Gleams of Sunshine

O Thou, who art the source of joy and light,

The great Revealer of the will Divine;

Thyself Divine, all nature owns Thy might,

And bows in homage at a beck of Thine,

Afford me light to guide my unskilled hand,

And by Thy Spirit all my thoughts command.

To Thy great name I dedicate my powers,

Yielding to Thee what Thou with blood hast bought,

Resolved that Thou shalt have my days and hours,

And for Thy sake shall every work be wrought;

O deign to use me, if it be Thy will,

And my poor heart with love and gladness fill.

If this strange impulse which I feel within

To write this book proceeds, O Lord, from Thee,

Let it not die, nor be defiled by sin,

But let the work from self and sin be free,

And prove a guide to home and bliss above,

And help to fill this warring world with love.

The Master's touch I know it sadly lacks,

And may not please the nice artistic taste

Of some fine mind that naught but gold attracts;

Some may not count these iron-filings waste;

Like magnets, to which gold will not adhere,

May they find ore in this to bless and cheer.

In this plain pitcher, Lord, Thy blessing pour,

That from it men their raging thirst may slake,

And when exhausted is the scanty store,

Then let the earthen vessel quickly break;

Its end is gained if Thou art glorified,

And men have learned to love the Christ who died.

As flowers drink in the solar rays and dew,

And in return give bloom and odors sweet,

So would I to Thy Spirit's touch prove true,

And render that return which seemeth meet;

Come, dews of grace! Great Sun, illume my heart!

That I to some sad soul may joy impart.

Father of Universal Man,

Where'er in this wide world he roam,

Not known to thee by kith or clan,

Nor height, nor breadth of mental dome,

Nor babbling tongue, nor sounding creed,

But by his woe and common need.

The pushing Anglo-Saxon race,

The Celts with wealth of heart and mind,

The Esquimaux of leaden face,

The Arabs whom no chain can bind,

With hardy Boers and all the rest,

Are with one common Father blest.

And all are brothers, though at times

Our flashing swords obscure the sun.

We ring aloud our Christmas chimes,

But louder sounds the booming gun,

And brother is by brother slain,

And kindred ties are rent in twain.

Yet Thou art true whate'er betide;

Thy heart o'er human woe doth melt;

For men of every race Christ died,

And, as a zone, Thy love would belt

All human kind from pole to pole

Into one grand, harmonious whole.

Men war with men in every clime,

Commotions rock this earthly ball;

Our souls are covered o'er with grime—

Sad fruits of our Adamic fall,

But grace shall triumph in the end,

And good the evil far transcend.

Thy throne remains forever firm,

And here, amidst the strife of men,

We find with joy a heavenly germ

Which shall re-stock this world again

With fruitful plants of righteousness,

If Thou, O God, but deign to bless.

Help us that we may not deny

Our brotherhood in hour of strife;

When swords shall from their scabbards fly,

And great the sacrifice of life,

May we in pity o'er them bend,

And help to wounded foe extend.

If we are working out Thy plan,

Give our brave soldiers arms of steel,

And may each prove himself a man—

To God and to his nation leal,

And never falter in the fight,

But die, if need be, for the right.

May right prevail in this dread war,

Though we be humbled in the dust;

To fail our end is better far

Then gain it, if it be unjust,

But if our aims with Thine agree—

We trust—and leave results with Thee.

The world moves on; let none essay

To block it in its onward course,

Lest they like chaff be swept away

As by a supernatural force;

For laggards progress does not wait—

Keep pace with time or bide your fate.

May our brave foes rise in defeat

To higher form of liberty;

And Freedom's flag, as seemeth meet,

Wave over all from sea to sea;

Pushed on as by the hand of fate

To nationhood, both firm and great.

Thy plan is best, though it may not agree

With my conceptions of my needs and rights,

And faith may fail to scale its azure heights;

Yet still I trust, and leave my cause with Thee.

With single eye I sought to do Thy will.

I felt Thy smile and left results with Thee;

If they have failed, then that is naught to me—

I did my part, and am Thy servant still.

The hearts of men are in Thy mighty hand;

Naught is concealed from Thy all-searching sight;

Canst Thou not turn them to the left or right?

The raging ocean calms at Thy command.

