My soul has wronged no being_Our Profession and Other Poems

Of just and honest part;

But on this sole reliance

It would not dare depart.

Not in its own weak merit,

Not in itself alone,

But in the great redemption

Of Him who did atone

For man, and bid him enter,

The gates of joy and rest,

Through faith, and prayer, and penitence,

Upon a Savior's breast.

I shrink not at the future

Whatever it may be,

But joy in full assurance

Of faith's expectancy.

* * * * *

Let me pass away when my work is done,

Like a cloudless day whose setting sun

Leaves a smile on the evening sky;

Let this transient clay when deprived of breath,

With the earth yet stay, it alone knows death,

Myself must live on and cannot die.

ERE AND AT MY CALL.

Ere I lay me down the burden

That my soul on earth hath worn,

Let me feel before departing,

That my tree of life hath borne

Fruitage that shall ever onward

Move mankind along the road,

Toward the haven of the blessed

Toward the city of my God.

Let some word that I have spoken

Or some act performed by me,

Sound aloud thro' coming ages

Making captive souls more free;

Not to bring me earthly glory

Nor to win me empty fame,

But to prove the mighty power

In a risen Savior's name.

Let my work be all completed

When the summons comes to go;

Let there be no cause for weeping,

Let there be no sound of woe,

When the spirit from my Father

Beckons me from duty done,

To appear at His tribunal,

And receive the crown that's won.

Let there be a joyous sunset,

Lighting all the realm above

With the radiance and the glory

Of a Savior's dying love;

Let my faith be firm, unshaken,

Let His hand be clasped in mine,

Let me cross the mystic river,

Leaning on His breast divine.

BODING SNOW.

The sky that was blue and sunny,

Has changed to a granite gray,

The sun that was soft and cheery,

Refuses it mellow ray;

On the distant tree-top, cawing,

Sits a solitary crow;

These and the shivering children

Betoken the coming snow.

Soon the flakes will be falling,

Like down from an angel's wing,

That is sent from the starry regions

For Nature's covering;

The trees, the plants, the grasses,

With rev'rence bow their heads,

For the pure and fleecy mantle

That God above them spreads.

AN OPEN BOOK.

How strange are the stories we sometimes read

In faces we meet by the way,

They unconsciously tell of motive or deed

That the tongue would refuse to betray.

Each lineament is a page set apart

To be studied and understood

By the shade that reflects the mind and heart,

In their varied forms and mood.

The eye oft reflects the secrets of soul

That are occult to all beside,

And form of the mouth defying control

Betrays what the heart fain would hide.

The quivering chin and tear-bedewed eye

That respond to a kindred word

That unconsciously fell from a tongue passing by,

Oft betrays how th' heart has been stirred.

There are fountains so deep in some human lives

That from them no draught can be drawn,

Save the perfect mirage the face ever gives

Of the soul when reflections dawn.

How varied the pages we daily read--

Some are joyous and full of glee,

While others may tell of brave hearts that bleed,

And then break in deep misery.

The facial page to me hath a charm

That no printed book can impart,

'Tis no fancied tale, 'tis no false alarm,

But stern truths from the human heart.

Pencils write plainly each act, on the face,

Each motive indulged is seen there,

No after decision can fully erase

The masks faces ever must wear.

If the face would be fair and bright and young,

Wear a charming, a joyous hue,

To truth and to right heart-strings must be strung,

Every thought, every act must be true.

Let the pencil of truth inscribe on the face,

Let honor illumine the eye,

Let generous thoughts and acts ever grace

The face-page the world shall descry.

SOME CHARACTERS I MUCH ADORE.

An honest man with noble mind,

With heart sincere, true, and refined,

Who lives for God and all mankind,

Who cares for rich and poor,

And opens wide his soul to see

The sweet designs of Deity,

Yet from all prejudice is free,

Is character I much adore.

The man who all his rights will claim,

But gives another just the same,

And shares with equity the blame

Of faults done long before,

Who will not shrink when sorely tried.

But firmly by the truth abide,

E'en when his own faults are allied,

Is character I much adore.

A man who will not plead a cause

That violates the nation's laws,

Or seek to give Justice a pause,

For gold or worldly store,

But Pallas-like will e'er defend,

Alike for foe, or trusted friend,

The rights on which morals depend,

Is character I much adore.

