die!
We grope in the deepening gloom!
We look above with despairing eye!
We drop in the yawning tomb!
Our children stretch their hands
Far over the waters blue,
And vainly cry from our darkened lands—
Alas, how long—for you!
"Brothers! do ye not keep
Our law of the olden time,
For which, through ages of woe, we weep
In darkness, and sin, and crime?
There are sails from the distant West
Dotting our waters blue,
And the feet of strangers our shores have pressed,
But they came not, alas, from you!
"We know there's a God above,
We know there's a land of rest,—
But there's naught that whispers of pard'ning love
To our spirits by guilt oppressed!
We call to the earth below,—
To the calm, unanswering heaven,—
But no voice replies to our cry of woe
That can tell us of sins forgiven!
"And yet we look and wait,
With sorrowing hearts and sore,
If haply we may behold, though late,
Your sails from the western shore;—
O, come with that precious word
We lost in the far-off years,
And tell us the voice of woe is heard,
And God has beheld our tears!"
ALONE
Alone, alone!—the night is very silent,
Voiceless the stars are, and the pallid moon
Through the unknown sends down no tone, no utt'rance
To break the hush of midnight's solemn noon!
I stretch my arms toward the unanswering heavens,
'Tis empty space,—no form, no shape is here!
I call,—no answer to my cry is given,
Powerless my voice falls on Night's leaden ear!
Alone, alone!—I thought the dead were near me,—
The holy dead. E'en now, methought I heard
Low tones whose music long ago did cheer me,
That shadowy hands the parting branches stirred
'Twas but the night wind's mournful sigh above me,—
'Twas but the lonely streamlet's grieving tone,
No voice comes back from those who once did love me,—
No white hand beckons—I am all alone!
Alone?—not so! One sacred, unseen Presence
Fills the far depths, broods round me and above,
Enfolding all in His own Omnipresence,
Pervading all with His unstinted love,
In Him I live, and move, and have my being,
My soul's deep yearnings all to Him are known,
On me in kindness rests His eye all seeing,
His arm upholds me,—I am not alone!
MARY
Thus early with the dead—
Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye,
The light and joyous tread,—
Mary, we little thought thou would'st be first to die!
A little while ago
We saw thee first in girlhood's early bloom;
Now thou art lying low,
Thy pale hands crossed in slumber, silent in the tomb!
Ah me! 'tis hard to speak
Of thee as of the dead—the pale, still dead!—
'Tis hard to think the bleak,
Stern blast of winter sweeps above thy low, cold bed!
* * * * *
Thus early with thy God!
'Twas a rich boon He sent whose loving voice
Called thee to His abode,
'Mid the sweet bowers of Heaven forever to rejoice!
Mary! thy feet have passed
The silent valley;—on thy placid brow
Heaven's sunlight falls at last,—
Thou'rt with God's shining ones—thyself an angel now!
Thank God! the dreary tomb
Has lost its sting! The Saviour broke death's reign,
Clothing with fadeless bloom
Frail human dust! In Heaven, Mary, we'll meet again!
"I AM DOING NO GOOD!"
"I am doing no good!" said a little rill,
As it rippled along at the foot of a hill,
"I am doing no good with my babbling here,
No one is listening,—no one is near!"
"'No good!—no good!'" said a violet blue,
As it shook from its petals the sparkling dew,
And opened its wondering, azure eyes
To the soft, clear light of the morning skies.
"'No good?'"—said a willow tree, bending low
To kiss the rivulet, "say not so!
Daily and hourly I draw from thee
The grace and beauty that dwell with me!"
And the rustling reeds in the marge that stood
Reproachfully murmured—"'no good!—no good!'"
"'No good,' indeed!"—cried a dainty bird,
And she sprang from her nest as the sound she heard,
And fluttered her wings o'er the sorrowing stream,
While her bright plumes flashed in the morning beam.
"Peace, peace, my brook!"—and the young leaves stirred
At the gushing notes of the happy bird—
"Do you not nourish the dear beech tree
That spreads its shelter for mine and me?
You give yon wild rose its beauteous hue,—
And yonder violet its tender blue,—
And yonder willow its foliage fair,—
And yonder lily its fragrance rare!
