THE TIDE.
Landward the tide setteth buoyantly breezily,—
Landward the waves ripple sparkling and free,—
Ho, the proud ship, like a thing of life, easily,
Gracefully sweeps o'er the white-crested sea!
In from the far-away lands she is steering now,
Straight for her anchorage, fearless and free,—
Lo, as I gaze, how she seems to be nearing now,
Sun-lighted shores, a still haven, and me!
Landward the tide setteth!—mark my proud argosy
As the breeze flutters her pennons of snow,
Wafting from far the glad mariner's melody
O'er the blue waters in rhythmical flow!
Tell me, oh, soul of mine, what is the freightage fair
'Neath her white wings that she beareth to thee?
Treasures of golden ore, gems from Golconda's shore,
Lo, she is bringing me over, the sea!
* * * * *
Seaward the tide setteth hoarsely and heavily,—
Seaward the tide setteth steady and stern;—
Oh, my proud ship!—she has missed the still haven! see,
Baffled and drifting, far out she is borne!—
Far from the shore, and the weak arms that helplessly,
Wildly, are stretched toward the lessening sail!—
Far, far from shore, and the white hands that hopelessly
Flutter in vain in the loud shrieking gale!
Seaward the tide setteth—oh my rich argosy,
Freighted with treasures ungrasped and unwon!—
Oh, the dark rocks!—the dread crash!—the fierce agony!—
And seaward more madly the tide rushes on!
Gems and red gold won from Earth's richest treasury
Straw the dark floor of the pitiless sea,
Buried for aye—and my wealth-freighted argosy
Fades like the mist from the ocean and me!
ELOISE.
Eloise! Eloise!
It is morn on the seas,
And the waters are curling and flashing;
And our rock-sheltered seat,
Where the waves ever beat
With a cadenced and rhythmical dashing,
Is here—just here,
But I miss thee, dear!
And the sun-beams around me are flashing
O seat, by the lonely sea,
O seat, that she shared with me,
Thou art all unfilled to day!
And the plaintive, grieving main
Hath a moan of hopeless pain
That it had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!
It is noon; and the breeze
Through the shadowy woodland is straying;
And our green, mossy seat,
Where the flowers kissed thy feet
While the zephyrs around thee were playing,
Is here—just here;
But I miss thee, dear!
And the breezes around me are straying.
O seat, by the greenwood tree,
O seat, that she shared with me,
Thou art all unfilled to-day!
And the sighing, shivering leaves
Have a voice like one that grieves
That they had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!
It is eve; and the trees
With the gold of the sunset are glowing;
And our low, grassy seat,
With the brook at its feet
Ever singing, and rippling, and flowing,
Is here—just here;
But I miss thee, dear!
And the sunset is over me glowing.
O seat, by the brooklet free,
O seat, that she shared with me,
Thou art all unfilled to-day!
And the brook, to me alone,
Hath a tender, grieving tone,
That it had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!
It is night on the seas,
And the winds and the waters are sleeping;
And the seat where we prayed,
'Neath our home's blessed shade,
With the soft shadows over us creeping,
Is here-just here;
But I miss thee, dear!
And the drear night around me is sleeping.
O seat, where she prayed of yore,
O seat, where she prays no more,
I am kneeling alone to-night!
And the stern, unyielding grave
Will restore not the gift I gave
To its bosom yesternight.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
No martyr-blood hath ever flowed in vain!—
No patriot bled, that proved not freedom's gain!
Those tones, which despots heard with fear and dread
From living lips, ring sterner from the dead;
And he who dies, lives, oft, more truly so
Than had he never felt the untimely blow.
And so with him thus, in an instant, hurled
From earthly hopes and converse with the world.
Each trickling blood-drop shall, with sudden power
Achieve the work of years in one short hour,
And his faint death-sigh more strong arms unite
In stern defence of Freedom and of Right,
Than all he could have said by word or pen,
In a whole life of threescore years and ten!
Dead! fell assassin! did you think him dead,
When, with unmurmuring lips, he bowed his head,
While round him bent pale, stricken-hearted men?
Never more grandly did he live than then!
Never that voice had such unmeasured power
To fire men's souls, as in that solemn hour,
When, on a startled world's affrighted ear,
"E'er so with tyrants!" rang out wildly clear.
And the red bolt that pierced his quiv'ring brain
Maddened a million hearts with burning pain!
Dead?—frenzied demon of the lash and whip,
What time you let your dogs of ruin slip
At his unguarded throat with murd'rous cry,
And passion-howl of rage and agony?—
Nay:—in that deathful hour, from shore to shore,
Men heard his voice who never heard before;
And, pale with horror by his bloody clay,
Vowed from that hour his mandate to obey,—
Nor rest till all your fiends of Crime and Lust,
'Neath Freedom's heel, lie weltering in the dust!
Dead? dead?—Nay!—'tis not thus that good men die!
Tis thus they win fame's immortality!
Thus does their every utt'rance grow sublime,—
A voice of power,—a watchword for all time!—
And the dead arm a mightier scepter sways,
Than his, who, living, half a world obeys!
Sleep, uncorrupted Patriot! faithful one!
Friend of the friendless! Freedom's martyred son!
Henceforth no land shall call thee all its own,—
The World, Humanity, the bruised and lone,—
The oppressed and burdened ones of every clime
Shall claim thee theirs, and bless thee thro' all time,
And "are, and shall be free!" from shore to shore
Speed grandly on till serfdom is no more,
And gentle brotherhood our sorrowing race
Link man to man in warm and true embrace!
