The wind seems ever languid, weary
But hope still clings to the gifts of the Past—
We trust that the rain will come at last
And the days be damp and cheery.
O, clouds sweep o’er, veil the sun’s hot shining!
With copious rains, come, hush all repining,
Swell the shrunken grains of the sun-burnt lands,
With new, green grass clothe the arid sands,
Then the days will be bright and cheery.
August, 1895.
The Great Poet.
Upon Parnassian heights he walked and gazed below;—
From wing of Jove’s high soaring bird he plucked his pen;
Attuned to poet soul, his lofty numbers flow—
His stately verse ne’er stoops to common needs of men.
The earth-born, toiling throng, he saw, but from afar;
No interlinking brotherhood bound him to them;
For them no warmth his glory shed—a cold, bright star,
On which they gazed as on a costly, dazzling gem.
To those who nearest reach his altitude of thought
He bends himself to speak, but yet, with lofty mien;
Of these, but few, familiar comradship, have sought;
They stand, his far, dim height and earth’s green vales, between,
To take his gift, which often falls like vivid lightning flashes,
And crystalize, and link for comprehension’s reach—
They trace his subtle thread, entangled with the shining meshes
Of universal lore, and weave in wefts of wondrous speech.
Sometimes, it seems, an idea vast, his measure strains,
When he doth crush the whole, as quartz is crushed for gold,
And then, reject and cleanse, until there’s naught remains
Of quartz or dross. The massive idea we behold
Upon his page, aglow in shining, golden grains.
Then alchemistic souls, in study’s crucial heat,
Must fuse and integrate—must clothe, and warm,
And breathe into it soul, when lo, with life replete,
The world will praise for breadth and depth, embracing form.
* * * * *
In this bright world of ours God placed some humble ones
With loving hearts, o’erwelling with sweet tenderness;
They soothe the wounds of war, they cheer earth’s toiling sons
And where grief broods these faithful ones are there to bless;
And e’en when fiends come forth with pestilential breath
To pour their reeking poisons on the stagnant air,
Forgetting self, they wrestle long with Death,
And, with devotion’s strength, the black-winged demon, dare.
Tho’ humble these, their elder Brother sits enthroned
At God’s right hand; His golden words, impressive, deep,
Still speak to us in sweet monition, gentle toned,
“_If ye love me feed my lambs,—aye feed my sheep_.”
O, many sheep have need of thee. Go feed them “In His Name,”
Or seek that shelterless, that lone one that has strayed,
Nor deem thy labor lost because, unknown to fame,
For whoso lifts the cup, by which there’s _one_ soul’s thirst allayed,
The same shall eat of hidden manna. He is blest of God.
Tho’, but faintly we can echo the loving Shepherd’s call,
We’ll find in Duty’s obscure ways, His sweetest blessings fall—
In these same, lowly paths, earth’s sainted ones have trod.
It may be grand to tread Olympian heights and breathe
Ambrosial airs,—to win high praise ’mong those whose souls
Are lit with Heaven’s fire; but sweeter far to wreathe
A simple worded song, whose swelling music rolls
A tidal wave of feeling, thrilling into life
A long chained serfdom. Greater mastery of the art
Is his, who lifts to light, from savagery and strife,
Earth’s darkened isles—whose pen can touch the world’s great heart
With philanthropic fire,—whose verse has, throbbing thro’ the whole,
In sympathy with man, a loving, human soul.
Love’s Riches.
Rich blessings are scattered around us—
Why heedlessly trample them down
And ask for the millionaire’s coffers,
Or sigh for a kingdom and crown?
We’ve ever the sunshine of loving,
Unmixed with the drosses of gold—
Its pleasures are not in wealth’s giving
Or e’en in its power to withhold.
The jewels, whose splendors we covet,
Gain much of their sparkle and glow
From the flutter and tumult of bosoms
Where heart-aches are throbbing below;
In palaces, often, is hidden
A skeleton presence of dread,
That quenches the flame on Love’s altar
While hope in the darkness lies dead.