The aching clay may circumscribe my sphere;

Yet in confinement I may labor still

In work which harmonizes with Thy will,

And e'er rejoice to have my Master near.

Thoughts of Thy love will yet remain with me,

And in my silent hours may shape assume,

And by their measures help to lift the gloom

Of this dark world, and bring men nearer Thee.

Whate'er may come, I will not, Lord, complain;

My plan is Thine, I have no other choice.

In work or rest 'tis meet I should rejoice;

Contentment in my lot is blessed gain.

Dear Canada, our native land,

Our love for thee grows day by day;

Our fathers left the olden strand,

O'er sea and rapids made their way,

And by their energy and skill

They laid thy firm foundation deep,

And sowed the seed o'er vale and hill

Which we, their sons, are called to reap.

The wilderness blooms as the rose;

The old-time hardships are unknown;

And wealth in streams of commerce flows

From sea to sea—a nation grown—

Still youthful, but with thews of steel

To throttle foes that may arise;

Yet loving touch sore hearts to heal,

And lift us nearer to the skies.

We cannot boast as blue a sky

As smiles o'er many an Alpine plain,

Nor are our mountain peaks as high

As theirs, yet we have other gain;

Our hills are rich in yellow gold,

Our plains are broad and fertile too;

Our lakes and streams hold wealth untold,

And grander forests never grew.

Our sky is bright to healthy eyes;

Pure ozone lades the air we breathe;

Our climate we have learned to prize;

Nor do we o'er our winters grieve;

For nature throws her ermine robe

O'er purple hills and vales as well;

No portion of this earthly globe

As gay as this, with sleigh and bell.

But soon the winter wears away,

And plants long sheltered now are seen,

And April showers and smiling May

Soon clothe the earth in living green.

Monotony is thus unknown—

Each season is a glad surprise,

In which God's truth and love are shown,

And hope within us never dies.

Our sons, inured to noble toil,

Grow strong in arm and broad in mind;

Some stay at home to till the soil,

Others in various callings find

Their missions—but where'er their place

In the great drama of our day,

They, as a class, win in the race,

And the behests of Heaven obey.

The gold of monarchy have we,

Without the useless silt and dross;

And like our cousins, all are free,

Yet we have no election boss.

No union here of Church and State,

Yet Church and State full well agree

That nations never can be great

If they refuse to bow the knee.

We make the nation's weal or woe,

As one may shape his future life.

"God's mill," 'tis said, "grinds fine, tho' slow,"

A fact lost sight of in the strife

For place and power in Church and State,

And think God cares not what we do;

But to our doubt he whispers "wait,"

And time proves Him both just and true.

From England and from sunny France

Our fathers came, long years ago;

On Abraham's plain with sword and lance

They fought as foes—gave blow for blow.

The victors and the conquered now

Recall that day with mutual pride;

To their grand destiny all bow,

And as true peers, stand side by side.

So give me Canada before

The fairest land beneath the sky.

We stretch our arms from shore to shore

And all are free, both low and high;

An infant nation yet, 'tis true,

But strong in muscle and in nerve,

We hold our own, give all their due,

And God's great purpose humbly serve.

The fields lie bare before me now,

The fruit is gathered in,

Not even seen a grazing cow,

Nor heard the blackbird's din.

The heath is brown, and ivy pale,

The woodbine berries red,

And withered leaves borne on the gale

Sink down on peaty bed.

At morn the fence was covered o'er

With a pale sheet of rime;

The earth was like a marble floor,

But now is turned to grime.

For Autumn rains are falling fast,

And swells the running brook;

The Indian Summer, too, is past;

For snowfall soon we look.

When presses hard my load of care,

And other friends from me depart,

I want a friend my grief to share,

With faithful speech and loving heart.

I want a friend of noble mind,

Who loves me more than praise or pelf,

Reproves my faults with spirit kind,

And thinks of me as well as self—

A friend whose ear is ever closed

Against traducers' poison breath;

And, though in me be not disclosed

An equal love, yet loves till death—

A friend who knows my weakness well,

And ever seeks to calm my fears;

If words should fail the storm to quell,

Will soothe my fevered heart with tears—

A friend not moved by jealousy

Should I outrun him in life's race;

And though I doubt, still trusts in me

With loyal heart and cloudless face.

