And offered this excuse for his delay,
"The soil is spongy all along this glen--
To have it settle I have stayed away.
"I now can build on base that will not sink,
Though pierced the clouds which bend so kindly down,
'Twere fit this long delay, dost thou not think?
So chide me not nor on thy servant frown."
Then on this base as firm as granite rock,
He built its walls as fair as falling snow,
And built them well, nor storm, nor earthquake shock
Has moved, tho' built two hundred years ago.
For ten long years wrought twenty thousand men,
While many thousand carts the marble drew;
And proud Jehan told o'er his love again;
To love so Jacob-like the years seemed few.
From every part of his domain they brought
Rare gems and precious stones of every hue;
Skilled hands, in form of birds and flowers inwrought
In snow-white walls, these gems the building through,
The name of God, one hundred times save one,
On the sarcophagus, by cunning hand,
Then lined with gold ere they pronounced it done;
But then the grandest tomb in any land.
By Titans built, it seems, as mountain high
Of pure white marble, based on pink sandstone;
In length it is a thousand feet well nigh,
Its width three hundred feet by measure shown.
It seems a temple of the living _One_,
Though tomb to hide the dust of Jehan's queen.
It serves each purpose well--her course was run,
Returned to God, love must the dust ensheen.
To many hearts it speaks of God and rest,
And lifts our thoughts above the things of earth;
It teaches us that love will give its best,
And then regard its gifts of little worth.
ENGLAND'S BRAVE SONS
The yeoman lays aside his soil-stained smock,
And from his herd selects a trusty steed,
And sallies forth to help in hour of need;
Nor dreads the battle's shock.
The artisan from mine, or shop, or store,
Responds at duty's call without delay,
Nor stops to ask, "What will my nation pay?"
It calls--what needs he more?
The man of law--the herald of the cross--
The painter, skilled--he of the healing art--
The man of trade--come each with loyal heart,
Nor calculates his loss.
But brave as these are those of noble birth;
Genteel in manner, but with athlete frames,
They do full honor to their ancient names,
And prove by deeds their worth.
Palatial homes have they and wealth untold;
Nor need to labor, and no cause for fret,
But deeds of noble sires they ne'er forget;
Deem honor more than gold.
Brave lads are these on whom we may rely.
They go uncalled, content the gaps to fill,
And in their places fall, if God so will,
For they fear not to die.
The whole Empire is loyal to the core.
From far-off East, brave Indians seek the fray,
And on French soil have clearly shown that they
Were true to flag they bore.
Their old-time leader greets his men once more,
Bestows his parting blessing ere his death,
And praised their valor with his final breath,
Then crossed to _other_ shore.
Our own brave youth by thousands answer call,
And in our common cause enroll their names;
With cultured minds and well-developed frames
They stand like granite wall.
For _truth_ and _brotherhood_ all face the foe;
Themselves they cannot save, but others may.
But, live or die, they hope to win the day.
To sacrifice they go!
QUEEN VICTORIA
A Prize Birthday Poem, 1885.
We do not sing of vast domain--
Empires as vast as ours are seen,
And o'er their millions despots reign;
We sing the virtues of our Queen.
We think of her when but a maid
The message came, "_the King is dead!_"
And at her feet a crown was laid;
In deep distress of mind, she said:
"_In my behalf I ask your prayers._"
Then falling on her knees to pray,
She told the Lord her fears and cares,
And sought from Him strength for her day.
He seemed to say, "_Child, do not fear;
I will uphold thee with my hand,
And I will make thy pathway clear,
Thy throne establish in the land._"
'Twas thus began Victoria's reign,
And God has made her throne secure;
Her enemies will plot in vain,
For it is destined to endure.
But while she sits on regal throne,
And acts full well a regal part,
She reigns not on the throne alone,
She reigns to-day in England's heart.
Her queenly heart with pity throbs
For every suffering subject's woes;
In lowly cot, 'midst groans and sobs,
She like a ray of sunshine goes.
As sweet perfume by outward gale
Is carried far o'er sea and land,
So queenly virtues never fail
To touch true hearts on every strand.
In every land, her name is blest;
She is beloved by old and young;
From pole to pole, from east to west,
The song, "God save the Queen," is sung.
Through sorrows deep her path has led,
And tender ties have sundered been;
Bright hopes were buried with her dead,
And love has kept their memory green.
By grief secluded from the world,
Her path through lonely years she trod,
And oft her life has been imperilled;
But she has leaned upon her God.
And as she wept a nation's tears
In heartfelt sympathy were shed;
Forgetting their own griefs and biers,
They wept beside the royal dead.