The sun is gracious and kind, we think,
But to you, my brooklet, we come to drink!
His beams with glory and warmth are rife,
But you afford us the cup of life!
Gentle rivulet, cease to pine!—
Sing, and be happy for me and mine!"
"And me!" said the lily, "and me!"—"and me!"
Said violet, and rose-bud, and willow tree;
And rustling reeds, and the gray, old beech
Tossing his arms high out of reach,—
Fluttering insect, and waving tree,
Murmured and rustled "for me!"—"and me!"
Then the rivulet brightening, sped along,
With a freer step and a gladder song,
Through many a valley and meadow green
Making her flowery foot-prints seen,—
Deepening ever and broadening out,
Greeting the hills with a joyous shout,—
Greeting the rocks with a soft caress,
And singing still in her joy's excess,
Till her song swelled out to an anthem free,
As she caught the flash of the distant Sea—
The glorious Sea that, with answering tone,
Welcomed his guest from the hill-side lone.
Then the Stream shook hands with the kingly main,
And, glancing back to her source again,
Beheld each place where her steps had been
Glowing in tenderest, loveliest green,—
Saw beauty and fruitfulness fresh and fair
Wherever her gladdening footsteps were,
And caught from the green hills far away
The echo of many a woodland lay,
And the perfume of many a wild flower borne
On the scented wings of the dewy morn.
And then the rivulet understood
That all along she'd been doing good;—
That a rich green belt on Earth's sunny breast
Was left to tell of her mission blest;—
That Earth with lovelier flowers was rife
For her calm footsteps and patient life;—
That giving much, she had gathered more,
Winning an ever-increasing store;—
And, at length, unfettered, and strong, and free,
A home she had found with the glorious Sea!
HAIL, RISEN LORD!
Hail, risen Lord, upon whose brow
The crown of victory resteth now,
Unfading as the sun!
Hail, vanquisher of every foe,
Of Sin, dread source of all our woe,
And Death—the last undone!
Hail, risen Lord,—the empty grave
Proclaims aloud thy power to save,—
Thy high, victorious might!
Hail, Lord of life, and peace, and love,
On thy exalted throne above,
In uncreated light!
Hail, risen Lord,—we bend the knee,
And lift the adoring eye to thee,
And yield thee worship meet!—
And, while the angelic hosts on high
Shout their hosannas through the sky,
We breathe them at thy feet
For here, 'mid darkness, sin, and death,
Our loudest praise is but a breath,—
An infant's feeble sigh!
Yet, haply, to thy gracious ear
Our weak hosannas are as dear,
As those that swell on high!
Hail, risen Lord,—exalted King,
Well may the highest heavens ring
With rapture's sweetest lays!
Be ours to add our feeble sigh
To the full chorus of the sky,
In reverential praise!
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MOTHER
A voice missed by the dear home-hearth—
A voice of music and gentle mirth—
A voice whose lingering sweetness long
Will float through many a Sabbath song,
And many a hallowed, evening hymn,
Tenderly breathed in the twilight dim!
—But that missing voice, with a richer tone,
Is heard in the anthems before the throne;
And another voice and another lyre,
Are added now to the angel-choir!
There's a missing face when the board is spread—
There's a vacant seat at the table's head,—
A watchful eye and a helpful hand
That will come no more to that broken band.
—But she sits to-day at the board above,
In the tender light of a holier love;
And the kindling eye and the beaming face
At the feast on high hold a nobler place!
A form is missed in the hour of prayer,
At the altar, now, there's an empty chair,
Where one lonely pleader hath scarcely won
Strength, e'en yet, for "Thy will be done!"
—But that missing form in its saintly dress
Of Christ's unsullied righteousness,
Bows with worshipful accents sweet,
Where angels bow at the Saviour's feet
A step is missed by the cradle bed
Where an infant nestles its sleeping head—
Smiling, perchance, in his baby rest,
Deeming his pillow her gentle breast
—But the feet that moved with a soundless tread
In the calm still night by that cradle bed,
Beyond the waters of death now stand
Mid the fadeless flowers of the Heavenly land
O heart, sore pierced by the fatal dart—
O, wounded, suffering, bleeding heart—
More than all others doomed to miss
The glance, the accent, the smile, the kiss,—
Nothing is lost that you miss to day—
Not even the beautiful, death cold clay
But Jesus guards it with watchful eye,
Soon to restore it no more to die,
Clothed in the bloom of immortal life,
The sinless mother, the sainted wife!