GOD'S BLESSINGS.
"For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt thou
compass him as with a shield."
Like the dew-drops that fall
Through the chill, midnight hours,
Unheeded by all,
On the close-folded flowers,—
E'en so, on thy chosen,
Grief stricken that bend,
Thy tenderest blessings
In silence descend.
Like the showers that moisten
The tree's shrivelled root,
And quicken its branches
To flower and fruit,
E'en thus, on thy people
Descend from above,
In richest abundance
The showers of thy love
Like the glad light that never
Our sad Earth forsakes,
But, as day fadeth, ever
In the star beam awakes,
So certain and constant,
So rich and unspent,
Thy blessings unstinted
From Heaven are sent.
Like the waters that fail not
Their course to fulfil,
Like the wind's tireless pinions
That never are still,
Like the day in its rising,
The night in its fall,
Thus constant thy blessing,
Great Father of all!
THE SILENT MESSENGER
I sat beside a bed of pain,
And all the muffled hours were still;
The breeze that bent the summer grain,
Scarce sighed along the pine-clad hill;
The pensive stars, the silvery moon
Seemed sleeping in a sea of calm.
And all the leafy bowers of June
Were steeped in midnight's dewy balm.
She seemed to sleep, for lull of pain
Had calmed the fevered pulse a while,
But, as I watched, she woke again,
With wondering glance and eager smile.
The pale lips moved as if to speak,
The thin hand trembled in my own,
Then, with a sigh for words too weak,
The eyelids closed, and she was gone.
Gone! gone!—but where, or how, or when?
I had not seen or form or face;
Unmarked God's messenger had been
Beside me in that sacred place—
No sound of footsteps as he came,
No gleam of glory as he went,
Swift as the lightning's arrowy flame,
Still as the dew the flowers that bent.
Yet she had heard the coming feet,
Had seen the glory of that face,
And, with unuttered raptures sweet,
Had sprung to welcome his embrace
As the swift arrow leaves the string,—
As the glad lark ascends the sky;—
And 'neath that soft o'ershadowing wing,
Swept past the radiant spheres on high.
O track of light! O car of flame!
The calm sky bears no trace of you;
The tranquil orbs sleep on the same,
In heaven's unclouded fields of blue;
And yet, upon this placid clay,
There lingers still that radiance blest,—
Sweet token that her untracked way
Led up to bowers of heavenly rest!
UNDER THE SNOW
Over the mountains, under the snow
Lieth a valley cold and low,
'Neath a white, immovable pall,
Desolate, dreary, soulless all,
And soundless, save when the wintry blast
Sweeps with funeral music past.
Yet was that valley not always so,
For I trod its summer-paths long ago;
And I gathered flowers of fairest dyes
Where now the snow-drift heaviest lies;
And I drank from rills that, with murmurous song,
Wandered in golden light along
Through bowers, whose ever-fragrant air
Was heavy with perfume of flowrets fair,—
Through cool, green meadows where, all day long,
The wild bee droned his voluptuous song;
While over all shone the eye of Love
In the violet-tinted heavens above.
And through that valley ran veins of gold,
And the rivers o'er beds of amber rolled;—
There were pearls in the white sands thickly sown,
And rocks that diamond-crusted shone;—
All richest fruitage, all rarest flowers,
All sweetest music of summer-bowers,
All sounds the softest, all sights most fair,
Made Earth a paradise everywhere.
Over the mountains, under the snow
Lieth that valley cold and low;
There came no slowly-consuming blight,
But the snow swept silently down at night,
And when the morning looked forth again,
The seal of silence was on the plain;
And fount and forest, and bower and stream,
Were shrouded all from his pallid beam.
And there, deep-hidden under the snow,
Is buried the wealth of the long-ago—
Pearls and diamonds, veins of gold,
Priceless treasures of worth untold,
Harps of wonderful sweetness stilled
While yet the air was with music filled,—
Hands that stirred the resounding string
To melodies such as the angels sing,—
Faces radiant with smile and tear
That bent enraptured the strains to hear,—
And high, calm foreheads, and earnest eyes
That came and went beneath sunset skies.
There they are lying under the snow,
And the winds moan over them sad and low.
Pale, still faces that smile no more,
Calm, closed eyelids whose light is o'er,
Silent lips that will never again,
Move to music's entrancing strain,
White hands folded o'er marble breasts,
Each under the mantling snow-drift rests;
And the wind their requiem sounds o'er and o'er,
In the oft-repeated "no more—no more"
"No more—no more!" I shall ever hear
That funeral dirge in its meanings drear,
But I may not linger with faltering tread
Anear my treasures—anear my dead.
On, through many a thorny maze,
Up slippery rocks, and through tangled ways,
Lieth my cloud-mantled path, afar
From that buried vale where my treasures are.
But there bursts a light through the heavy gloom,
From the sun-bright towers of my distant home;
And fainter the wail of the sad "no more"
Is heard as slowly I near that shore;
And sweet home-voices come soft and low,
Half drowning that requiem's dirge-like flow.