A queen may be rich in dominions,
Have crown and a scepter and throne,
Yet all of the riches of loving
To her be forever unknown;
Far greater the kingdom for woman
Where love is the power—her throne
In a heart of unswerving devotion,
Its measureless realms her own.
Thro’ the tapestried halls of the mansion
The ghost of dead honor may glide—
A sense of life’s holiest joys departed
In the lordliest castle abide.
Tho’ the chalice wealth drains should be golden,
No sweeter to him is the draught
Than the cup with the sparkle of water,
That humble contentment has quaffed.
Earth’s mines, and her jewel-strewn caverns,
With the station that title confers,
All poured at her feet, would not purchase
The treasure a mother counts hers.
Ay, hid in your home you will find them—
Love’s riches—vast treasures untold;
More precious than worldly possessions,
Though counted, by millions, in gold.
* * * * *
Then let not the demon of envy
E’er enter the soul to enthrall;
The Father is tenderly watching—
Is keeping a record of all.
Rewards we have missed in our earth-life
We’ll find in that mansion above,
All decked with the beauties of Heaven
And lighted with Infinite Love.
Complainings.
Never a dove came to nestle by me,
But green-eyed Envy was there to see—
Soiling its plumage of spotless white,
Making it vile as a raven of night.
Never a rose in my garden was born,
But was surrounded by many a thorn.
Never a sweet but was mingled with gall—
And freedom, forever, is shadowed by thrall;—
Fruit, that looked luscious while hanging in view,
Is blighted ere ripe, by a blistering dew;
Gold, that we gather and count as a joy,
Has little of pleasure and much of alloy;
Jealously burns, in her caustical fire,
My tenderest hope, with malevolent ire—
Ashes, of all, she has strewn in my path,
And mocks at my pain with demoniac laugh.
But hush thy complaining, my heart, and be still—
If Heaven, our measure, with blessings should fill,
How soon would the soul with satiety cloy,
And life would be robbed of delightsome employ,—
Incentive would sleep, and all motive would die,
If needs of our nature should utter no cry;
But lacking the goal our ambition would gain
Arouses our powers—gives strength to attain.
Our grandest achievements have birth in the throes
Of Penury’s labor; and multiplied woes
But nerve us to action—resist and endure,
And highest endeavor gives aid to secure
Success to the valiant in the struggle for right—
Though failure may sometimes descend like a blight—
Oft failure is blessing, that’s sent in disguise
To turn us from groveling to gaze on the skies.
Then learn through each trial, my soul, to rejoice,
And e’en from the cloud will Compassion’s own voice
Be heard thro’ the gloom, in response to your cry,
“Fear not the tempest, my child, it is I.”
Questionings.
When the pallid lids have fallen
O’er the eyes in dreamless sleep—
Eyes that wake no more with watching
Nor in loneliness will weep,
Will a touch of pity soften—
Warm that unimpassioned gaze?
For a moment will affection
Hallow all their clouded days?
When the heart, no longer beating,
All its painful throbbings o’er—
When it stirs life’s crimson current
With its hopes and fears no more,
Will another heart feel sorrow
For the stillness resting there?
Will it for a whole tomorrow
Wear a saddened shade of care?
When the weary hands are folded
For that long unbroken rest,
And the spirit wings in freedom
To its home among the blest,
Will one tender feeling waken
In that heart a fond regret,
That will last thro’ summer’s blooming—
That will never quite forget?
When the lips are cold and silent—
Hushed for aye their gentle speech,
With love’s whispers dying on them,
Will their mute appealing reach
To the rock-girt fount of feeling?
Will Remorse with stinging rod,
Smite and bring the welling tear-drops
To bedew the new-laid sod?
Persecuted.
Alone, alone I tread the shore
Where surges beat forevermore
With deaf’ning, hollow wail;
The sky, o’ercast with angry frown,
Doth drop the loaded clouds, low down,
To beat me with their hail.
And, helpless here upon the strand
With no out-reaching friendly hand,
I face the roaring sea.