PATIENCE
I.
I saw how the patient Sun
Hasted untiringly
The self-same old race to run;
Never aspiringly
Seeking some other road
Through the blue heaven
Than the one path which God
Long since had given;—
And I said;—"Patient Sun,
Teach me my race to run,
Even as thine is done,
Steadfastly ever;
Weakly, impatiently
Wandering never!"
II.
I saw how the patient Earth
Sat uncomplainingly,
While, in his boisterous mirth,
Winter disdainingly
Mocked at her steadfast trust,
That, from its icy chain,
Spring her imprisoned dust
Soon would release again;—
And I said;—"Patient Earth,
Biding thy hour of dearth,
Waiting the voice of mirth
Soon to re-waken,
Teach me like thee to trust,
Steadfast, unshaken!"
III.
I saw how the patient Stream
Hasted unceasingly,
Mindless of shade or gleam,
Onward increasingly,—
Widening, deepening
Its rocky bed ever,
That it might thus take in
River by river;—
And I said,—"Patient Stream,
Hasting through shade and gleam,
Careless of noontide beam,
Loitering never,
So teach thou me to press
Onward forever!"
IV.
I saw how the Holiest One
Sat in the Heaven,
Watching each earth-born son
Sin-tossed and driven,—
Watching war's mad'ning strife—
Brother 'gainst brother,
Reckless of love and life,
Slaying each other;—
And I said;—"Patient One,
On thy exalted throne,
Never impatient grown
With our dark sinning,
Though all its depth thou'st known
From the beginning—
V.
"Though thy fair Earth has been
Blood-dyed for ages,
Though in her valleys green,
Carnage still rages,
Thou, o'er whose brow serene,
Calmest and Holiest!
Angel has never seen,
E'en toward Earth's lowliest,
Shadows impatient sweep
Teach me, like thee, to keep
In my soul, still and deep,
Wavering never,
Patience—a steady light,
Burning forever!"
A PARTING HYMN.
Father in Heaven, to thee,
Guardian and friend,
Lowly the suppliant knee
Here would we bend!—
Blessing thee ere we part,
Each with a grateful heart,
For all thy love doth send—
Plenteous and free!
Thanks for thy hand outspread
Ever in power
O'er each defenceless head
In danger's hour!
Thanks for the light arid love,
From thy full fount above—
A rich and constant shower,
O'er us still shed!
Go thou with us, we pray,
Whom duties call
To our high tasks away,
Each one, and all,—
Go, with thy Spirit's might,
Go, with thy Gospel's light
—Whatever may befall—
With us alway
Now let thy blessing rest
On us anew—
Brother, and friend, and guest,
Tried ones and true—
Till, all Our pirtings o'er,
Meeting, to part no more,
In Heaven we renew
Friendships so blest
THE DANCE OF THE WINDS
The Wind god, Eolus, sat one morn
In his cavern of tempests, quite forlorn,
He'd been ill of a fever a month and a day,
And the sun had been having things all his own way,
Pouring o'er earth such a torrent of heat
That the meadows were dry as the trampled street,
And people were panting, and ready to die
Of the fire that blazed from the pitiless sky
But the King felt better that hot June day,
So he said to himself "I will get up a play
Among the children by way of a change,
No doubt they are feeling, like me, very strange
At this dreary confinement—a month and more,
And never once stirring at all out of door!
It is terribly wearisome keeping so still—
They all shall go out for a dance on the hill."
Then aloud he spake, and the dreary hall
Re-echoed hoarsely his hollow call:
"Ho! Boreas, Auster, Eurus, ho!
And you, too, dainty-winged Zephyrus, go
And have a dance on the hills to-day,
And I'll sit here and enjoy your play."
Then Boreas started with such a roar
That the King, his father, was troubled sore,
And peevishly muttered within himself—
"He'll burst his throat, the unmannerly elf!"
