Lo beauty glows on the earth's fair brow!
And the lovely flowers at once arise
To match the glow of the radiant skies,
The sparkling dewdrops at morn are seen,
Close nestling among the petals rare,
Like crystal studs in a maiden's hair,
Brighter then gems which adorn a queen.
BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES
Buttercups and daisies growing everywhere,
In the field of clover, on the hillside fair,
And in lovely valley, tilled with greatest care.
Naught but weeds and rubbish, in the farmer's eyes,
Drawing off the nurture from the grain they prize,
And their great luxuriance sore their patience tries.
But the dews of heaven give them richest bloom,
And their smiling beauty drives away our gloom;
For such little beauties surely there is room.
In this world of sorrow flowers ne'er bloom in vain,
Though they in their blooming sap the golden grain,
And drink in the moisture of the latter rain;
For our Heavenly Father deemed it wise and good
To diffuse this beauty with the grain for food.
And this wise arrangement He has never rued.
Teaching us this lesson we are slow to learn;
Man lives not for eating, nor for duties stern,
But to serve God's pleasure, then to Him return.
Room for joy is given and for purest bliss,
And we may all find them in a world like this,
If our aims are sordid all this gold we miss;
But if we are faithful and to God inclined,
Seeing Him in nature, and of heavenly mind,
Aiming to be like Him, and by grace refined,
We shall live forever where there is no gloom;
Though the path to glory leadeth through the tomb;
But a moment's darkness--flowers that ever bloom.
THE MOSS ROSE
'Tis said, long since an angel came to earth,
Sent by his Lord, to help with loving hand
A suffering one, afflicted from his birth.
The limb was healed as by divine command,
But He felt weak, for strength from Him had gone,
A sacrifice which love could not withhold;
So he sought shelter till the morning dawn,
But none received--they prized not love, but gold.
Then 'neath a rose bush did the angel lie,
And rested well until the break of day,
When much refreshed he sought his home on high,
But ere he started on his upward way,
He said to sheltering rose, in loving voice,
"What man refused thou hast afforded me.
What is thy wish? Make known to me thy choice;
The God of love and power will grant it thee!"
"I ask no brighter hue," the rose replied,
"Both old and young smile on me as they pass,
My buds adorn the bosom of the bride,
And hide among the locks of lovely lass;
With fragrance, too, I own myself content,
For naught on earth surpasses me in this;
But if, indeed, my Maker thee has sent
I ask but this, to consummate my bliss:
"I feel the cold, both in my bark and bud,
When Autumn winds sweep o'er the western hill,
And frozen dewdrops oft my branches stud,
Which mar my beauty and my juices chill.
Give me an extra garb, 'tis all I lack."
"Thou hast thy wish, I shelter found in thee,
I take delight in kind to pay thee back.
Let softest moss thy extra garment be."
Then touched the angel bark, and bud, and leaf,
And soft green moss suffused it o'er and o'er.
He lingered near it for a moment brief,
Plucked off a bud, which he to heaven bore;
And now the rose smiles at the raging storm,
Defies the wind and nipping frost as well;
Its fragrance still retains, and lovely form,
While nestling budlets this old story tell.
GOD'S CARE
I fear not, my Father, the tempest's loud roar,
Nor dread the huge breakers on the rock-girded shore;
Thy presence is with me, my refuge is near,
With help all-sufficient; oh, why should I fear?
Tho' billows of sorrow should roll o'er my head,
My sun sink in darkness, and joys be all dead,
Thy presence will cheer me, and spectres will flee,
For who can molest me while trusting in thee?
MY LOT
My lot on earth is not all mirth,
Nor is it constant gloom;
Some joys decay and fall away,
But leave much lasting bloom.
My wishes are not always met,
And cares press hard at times;
Yet joyous strains ne'er sink to fret,
Tho' dollars shrink to dimes.