I know it is Sorrow's baptism stern
That hath given me thus for my home to yearn,—
That has quickened my ear to the tender call
That down from the jasper heights doth fall,—
And lifted my soul from the songs of Earth
To music of higher and holier birth,
Turning the tide of a yearning love
To the beautiful things that are found above;—
And I bless my Father, through blinding tears,
For the chastening love of departed years,—
For hiding my idols so low—so low—
Over the mountains, under the snow.
LONGINGS
Sleep, gentle, mysterious healer,
Come down with thy balm-cup to me!
Come down, O thou mystic revealer
Of glories the day may not see!
For dark is the cloud that is o'er me,
And heavy the shadows that fall,
And lone is the pathway before me,
And far-off the voice that doth call—
Faintly, yet tenderly ever,
From over the dark river, call.
Let me bask for an hour in the sun-ray
That wraps him forever in light;
Awhile tread his flowery pathway
Through bowers of unfailing delight;—
Again clasp the hands I lost sight of
In the chill mist that hung o'er the tide,
What time, with the pale, silent boatman,
I saw him away from me glide—
Out into the fathomless myst'ry,
All silent and tranquillized, glide!
Let me look in those eyes so much brighter
For the years they have gazed on the Son,—
On that pure brow grown purer and whiter
In the smile of God's glorified One;—
Let me rest for a while with closed eyelids,
On the bank of Life's river, to hear
The song he has learned since he left me,
Breathed tenderly sweet in my ear—
The song he has learned of the angels
And saved ones, breathed soft in my ear!
Thou canst not?—what! hast thou not entered
The gates of yon city of light?—
Not walked in the flower-bordered pathway
Of the saved ones in raiment of white?—
Never stood on the bank of Life's River,
Where gather the glorified throng?
Or glowed with emotion ecstatic
'Neath the swell of their rapturous song—
That song he has learned since he left me,
The redeemed ones' exultant, new song?
O Saviour, the wounded heart's Healer!
I turn from my sorrow to thee,
The gracious and tender Revealer
Of glories thy ransomed shall see!
They will pass—the dark cloud that is o'er me,
The shadows that darken my sky,
And the desolate pathway before me
Will lead to thy mansions on high;—
And with _him I shall rest in thy presence,
Forever and ever on high!
FOUNT OF BLISS
"Yea I have loved thee with an everlasting love."
Love of God!—amazing love!
Height, above all other height,
Depth no creature thought can prove,
Boundless, endless, infinite!
Howsoe'er I sink or rise,
Stretch my powers beyond, abroad,
Pierce the depths or climb the skies,
Find I still the love of God—
Fount of bliss, exhaustless, free,
Evermore unsealed for me!
Love of Christ!—amazing love!
Vast as His eternity;
Theme of angel-tongues above,
Theme of souls redeemed like me!
Outward to creation's bound,
Up to Heaven's serenest height,
Universal space around,
Swells the chorus day and night—
Fount of bliss, exhaustless, free,
Evermore unsealed for me!
Oh, these tongues that falter so
When we sing of love like this!
Oh, these songs that, faint and low,
More than half their sweetness miss!
Saviour, lift our music higher
Till the notes to rapture spring!
Touch our lips with hallowed fire
From thine altar while we sing—
Fount of bliss, exhaustless, free,
Evermore unsealed for me!
AWAY TO THE HILLS
A HOLIDAY SONG.
Away to the hills, away!—
There is health in the summer air;—
The rustling bough, and the bending spray,
And the breath of flowers are there—
The honey-bee's hum and the wild bird's song,
And sunshine and summer winds all day long!
Away to the hills, away!
There are peace and calmness there—
White cloudlets floating in light all day
Through the blue transparent air,—
Rose-tinted mornings and noontides rare,
And sunsets of crimson and gold are there!
Away to the hills, away!
From your weariness and care—
From toil that has held on with tyrant sway,
To quiet and calmness there;
And bask in the beauty and bloom that fills
The cool, sweet depths of the summer hills!
FLOWERS BY A GRAVE
Alien blossoms! tell me why
Seek ye such a lonely place,
Thus to bloom, and droop, and die
Far away from all your race?
Wherefore, from the sunny bowers
Where your beauteous kindred bloom,
Have ye come, O banished flowers!
Thus to decorate a tomb?
"Mortal, dost thou question why
Thus beside the grave we bloom?
Why we hither come to die,
Aliens from our garden-home?
"'Twas Affection's gentle hand
Placed us thus her dead so near;—
Tis at weeping Love's command
That we breathe our fragrance here.
"Ask not why we wither here,
Thou who ne'er hast tasted woe,
Who hast never felt the tear
Of bereaved affection flow,—
"Ask not, till thy household band
By death's cruel stroke is riven,
Till some bright bird'scapes thy hand—
Then thy answer will be given!"
"THREE FOR THREE."
"Giving up three for one!"—mother,
You said in the long ago,
When father, yourself, and John, mother,
I left, o'er the deep to go.
"Giving up three for one!"—mother,
You said, and it sank in my heart;
For tho' strong was my love for the one, mother,
It was hard from the three to part.
But to-day, as I sit alone, mother,
Rocking my little one's bed—
(Not Winnie's bed, dear, but her brother's—)
I am thinking of what you said;
And a sweet thought glads my heart, mother—
Can you guess what the thought can be?
'Tis, that tho' I'd but one in the start, mother,
Yet now I have three for three.
Yes, three for three, my mother,
God is good to your wandering child,
So far from her father and brother,
And you, in this western wild!
