Let me tell you a story, dear,
Of someone I saw to-day,
Only a man with a pale worn face,
And auburn locks grown gray,
One, I thought would never again,
Come over my pathway here,
One, I still hope to meet forgiven,
In a better brighter sphere.
Why did you start, he knew me, yes,
A flush as of pain, or pride,
Pass'd swiftly o'er the pale stern face,
And the high white forehead dyed,
I heard the roll of carriage wheels,
Unthinkingly raised my eyes,
One glance flashed out beneatt thosee Brows,
Like lightening across the skies.
Shudder not dear, 'tis he who grieves,
Not I in my lonely life,
I have a calm bright future now,
He? well, he has gold and strife,
They say that oft by the heaving lake,
He wanders about alone,
Waves that dash on the sandy beach,
Answer his throbbing heart's moan.
Once or twice has been heard a name
As if wrung with torturous pain,
From lips to sacred silence sworn,
Told only to storms and rain.
He leaves the light of gilded halls,
To clasp in the midnight air,
Some flowers that faded years ago,
One lock of a girl's dark hair.
Ask me not with those pleading eyes,
If I dream about him yet;
Is anything colder to your touch,
Than ashes with rain-drops wet?
What is harder to kindle up,
Than lava grown black and cold,
That once from burning mountain's heart,
In fiery grandeur rolled.
Pity him, pray for him, that is well,
Married for jewels and gold,
Vipers crawl from the caskets bright,
And they keep his fingers cold.
Only a flush of pain or pride,
When to-day our glances met,
He in his gorgeous wealth arrayed,
I, out in the cold and wet.
Hush; as we sow we surely reap,
Yes, he has a wife and gold,
Broad lands, a mansion white and tall
Like an iceberg grand and cold,
I? I've the blessings of the poor,
Which fall like the gentle dew,
I've claims on mansions far away,
I have life, and love, and _you_.
Daybreak.
Turn thy fair face to the breaking dawn,
Lily so white, that through all the dark,
Hast kept lone watch on the dewy lawn,
Deeming thy comrades grown cold and stark;
Soon shall the sunbeam, joyous and strong,
Dry the tears in thy stamens of gold--
Glinteth the day up merry and long,
And the night grows old.
Turn thy fair face to Faith's rosy sky,
Soul so white that lone night hath kept
Sighing for spirits sin-bound that lie;
Wrong has ruled right, and the truth has slept;
The dawn shall show thee a host ere long,
Planting sweet roses abqve the mould;
The sun of righteousness beameth strong,
And sin's night grows old.
Turn thine eyes to the burnished zone
From out of thy nest neath darkened eaves,
Oh bird, who hast mingled thy plaintive moan
With sobbing winds through quivering leaves;
From thy heart, by light which groweth strong,
Draw out the thorns that pierced on the world;
Glinteth the day up merry and long,
And the night grows old.
Turn thy sad eyes to God's summerland,
Mourner, who waileth some love laid past,
Some bark that has anchored on foreign strand
And left her sailors free from the blast;
They are not here where the grass grows long,
They are not down in the red-brown mould;
Heaven's day is coming up fair and strong,
And earth's night grows old.
The Wife's Watch.
Sleep on, my darling, sleep on,
I am keeping watch by your side,
I have drawn in the curtains close,
And banished the world outside;
Rest as the reaper may rest,
When the harvest work is done
Rest as the soldier may rest,
When the victor's work is won.
You smile in your happy sleep:
Are the children with you now?
Sweet baby Willie, so early called,
And Nellie with thoughtful brow,
And May, our loving daughter.
Ah, the skies grew dark, my love,
When the sunshine of her presence
Vanished to Heaven above.
While you're resting, my darling,
I dream of the shadowy hour,
When one of us looks the last
On the light of its household bower,
Then a sad sigh heaves my breast,
And tears from my eyelids burst,
As I ask of the future dim,
"Which shall be summoned first?"
Sometimes I pray in terror
That you may be first to go,
Never again to sorrow,
Or to feel one throb of woe,
Beyond the mists of the river,
Where mystic shadows weave,
I have no fears, my beloved,
In One we both believe.
But I, oh I so lonely,
Could I look as I look now,
If this was thy last long sleep,
The ice of death on thy brow;
In sight of the holy angels,
I offer my earnest plea,
I cry to my God and pray,
"If one goes first, take me."
Our lives have been happy dear,
I fancy the tears we shed,
By our lost children's coffins.
On faces white and dead,
Are counted as dew drops now,
On the flowers early sown
In the gardens of Paradise,
The Lord's, and still our own.