My earthly lot boasts not a cot,
No foot of land I own,
No bank account nor phosphate mount,
Nor credit for a loan;
But I can read my title clear
To mansion, robe, and crown;
I couple these with lot down here,
And sing, tho' foes may frown.
GOD'S FOOT ON THE CRADLE
The air is chill with the frost of doubt,
And men's hearts are sadly failing;
They do not hear the great Victor's shout;
But indulge in bitter wailing.
"The old gives place to the new," they say,
"And fond hopes are daily buried;
Our cherished views are oft borne away,
As if by the tempest hurried.
"The world is stirred to its very heart,
And the Church shares the commotion;
With systems old, we are loathe to part,
To sail on an unknown ocean.
The world now heaves like the great sea's breast,
And rocks like an infant's cradle;
And looking up, by sore grief oppressed,
We find the sky draped in sable."
I will not fear, though the earth should rock,
If God's foot be on the cradle;
But rest in peace midst the tempest's shock,
Rejoicing that God is able
To still the world with His mighty hand,
If His timid child should waken;
Or, if it rock, He will by me stand;
And my heart shall not be shaken.
GOD'S GIFTS TO BE ENJOYED
From God's all bounteous hand descend
Rare gifts in rich effusion,
And with those gifts no poisons blend,
Nor is their end delusion;
So do not spurn if He bestow
Those forms arrayed in beauty;
If thus His gifts with radiance glow,
Enjoyment is a duty.
Come, deck your brows with leaves and flowers,
Ye fair ones, nothing fearing;
Adorn your homes and train your bowers
Nor deem this sin's appearing;
We do not fit ourselves for bliss
By scorning all adorning;
We may enjoy the good of this
And share heaven's brighter morning.
A garment plain may have its stain,
And saintly brows lack sweetness;
But he who would heaven's glory gain
Must here acquire a meetness;
So eat and drink, rejoice and sing,
But don't forget the ending;
The bells of earth more sweetly ring
If we are heavenward tending.
The world we use, but not abuse,
If we enjoy its beauty;
And they who all its joys refuse
Miss privilege and duty.
Then prize earth's joys, but prize much more
The bloom beyond the river;
God's gifts enjoy, but e'er adore
The ever blessed Giver.
THE HIGHEST GOAL
The highest goal is not success,
If that be made the aim;
But faithfulness, tho' counted less,
Is what God promises to bless:
These goals are not the same.
And if I am to do my best
In every line of life,
My effort will be surely blest,
And I will find in toil sweet rest,
Tho' in a world of strife.
And when before the throne I stand
To answer for the use
Of gifts received from God's own hand,
He will not then, in wrath, demand
From me some strong excuse,
To show why I had not attained
The goal of grand success,
Such as some noted men have gained,
For if my work is not sin-stained
God will my failures bless.
And I will hear Him say, "My son,
A throne thou hast attained;
Without applause thy race was run,
'Midst failures oft thy work was done,
_Life's highest goal is gained_."
JOY IN THE MORNING
The night of affliction, with its long hours of sadness,
Will soon pass away to be remembered no more;
And the weeping will end in a morning of gladness;
For no sorrow is known on the evergreen shore.
In this world we shall have tribulation and sorrow;
'Tis enough for the subject to be as his king;
But if we are faithful, joy will come with the morrow,
And with the blood-washed a new song shall we sing.
"HE SHALL DWELL ON HIGH"
(Isaiah 33:16)
Tossed about in strange commotion
Like the surface of the ocean
When the wind, its waters lashing,
Sends great billows, roaring, dashing
O'er the breakers, which for ages
Have withstood the storms it wages,
See those clouds, so like this ocean,
How they whirl in strange commotion.
Dust and vapor now are meeting,
Each the other wildly greeting;
As one hand another grasping,
So are these each other clasping;
Now they whirl in form fantastic
And great trees with boughs elastic
With loud moans are lowly bending,
Leaves and fruit to earth descending.