True friendship knows both joy and grief,

The sweetest pleasure, keenest pain;

Its sharpest pangs are ever brief,

Mere flitting clouds before the rain.

But soon the joy returns again

With bluer sky and brighter light;

The grief proves but a narrow glen

All full of flowers, though hid from sight.

And e'en in darkness we inhale

The fragrant odors love emits;

Friendship like this can never fail—

On love's strong throne its monarch sits.

True friendship is of greater worth

Than words, though they were solid gold.

To all the glittering gems of earth

I it prefer, a thousandfold.

One Friend I have who knows my heart,

And loves me with a changeless love;

I love Him, too—nor death can part

Us two, for we will love above.

A woman's love to His is faint;

No brother cleaves as close as He;

No seraph words could ever paint

The love this Friend now bears to me.

Our lives seem filled with things of little worth;

A thousand petty cares arise each day

Which bring our soaring thoughts from heaven to earth,

Reminding us that we have feet of clay;

Yet we will not from path of duty stray

If we amidst them all cleave to the right;

Nor great nor small are actions in His sight;

Through lowly vale He shows our feet the way.

Our early dreams may not be realized;

The roseate sky now proves quite commonplace;

The constellations we so highly prized

Have vanished all—nor left the slightest trace

Of former glory in its azure face,

But high o'er all beams out the polar star

To guide us safe through rock and sandy bar;

Life is complete and its cap-stone is grace.

True laureate of the Anglo-Saxon race,

Whose words have won the hearts of young and old;

So free from cant, and yet replete with grace,

Or prose or verse it glows like burnished gold;

Thy muse is ever loyal to the truth,

And those who know thee best forget thy youth.

Unbend thy bow and rest with us awhile;

Thy active mind requires a healthy brain;

Death's shadow has gone back upon the dial,

And thou art left a higher goal to gain;

The future will eclipse the brilliant past;

Fear not; thy ideal will be reached at last.

To do the grandest work one must needs be

Endowed by Nature for the master task;

Yea more, he must possess the light to see

Those mysteries which nature seems to mask,

And this can gain but in the royal way—

'Tis dread experience leads from gloom to-day.

The Master saw a struggling youth, and smiled,

Pleased with his work in main; but, knowing too

His latent power, if it could be beguiled

From hiding-place, much greater work would do,

He took His servant's hand and led the way

Through vale of sorrow up to brighter day.

By other path this height is ne'er attained,

Nor books nor schools its hidden wealth unveil.

Philosophy and art have treasures gained,

But in this quest they must forever fail—

Experience only can the gift impart,

Bring needed light and regulate the heart.

To solace those who grieve one must have felt

In his own heart the rending pangs of pain;

The heart that suffers not will never melt

At others' woes, though free from selfish stain;

What we have felt and seen we truly know,

And thus endowed, our tears for others flow.

So leave thy much-loved lyre awhile unstrung

Till health again invigorate thy frame;

With brain renewed, with vigorous heart and lung

Take up thy work once more, and greater fame—

A richer man by far than e'er before,

For thou hast treasure on the other shore.

The battleship its anchor weighs,

And belches forth its thunder;

Its commodore all classes praise,

And at his victories wonder;

And well they may—for braver man

Ne'er wielded sword or sabre;

But tell me, brother, if you can,

Who did the lowly labor.

Below the deck in engine-room,

As oilers and coal-heavers?

Amidst the smut and ghastly gloom,

Who worked the iron levers?

And thus it is in other lines;

Brave men are often hidden

"Below the deck," in shops and mines,

To higher plane unbidden.

The men on deck the praise receive,

But meagre thanks the others;

As honest men they seldom grieve,

And envy not their brothers;

A common cause they gladly serve,

Though in a lowly station,

From path of duty never swerve—

Loyal to God and nation.

For when the smoke has cleared away,

And din of battle ended,

On upper deck, in bright array,

By angel bands attended,

The whole ship's crew will then appear,

From high and lowly station,

And each the words "well done" shall hear,

'Midst shouts of acclamation.

Some men there are who stand so straight,

So equipoised, that others' fate

Seems to depend on their behest;

And useless all our every quest

To gain perfection or renown,

Unless we touch the flowing gown

Of these high-priests, whose shadows fall

Within themselves, if fall at all.