With grateful hearts her natal day
We loyal Britons hail again,
And join with millions as they pray
"_God bless our Queen! Long may she reign!_"
And when at last life's glories fade,
And robes of state are laid aside,
When nature's debt to dust is paid
And charms no more earth's pomp and pride,
May angel bands her spirit bear
Up to the palace of her King,
Where she a fadeless crown shall wear,
And the new song with rapture sing.
SILVER TONES
A stately church by pious hands erected long ago,
Was found to lack a vesper bell, by which the poor might know
The hour of prayer, the hour of mass, and who had lately died,
The hour when gent and bonny lass, so timid at his side,
Would stand before the surpliced priest, and twain would pledge
their troth,
The hour in which the priest would vent on heretic his wrath.
The faithful then were called upon to bring from home and mine
The metal for the holy bell, which must be strong and fine.
In smelting pot of massive size they placed the needed ore;
A molten mass it soon became, but ere in mould they pour,
And thus provide a bell for God to grace His temple fair,
In crowds the people came, to see the metal glowing there.
Then as they passed, with hearts devout, each took a silver coin
And dropped it in the glowing mass--no priest did this enjoin.
They wished to show their grateful love to Him who bore their sin;
A simple form which love took on, not done God's grace to win.
Nor did they hope to win applause from priest and saintly friar;
If God were pleased they asked no more, nor more did they desire;
Nor did they deem their silver lost, though little dreamed they then
The grand result of their small gifts, which now is known to men.
Their coins were for a moment seen, like flakes of snow on sward,
And then they melted out of sight, yet, seen by their blest Lord,
They mingled with the glowing mass, and when in high church tower
The bell was hung and daily rung, all people felt its power.
Its booming tones were soft and sweet, and echoed o'er their hills
In a grand symphony of praise, subduing all their wills,
And calling forth from old and young a burst of rapturous praise.
Their gifts, though small, were not despised; God turned them into lays.
This world is one great smelting pot in which life's ore is cast,
And from it God will some day bring a bell, destined to last
And ring aloud in thunder tones wherever man is found.
Oh, may we, by kind words and deeds, give it a silver sound!
Each word though short, each deed though small, if for the Master's sake
Are said and done, like silver coin, our blessed Lord will take,
And skillfully will blend them with the coarser ore of earth,
And grander music none have heard e'er since time had its birth.
Then from this bell of silver tone will sound o'er hill and vale:
"The work men do in Jesus' name is never known to fail."
GOD'S ORDER
Every flower that decks the way,
Whether it be dun or gay,
Fills a place in God's great plan,
Serving Him, while pleasing man.
Every star that gilds the night
With its beams of silver light
Has its mission to fulfil,
As assigned it by God's will.
Feathered songsters all declare
As they cleave the ambient air,
"He who made us made our lays,
Giving each a note of praise;
Each one's note, unique and sweet,
Helps to make the song complete;
Various tones, yet all agree,
Forming one grand symphony."
So, also, does God's own hand
Fix in place each grain of sand,
Tiny though that grain may be
Hangs on it the destiny
Of a world, yea, systems whole,
As they in their orbits roll;
Should it from its globe remove,
Worlds would clash and chaos prove.
When we reach the world of mind
Law and order still we find;
In God's purpose is a plan
For the life of every man.
Free, he may his own course choose,
Help divine through pride refuse,
But disorder will ensue--
Life a wreck! Yet God is true.
INFLUENCE
In gentle showers the rain descends,
And softly falls the dew.
The dewdrop with the raindrop blends;
The tiny stream they form then wends
Its way the grasses through.
And kindred streams with it combine
And form a rivulet;
Then on it runs like trailing vine,
Lays bare the roots of oak and pine,
And other brooks are met.
The swelling stream meanders on,
Gives power to busy mills,
And bears huge ships its breast upon,
Gives drink to kine and lovely fawn,
And drinks up other rills.
A lady's foot had changed its course,
And drank it dry a lamb,
Had they but sought it at its source;
But now it rushes on with force
And leaps the mighty dam.
Thus is it with our influence here;
Each look, each word, each deed,
Is like the rain, or dewdrop clear--
Though tiny things they now appear,
They to the ocean lead.
As grains of sand make up the hill
Which towers above the plain,
And drops combine to swell the rill
Which helps the mighty sea to fill,
So does our influence gain.
UNDECAYING FRUIT
Doomed to decay are all things here;
Whate'er their form or worth,
Color and beauty disappear,
Or turn to mother earth.
The luscious fruits which please the taste
And please the eye as well,
Sometimes reduced to rot and waste,
Ere from the tree they fell--
Some gathered with a gentle hand,
And stored away with care,
To serve a place in banquet grand,
Some favorite peach or pear,
Is found diseased in skin and core,
And loathsome to the sight,
When 'tis too late to gather more,
And comes the festal night.