Eyes 'most blinded, nerves all shaken,
By this fearful storm o'ertaken,
As it swept on toward the sunrise;
Yet, I chanced to lift my dim eyes
Upward, when, O sight entrancing,
I beheld, to west advancing,
Other clouds, in higher current,
Unlike earth's, so wild and errant.
Far above the wild commotion,
Like great ships on peaceful ocean,
Floating westward, grand and steady,
Were those clouds, as if made ready,
As great cars, with grand pavilions,
To convey the ransomed millions
From this earth where storms are raging
To that land of charms engaging.
Life on earth is a probation;
Storms fit well in this relation;
Yet, above, are peaceful regions,
Where ne'er come hell's dreaded legions.
Looking toward the things eternal,
We may rise to realms supernal,
Where earth's dust will not defile us
Nor the cunning foe beguile us.
To this higher plain, O lift me,
Gracious Lord! ere Satan sift me,
Far above this noisy Babel;
Far above earth's clouds, all sable;
Up so far no darts can reach me,
Where the Holy Ghost will teach me;
And, in perfect peace abiding,
I will sing while heavenward riding!
BAG YOUR GAME
Two men, well versed in use of arms,
Set out, 'tis said, in search of game.
Each felt that hunting had its charms,
Yet widely differed they in aim.
Both felt their need of wholesome food
For present use and winter's store;
But one was of a careless mood--
Than the day's sport he asked no more.
No game he bagged from morn till night,
Content to show his master skill
In hitting every bird at sight,
And shooting down the deer at will.
Grand sport he deemed it, day by day,
As in the tangled forest brake
He brought the bounding stag to bay,
Or shot the wood-duck in the lake.
As he each night to home returned
He sang the pleasure of the chase;
But had not yet the lesson learned
That he was loser in the race.
Yet, when sat in the winter's cold
And game had fled to warmer clime,
He had no stock to sell for gold,
Nor food: and past his harvest time.
The chase the other prized as well;
But bagged his game as best he could,
And thus had lots of pelts to sell--
For self and wife the choicest food.
In the pursuit of game a thrill
Of keenest joy shot through his heart;
But joy complete he knew not till
He went his way joy to impart.
While he with wife and children shared
The roasted duck and venison,
He felt he as a king had fared;
And though of earth a denizen,
Such food would give both strength and cheer
To meet lifes daily toil aright,
And winter months he did not fear,
His larder filled, and prospect bright.
The search for Truth with pleasure thrills;
To find it, we our end attain--
Possessed, new joy the spirit fills,
And to retain is highest gain.
The pleasure of pursuit is lost
If truth itself is not secured.
O buy the truth at any cost,
And from your aim be not allured!
OTHERS' BURDENS
My greatest grief is not my own;
That often proves a blessing,
For in my grief God's care is shown,
And as I am not left alone,
It never proves distressing;
But when my brother's grief I bear
The weight then seems excessive;
His heavy load I inly share,
And loaded down by double care,
My burden feels oppressive.
Yet I remember Him who bore
The world's great load of sorrow,
And know that He on me will pour
The needed grace to bear the more,
To-day and on the morrow.
MEMORY
Remembrance of the past will joy impart
If in that past the conscience was supreme;
But if the soul be made an auction mart,
And thoughts and deeds be sold for what you deem
The price of virtue, then the called-up past
Will be like hooks of steel to hold thee fast.
Or like the stings those nettles left behind
Which I so fondly handled in my play;
I deemed the friend who warned me true and kind,
And in great haste I threw the weeds away,
But soon the burning flesh reminded me
'Twere safer far from all such weeds to flee.
The cloud that flitted o'er the saintly brow
Which now a crown of life so well adorns,
When you by ways and means you know not now,
Did what your soul with holy horror scorns,
Will stay with you long as you live on earth,
And be like gall to spoil your cup of mirth.
The smiles of those we bless are lasting, too;
We feel their cheering glow each cloudy day.