But Auster, angry at seeing his brother
Astart of him, broke away with another
As fearful a yell from the opposite side
Of the wind-cave, gloomy, and long, and wide.
One from the South, and one from the North,
The rough-tempered brothers went shrieking forth;
And faster, and faster, and faster still,
They swept o'er valley, and forest, and hill.
The clouds affrighted before them flew,
From white swift changing to black or blue;
But, failing to 'scape the assailants' ire,
Fell afoul of each other in conflict dire.
Now hot, now cold—what a strife was there!
Till the crashing hailstones smote the air,
And men and women in country and town
Were hastily closing their windows down,
And shutting doors with a crash and a bang,
While the raindrops beat, and the hailstones rang,
And the lightnings glared from the fiery eyes
Of the furious combatants up in the skies,
And burst in thunder-claps far and near,
Making the timorous shake with fear.
Then Eolus with affright grew cold,
For his blood, you'll remember, is thin and old,
And his turbulent sons such an uproar made,
That, watching the conflict, he grew afraid
Lest in the rage of their desperate fight,
The pair should finish each other outright.
So he shouted to Eurus; "Away! away!
Come up from the East by the shortest way,
And try and part them; and you, too, go,
Zephyrus!—why are you loitering so?"
Then away sped Eurus shrieking so loud
That he startled a lazy, half-slumbering cloud,
That fled before him white in the face,
And dashed away at a furious pace.
But he drove it fiercely betwixt the two,
Who parted, and, scarce knowing what to do,
Descended, and each from an opposite place
Began to fling dirt in the other one's face.
Then round, and round, and round again,
They raced and chased over valley and plain,
Catching up, in their mischievous whirls,
The hats of boys and the bonnets of girls,—
Tossing up feathers, and leaves, and sticks,
Knocking down chimneys, and scattering bricks,
Levelling fences and pulling up trees,
Till Eolus—oftentimes hard to please—
Clapped his hands as his wine he quaffed,
And laughed as he never before had laughed
Cried Eurus;—"Ho, ho!—so this furious fight
Ends up in a romp and a frolic!—all right—
I am in for a share!" Then away went he,
And joined with a will in the boisterous glee,
Till, out of breath, ere the sun went down,
They all fell asleep in the forest brown.
A full hour afterwards, ambling along,
Came dainty Zephyrus humming a song,
And pausing—the truant—to kiss each flower
That blushed in garden, or field, or bower.
But no one was left to be merry with him,
So he danced with the leaves till the light grew dim,
And, as Twilight was going to sleep in the west,
He, too, fell asleep on a rose's breast.
STRIKE THE CHORDS SOFTLY
Strike the chords softly with tremulous fingers,
While, on the threshold of happiest years,
For a brief moment fond memory lingers,
Ere we go forth to life's conflicts and fears!
Strike the chords softly!—yet no, as we tarry,
Swiftly the morning is gliding away;
Weary ones droop 'neath the burdens they carry,
Toiling ones faint in the heat of the day.
Let us not linger!—Earth's millions are crying
"Come to us, aid us, we grope in the night!
Come to us, aid us, we're perishing, dying—
Give us, oh, give us, the heavenly Light!"
Let us not linger!—our brethren are calling,—
"Aid us, the harvest increases each day;—
Some have grown weary, alas, of their toiling!—
Others have passed from their labors away."
Gracious Redeemer we go at thy bidding,
Gladly encountering peril and loss;
Take us—ourselves to thy work we are giving,
Give us—'tis more than we merit—thy cross!
AT HOME
I thought it pleasant when a manly sire
Weary of foreign travel, at the door
Of his own cottage left his dusty staff,
And entering in, sat down with those he loved
Beside the hearth of home;—and pleasant, too,
When a fond mother, absent for a day,
At eve returning, from the sunset hill
That overlooked her cot, descried her boys
Flying with joyous feet along the path
To greet her coming; and, with clasping hands
Of baby welcome, lead her through the gate
Of her sweet home.
Pleasant I deemed it, too,
When a young man, a wanderer for years
From those he loved, at length sat down again
With sire and mother in the twilight hour
At home;—and when a gentle daughter, long
From mother's kiss and father's blessing far,
Heard once again their ne'er forgotten tones
Giving her joyous welcome home again,
I felt that life had few such joys as that.