So is it with all earthly joy--
It pleases for a time,
As toy may please a growing boy,
Though costing but a dime;
But soon he tires and asks for more,
Appropriate to his age;
So, though a man may higher soar
And greater aims engage
His active mind, he, like the child,
Soon looks for something new.
Too oft are men by this beguiled
And fail to find the true.
But he who goes to Christ for rest,
Finds fruit that ne'er decays.
He sups with Christ as welcome guest,
And glory crowns his days.
THE HEROES OF OUR DAY
Heroic deeds in every age
Command the world's esteem;
Each finds a place in history's page,
'Midst gloom a glory beam.
And we full oft revert to this,
To show man's true descent
From Him who is the source of bliss,
Tho' now by passions rent.
But we need not consult the past;
The present bears this fruit:
The hero race will ever last;
The tree is sound at root.
And never has the world excelled
The present in this line;
Our loving Lord has not withheld
From us this trait divine.
And we should not from them withhold
The praise we feel is due
For deeds of love, and actions bold,
For spirit kind and true.
Their worth we now should recognize,
Not chant it o'er their graves;
The hero of the past we prize,
No less the man who braves
The dangers of the present hour,
The sneers which now are rife,
Not for the sake of earthly power,
Nor yet to save his life.
But for the good of fellow man,
And for his Master's sake,
He shuns no cross, and fears no ban;
'Tis these a hero make.
THE BIG BEAR CREEK
The waters of the Big Bear creek
Glide slowly on their way;
The western lakes they surely seek,
Which they will reach some day;
But sluggishly they seek their end--
They scarcely seem to move;
Yet through the fields and round each bend
Their progress daily prove.
By debris borne upon their breast,
And strewn along each shore,
They slowly move, but never rest,
Yet turbid evermore.
But when they reach the Johnson bend
And the Sni Chartna meet,
The turbid and the sky-blue blend--
The union is complete.
And soon is lost all trace of mud;
Of azure tint the whole;
With heaven's own hue the rolling flood
Has gained the long-sought goal.
So is it with the soul renewed
While on its heaven-bound way,
With grace divine it is embued,
Yet shows the trace of clay.
And though to rest it never halts,
Its progress is so slow;
Alas, it has too many faults,
Nor much of heavenly glow.
But when God's sanctifying grace
Shall meet it from above,
You seek in vain for sinful trace--
It now is full of love.
A new impulse it then receives
Which speeds it on its way;
To it no stain of sin now cleaves--
It seeks its perfect day.
And as the azure stream has found
Its home in brimming lake,
So shall the soul thus heavenward bound
Of God's own joy partake.
THE FROST ON THE WINDOW
Feathery frost on the window-pane,
Who placed you there? "I cannot explain,"
Each little feather at once replied;
"But this I know, I'm the children's pride,
As they think I fell from an angel's wing,
And coming to earth must rich blessings bring.
"I once formed part of a lovely bay;
The sun shone out, and I turned to spray,
And rose aloft on the ambient air,
To the regions high where all is rare;
Then I mingled with my old friends again,
Who were my neighbors in the haunts of men.
"On the blustering wind, I rode along,
Sometimes hard tossed by the tempest strong,
And then at rest, as when in the bay,
Though much enlarged, the wise savants say;
Though I cannot tell you how long my sleep,
With a chill I woke and began to weep.
"And my ample form much smaller grew,
By the cold compressed to a drop of dew;
Then down I fell, swift as bounding deer,
And knew no more till I fell right here;
But how I became so like a feather
Is problem I can unravel never.
"But, oh, how the sun begins to burn!
I think I must to the clouds return.
Farewell, my boy! but you must not fret;
We meet again, as we now have met,
If not as a feather, perhaps a tree,
Or whatever the Wise One may make of me."
"WILT THOU HARASS A DRIVEN LEAF?"
O harass not a driven leaf,
Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue;
A life so brief load not with grief,
Nor with thine arrow pierce me through.
The fragile leaf, by tempest tost,
Is scarcely worth a passing thought;
The brook is crossed, and then is lost;
There let it lie, a thing of naught.
The stubble dry ne'er grows again;
To golden grain it gave its sap.
It died, and then 'twas left by men
To rot betimes, or some mishap.
Am I not like the stubble dry
And fragile leaf by tempest strewed?
Must I not die, then tell me why
A thing so frail is thus pursued?