So we'll leave the future dim,
Take the sunshine as we go,
And when we come to the brink,
Where black waves ebb and flow,
We'll trust the voice which summons,
The love that has ever kept,
To fold in his arms one taken,
To lead by His hand one left.
Adoniram.
A Legend of the Temple.
The dew was gone,
The morn was bright, the skies were fair,
The flowers smiled neath the sunbeams ray,
Tall cedars grew in beauty there.
As Adoniram took his way,
To Lebanon.
Praise his heart filled,
More than four hundred years had fled,
Since from stern Egypt marched the bands,
Whose sons, with Solomon at their head,
And Tyrian brethern's skilful hands,
Prepare to build.
He watched them there,
Round every block, and every stone,
Masonic implements were laid,
But around _one_ were many thrown,
And yet it seemed already made,
Tried, true and square.
He wandering spake,
"Are not all from one mountain brought
As jewels for a diadem,
Why, have they at this one stone wrought,
Will not all see Jerusalem.
One house to make?"
The Widow's son
Smiled kindly in his brother's face,
And said "All are made ready here,
But not all fill the same high place,
The Corner stone this will be near,
When toil is done."
The listener bent,
His eyes on the unfinished stone,
And found himself a wiser man,
Through that rough child of mountains lone,
A ray of the Grand Master's plan,
To him was sent.
From Masonry,
That just man learnt that woes are thrown
Around God's children, pain and care,
But draw them near the corner stone,
With the Great Architect to share,
Heaven's blazonry.
Songs in the Night.
"Where is God my Maker, Who giveth songs in the night."--Bible.
The hour of midnight had swept past,
The city bell tolled three,
The moon had sank behind the clouds,
No rustling in the tree.
All, all was silent as the grave,
And memories of the tomb,
Had banished sweet sleep far away,
All spoke of tears and gloom.
When suddenly upon the air.
Rang out a sweet bird's song,
No feeble, weak, uncertain note,
No plaint of grief or wrong,
No "Miserere Domine,"
No "Dies Irea" sad,
But "Gloria in Excelsis" rang,
In accents wild and glad.
How could he sing? a birdling caged,
And in the dark alone,
And then methought that he had seen,
Some vision from God's throne,
The little birdling's eyes were bright,
While mine with tears were dim,
Had some bright watcher glided by,
And spake in joy to him?
Then I remembered what Christ said,
The God of love's dear Son,
"Not one of these small birds forgot
Beneath the glorious sun."
They have no load of grief to bear,
Of sin no dark, deep stain,
And yet in patience take their share
Of storm, and frost and rain.
Oh, can it be unknown to us,
Without one human word,
The universal Father soothes
The death-bed of each bird;
"The whole creation groaneth," yet
These pure things of the sky,
Are they not nearer to the gates
Than mortals such as I?
Yet while I mused, it seemed some form,
Ere yet I was aware,
Bent o'er my pillow, dried my tears,
And turned to sing my prayer;
Some subtle presence unrevealed,
Seemed to repeat the words,
"Fear not, for you are dearer far,
Than many little birds."
I do not ask what seemed to speak;
Whether the angel blest,
Who hath been my appointed guard
In calm or wild unrest;
Or whether some sweet voice I love,
But hushed to me a while,
Came down on gentle mission sent,
To change for tears a smile.
It matters not; God knows faith's wings
Droop sometimes in the dust,
And hands grow weak and lose their hold
On Hope's firm anchor trust;
And so, while sending dew and rain,
And glowing sunbeams bright.
God giveth unto those who hear,
Songs in the darkest night.
In Memoriam.
They are gone away,
No prayers could avail us to longer keep
The ships called out on the unknown deep,
We saw them sail off, some lingeringly,
Some suddenly summoned put out to sea;
They stepped aboard, and the planks were drawn in,
But their sweet, pale faces were free from sin;
As they turned to whisper one last good bye,
We sent after each one a bitter cry;
We knew on that track,
They would never come back,
By night or day.
Ah, we've closed dear eyes,
But God be thanked that they, one and all,
Had the heaven light touch them before the pall;
They saw the fair land that we could not see,
And one said, "Jesus is standing by me,"
And one, "The water of life I hear,"
And one, "There's no suffering nor sorrow here,"
One, "I have seen the city of countless charms,"
One, "'Neath me are the Everlasting Arms,"
So we know it is best,
They should be at rest,
In God's paradise.
Mary's Blessed Son,
Thou wilt not chide if thou see'st that low
Our harps are hanging on willow bough;
We would not murmur, we know it is well,
They are gone from the battle, the shot and shell,
And in our anguish we're not alone;
The Father knows all the grief we have known;
Oh God, who once heard the Christ's bitter cry,
Thou knowest what we feel when we see them die.