A man who rises by his worth

And not through fortune-favored birth,

Who owns himself, though all the earth

May bribes around him pour,

Who wears distinction's jeweled crown,

But not from trampling others down,

Or acts that cause Justice to frown,

Is character I much adore.

The teacher who sees soul and mind

In pleasing harmony combined

Within the clay to be refined,

And scans it o'er and o'er,

That through instruction, skill, and love,

It may expand and so improve,

To honor earth and heaven above,

Is character I much adore.

The man of God who feels no loss

To bear the burden of the cross

Though waves of fury round him toss,

That sometimes hide the shore;

Who guides alike the rich and poor

Toward Him who said, "I am the Door,"

And bids them come though sick and sore,

Is character I much adore.

The man who fills a humble lot

As best he can, and murmurs not

At what he has, or has not got,

But uses all his power

To elevate his work and life,

And knows no mean ignoble strife,

With which the world is too much rife,

Is character I much adore.

A faithful wife bent low in prayer

O'er suffering one in wild despair,

While tender hands relief prepare

Upon th' uncovered floor

Of him who cursed her life by drink

And caused her trusting heart to sink

Upon Despair's cold, cheerless brink,

Is character I much adore.

* * * * *

Nature has printed the largest book

That eye has ever seen,

And filled it with colored pictures fair,

In white and gray and green.

She offers it free to all mankind--

Noble, generous deed--

But few there are in its pages rare,

Have ever learned to read.

SOME CHARACTERS I CAN'T ADMIRE.

The seeming saint with long drawn face,

Who thinks that he has so much grace

He should be throned on highest place

To which saints may aspire,

And yet, when dealing with a man,

Will use some vicious, subtle plan

By which a vantage he may gain,

Is character I can't admire.

The zealot who thinks God has given

A delegated power from heaven

To him, to see that men are driven

To escape a burning fire,

Yet draws no souls by filial love,

But deems the world can never move

By holy influence from above,

Is character I can't admire.

The man whose prayer is long and loud,

Whose knee is bent, whose head is bowed--

With worldly goods richly endowed

With all man can desire,

Yet sees a _worthy_ brother fall,

Without responding to his call

For aid to soothe starvation's gall,

Is character I can't admire.

The teacher who devoid of heart,

Unskilled in pedagogic art,

With looks and acts severely tart

Would loathesome tasks require,

Of pupils dulled by daily grind,

Or stirred by words unjust, unkind,

Which leave a canker in the mind,

Is character I can't admire.

The mother who aspires to be

A beacon light of charity,

Regardless of the nursery

Whereof she seems to tire,

Who thinks her husband needs no care,

But drives him wildly toward despair

By meagre love, and frigid fare,

Is character I can't admire.

The husband who spends days and nights

In low resorts, mid brawls and fights,

In which his heart greatly delights,

But stops not to inquire,

If wife and child have needed care,

Or from his draughts he may not spare

The pittance they should justly share,

Is character I can't admire,

The millionaire who doth obtain

His wealth by brawn and muscle strain

Of those he poorly doth maintain

Through scanty meed and hire,

Who will not justly, freely give

A recompense whereby may live

In health, the man who makes him thrive

Is character I can't admire.

The man who feels no poignant ruth

At the dethronement of a truth,

That to old age from tender youth

Has felt no fervid ire

When hate and envy swayed the tongue,

And took no pride in checking wrong,

No matter where it may belong,

Is character I can't admire.

The man who lives for self alone,

The man whose truth and honor 've flown,

The man who hears a fellow groan

Or sees a soul expire,

And lifts no friendly hand to aid,

No sympathy of soul betrayed,

No fevered brow with balm allayed,

Are characters I can't admire.

ON BROOKLYN BRIDGE.

I stood upon the slender link

That joins two cities into one,

And saw from thence the storm-clouds drink

Their moisture from the sun.

I watched their lowering, frowning edge,

Girt round with silver band,

Saw castles tall and towering ledge

Assume their forms so grand.

I saw the marshalled hosts of heaven

Join for the mighty fray,

Their ranks by tempest-winds were driven

Along their dark highway.