As falls on wilted flower the healing dew,
So they refresh, and chase our gloom away;
We feel though weak we have not lived in vain,
And know God smiles tho' we cannot explain.
The footprints on the rock time wears away;
The rock itself soon crumbles into dust;
But memories of the past have come to stay,
Nor flood, nor fire, nor the consuming rust,
Can ever from the soul the past erase.
Guard thou thy life, O man, with heavenly grace.
THE ROYAL WAY
Perfection ever is the price of toil.
Of marchings long, and hardships by the way,
Of burdens borne, oft in the heat of day,
'Tis then as right the victor claims the spoil.
The world admires the wreath upon his brow,
But he alone can tell how much it cost,
And how to gain it he had all things lost.
Results men see, but not the _when_, or _how_.
The stately elm which rears its head so high,
And spreads abroad so gracefully its boughs,
Beneath which may repose a herd of cows,
Grows under ground as well as toward the sky.
The bridge which spans the swiftly-flowing stream
O'er which the iron horse, by night and day,
With heavy tread speeds on its busy way,
Rests not on sand, nor slender post and beam.
Below the shifting sand, on solid rock,
The mason safely laid the buttress stone,
And labored long before his work was shown;
But he built well--his work endures each shock.
This work takes time; we chafe at the delay
And try to gain the summit at a bound,
But find full soon our hopes dashed to the ground;
Yet there remains for all the _royal way_.
And he who would true eminence attain
Must heed the word of Him who came to serve,
Nor from this path a single moment swerve,
If he the great reward would surely gain.
This is the royal way--_to serve in love_--
Servant to servants ever aim to be
Like Him who gave His life to ransom thee;
Then shalt thou sit with Him on throne above.
'STABLISHED
The well-built house with walls of brick, or stone,
May tremble some if struck by the cyclone;
The most established saint may trials feel,
As flint may turn the edge of finest steel.
Satanic hosts may rush in like a flood,
Allied with foes of our own flesh and blood,
The elements of earth and hell combine,
Yet tho' he trembles, stands in strength divine;
He rests secure on the unyielding rock.
The top may sway, but base feels not the shock;
His heart is fixed, nor earth nor hell can move;
They wrench not loose, but his allegiance prove.
Christ wept with Mary at her brother's grave;
Laid down His life a rebel world to save;
Tried, like ourselves, and like us too, infirm,
Yet knew no sin in either root or germ;
Let us be like Him while we sojourn here,
Then storms and earthquakes we need never fear.
A MEROGNOSTIC
I know in part, but know not all,
The part I know is known;
What know I not I hope with Paul
To know before the throne.
Till then where knowledge fails I trust
The truth God has revealed,
As known by me, forever must
Be like the truth concealed.
I know God _is_, tho' hid from sight,
And know He cares for me;
In blessing me He takes delight,
And I by faith can see
His skilful hand and loving heart,
In all my life's affairs,
And feel content to know but part
If He knows all my cares.
I know God gave His Son to die
A sacrifice for man,
And live all who on Him rely,
And meet His claims I can,
Yet I know not how in Him meet
The human and divine;
But God He is, and at His feet
I fall, and feel Him mine.
Nor do I understand the change
The spirit wrought in me;
A work so great exceeds my range,
But I can feel and see
The inward peace, and outward trend,
And hear likewise His voice,
The outward with the inward blend,
And answer to my choice.
I know not how mind touches mind
And thoughts spring into life;
Nor know the mystic bands which bind,
Like husband to the wife,
My loving Lord and my poor soul,
But this I know full well,
If I submit to His control
I cannot sink to hell.
I know the world shakes to its base,
And man still wars with man,
The bane of sin rests on our race,
And Satan leads the van;
But hope exults within my breast
Tho 'darkness shrouds the sky;
God is the friend of the oppressed,
The good will never die.