Our light, has been hid
By the coffin lid,
And dark our noon.
God hears our moan,
He knows how a stricken heart had said,
"Oh, number her not with the silent dead,
For if she stays watching the golden sea,
God help, for what will become of me?
The last rose out of my childhood's bower,
From my English garden, the last sweet flower;
Take me instead, for none call me mother."
The messenger said, "I take no other."
So she went the road
The others have trod,
And I am alone.
We shall meet again;
I fancy sometimes how they talk together,
Of the way they travelled, the stormy weather
That beat so hard on their pilgrim road,
Now changed for the city of their God;
I wonder if in their special home,
They keep choice rooms till their darlings come.
Saviour, who loves them, protect and guide me
Where they are waiting 'neath life's fadeless tree,
Father and mother,
And elder brother,
And sisters twain.
A Song of the Flowers.
"Why are you weeping, ye gentle flowers?
Are ye not blest in your sunny bowers?
Have you startling dreams that make ye weep,
When waking up from your holy sleep?
"Ah, knowest thou not, we fold at night,
The tears earth drops from her eyelids bright,
Like a loving mother her griefs are born,
Lest her tender nurslings should die ere morn,
And the sweet dew falls in each open cup,
Till the eyes of morn are lifted up;
We unfold our leaves to the sun's bright face,
And close them up at the night's embrace.
Dost thou ask if grief comes creeping across,
From the poplar bough to the dark green moss?
No, round us the sunbeams smile and glow,
Round us the streamlets dance and flow,
And the zephyr comes with its gentle breeze,
To sigh out its life in the young green trees,
And then from the beds where the flowers grow,
Rises a melody soft and low.
And the glorious rose with her flushing face,
And the fuschia with her form of grace,
The balsam bright, and the lupin's crest,
That weaves a roof for the firefly's nest;
The myrtle clusters, and dahlia tall,
The jessamine fairest among them all;
And the tremulous lips of the lily's bell,
Join in the music we love so well."
"But startle ye not when the tempests blow?
Have you no dread of a wily foe?
Do you not tremble, when the serpents hiss
Mid leaves that the zephyr alone should kiss?
Lady, the bells of the fainting flowers
Close at the coming of thunder showers;
The branches and tendrils merrily dance
At the whirlwind's cry, and the lightning's glance.
We dread not to see the snake's back of gold?
Dart through the lilacs or marigold,
For fears that dwell in the human breast,
Find in the heart of flowers no rest.
We have no fears when we hear thee pass
Over the fold of the tangled grass,
We have no dread when we hear thee breathe
Over the flowers we love to wreathe,
Nor tremble when night falls from heaven above,
And nature is stillness and earth is love;
We steal from thy keeping when summer is o'er,
And wait thee where flowers can die no more."
The Cities of Old.
Cities and men, and nations, have passed by,
Like leaves upon an autumn's dreary sky;
Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud,
Like drops of rain on summer's fleecy cloud;
Like flowers of a wilderness,
Vanished into forgetfulness.
O! Nineveh, thou city of young Ashur's pride,
With thy strong towers, and thy bulwarks wide;
Ah! while upon thee splashed the Tigris' waters,
How little thought thy wealth-stored sons and daughters,
That Cyaxerses and his troops should wait
Three long years before thy massive gate;
Then Medes and Persians, by the torches' light,
Should ride triumphantly thy streets by night;
And from creation banish thee,
O! Nineveh. O! Nineveh.
And country of the pride of Mizriam's heart,
With pyramids that speak thy wealth and art,
Why is it that no minstrel comes, who sings
Of all the glory of thy shepherd kings?
Tyre, why are thy walls in ruins thus?
Why is thy name so seldom spoke by us?
Sidon, among the nations thou art fled,
Thy joy departed and thy glory dead;
Far gone ere all thy generations,
Fallen nations! Fallen nations!
And Babylon, with all thy thronging bands,
The glory of Chaldea's ancient lands;
Thy temple, where a numerous host was seen,
Thy gardens hung to please the Midian queen;
Where beauteous flowers smiled on their terrace beds,
Proud kings have passed through thee, and crowned heads;
And grandeur and magnificence could view
In thee a resting place--thy stores not few;
Why is it thou art all alone?
O! Babylon. O! Babylon.
And Greece, who shone in literature and might,
When Marathon's broad plains saw sword and fight;
Thy monumental ruins stand alone,
Decay has breathed upon thy sculptured stone
And desolation walks thy princely halls,
The green branch twines around thy olden walls;
And ye who stood the ten years' siege of Troy,
Time's fingers now your battlements annoy;
Why is it that thy glories cease?