And yet, methought there was—canst tell me why—
Thou, who in Earth alone hast found thy bliss?—
A higher, sweeter, purer joy than those,
When, free from sin and Earth's encumb'ring cares,
A ransomed soul went home to be with Christ.
I knew a man in life's strong; healthful prime—
Aye more, the flush of youth was on his brow,
And all his bounding pulses were astir
With the great joy of work for God, while hope—
Such hope as only Heaven-taught manhood fires
To loftiest ambition—pointed down
The radiant vista of the coming years
To deeds immortal. But the Master called,
And, in mid-race he heard—"Come home, my child!"—
And paused, and listened in surprise and doubt.
"Come home my child!" Then, listening, I heard
The pale lips murmur, while the head was bent
In reverent submission—"Oh, so soon?—
So soon, my Lord? Thou knowest there is much
I fain would do for thee!—thy precious lambs
To gather and to feed—thy sheep to lead
In quiet pastures, and thy name beloved
To herald forth, till Earth's remotest shore
Shall thrill with rapture, and send up to thee
The new-born utterance of love's great joy!"
"Come home, dear child!"—again the Master's voice—
And eagerly he flung his robe aside,
Ungirt his loins, and cast his sandals by;
And while he sweetly sang—"I love the Lord!"—
Entered the peaceful river, and went o'er,
To be forever with the Lord he loved.
———————————I knew an aged man,
Yet one scarce bent, with fresh, luxuriant hair
So beautifully white, and clear, blue, loving eyes;—
We almost worshipped that most princely man
In his pure, patriarchal beauty. But one day
A whisper came to him. It was so low
We heard it not, nor knew till he was gone—
Gone home! Our sun was set on earth,
Yet risen in Heaven; and through our falling tears
We saw our loved at home, thenceforth to be
Forever with the Lord—Oh, highest bliss—
Forever with his Lord!
Our mother slept
At eve in a poor, earthly home. At dawn
She stood upon the golden shore, a sainted one,
A victor crowned. We wept, as well we might,
When we looked down upon those folded hands
Whose tender touch had often thrilled along
Our baby temples,—those pale, patient hands
That toiled for us what time sweet slumber lay
On our young eyelids, and in sunny dreams
We gathered wild flowers on the hill-side green,
Or chased the butterfly 'mid orchard blooms,
While she, till the night waned, toiled bravely on—
Not for herself, but us, then knelt and prayed
For each young sleeper, ere herself might sleep.
This morn she slept, and every line that grief
Had ever left on her pale, settled face,
And every furrow care had ever traced
Upon her brow had faded in the calm
Of that blest slumber. Did we softly tread,
And hold our breath suspended, in vague fear
Of breaking the sweet spell, or all too soon
Rousing those tired feet to tread again
Their round of daily toil?—or did we check
Our rising grief, lest one o'er-lab'ring sob
From hearts so full, should banish the sweet smile
Which the glad vision of her Lord's dear face
Had left upon her lips? It may be so,—
And yet the hour of weeping was not long;
For, 'mid the light by mortal eyes unpierced,
We caught the gleam of her unsullied robe,
And we rejoiced, beholding her at home!
A little babe, a tiny, broken bud,
A snow-white, breathless lamb lay still and cold
Upon its mother's knees. She did not weep—
She did not pray; but with white, trembling lips
And stony gaze looked down upon her child,
And only moaned in gasping accents—"dead!
My tender babe, my lamb, my own sweet boy!—
Dead, silent, dead!"
Then sweet, as borne
O'er silver seas, there came a voice that said,
"Do not their angels evermore behold
My Father's face in Heaven?"—and, swift as thought,
Faith overswept the bounds of space, and caught
A glimpse of her beloved on Jesus' breast
Then tears gushed forth—a precious, healing flood—
And the lips murmured—"Safe, oh, safe at home!—
My bright boy waits at home, thank God, for me!"
Then let us ever when the righteous die
Speak of them joyously as gone before;
Not dead, but sweetly drawn within the veil
To the blest home we're nearing—to the house
Of Christ our Elder Brother, mansion fair,
Prepared and set in order by His hand,—
Their home, and ours to be; forevermore