I know not why my plans should fail
When I have plan'd for God,
And on this ground my foes assail,
But I still kiss the rod,
For tho' I cannot tell the why
My heart is filled with peace;
I can on my dear Lord rely,
And wait for my release.
I know He is both true and kind,
And has my good at heart.
His discipline will only bind
With cords which naught can part,
My heart's affections to His throne,
And fit me for my rest,
Nor do I tread life's path alone;
_He knows_, and I am blest.
"SALUT AUX BLESSIS"
A group of mounted officers
Ride up and fall in line;
Their gleaming swords hang at their sides,
Chevrons their arms entwine;
They bare their heads as pass along
A train of wounded men,
Their shattered comrades from the field
They ne'er may meet again.
"_Salut aux Blessis!_" loud they cry.
The wounded soldiers hear,
And for a time forget their pain,
And swell the lusty cheer.
Thus should it be in other lines;
The men who lead the van
Should e'er accord a brother's cheer
To every wounded man.
The "rank and file" the wounds receive;
Sometimes the leader, too;
But honest wounds none should despise;
The bearer may be true.
He stood his ground 'gainst mighty odds,
And dared the shot and shell;
So bare your heads, ye scarless ones,
And say, "_Thou hast done well!_"
SONNET
Each human life with mysteries is replete;
They press upon us in its early dawn,
And multiply apace as years roll on,
And at each turn we must their problems meet.
Reason is blind, and fails their end to see,
Misjudges God and gathers only woe,
And from this spring much turbid waters flow.
Only the pure in heart from doubt are free;
They read aright the writing on the wall
Which solves the problems of our earthly lot;
To them God draws aside the veil, and shows
The golden threads with which the garment glows,
And why one dwells in palace, one in cot,
And how His love is working good to all.
BROTHERHOOD
Is brotherhood to flesh confined?
Is there no kinship of the soul?
To have it thus, I am resigned,
If 'tis my God-appointed goal;
For there are those whom I hold dear,
Who claim with me a common sire,
That we, with one accord, revere,
And love holds out midst flood and fire.
But is the family so small
Of which I fondly claim a part?
Is there no other I may call
A brother, and within my heart
Cherish for him, whate'er his name,
Or rank, or color, or his creed,
A love of pure and changeless flame,
And feel I render but his meed?
Thank God for brotherhood so broad
That all the human race may share
A kinship, never yet outlawed,
Tho' types of it have been too rare.
But bigotry is doomed to die,
And hate, a relic of the past;
The golden age is drawing nigh,
And all one family at last!
SHE DEARLY LOVED THE FLOWERS
I saw her first when she was old,
Her form devoid of grace;
Her locks that once were yellow gold
Were white, and on her face
Were furrows deep, which told of pain,
And toil, and worldly fret,
Which all, alas, had been in vain,
But nature claimed the debt.
Her eyes were gray and lacked in glow,
Her voice some thought was gruff,
And when excited was not slow
To use a sharp rebuff;
For she in speech was free from art;
Men feared her verbal stroke,
And yet they said, "She has a heart;
She never wears a cloak."
Her creed, perhaps, was heterodox,
If creed she ever had.
She knew far more of pans and crocks,
But this was not her fad;
Her light, I fear, did not shine out
In pious talk and airs,
In fact I entertain a doubt
If she oft said her prayers.
Her light, if dim, was never hid,
Yet looked not for applause;
For kindly deeds she often did,
In line with highest laws.
She lacked it may be that rare grace
Which some I know endowers,
Yet good in her I gladly trace--
_She dearly loved the flowers._
MY PANSY PETS
My pansy pets are sleeping well
Beneath their quilt of snow;
How they can breathe I cannot tell,
Nor how their rootlets grow;
But soon the snow will melt away
And April showers descend;
Then shall appear in colors gay
Each little pansy friend.
Of pride it may not show a trace;
Of lowly mind, alway;
But will not blush to show its face
All through the lifelong day:
Its fragrance other flowers surpass,
In form more stately, too.