O! Classic Greece. O! Classic Greece!
And thou, best city of olden time,
O! we might weep for thee, once chosen clime.
City, where Solomon his temple reared,
City, where gold and silver stores appeared;
City, where priest and prophet lowly knelt,
City, where God in mortal flesh once dwelt.
Titus, and Roman soldiers, laid thee low,
The music in thy streets has ceased to flow;
Yet wilt thou not return in joy once more,
And Lebanon give up her cedar store?
And vines and olives smile as now they smile,
Yet not upon the ruin of a holy pile;
Wilt thou Destruction's flood not stem?
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Cities and men, and nations, have gone by,
Like leaves upon an Autumn's dreary sky;
Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud,
Like drops upon the summer's passing cloud;
Like flowers of a wilderness,
Vanished into forgetfulness.
Out of His Time.
One evening a short time since, our attention was attracted by the
prolonged ringing of a bell. The given number of strokes had sounded, yet
ring, ring, ring. Was it an alarm of fire? No other bell signalled an
answer. Was it some danger to our city? No crowds were gathering. At
length we questioned a passer by, and received for answer, "It is
ringing because an Apprentice is out of his time." "Out of his time!"
We knew nothing of the boy, neither his name or home, but the waves of
air told us something concerning him. We knew he had overcome
difficulties, often had he been disheartened and dismayed, often had he
heard the mocking laugh or coarse jest of his companions, at his
imperfect workmanship, often heard the angry words over goods or tools
spoiled through his ignorance or carelessness. He had risen on dark
mornings when his neighbors, lads his own age, were snugly sleeping; he
had toiled on glorious summer days when his indolent companions were
resting under green trees, or plunging into the cool waters; he had done
the rough work because he was "the boy." Yes, but there is another side
to the picture. With courage renewed, with eyes and fingers becoming more
and more accustomed to the handicrafts of his trade, every month has found
him progressing, till to-night, as the still ringing bell tells us, he has
overcome. His companions gather around him with boisterous mirth, and the
"older hands" feel a certain pride in him, as wringing his hand they know
he ranks among themselves, the means of an honest living at his disposal,
one of God's great army of working men. A few hours passed and another
bell resounded upon our ears. We listened, for that bell had a sad and
solemn sound. Ah, another "Apprentice was out of his time." We knew
something of how he had fought, not with rough iron, but with "the waves
of this troublesome world." We knew how in every day life he strove to do
his duty to his Lord and Master. Dismayed, how often? Discouraged, how
frequently bearing the taunt, the sneer? But he too had overcome. His
companions gather around him, but all mirth is hushed, tears fill their
eyes, and choking words are whispered as they file round the casket, and
look upon the calm dead face, that no more on earth will meet them with
its wonted smile, and the pale hands that have done all their rough
earthwork. His welcome we did not hear. Ah, it is well that the sound of
harps and the silvery peals from the chiming bells of the city of God
reach us not, or perchance we should "stand all the day idle." For are we
not all entered Apprentices in this strange world of ours? Are we not all
"serving our time?" How are we learning our trades? Are we likely to prove
"workmen that need not be ashamed," or are we through fear or negligence
hiding in the earth our Lord's money? Our indentures bear the blood-red
seals of Calvary, our Covenant is "ordered in all things and sure." The
time of our serving here is unknown to us, of the hour of our release
knoweth no man. There have been some who "being made perfect in a short
time, fullfilled for a long time." We have a long line of witnesses gone
on before, but all drawing their life and courage from that Wonderful Man,
the Redeemer of the world, the Carpenter of Galilee. He whose mysterious
indentures were cancelled in the noon-day of His life. He who could stand
among His sorrowing companions and say, "Father, I have finished the work
which Thou gavest me to do." Oh, my fellow apprentices, how often are we
tempted to leave _our_ work unfinished. Do we not thus sometimes
think, "I can never learn my trade for heaven here." We see one wasting
his Master's goods, we see the tables of the money-changers in the temple
of God, we hear our fellows arraigning the Master before their petty
tribunals, we grow faint and weary, we have foes within and without. Doubt
says, "The Master is feasting royally and forgets his poor apprentices."