And tho' her heart oftentimes yearneth
For its loved ones over the sea,
Yet ever it gratefully turneth
To its home-ties—three for three.
Aye, three for three, sweet mother,
Say, am I not happy to-day?
Tho' something must ever be wanting,
While far from you all away;—
Then thank the dear Lord, my mother,
Who, afar o'er the lonely sea,
Is blessing your absent daughter,
With home ties—three for three!
NOW.
"Now is the accepted time."
Now, sinner, now!
Not in the future, when thy longed-for measure
Thou hast attained, of fame, or power, or pleasure,
When thy full coffers swell with hoarded treasure,
Not then, but now.
God's time may not be thine. When thou art willing,
His Spirit may have taken flight forever,
No more thy soul with keen conviction filling,
Softening thy spirit to repentance never,—
Now, sinner, now!
Now, Christian, now!
Look round, and see what souls are daily dying;
List!—everywhere the voice of human crying
Smiteth the ear;—the moan, the plaint, the sighing,
Come even now.
Rise! gird thyself;—go forth where sorrow weepeth
And ease the pang. Where sin holds guilty revel,
Go tell of God! Where man securely sleepeth
On ruin's verge, go, warn him of the evil
Now, Christian, now!
Now, sinner, now!
Day waneth fast! The noon is spent! To-morrow
Is God's, not thine!—and dost thou hope to borrow
An hour from doom, when bursts the cloud of sorrow
That darkens now?
Nay; the red bolt, e'en now, vindictive flashes
The thunder rolls nearer, and still more near!
Hourly the tide of wrath more sternly dashes
On ruin's rocks!—oh, that thou wouldst but hear
Now, sinner, now!
Now, Christian, now
Gather thy sheaves—the harvest time is hasting
Gather thy sheaves—the precious grain is wasting!
Too many hours Earth's cup of nectar tasting
Thou'st wasted now!
Up, up!—the Master's coming steps already
Echoing adown the steeps of heaven are heard!
The angel-reapers, with firm hand and steady,
Stand, dim-descried, waiting the signal-word
Now, Christian, now!
SUNSET
The glorious sun, behind the western hills,
Slowly, in gorgeous majesty, retires,
Flooding the founts and forests, fields and rills,
With the reflection of his golden fires.
How beauteous all, how calm, how still!
Yon star that trembles on the hill,
Yon crescent moon that raises high
Her beamy horns upon the sky,
Seem bending down a loving glance
From the unclouded skies,
On the green Earth that far away
In solemn beauty lies;—
And, like sweet Friendship in affliction's hour,
Grow brighter still the more the shadows lower.
SWEET EVENING BELLS
Soft evening bells!—sweet evening bells!
O'er vale and plain your music swells,
And far away
The echoes play
O'er shaggy mount and forest grey;
And every rock its secret tells
To your soft chime, sweet evening bells!
Soft evening bells!—sweet evening bells!
Now twilight drapes the woodland dells,
And shadows lie
On the closed eye
Of flowers that dream beneath the sky;
Yet fainter, sweeter, tenderer swells
Your dying chime, sweet evening bells!
O evening bells!—sweet evening bells!
With every note that sinks and swells,
Sadly and slow
The warm tears flow
In pensive pleasure more than woe,
As Mem'ry wakes her witching spells,
'Neath your soft chime, sweet evening bells!
UNKNOWN
Thou hast marked the lonely river,
On whose waveless bosom lay
Some deep mountain-shadow ever,
Dark'ning e'en the ripples' play—
Didst thou deem it had no murmur
Of soft music, though unheard?
Deem that, 'neath the quiet surface,
The calm waters never stirred?
Thou hast marked the pensive forest,
Where the moonbeams slept by night,
While the elm and drooping willow
Sorrowed in the misty light—
Didst thou think those depths so silent
Held no fount of tender song
That awoke to hallowed utt'rance
As the hushed hours swept along?
So, the heart hath much of music,
Deep within its fountains lone,
Very passionate and tender,
Never shaped to human tone!
Dream not that its depths are silent,
Though thou ne'er hast stooped to hear;
Haply, even thence some music
Floats to the All-Hearing ear!
ONWARD
Onward, still on!—though the pathway be dreary,—
Though few be the fountains that gladden the way,—
Though the tired spirit grow feeble and weary,
And droop in the heat of the toil-burdened day;
Green in the distance the hills of thy Canaan
Lift their bright heads in a tenderer light,
Where the full boughs with rich fruits overladen
Spread their luxurious treasures in sight.
Onward, still onward!—around us are falling
Lengthening shadows as daylight departs;
Up from the past mournful voices are calling,
Often we pause with irresolute hearts.
Wherefore look backward?—the flower thou didst gather
Wounded thy hand with the thorn it concealed,—
Onward, and stay not!—the voice of thy Father
Calls thee to glory and bliss unrevealed.
Onward!-Earth's radiance fadeth,—the glory
That gilded her brow when the noon was in prime
Faileth each hour, and the chill mist is hoary!
Gathering thick on the dim shores of time.
Yet as the stars come out brighter and clearer
While the day faints in the slow-fading west,
So do the home-lights grow larger and nearer,
Clearer the ray on the hills of thy rest.
Onward, and stay not!—the fountain, the flower,
Toward which thou'rt pressing with wearying haste.