A voice replies: "Thy life is frail,
Much like the leaf and stubble dry;
Thy strength must fail, and as the gale
Bears them away, so must thou die;
"But live again, in bliss, or pain;
For death to man does not end all;
Life is not vain, if thou but gain
A _home in heaven_, when I shall call!
"To fit thy soul for endless rest,
I harass now the driven leaf,
But though sore pressed and grief distressed,
The life of sorrow will be brief.
"And when released from suffering clay,
Thy blood-bought spirit shall arise
To endless day. Then thou shalt say,
_The ways of God are good and wise._"
A GEM
The gem is not this ode itself;
Hardly can it aspire so high.
Earth has its gems; but all its wealth,
Increased by thousands, cannot buy
Man's _soul_, the gem of priceless worth,
Made in God's image at its birth;
Ordained to live for evermore;
Redeemed by blood from sin and hell;
Transformed by grace, God's love to tell;
And at His feet its homage pour.
Lordly are its endowments, too;
Superb its destiny, if true;
Only below, said one who knew,
Unfallen angels round God's throne.
Lord, may this gem be Thine alone.
THE CLOUDS
A grand stairway do these clouds appear
As they heavenward rise, tier upon tier,
With clearly-marked space of blue between,
Compared with which human art looks mean.
Do the angels tread this grand staircase,
When they come to earth to bless our race,
And lend their aid to each struggling soul
As he ascends toward the heavenly goal?
Was this the ladder by Jacob seen,
That reached from heaven to the mattress green
On which he lay all the lonely night
Till God afforded the blessed sight,
And made him feel, tho' an exile here,
His father's God would be ever near--
The servant's cry would to heaven arise,
And blessings fall from the bending skies?
But no staircase do the angels need;
They come to earth at a greater speed,
Not step by step, nor on eagle's wing,
Nor beams of light do their message bring.
Though heaven be far beyond mortal ken,
Assisted by all the arts of men,
A moment's time and the space is passed,
And heaven's best gifts at our feet are cast.
Not a cloud stairway, nor ladder long,
Connects this earth with the land of song;
The Saviour bends from the opening skies--
He smiles in love, and our souls arise.
As flakes of steel to the magnet fly,
And mists ascend to the sun on high,
So we are drawn by the cords of love
From the earth below to thrones above.
O lift me up from my bed of clay,
To dwell with Thee in the realms of day.
If 'tis Thy will I should tarry still,
Prepare me, Lord, for Thy Holy Hill.
THE MOSSES
Exquisite mosses, so lovely and green,
Covering the rocks with emerald sheen;
Hiding the scars which convulsions have made;
Blessing the mound where our angel was laid;
Forming a carpet on which we may tread;
Clothing with beauty the rotten and dead;
Sheathing from storm-blasts the young forest tree--
Beautiful mosses, examples for me.
Trod under foot by all kinds of men;
Gracing the mountain or hid in the fen;
Never adorning the brow of the fair;
Seldom deemed worthy some corner to share
In the bouquets that are cast in the way
Princely feet tread on reception's proud day;
The glory of roses do not attain;
Beautiful mosses, ye grow not in vain.
Answer the end by your Maker designed.
Humble your bloom, but your mission is kind.
Those will most prize you who knew you the best.
Cover me o'er when I lie down to rest;
Cover, likewise, in the marble my name,
Hiding forever that index of shame;
But tell to the world, "as life he passed through,
He covered some scars and aimed to be true."
THE GRANDEST THEME
The grandest theme for tongue, or pen,
Is not the heavens supernal;
Nor mighty deeds of God-like men,
Though they may be eternal;
Nor Alpine heights, nor lovely vale,
With brooks and grazing cattle;
Nor awful roar of rushing gale,
Beyond the noise of battle;
Nor clashing arms, nor trembling earth;
Nor heaving waves of ocean;
Nor record of a nation's birth;
Nor heaven's cloud-cars in motion.
The grandest theme, for tongue, or pen,
Above all else in glory;
Which suits alike, all sinful men,
Is the sweet Gospel story,
Which tells me of my Saviour's love
And infinite compassion,
Which brought Him from His throne above
To Calvary's cross and passion.
And now the holy angels sing,
With blood-washed souls in glory,
A song which makes heaven's arches ring
About this Gospel story.
SEPTEMBER
The hills are clad in purple and in gold,
The ripened maize is gathered in the shock,
The frost has kissed the nuts, their shells unfold,
And fallen leaves are floating on the lock.
The flowers their many-colored petals drop;
But seed-pods full and ripe they leave behind,
A prophecy of more abundant crop,
And proof that nature in decay is kind.
But still the dahlia blooms, and pansies, too;
The golden-rod still rears its yellow crest.