Courage, courage, my brothers, we are treading the path the saints have
trod. This is but a state of preparation. We know not what work for the
King we may have to do by-and-by; over how many cities of whose locality
we at present know nothing. He may give us authority to which of the
countless worlds in our Father's universe we may be sent on the King's
message of love, to what spirits in prison we, in our spiritual life, may
go to preach of mercy. If here permitted to be the servants of Christ, and
through His merits attaining to that better country, may we not
reasonably infer that we shall aid Him more and more, till the mediatorial
work is ended. Let these thoughts encourage us amidst the cold and heat,
the scorn and shame. Let us see to it that we _do_ work the works of
our Master. Let us often turn our eyes to those two grand rules of our
workshop, "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you," our golden
rule framed in the royal crimson of the King's authority; and that other
silver lettered motto, framed in the clear, true blue of heaven, "Pure
religion and undefiled before God and the Father, is to visit the widow
and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from
the world." Let us imitate that brother workman of whom Whittier says:
"He gave up his life to others,
Himself to his brothers lending;
He saw the Lord in His suffering brothers,
And not in the clouds descending."
Soon, soon we shall be out of our time; but here the figure ends. The
earthly apprentice, freed from his articles of apprenticeship, may serve
any master, the heavenly apprentice asks but _one_. Oh, Jesus,
Master, Thou Saviour of our race, have mercy upon us, grant us so to
serve Thee in time, that our earthly labours ended, we may hear Thee say,
"Well done good and faithful servant," while the pure and beautiful
angels shall rehearse to each other, "Rejoice, another apprentice is out
of his time."
Two Altars.
"And Cain talked with Abel, his brother."
The sun was rising on earth, sin-tainted, yet beautiful,
Delicate gold-colored cloudlets in all their primeval beauty,
Ushered the bright orb of day to his task well appointed,
Like a bevy of beautifal girls in the court of their monarch,
Or a regiment of soldiers all bright in new rose-colored armour.
Two altars arose between earth and the cloud-speckled firmament;
Cain walked in a stern and defiant advance to his altar,
A recklessness flashed from his eyes, and passions unconquered,
As he scornfully looked on the kneeling, worshipping Abel,
Ay scornfully thus he addressed his young innocent brother:
"Look at my sacrifice, Abel, these glistening dew-colored roses,
Those delicate lillies and mosses, these graceful arbutulas;
Look at the golden brown tints of these fruits in their lusciousness;
Look at the bright varied hues of these green leaves, closely encircling
These rich scarlet blossoms, like yonder clouds, glorious and wonderful;
Nothing on earth or in heaven could make fairer oblation.
Abel, what have you carved on your altar, in that wild devotion
By which you in vain seek to soften the anger of heaven?
A circle, to show that your God is all near, is filling
The seen and unseen with His incomprehensible presence.
Well, so let it be, then; I'll not contradict the illusion.
One thing appears certain, that we have offended our Maker,
Who visits unjustly on us the mistakes of our parents,
As if we ever reached out our hands for fruit once forbidden.
Shall we never be free from the thorns and the thistles upspringing?
Why do you still try to follow the steps and voice of your Maker?
And why still persist in slaying the white lambs of your meadows?
Take of my beautiful flowers and despise all blood shedding."
"My brother," spoke Abel, "I love the dear innocent flowers.
Are they not all, nearly all that is left us of Eden's fair glory,
All but the singing of birds, the winds and the waters, wild music,
All but the whispers of love and blessings of heart-broken parents;
But you heard, my brother, as well as myself the commandment,
Not to offer to heaven what _we_ choose, but what God declareth
Will shadow our Faith and sweet Hope in the promised atonement;
And that terrible sin, those spots in our souls, my dear brother,
Can never be cleansed by the lives of the beautiful flowers,
Only by His, shadowed forth in the death of an innocent victim."
Then angrily answered Cain back to his young brother's pleading,
"Abel, I have no patience with such mock humiliations,
I have no need of a Saviour, I have no need of blood-shedding
To wash out the stain of my own or my father's transgression.
I for myself can make perfect and full restitution;
Look at the smoke of your altar curling upward so clearly,
Making white cloudlets on high in the blue of the firmament,
While mine sweeps the ground that is cursed like the trail of the serpent:
Why comes down the Maker of this blighted universe, asking
Why art thou wroth, and why is thy countenance fallen?"
Stand I not here in the image of God, who created us?
Have I not courage, and freedom, and strength above my inferiors?
Did not our father give name to beast, bird, insect and reptile?
Shall his children crouch down and kneel like the creature that crawleth?
I will not obey this commandment, but I'll wreath up my altar
With offerings of earth, with gold of the orange, and red of the roses,
I'll not stain my hands with the blood of an innocent creature."
So Cain turned away from his wondering brother; perhaps then little
dreaming
That on the next morrow he would become earth's first murderer;
And, scorning the death of a lamb, take the life of a brother.
The Doom of Cain.