Are but the mirage that floats for an hour,
Glowing and green o'er the desolate waste;
Yet from the distance come tender home-melodies
Borne from the Summer-land over the flood,
Lovingly wooing thee homeward and Heavenward
To the sweet rest of thy Saviour and God.
LOOKING BACK
Do the dancing leaves of summer
To the time of buds look back?—
Does the river moan regretful
For the brooklet's mountain-track?
Does the ripened sheaf of summer,
Heavy with precious grain,
Ask for its hour of blossom,
And the breath of Spring again?
Does the golden goblet, brimming
With the precious, ruby wine,
Look back with weary longing
To the damp and dusky mine?
Is the sparkling coin, that beareth
A monarch's image, fain
To seek the glowing furnace,
Where they purged its dross again?
Would the chiselled marble gather
Its rubbish back once more.
And lie down, undistinguished,
In the rough rock as before?
Does the costly diamond, blazing
On that crowned and queenly one,
Look back with sorrowful gazing
To the coarse unpolished stone?
And shall man, the grandly gifted,
Earth's monarch, tho' Earth's son,
Turn back to court the shadows
Of existence scarce begun?
Nay; with strong arm and helpful
To aid the world's great lack,
Press on, nor pause a moment,
Supinely to look back!
MINNIEBEL
Where the willow weepeth
By a fountain lone,—
Where the ivy creepeth
O'er a mossy stone,—
With pale flowers above her,
In a quiet dell.
Far from those who love her,
Slumbers Minniebel.
There thy bed I made thee,
By that fountain side,
And in anguish laid thee
Down to rest, my bride!
Tenderest and fairest,
Who thy worth may tell!
Flower of beauty rarest,
Saintly Minniebel!
Weary years have borrowed
From my eye its light,
Time my cheek has furrowed,
And these locks are white;
But my heart will ever
Mid its memories dwell,
Fondly thine forever,
Angel Minniebel!
WEARY.
Weary of dreaming what never comes true,
Weary of thinking what never is new,
Of endeav'ring, yet never succeeding to do.
Weary of walking the dusty, old ways,
Weary of saying what every one says,
Weary of singing old, obsolete lays.
Weary of laughing, to make others laugh,
Weary of gleaning for nothing but chaff,
Of giving the whole, and receiving but half.
Weary of making, so shortly to mend,
Weary of patching, to turn round and rend,
Weary of earning only to spend.
Weary of weeping when tears are so cheap,
Weary of waking when longing to sleep,
Of giving what nobody wishes to keep.
Weary of drinking to thirst ere I've done,
Weary of eating what satisfies none,
Weary of doing what still is undone.
Weary of glitter without any gold,
Weary of ashes grown fireless and cold,
Weary!—the half of it cannot be told!
THE BODY TO THE SOUL
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO AN OVERWORKED STUDENT.
O tyrant soul of mine,
What's the use
Of this never-ceasing toil,
Of this struggle, this turmoil,
This abuse
Of the body and the brain,
Of this labor and this pain,
Of this never-ceasing strain
On the cords that bind us twain
Each to each?
O tyrant soul of mine,
Is it well
Thus to waste and wear away
The poor, fragile walls of clay
Where you dwell?
Was I made your slave to be—
I the abject, you the free,
That you task me ceaselessly?—
Tyrant soul, come, answer me,
Is it well?
O tyrant soul of mine,
Don't you know
That in slow, but sure decay,
I am wasting day by day,
While you grow
None the better for the strain
On my nerves and on my brain,
For my head's incessant pain,
And my sick heart's longings vain
For repose?
O tyrant soul of mine,
God, the good,
Joined together you and me
In a wondrous unity,
That we should
Work together,-not that I,
You degrade and stupefy,
Nor that you His laws defy
By maltreating ceaselessly
Hapless me!
O tyrant soul of mine,
By and by,
Weary of your cruel reign,
Quite worn out with toil and pain,
I shall die
Then, when I have passed away,
And you're asked whose hand did slay
Your companion of the clay,
Much I wonder what you'll say,
Soul of mine!
NOT YET
"Go thy way, and when I have a more convenient season I will call for thee."
* * * * *
"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour,
Although thou callest me
In life's unclouded morning
Why should I follow thee?
The world and all its pleasures
Outspread before me lie,
When I have grasped its treasures
I'll hear thee, by and by.
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour!—
True, thou hast called me long,
Yet, almost more than ever,
I love the world's glad song!
Say not the years are hasting
With rapid footsteps by,—
Say not life's sands are wasting,
But call me by and by!
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour!
I have no time to stay;
The goal tow'rd which I hasten
Is now not far away.
Another day—and haply
The triumph I shall see,
And grasp my crown of vic'try,—
Then, I will call for thee!
* * *
No more, no more, O sinner,
The Saviour's call is o'er!
The door is shut forever,
To be unclosed no more!—
So late the hour and lonely,
So dark the night and drear,
And He who called thee only
To bless thee, will not hear!
Past is the harvest-gladness,
The summer-bloom is o'er,
Thy sun has set in sadness,
To rise-oh, nevermore!
So late the hour and lonely,
So dark the night and drear,
And He who called thee only
To bless thee, will not hear!
MARGUERITE
Lightly the shadows
Play through the trees,
Green are the meadows,
Soft is the breeze,—
June's early roses,
Pensive and sweet,
Droop where reposes
Lost Marguerite!
Meeting thee never
In the green bowers,—
Missing thee ever
'Mid the fresh flowers,—
Till the long hours die—
Hours once so fleet—
Hopelessly wait I,
Lost Marguerite!