Others are not as straight as these,

But more like rough and gnarled trees;

But little beauty they display;

Shadows they cast across the way;

And from them men with scorning turn,

Or, if they speak, their accents burn

Like capsicum on chafed skin,

And leave a smarting wound within.

Once noble men, when turned aside

By fleshly lust or sinful pride,

Each one becomes a broken bell

On which the angry fiends of hell

Ring out their discord, harsh and loud,

As if with demon powers endowed.

Colossal once through grace they were;

Colossal still, though cleft and bare.

On northern rocks is often seen

The impress of some southern sheen,

The brightness of a warmer bloom,

Unknown to winter's frost and gloom.

The fossil flower of epoch fair

Has left its lasting impress there.

So in some men whose hearts are cold

You find a trace of days of old.

While we deplore the Arctic chill,

The frigid heart, the ice-bound will,

We must admire the fossil trace,

Still seen, of early days of grace.

Hiding from sight as best we can

The traces of the fallen man,

We feast our eyes upon the fair,

Though fossil, lines that linger there.

How to restore is our concern,

As we o'er their declensions mourn.

Can such dire ruin be repaired?

Only if God's strong arm be bared.

But we must do a brother's part,

And try to thaw the frozen heart;

Not by the fire of wrath above,

But by the melting coals of love.

As bullets smooth are farther shot,

Because rough angles they have not,

So gentle ways and loving speech

Are sure the erring heart to reach,

While jagged deeds and words unkind,

Like pebbles rough, much friction find;

They fall before they reach the goal,

And seldom help the needy soul.

To truth be loyal, but take a care

That with true zeal tact have a share.

The lightning when it strikes the tree

Runs with the grain, as oft you see;

Those who at angling are adepts,

Choose well their bait and guard their steps;

So if you would the sinner gain,

Bait well your hook, or mark the grain.

In the courts of truth tread softly,

Though your tread be firm and bold;

Your steps may awaken echoes,

Resounding through years untold.

The trend of the age is onward,

And you should not lag behind;

If men's minds are bound with fetters,

Perchance you may some unbind.

Our creed, say you, needs revising,

In line with the growth of light;

Be sure you have made real progress

Before you assume the right,

By stroke of pen, to unsettle

The faith of the long ago;

For many who err in judgment

Stand fast to the truth they know.

You bring from the mine rare jewels,

That you think the world should see;

But, perhaps, their estimation

With your own may not agree;

They may lack discrimination,

And their worth may not discern;

So polish them at your leisure,

And give the world time to learn.

Before you dig up the old tree

That sheltered in ages past

The earth's noblest men and women

From the fury of the blast,

See that your sapling is rooted,

And no borer at its base,

And its boughs both strong and spreading,

To cover an erring race.

Bear down on the lever gently,

Or the rock may be o'erturned!

Or, perchance, your lever shattered,

And little experience learned!

Take time to adjust your fulcrum,

Then thrust home your iron bar;

Bear down and the rock is lifted,

Is lifted without a jar.

Your views are, perhaps, exotic—

Young shoots from a tropic brain,

They need to be better rooted

To endure the wind and rain;

You may well admire the markings

On each graceful stem and leaf,

But if taken from the hot-house,

They will surely come to grief.

Before they have wholly perished

They may please admiring eyes,

The old be thrown on the dunghill,

To receive your floral prize;

They adorn the porch and window,

And brighten the wayside bed,

But we waken some summer morning

To find our new treasures dead.

'Tis better to make haste slowly,

Than to antedate your day;

The farmer waits for the sunshine,

To transmute the grass to hay.

When the fields are ripe for harvest

Fear neither the heat or rain,

But thrust in your sharpened sickle,

And gather the golden grain.

Those men are deemed heroes who rush on the foe

Regardless of danger, and seek not to know

What others may do;

Stern duty demands it—why should they falter

If all they hold dear is laid on the altar,

And conscience be true?

The greatest of all is the man who can say

When battle is over and foe gained the day,

"The fault was in me:

My plan miscarried through miscalculation;

On me rests the blame, and not on the nation:

My soldiers are free."

In George Stewart White, and men of like mind,

Our nation can rest, for in them you will find

A true manliness;

Their failures acknowledged are failures no more;

Defeat to such men only opens the door

To future success.