High in the heavens the giant forms

Of chariots, horsemen, towers stand,

Whose home is ever 'mid the storms--

When chaos reigns, most grand.

I saw the fragments of the cloud

Join with the nucleus form,

Cirrus to Nimbus quickly bowed--

Sure harbinger of storm.

These were but outward signs I saw,

Portending danger, strife, and fear,

Yet still I knew by Nature's law,

Beyond the clouds, 'twas clear.

In spite of cloud and storm and strife,

Of tempests wild, severe,

There's sunshine in our daily life,

If one true heart is near.

No battle vanquishes the _true_,

E'en thought of death is sweet

To him whose soul would e'er subdue

The scorpion-sting--deceit.

One trusting, true, and tender heart

Can cure a thousand ills,

Extract the poison from the dart

Of malice e'er it kills.

Oh, marshalled hosts of warring clouds!

Teach me this truth to know,

There's light beyond, though trouble shrouds

The valley here below.

THEIR LIFE IS WHAT THEY MAKE IT.

Let melancholy mortals grieve

And tell their tale of sorrow,

Their gloomy spirits to relieve,

But all returns to-morrow;

For all the while they court their grief,

Unwilling to forsake it,

And in the way they seek relief,

Their life is what they make it.

They brood o'er sorrow day by day,

With dreams they are affrighted,

But never strive to cast away

What most their spirits blighted;

And if fair fortune chance to smile

And give no cause for sorrow,

They're not content to rest awhile,

But off they go and borrow.

Avoiding all life's pleasant ways

Their life is always clouded,

They see no happy sunny days,

For all in gloom is shrouded;

They never see the flowers that bloom

As on Life's road they ramble,

But in the darkest paths of gloom

Are seeking for a bramble.

The pleasures of this life do not

Depend on its surrounding,

But if the heart's trained as it ought,

Content will be abounding;

The silent heart's the seat of joy,

And by continual training

Life's trials scarcely will annoy

The soul where peace is reigning.

Then tell me not Fate made them so,

And they cannot avoid it,

That all their life is doomed to woe,

And they have not alloyed it;

For all the while they court their grief,

Unwilling to forsake it,

And in the way they seek relief,

Their life is what they make it.

* * * * *

The atmosphere may be redolent

With fragrance from some happy soul

Whose unconscious influence has sent

Attractive power, like magnetic pole,

Till laugh of bright eyes is contagious,

Infectious, the mirth of a smile,

And the ominous brow umbrageous,

Casts aside its lowerings vile.

THE LONE BIRD.

A solitary bird was seen by the writer, making its toilsome flight

against a strong storm-wind. The peculiar undulating flight, the

gathering darkness of the night, and the portentous indications of storm

suggested this:

Whither away on such winged undulations,

Breasting the winds and the tempests wild glee,

Lifting your form in graceful vibrations

As onward you move like a billowy sea?

Alone, all alone, on wing wide extended,

Nerved for the tempest that sounds not afar,

Night her dark mantle o'er earth has suspended,

Thro' which may not shine e'en the light of one star.

Stop, lonely wanderer, and tell me why mateless,

Tell me the story of your solitude;

God, e'en a bird has not left so fateless

But somewhere there lives a companion for you.

Tell me if death has robbed you of treasures

That sweetened the tone of your vesper song;

Tell me if fears have destroyed all the pleasures

Which justice and right say to you should belong.

Tell me, yes, tell me, and tell me most truly,

Is there just cause why your flight is alone?

Is there some stain whereby you are duly

Debarred from the pleasures that should be your own?

Still but your wing and confide me the story,

Chant it to me in a short plaintive song;

Perhaps it may speak of a sweet transient glory

That faded and died 'mid disaster and wrong.

Perhaps I may speak some word that has healing

For solitude's wounds, e'en sweet tho' they be,

For sorrows augment by sacred concealing,

And steal from the heart ev'ry wish to be free.

Dear blessed bird! you have stopped at my pleading,

My soul aids my ears to catch your sweet tone:

"If life is not sweetened by presence and breeding,

'Tis better by far to travel alone.

"I have learned as my wings have borne me thro' groves

Where gods their ambrosial nectar sip,

That the heart's best experience ever proves,

Joy comes not from _presence_, but _companionship_."

A LESSON FROM NATURE.