Day has grown weary
In the blue sky,
Summer is dreary,
Melodies die;
Lowly the willow
Droopeth to meet
And kiss thy pillow,
Lost Marguerite!
Flower the fairest
Of sweet summer time,
Rosebud the rarest
Plucked ere its prime,
Mine to weep ever
Where the waves beat,
Meeting thee never,
Lost Marguerite!
"COME UNTO ME."
Weary soul, by care oppressed,
Wouldst thou find a place of rest?
Listen, Jesus calls to thee,
Come, and find thy rest in me!
Hungry soul, why pine and die
With exhaustless stores so nigh?
Lo, the board is spread for thee,
Come, and feast to-day with me!
Thirsty soul, earth's sweetest rill
Mocks thee with its promise still;
Hark, the Saviour calls to thee,
Here is water, come to me!
Homeless soul, thy path is drear,
Angry tempests gather near,
Night is darkening over thee,
Here is shelter, come to me!
Heavenly bread and heavenly wine,
Living waters, all are mine!—
Mine they are, and thine may be,
Weary wand'rer, come to me!
"I WILL NOT LET THEE GO."
Nay, I will not let thee go,
Though the midnight glideth slow,—
Though the darkness deep and long
Dim the sight and hush the song,
On thy tender, faithful breast,
Find I still my perfect rest—
Soothing sweet for keenest woe—
And I will not let thee go!
Nay, I will not let thee go,
Though the morn's enkindling glow
Flame along the mountain-height.
Flooding all the hills with light;
What can morning bring to me,
Tender Shepherd, wanting thee?
What its songs but sobs of woe?
Nay, I will not let thee go!
Nay, I will not let thee go,
Though the day no shadows know;
Though, the sky's serene to dim,
Lower no storm-cloud dark and grim;
Whom have I in Heaven but thee?—
What beside hath earth for me?—
Thou, the only trust I know,—
Nay, I will not let thee go!
Let thee go?—my Saviour, nay
Thou my night's unfailing day,
Thou my dawning's tenderest gleam,
Thou my noonday's richest beam,—
Night is day if thou art near,
Day without thee, joyless, drear,—
Wanting thee, all bliss were woe,—
Nay, I will not let thee go!
GREETING HYMN.
Written for the Alumni of Albion College, Michigan; and sung at their
last re-union, June, 1881.
The gliding years have rolled along,
And once again we come,
With greeting hand and choral song,
To our old college-home;—
Sweet college-home! dear college-home!
We gladly gather here,
Old friends to greet,
Old faces meet,
And sing our songs of cheer!
A welcome true for those we meet,
For those we miss, a sigh;
Of some we ne'er again may greet,
We speak with tearful eye;
Some rest with God, whose feet once trod
These halls with ours of yore;
And some there are
Who wander far
On many a distant shore!
God, bless and keep the ones who roam,
And us who meet again;
And lit us each for that bright home
Where comes no parting pain;—
Oh, aid us still, thro' good or ill
Still earnest for the right,
With spirits true,
To dare and do,
With Heaven and thee in sight!
And as the lingering years go by,
And changeful seasons come,
Still let thine eye rest lovingly
On this old college-home;—
Sweet college-home! dear college-home!
We gladly gather here,
Old friends to meet,
Old faces greet,
And sing our songs of cheer!
ONE BY ONE
One by one, ye are passing, beloved,
Out of the shadow into the light.
One by one,
Are your tasks all done.
Ended the toil, and the swift race run.
Child and maiden, mother and sire,
Sister and brother,
Ye follow each other,
Out of the darkness where we stand weeping,
Weary and faint with our virgil-keeping,
Into the summer-land, peaceful and bright!
One by one, ye are passing, beloved,
Out of the darkness round us that lies—
One by one,
Gliding on alone,
Hearing nor heeding our plaint and moan.
Friend and lover, the fondest, best,
Most tender and true,
Ye pass from our view,
Out of the night that enfolds us ever,
Out of the mists where we moan and shiver;
Into the joy-light of sunniest skies!
One by one, we are hasting, beloved,
Out of the midnight into the day.
One by one,
Are our tasks all done,
And the race that is set us with swift feet run.
Loved and parted ones, still our own,
Nearing you ever
We press toward the river.
Over whose waters ye passed on before us,
Shortly to join in your rapturous chorus,
And swell the hosannas of Heaven for aye!
One by one, ye are greeting, beloved,
Those whom you left for a while in tears.
One by one
Is the bright goal won
By those ye lost sight of at set of sun.
Child and maiden, mother and sire,
Sister and brother,
Ye're greeting each other,
Up where the holy ones round you are singing,
Up where the new song of Heaven is ringing,
Never to part through eternity's years!
LOVE
God so loved me that He gave
Jesus for my sins to die;
Jesus loved me in the grave,
Jesus loves me still on high,—
Father-love and Saviour-love,
Mine on earth and mine above!
Love, from highest heights that stooped,—
Love, to deepest depths that came,—
Love, that 'neath my burden drooped,—
Bore my anguish and my shame—
Died, that I may never die,—
Living, lifts me to the sky!
Love, the arm that reached me first,—
Love, the hand that raised me up,—
Love, my prison-bars that burst,—
Love, that filled my brimming cup—
Filled it full of Heavenly wine—
Filled, and blessed, and made it mine!