The sumach bobs are now of crimson hue,
The luscious grape has donned its purple vest.
The forest trees, so long arrayed in green,
Wear now a robe like Joseph's coat of old,
Brighter than that on eastern satrap seen,
Tho' clad was he in purple and fine gold.
The woodbine twined about the giant oak
Blends with its purple-red a brighter shade.
Co-mingled thus our praises they evoke,
Tho' we know well this glory soon must fade.
The fields are green with grass and new-sown wheat,
Tho' here and there a brown stalk may appear,
A dying rag-weed, ripened by the heat,
To reproduce an hundred-fold next year.
The melon yellows in the kindly sun,
The peach puts on its blush like virtuous maid,
The gourd its snow-white band like brow of nun,
While flower and gum the air with fragrance lade.
The swallows gather on the fence and wire,
Chatter a loud farewell to barn and nest,
And then on wings which never seem to tire
They fly away in southern bowers to rest.
The thrush no longer sings its tender song
In osage thicket, or in locust hedge,
But pipes its notes the negro boys among,
On cotton plant, or Alabama sedge.
The blackbird lingers by the flowing brook,
Or perches proudly on the shock of corn;
The lark still hovers round its meadow nook,
And soars and sings as on a vernal morn.
The robin, too, is loth to quit the lawn
And visits yet his nest beneath the eaves;
I hear his cheering notes at early dawn--
To part with these old friends my spirit grieves.
But soon these feathered songsters must away,
Ere winter's frosts shall chill them thro' and thro';
In other lands they find the summer day,
The opening flower, and the refreshing dew.
The air, tho' chill, is not surcharged with death,
But health-inspiring germs it bears along.
We drink in vigor with our every breath,
And life appears like spring, each day a song.
God spreads a carpet for our weary feet,
Richer than those which grace the palace floor;
The rainbow hues are in it all complete,
And tints, I think, of full a thousand more.
God with His hands of wind for woof collects
The forest leaves, and weaves them with the grass,
With nap of richest hues the fabric decks,
And spreads it out for feet of every class.
A haze at times may veil the smiling sky,
The sun his golden locks exchange for gray;
But soon a western blast comes sweeping by--
The mists depart, and glory crowns the day.
The lowing cattle roam from field to field;
No more content in narrow bounds to stay;
The ozone in the autumn air has healed
Their every ill, and lo, the dull beasts play.
This season has its lesson each should learn--
The fading leaf reminds us of our doom;
But whether like the stately tree, or fern,
In hope we travel onward to the tomb.
We look not for the Winter, but the Spring,
When we shall glow in beauty from the skies;
Each now his tribute sheaf of praise should bring,
Then hear his Lord's "Well done!" O glorious prize.
THE FLOWERS
Some flowers are brighter far in hue
Than others by their side,
But God baptizes all with dew,
And spreads His mantle wide
To cover all for half the day,
From rays of scorching sun,
Though some may shine in colors gay,
And some in sober dun.
And I account each one my friend,
The stately and the plain.
Diverse their hue, but not their end;
For me none bloom in vain;
For all proclaim their Maker's skill,
And point to bloom above;
In God's great plan their part fulfil,
And whisper "God is _love_."
The fragrance lades the summer air
With health-inspiring germs,
Ascend on high as nature's prayer,
Suggesting well the terms
Of God-accepted prayer from man,
Odors of grateful praise;
For though in penitence began,
It ends in joyful lays.
THE BUD
The winter through I lay asleep,
Unconscious and unseen;
The howling winds disturbed me not,
Nor felt the frost tho' keen.
Thick blankets covered me about,
And kept me dry and warm,
And weeks and months passed quickly by
And I received no harm.
At last I felt uneasy in
My cosy little cot,
Tho' it was lined with softest down.
The cause I knew not what.
I struggled hard to free myself,
But struggled all in vain;
My blankets felt the strain, 'tis true,
And opened to the rain,
But just enough for me to see
The frowning sky o'erhead;
I closed my eyes, in sad affright,
And wished that I was dead.
But soon a change came o'er my frame,
Much like electric shock;
Oh, how I longed for some rare key
With which I might unlock
My prison door, for I now felt
The breath of coming Spring,
And heard, likewise, her merry laugh,
Like silver bells its ring.
My lips were close to blanket rent,
I ceased my useless strife,
And she bent over me in love,
And kissed me into life.
BEAUTIFUL SKY
O beautiful sky of every hue;
Golden and purple, crimson and blue,
With some sombre lines thrown in between,
And some bright spots of emerald green.
The earth is wed to the sun it seems,
And to grace the robe of his royal bride
No pains are spared, nor a tint untried,
And thus complete it with glory gleams.