With reverent love my soul is stirred,
And seeking TRUTH within Thy word
I come, dear Lord, to Thee.
Aye, take my hand in thine Oh, God!
And lead me, where Thine own have trod,
By waters, pure and sweet.
O, send thy Comforter to calm
The aching heart with holy balm,
And keep me at thy feet!
Nature’s gift had been more kind
If a pulpy, plastic mind,
To fit, with ease, their mold;
Then self-assumed, “straight orthodox”
Had gathered me, with petted flocks,
Within the church’s fold.
O, loving Christ! Am I not thine?
And Thy disciples, truly mine,
Each my sister or my brother,
By the heritage of heaven—
By the new commandment given,
That we all love one another?
O, help me Lord with thee to pray!—
“Forgive them Father,” Thou didst say,
“They know not what they do.”
May sheltering love, dear Lord, be mine—
O, keep my life thine, only thine,
My soul to conscience true!
O, Kindly Speak.
The chiding word that chills the flow
Of warm child-feeling, ere it gush
In sparkling jets, to catch the glow
And tinge of Life’s bright morning flush,
Is the human thunder-bolt—its path
Is marked by dwarfed and shrunken minds,
Souls scarred, as trees by lightning scath,
Which show, like them, the spoiler’s lines.
He Is Risen.
Crown of all our joys supernal
Is the hope of life eternal;
Burst in bloom ye lillies white!
Wreathe the altar and the cross,—
Dawn is born of brooding night,
Heaven’s joy of earthly loss,—
He is Risen!
In the starry fields of Heaven
Mansions bright, to us, are given:
Triumph o’er the grave He won
In the resurrection morn—
Life eternal is begun,
Hope to all the world is born,
He is Risen!
He hath passed thro’ Heaven’s portal,
We, thro’ Him have life immortal—
Death is met with faith and trust—
The tomb is lighted by His love;
Earth may claim the crumbling dust—
Souls will dwell with Christ above.
He is Risen!
Think not thou art left forsaken
Tho’ by sorrow’s tempest shaken;
From His son, God veiled his face—
Heaven’s light was e’en withdrawn,
But the cruel cross made place
For the glorious Easter dawn—
He is Risen!
The Christ.
In olive-crowned Gethsemane,
Alone the Savior sought the power
That wrought through him at Galilee,
To stay the tide of that dark hour.
With grief bowed soul he prayed, but grace
Was His, to say: “Thy will be done.”
From Christ the Father veiled his face
And gave the world His only Son.
Tho’ His displeasure hid the day,
Spread brooding terror o’er the land,
Tho’ yielding hate its earth-born sway,
O’er-ruling Love in wisdom planned;
While human might did glut its greed
With nod of law to sanction crime,
A good, by higher law decreed,
Went forth, encircling earth and time.
Far-reaching, ’twas to win the world—
Their cruel deeds of blinded rage—
Their mocking taunts like hell-brands hurled,
Still echo from the sacred page;
That bitter cup—the crown of thorn
Upon His suffering, sinless brow—
That wail, adown the ages borne—
Are loving worship winning now.
O! blot the hard, blasphemous creed,
“A sacrifice for wrath of God;”
And teach the world ’twas human deed
That stained with blood Golgotha’s sod.
The reeling earth and darkened sun
Proclaimed aloud Jehovah’s frown;
Yet taught us that His holy one
Had by life’s cross won Heaven’s crown.
That tho’ he passed thro’ death—the tomb
To calm a world in maddened strife,
From out its broken bars of gloom
A joy would beam to beacon life,
And bless for us that morning light
That points the glory path he trod
From persecution, death and night,
Through Resurrection, up to God.
’Tis through His bearing mortal woes
We feel the throb of Love Divine!
Though wrung with agonizing throes,
His words with God-like mercy shine;
They wake the world to faith and hope—
E’en from old Memnon’s music trill,
They turn the dusky Ethiope
To catch their soul-impassioned thrill.
“Forgive—they know not what they do!”—
O, holy prayer! In every tongue
Its tender pleading pulses thro’,
As when from Calvary’s cross it rung!—
O, arms of Love’s infinitude!