Love, the holy, cleansing fount
Where I wash my garments white,—
Love, my Tabor, hallowed mount,
Where I stand with Him in sight,—
Love, my watch-tower, till the day
Chase all earth-born mists away!
AN EVENING HYMN
"I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep; for thou, Lord, only
makest me dwell in safety"
The tranquil hours steal by
On drowsy wings and slow,
And over all the peaceful sky
The stars of evening glow.
No gathering clouds I see,
I hear no rising blast,
I fold my tired hands restfully,
As though all storms were past.
Yet, whether so or not,
O Lord, thou knowest best!
This night, let every anxious thought
And trembling fear have rest
This night I will lie down
In peace beneath thine eye,
Nor heed what ills unseen may frown,
Since thou art ever nigh.
I will lie down and sleep,
From every terror free;
Nor wake to tremble or to weep,
Secure, O Lord, with thee!
DEATH
'Tis but to fold the arms in peace,
To close the tear-dimmed, aching eye,
From sin and suffering to cease,
And wake to sinless life on high.
'Tis but to leave the dusty way
Our pilgrim feet so long have pressed,
And pass on angel-wings away,
Forever with the Lord to rest.
'Tis but with noiseless step to glide
Behind the curtain's mystic screen
That from our mortal gaze doth hide
The glories of the world unseen.
Tis but to sleep a passing hour,
Serene as cradled infants sleep;
Then wake in glory and in power,
An endless Sabbath day to keep.
I SHALL BE SATISFIED
I shall be satisfied when I awaken
In thy dear likeness, my King and my Lord,—
When the dark prison of death shall be shaken,
And the freed spirit comes forth at thy word!—
I shall be satisfied, Saviour, be satisfied,
Wearing thy likeness and near to thy side!
Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,
What can I ask for in glory beside?
I shall be satisfied loving thee ever,
Hearing thy accents and sharing thy joy,
Fearing nor change nor estrangement to sever
Me from my Lord and His blissful employ!—
Satisfied, satisfied, evermore satisfied,
Wearing thy likeness and near to thy side!
Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,
What can I ask for in glory beside?
I shall be satisfied when I behold thee,
I shall be like thee, my Saviour and King!
And, in the radiance that will enfold thee,
I shall enfolded be, too, while I sing—
Lo, I am satisfied, Saviour, am satisfied,
Wearing thy likeness and near thy side!
Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,
What can I ask for in glory beside!
AT THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG MOTHER
A transient day,
A troubled night,
The swift decay,
The certain blight,
And death and dust;—
And are these all?—
Nay: those are past;
And she who sleeps
Shall wake at last
Among the just!
GO, DREAM NO MORE
Go, dream no more of a sun-bright sky
With never a cloud to dim!—
Thou hast seen the storm in its robes of night,
Thou hast felt the rush of the whirlwind's might,
Thou hast shrunk from the lightning's arrowy flight,
When the Spirit of Storms went by!
Go, dream no more of a crystal sea
Where never a tempest sweeps!—
For thy riven bark on a surf-beat shore,
Where the wild winds shriek, and the billows roar,
A shattered wreck to be launched no more,
Will mock at thy dream and thee!
Go, dream no more of a fadeless flower
With never a cankering blight'—
For the queenliest rose in thy garden bed,
The pride of the morn, ere the noon is fled,
With the worm at its heart, withers cold and dead
In the Spoiler s fearful power!
Go, dream no more—for the cloud will rise,
And the tempest will sweep the sea,
Yet grieve not thou, for beyond the strife,
The storm and the gloom with which Earth is rife,
Gleam out the light of a calmer life,
And the glow of serener skies!
COME HOME
Come home! come home! O loved and lost, we sigh
Thus, ever, while the weary days go by,
And bring thee not. We miss thy bright, young face,
Thy bounding step, thy form of girlish grace,
Thy pleasant, tuneful voice,—
We miss thee when the dewy evening hours
Come with their coolness to our garden bowers,—
We miss thee when the warbler's tuneful lay
Welcomes the rising glories of the day
And all glad things rejoice!
Come home!—the vine that climbs our cottage eaves,
Hath a low murmur 'mid its glossy leaves
When the south wind sweeps by, that seems to be
Too deeply laden with sad thoughts of thee—
Of thee, our absent one!—
The roses blossom, and their beauties die,
And the sweet violet opes its pensive eye
By thee unseen; and from the old, beech tree
Thy robin pours his song unheard by thee,
Dally at set of sun!
Dearest, come home! Thy harp neglected lies,
Breathing no more its wonted melodies;
Thy favourite books, unopened, in their case,
Just as thy hands arranged them, keep their place,
And vacant is thy seat
Beside the hearth. At the still hour of prayer
Thou com'st no more with quiet, reverent air;
And when, around the social board, each face
Brings its warm welcome, there's one vacant place—
One smile we may not meet.
Come home!—thy home was never wont to be
A place where clouds might rest; yet, wanting thee,
All pleasant scenes have dull and tasteless grown,
And shadows lower-shadows, erewhile unknown
Of ever-deepening gloom.
The halls where erst thy happy childhood played,
The pleasant garden by thy fair hands made,
The bower thy sunny presence made so fair,
Are all unchanged,—yet grief is everywhere;—
Dear one, come home!
Come home?—come home?—alas, what have I said?