O who has not felt his gay heart beat with gladness,

As forth he has wandered some morning in May?

It drives away care and relieves us from sadness,

It cheers the lone heart and makes us feel gay.

We see how all Nature rejoices around us,

The plants as they spring from the earth seem to smile,

The fresh growing leaves of the groves now surround us,

And soft sounds of Spring-time unite to beguile.

The earth is now teeming with bright vegetation,

The early spring flowers are now in their bloom,

And where'er we look there appears animation

Just bursting the cells of the last winter's tomb.

The soft breeze of May-day, we welcome it near us,

As filled with rich fragrance it comes thro' the trees,

And the bright feathered songsters apparently fear us

No more than the odors that float on the breeze.

They tune their sweet voices and sing their devotion,

Their hearts seem so light, so merry and free,

That ideal beauty graces each motion,

While they playfully dart from bush and from tree.

Our hearts beat with rapture too great for expression

While viewing sweet Nature, so lovely, so gay,

And hearing those sweet lulling sounds in succession,

We wished in our joy it always were May.

Thus tempted to linger and spend one short hour,

In looking around us in bliss most supreme,

We found a choice spot in a fine shady bower,

Where near it there murmured a bright silver stream.

From this lovely spot we intently were watching

The scenes that surround us on this merry May,

Every strain of grove-music our ears were now catching,

And we saw every movement that came in our way.

A sweet, tiny bird on a twig near the river,

Was warbling softly his choice matin lay,

While near on a branch we soon did discover

A serpent preparing to make him his prey.

Then glancing the eye to a branch that was near them,

We saw there a nest that contained a young brood;

While this parent bird was singing to cheer them,

The other returned to the nest with their food.

The worm which she held in her beak she soon gave them,

Then off in the thicket she darted again,

To seek for their food, and from hunger relieve them;

But on her return how great was her pain!

For while she had wandered, this serpent intruder

Had charmed her loved mate, as he sat on the spray,

His sweet song had ceased, and his notes became ruder,

But his fluttering wings could not bear him away.

We flew to the rescue--struck down the invader

Before the sweet songster had yielded his life,

Put an end to this cunning and mischievous raider,

And quieted all of the songster's great strife.

We learned from the scenes of this morning's ramble

That moments of happiness soon may decay;

While plucking the flowers to beware of the bramble,

Which hid among blossoms may sadly betray.

We learned that the joys of this world are not lasting;

That what we call pleasure may be a vain show;

While joys seem the sweetest they only are blasting,

And happiness frequently ends in great woe.

We learned that when Nature seems most to invite us,

To build some fond hope on some loved scheme of ours,

That there may be sadness preparing to blight us,

Which evades all our watchings, defies all our powers.

MY MOTHER'S LOVE.

Nine months after writing this poem, my mother died, Dec. 21st, 1894.

My vision eye beholds a form,

Bent low by years of life's fierce storm,

That moves with feeble tread;

Though time has worn that weary frame

The heart still keeps its sacred flame

True, undiminished.

No power but Death can ever quell--

No mortal tongue can ever tell

A mother's boundless love;

'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh,

Or in the moisture of the eye--

E'en silence, it may prove.

Itself and I had but one birth,

It came from heaven to gladden earth--

And brighten man's abode;

To feel the magic of its power

Is richer boon than any dower

The earth has yet bestowed.

Favored in this has been my lot;

Relentless Death has robbed me not--

Though fifty years have flown,

Of all the ecstasy and joy

That came to me when but a boy,

Or since to manhood grown,

Of that benign maternal smile,

Whose magic influence can beguile

My heart from worldly care,

And lead me toward that beacon-light

Of motive pure and act aright,

No matter when or where.

O blessed influence of the past!

May all my mother's counsels last

Until my heart shall cease

To send its crimson current round

The tenement wherein 'tis bound,

And Death shall bring release.

Still let these visions come to me

Of her I would so gladly see

Though far from her I roam;

They bring sweet memory of the past,

Which but a few more years may last,

Of happiness and home.

THE EVENING BEFORE MY BROTHER'S FIFTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

Dear Brother, how the time speeds on

And leaves its trace upon our forms;

The days of sunny youth are gone

And age unfits us for the storms

That gather oft for you and me--