They still reach down to earth from Heaven
To bind in one great brotherhood,
Through Him, the rescued world—forgiven.
Feed My Lambs.
Jesus said, with tender pleading,
“If ye love me, feed my lambs”;
Thro’ His word He’s interceding—
Feed my lambs, my precious lambs;
(Chorus)—If ye love me, feed my lambs,
Feed my lambs, my precious lambs—
If ye love me feed my lambs.
From the hedges and the highways,
Bring the lambs all safely in;
Seek the wanderers in the byways,
Save them from the blight of sin.
If ye love me, etc.
Find each little son and daughter,
Bring them in with tender care;
Lead them to the crystal water,
In the pastures green and fair:—
If ye love me, etc.
The Kingdom of Heaven.
“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, in earth as in Heaven.”
O, the kingdom of Heaven will come!—
When His will shall be done
Upon earth, as above,
And victory won
Through a union of love,
Then, the kingdom of Heaven will come.
Our Christian Endeavor
Has linked, and forever,
The lands of all climes
Where the Savior is known.
O, bright is the morning
That brings us the dawning
Of the day that’s to band,
In one army, HIS OWN!
O, the kingdom of heaven will come!
When Christians, uniting,
The common foe fighting
Forget every difference
Of doctrine and creed,
And, hushing their pleading
For selfish succeeding,
Beg Heaven’s best gift
For humanity’s need,
Then the kingdom of Heaven will come.
When fervent in action
They trample on faction,
Intolerance, arrogance,
Tread them all down,
And put forth endeavor,
Through loving work ever,
For the saving of souls
With no thought of the crown,
Then, the kingdom of Heaven will come.
When earnest endeavor—
Most powerful lever—
Is thrust under sin
By all Christendom’s might,
Its walls will soon crumble—
The structure must tumble
When hotly assailed
By the legions of Right,
Aye, the kingdom of heaven will come.
When Christians are one,
Like the Father and Son,
And sects of all names
At one altar can kneel,
In God’s love believing,
For heaven achieving,
This creed and this purpose
Inspiring their zeal,
Then the kingdom of heaven will come.
Supplication.
O, thou Savior, Brother, mine,
God’s own love and tenderness,
Sent of Him with power divine—
Sent to soothe, sustain and bless:—
Light of Life! Oh blessed Word,
Be my help! Dear Savior come!
Hear my spirit’s pleading, Lord—
Pleading tho’ my lips are dumb.
Groping now in sorrow’s night
Guide, oh, guide me, Lord, I pray,
Quicken Thou my spirit’s sight
That I walk in wisdom’s way—
Be Thou, Lord, a presence nigh—
Thou canst still the angry sea,
Thou hast known Gethsemane—
O, Compassion, hear my cry!
Deep in agony of soul
Mother-love cries up to Thee—
Fiends have bound him to the bowl—
O, break his chains and set him free!
The Portrait.
O, arms of protection, now folded so still!—
Alone in the world, so wide and so chill!
O, eyes that would glow in a worshipful gaze!—
They’ll bless me no more with their love-beaming rays!
O, heart of devotion! thy warm throbbings o’er
Can give me asylum from sorrow no more.
* * * * *
O, veil it!—this lifeless creation of art—
The perfect is sacredly shrined in my heart!
Not silent, compassionless, framed in with gold,
Nor mantled with shadows of coffin and mould,
But youthful and strong and warm with the fire
That glows in a soul lit with noble desire.
Ay, thought gropeth not thro’ the darkness and gloom
Where the mortal is held in the bonds of the tomb.
PROGRESSION is stamped by the hand of God’s love;
The life coming after to this is _above_!
Our faith reaches up to the realms of bliss,
The sphere He has fashioned—the Home beyond this.
The deeds that gave blessing in the pathways of earth
Give impress and form to the Heavenly birth.
That face, beaming ever with the glorified light
Won here, in defending convictions of Right,
My soul, in its holy of holies, where free
From earth’s thronging distractions in spirit I see.