Beyond the stars, beloved, thy feet have sped!
No more to press these garden paths with mine,
Or walk beside my own at day's decline—
No more—no more to come
To these old summer haunts! But I shall stay
A little while; and then, at fall of day,
I, too, like thee, shall sleep, and wake to see
Thy Lord and mine, and so shall ever be
With Him and thee at home!
BE IN EARNEST
Be in earnest, Christian toilers,
Life is not the summer, dream
Of the careless, child that gathers
Daisies in the noontide beam!
It hath conflict, it hath danger,
It hath sorrow, toil, and strife;
Yet the weak alone will falter
In the battle-field of life.
There are burdens you may lighten,
Toiling, struggling ones may cheer,
Tear-dimmed eyes that you may brighten,
Thorny paths that you may clear;—
Erring ones, despised, neglected,
You may lead to duty back,—
Beacon-lights to be erected,
All along life's crowded track.
There are wrongs that must be righted,
Sacred rights to be sustained,
Truths, though trampled long and slighted,
'Mid the strife to be maintained;—
Heavy, brooding mists to scatter—
Mists of ignorance and sin,—
Walls of adamant to shatter,
Thus to let God's sunlight in.
Boundless is the field and fertile,
Let the ploughshare deep be driven;
So, at length, the plenteous harvest
Shall look smiling up to heaven!
Sow the seed at early morning,
Nor at evening stay thy hand;
Precious fruits, the earth adorning,
Shall at length around thee stand
Be in earnest, Christian toilers,
Life is not the summer-dream
Of the careless child that gathers
Daisies in the noontide beam!
Life hath conflict, toil, and danger,—
It hath sorrow, pain, and strife,—
Yet the weak alone will falter
In the battle-field of life!
CHLODINE
We met one fresh June-morn, Chlodine,
Where two roads came together;
I'd travelled far through storm and rain,
And you, through pleasant weather.
I loved you for the light, Chlodine,
Of summer all around you,—
I loved you for the sweet June-flowers,
Whose dewy garlands bound you!
You loved me not, Chlodine, because
The storms had beat upon me;
Because there was no breath of flowers,
No summer sunshine on me;—
You could not see, Chlodine, that deep
Within my soul were growing
Fresh flowers that evermore would keep
The fragrance of their blowing.
And so we parted—you and I—
Your ways all fresh and flowering;
Mine, rocky steeps up mountains high,
'Neath skies with tempests lowering;
And yet the sunshine spoilt your flowers,—
Mine, bitter grief-drops nourished,
And while yours withered day by day,
Mine bloomed the more, and flourished
And now we're met again, Chlodine,
You love me for my flowers,
Their perfume scenting all the air.
Like breath of Eden-bowers;—
I love you not, Chlodine, alas!
You're changed since those old mornings,
Your regal summer-robes are lost,
With all their rare adornings!
We stand together side by side,
And yet, at farthest, never,
Before stretched out so far and wide
The distance that did sever
Us, as to-day it does, Chlodine,
Though hand touch hand in greeting,
And never again shall we know, Chlodine,
Another June-day meeting.
THE BIRD AND THE STORM-CLOUD
Little bird, is that thy sphere,
Yonder threat'ning cloud so near?
Sunbeams blaze along its brow,
Yet what darkness reigns below!
There the sullen thunder mutt'ring,
Wrathful sounds is sternly utt'ring;—
There the red-eyed lightning gleameth,
Where no more the sunlight beameth,
And the strong wind, fiercely waking,
Wings of fearful might is taking;—
Creature of the calmer air,
Wherefore art thou soaring there?
Wert thou weary of the vale,
With its blossom-scented gale?—
Weary of thy breezy bowers?—
Weary of thy wild-wood flowers?—
Weary of thy wind-rocked nest
In the bright, green willow's breast?—
Didst thou sigh, on daring wing,
Up in heaven's blue depths to sing?—
Claim with storms companionship,
And in clouds thy free wings dip?—
And, where rushing winds are strong,
Pour thy melody of song?
Bird, thy wing is all too weak
Such adventurous heights to seek;
In the bower thou seem'dst to be
Trembling with timidity;
Now, with proud, unshrinking glance
Thou art daring yon expanse,
And, with wild, exultant singing,
Upward thy free flight art winging;—
Creature of the calmer air,
Wherefore art thou sporting there?
Bird, that cannot be thy sphere,
Yonder threatening cloud so near!—
With thy bright, unfearing eye,
Wherefore seek that troubled sky?
Ah! a hand is o'er thee spread,
To defend thy beauteous head;
Sheltering arms are round thee cast,
'Mid the lightning and the blast;
God doth shield thee, and shall He
Thine, and not my guardian be?
No: He, who guards thy fragile form
Midst the dread, o'erwhelming storm,
Will His kind protection spread
O'er His child's defenceless head,—
Temper every blast severe,—
Mingle hope with every fear,—
Pour into the bleeding heart
Balm for sorrow's keenest smart,
And will gift the feeblest form
With a might to brave each storm!
Bird, thou well mayst soar and sing
High in heaven on raptured wing!
Thou hast never learned to fear
Blighting change, in thy bright sphere;
'Tis to us, and us alone,
Faith's mysterious might is known:
We, that tremble at the blast,
Shall o'ersweep the storms at last!
Though around us tempests lower,
We shall know our triumph-hour;
And on glad exultant wing
Soar, and with the angels sing