But when you see my pets in mass,
Thank God they ever grew.
For though the human face may frown,
Or show a heart of guile,
My pansy pets as you look down
Will look at you and smile;
Nor will they murmur if you should
Pluck off their brightest bloom;
Their mission is to do us good,
And smile away our gloom.
LOVE BETTER THAN KNOWLEDGE
O Thou Eternal One, look down
Upon an erring child of earth;
Thy handiwork with knowledge crown,
Or life will seem of little worth;
By Thine own light illume my way,
And turn this darkness into day.
I hear a whisper in my heart--
"Than knowledge, better far is love;
Thy knowledge here is but in part,
The perfect waits for Thee above:
Walk now by faith, and leave to me
The things now wrap'd in mystery."
Weighed down with mysteries profound
I lean upon Thy loving breast;
The great unknown still girts me round,
But Thou art mine, and here I rest;
Unsolved the mysteries remain;
But they no longer give me pain.
My finite mind may never grasp
The thought of Thy immensity;
But I Thy hand more firmly clasp--
To feel Thee near suffices me;
For Thou art knowledge, power, and love,
The same in earth and heaven above.
A SUFFERING GOD
Man is like God in miniature,
When he is at his best;
His motives and impulses pure,
His heart and will at rest;
No conflict in himself is felt,
His light no earthly beam,
While love encircles like a belt,
And conscience is supreme.
As thus endowed a creature may
The keenest sufferings feel;
Not such as rack the frame of clay,
Which art of man may heal;
But pain untold at others' woes,
And deadly blight of sin,
Which right and virtue overthrows,
And blackens all within.
And may not God have suffered much
Ere reached the gory cross?
Did not our woe the God-heart touch?
Did He not feel our loss?
The "Man of Sorrows" we adore,
And own His sufferings real;
But suffered He as God before;
For God can sorrow feel.
THE COPY
Looking o'er this written page,
Many blurs and blots are seen;
Crooked strokes, at every stage--
Oh, that it again were clean,
As at first I found it, when
I defiled it with my pen!
Gladly would I all erase;
But along the lines of blue
You could still the failure trace
In the paper's darkened hue;
Though the words could not be seen,
You could trace where they had been.
I will try to do my best,
Though my ideal be not gained;
On the Master's scrip shall rest
Eager eyes, till is attained
Some resemblance to His hand;
If no more I can command.
Like my life, this written sheet,
So unlike the pattern given;
Crooked strokes, I oft repeat;
Oh, that from it could be riven
All the blurs and blots of sin;
All the self that's found within.
_I_ can not the past erase.
_Christ_ shall blot the crooked out,
Leaving not the slightest trace
Of my sin, the lines about;
And will give me grace to write
Pages pleasing in His sight.
I will try to do my best,
As He gives me strength and light,
Leaving with Him all the rest;
He will keep life's pages white;
And the copy shall be shown
Perfected, before His throne.
PERFECT WORK
An artist skilled beyond the sons of men
With pleasure scanned the pictures on the wall,
Rare works of art, each one pronounced a gem,
The product of his hand, both great and small;
Each filled its place in the designer's plan;
Conceived in full before the work began.
Pleased was the artist with results as shown;
But his ideal was not as yet attained;
It needed this, as palace needs a throne,
But _throne_ a _king_--then is perfection gained,
When his great masterpiece hangs in its place,
And the great artist looks in his own face.
THE JOHNSTOWN DISASTER, 1889
Look down, ye Alleghenies, into the Conemaugh vale,
And see the rising waters, and hear the bitter wail;
The swollen streams now empty their contents in the lake,
The waters rise to kiss the skies and walls of granite shake.
Oh, hear that awful booming; the dam has given way!
An avalanche of water God's hand alone can stay!
Oh, leap, ye hills, before it and keep this torrent back,
Or devastated towns and homes will mark its onward track!