This portrait I gaze on—the glorified one—
And that is, to this, as a star, to the sun.
Out in the Woods.
Glad haunts of the summer!—the dim forest aisles,
Where Sylva receives us with welcoming smiles—
Gives couch of soft mosses, embowered with vines,
And smoothes from the forehead, care’s deep written lines.
Refreshing, she brings, for the world-weary brain
And soothes, with her silence, its fever and pain!—
Bids Somnus pour sweets from which restfulness flows,
And, hushing her realm into holiest calm,
She lulls the sick soul into gentle repose,
While winds, with the leafage, are chanting a psalm
That charms with its rythm. Rev’ry’s doorways unclose—
We slip to forgetfulness—sleep that is balm.
* * * * *
The musical tinkle of the murmuring stream
Gave warp, for the web, of a beautiful dream,
And woof for the weaving, the slumber-god chose
From fragrance of violets, and queenly wild-rose.
The sunshine that sifted thro’ the crowns of the trees,
Made threadings of gold with the shadows of these!
The breeze, touching lightly, with cool finger tips
Was the kiss of an angel on the tired spirit’s lips.
O, the eider-down couches of slumberous ease,
And the tapestried halls that the millionaires please,
Can never, such rest, on the weary bestow,
As we find in this palace, where the luxuries grow.
Majestical forest!—Asylum of REST,
Where the crowd-jostled soul is ineffably blest—
Where primeval old trees, in their grandeur and might,
Guard Solitude’s shrine, from the vandal-world’s sight;
Where spice-bearing shrubs, and the sweet-scented ferns
Float odors as rich as when frankincense burns,
And the praise-breathing song of the thrush, from the boughs,
Wakes worship unknown thro’ the low-muttered vows.
“First temples of God!”—and still nearest His throne,
Where the spirit may drink, at the fountain, alone,
Receiving His blessing through the still, small voice,
While Nature’s true Acolytes whisper—rejoice.
Unforgiven.
Ah! that “Past”—that bitter parting,
Long ago, yet vivid seems—
Oft in midnight’s black arms folded
I have lived it o’er in dreams;
As a presence it has shadowed
Every path of life I’ve tried—
If I joined the festive circle
It was stalking by my side.
If I sat at hush of even
With a sense of love and trust,
It would come and stand before me,
Hissing out the word—unjust;
It has stretched its ghostly fingers
For all blessings to destroy,
And has poured its gall and wormwood
In each lifted cup of joy.
Had you winged a sweet forgiveness,
Sent it o’er the “silent line,”
It had proved a benediction
Falling on your life and mine.
Through the years that phantom presence,
Like a black bird o’er my door,
Seemed to say, by silent glowering,
“I will leave thee nevermore.”
_You_ can drive this haunting demon,
Send in place a snowy dove—
Only breathe the longed for blessing,
Not youth’s fervent tale of love,
And on friendship’s sacred altar
Light a pure and holy flame,
That may burn before the angels
Without blanch or blush of shame.
The Evening and the Morning.
“At Evening time it shall be light.”—Bible.
“The evening twilight of this life meets the morning twilight
of the next and they kiss each other.”—L. H. F.
When Life’s evening twilight gathers
Darkling shadows from the tomb,
Then a bright celestial morning
Kisses back the gathering gloom;
Robed in beauty’s bright adorning
This aurora—dawning glory,
Kisses back the gathering gloom.
When the crimson tide is throbbing
With the hopes that wildly mount,
And the sensuous soul is drinking
From enjoyment’s sparkling fount,
Then the thoughts will turn with shrinking
From the coming of life’s gloaming—
Death seems then a Stygian fount.
But when life’s weary day is closing—
When the lengthening shadows fall,
Sweetly singing angel voices
Come with blessing in their call!
The departing soul rejoices
With prevision, of Elysian,
Gladly welcoming the call.
As the spirit fetters loosen
And the soul gains greater height,
It will see the evening shadows
Meet and kiss the dawning light;
And, dispelling all the shadows,
This supernal life eternal,
Opens into morning light.
Aye, the golden gates swing open!
To reveal the splendors bright;
From His throne the glory streaming
Haloes Death with holy light;
Angels voicing their rejoicing—
Heaven’s mansions brightly gleaming,
Flood Life’s evening time with light.
The Unseen.
Do you feel my spirit with you—
Feel my kiss upon your lips?
Doth your heart throb with the message
That the messenger outstrips?
Ay, I know your thought, responding,
Know this soul-touch is of thine,
That you send me tender soothing
O’er love’s subtile, unseen line.
Soul to soul can tell its sorrow,
Sympathy response impart—
Joy can flash o’er lines of distance,
Touch and thrill a kindred heart.
Loneliness! I scarcely know it;
Loved ones in my spirit’s reach
Know my call and give me answer—
Silence pulses with their speech.
We have glimpse of joys, thro’ this one,
That await the soul above,
Where unbroken, sweet communion
Flows thro’ sympathy and love.
Painting.
O, beauteous Art! with heart o’erfilled with joy I stand
And offer up to God its silent, grateful praise
That He, in blessing, hath endowed a human hand
With gifts so near divine;
Thro’ these creations, warmed to life in Genius’ blaze,
Doth inspiration shine.
Here, oriental scenes are brought within my reach;
The beauty of the castled Rhine, in softened hues,
With fine, bewitching charm o’er-mastering speech,
My raptured gaze enchains;
I roam in dream the land whose purple vintage strews
With wealth its hills and plains.
And thus I dream and drink the blest enchantment in,
That flows from art, with full, ineffable delight;
Forgetting earth is cursed with sorrow, death and sin,
I taste supernal bliss,
And, in this ecstacy of joy, a world of light,
It seems, hath dropped to this.
Yet not with those I’d join who throng Art’s crowded hall,
Whose motive is to prove themselves profound in art
By use of bulky words, but which, in strident fall,
Each hearer doth impress
With lack of gift to grasp what colors may impart,
Or canvass may express.
Nor go with her whose hand, with long and tedious drill
Has learned to daub with paint—whose tongue, with flippant ease,
Can toss artistic nomenclature round at will,
Yet nothing knows of art—
Of art’s true self, whose secret power to hold and please
Is soul, in every part.
I’d put the shoes from off my feet, and then, alone
Before the work, would feel I stood on holy ground—
That there a spirit with its God had talked, and by His own
Had been informed, inspired—
Aye, minds should be, before they range this sacred bound,
In thoughtfullness attired.
And thus prepared, Perception’s polished plates receive
The artist’s dream, that seems with pulsing life aglow,
And o’er it Fancy’s magic fingers silent weave
Her draperies so real—
We seethe dimpling lake—we hear the streamlets liquid flow,
And shadowed coolness feel.
The Christian’s Armor.
_For the Band of Hope._
Firmly stand, unyielding wrestle,
All ye noble, earnest, youth,—
You are soldiers—God is calling,
Gird yourselves about with truth.
Wear the helmet of Salvation—
Let your feet with peace be shod,
Turn the fiery darts of evil
With the shield of “Faith in God.”
Arm you with the Spirit’s weapon,
’Tis God’s blessed, holy word,—
With the breast-plate of the righteous
You shall conquer Satan’s horde.
Then with earnest supplication
Hold the way to Heaven’s throne;
By the spirit’s true devotion
God will know and bless his own.
To My Friend,
MRS. ANNA PRICHARD.
And is time old? How swift he runs!
His months like birds of passage fly.
How slow he rolled a year of suns
When we were children, you and I,
How far away the spring time seemed
When winter wore his angry frown—
An age, when apple blossoms gleamed
Ere they would drop their fruitage down.
Then childhood’s eager heart was waiting
For expectations to unfold,
And churlish time seemed years belating
The wished-for blessings to withhold;
Then Fancy’s fingers held the brush
And painted all the future bright;
Its clouds but showed the rosy flush
Each dawn had woven with its light.