Ah, gentle spring, thy balmy breeze,
New chanting 'mid the budding trees,
A glorious resurrection sings!
And on thy soft, ethereal wings
Sweet nectar from ten thousand flowers,
That bloom in nature's happy bowers
Thou dost as holy incense bring
To Him who sheds the beams of spring.
Far in the South thy bloom appeared,
And all our journey northward cheered;
A thousand miles in sweet embrace,
We northward held an even race;
Or if by starts we did outrun
Thy even tenor from the sun,
Ere long we blessed thy coming tread
And quaffed the oders thou didst spread.
O brightest, sweetest of the year!
When all is vocal with thy cheer,
Thy lily-cups and roses red
With us some tear-drops also shed.
The cherry-trees, in shrouds of white,
Bring back to mind a mournful sight--
A coffined brother 'neath the bloom,
Just ere they bore him to the tomb.
Ah, yes, thou sweet, beguiling spring,
Of thee, my inmost heart would sing.
"The time of love," all bards agree
To sing in merry notes to thee.
Yea, such thou art, and happy they
Who walk in love's delightful day
Along the path thy flakes hath strewn,
And know indeed her constant boon.
But what of him who walks alone,
With past love fled and turned to stone?
Shall not the springtide music's roll
Mock withered joys and sting the soul?
Not in the heart embalmed in love
Transported from the worlds above,
Nor seasons, no, nor else can bring
Heartaches where only God is king.
That soul an endless spring enjoys
Where life the will of God employs.
He 'mid the fields of bliss may tread,
And feast on joys that long have fled,
By sacred memories' glowing trace
More than the heart untouched by grace,
Can drink from full fruition's stream,
Or paint in fancy's wildest dream.
O God! thou art the life of spring,
The source of all the seasons bring,
The soul of all the joys we know,
The fountain whence our pleasures flow.
While nature wakes from winter's sleep,
And gentle clouds effusive weep,
We join creation's grateful lays,
And celebrate our Maker's praise.
The deaths of individuals furnished inspiration for many a verse from
Brother Warner's pen. Celia Kilpatrick Byrum was one of the early
workers in the Gospel Trumpet Office, when the paper was published
at Grand Junction, Mich. Her death occurred on the 11th of December,
1888.
And is she gone--dear Celia gone?
Such news would tax credulity
Did not the Spirit's previous tone
Toll in our bosom mournfully
The thought, "She's left this mortal clime,
And we shall see her face no more
Until we pass the bounds of time
And meet upon celestial shore."
'Twas in our heart to tune our lyre
To sing thy cheerful wedding-day;
But debts are made by fond desire,
More than our fleeting time can pay.
So now we sing our mournful lay--
Another epoch followed soon
To thy poor soul, a brighter day
Than that when blessed beside thy groom.
The Author of these feeling hearts
Chides not affection's flowing tears;
But with them soothing balm imparts,
And in his arms of love he bears
Poor nature's heavy burden up:
So when bereavements press our mind,
Grace drops such sweetness in the cup
That even then we comfort find.
But is she gone whose heart e'er burned
With such devoted, fervent zeal?
To bless mankind her spirit yearned,
Wished every heart God's love might seal.
She thought no sacrifice too dear,
No painful toil and care too great,
That all this world the truth might hear
And gain redemption's blissful state.
O sister, while thy eyes beheld
Whate'er thy willing hands could do,
No needed rest thy footsteps held,
No moderation couldst thou know;
Regarding not thy slender frame--
To pious toil so passionate--
Till thy enfeebled limbs refrained
To execute thy heart's mandate.
* * * * *
When sickness had already cast
Its waning paleness on thy cheek,
God folded thee within the breast
Of love, connubial, warm and deep.
Thank heav'n for this provision kind,
To bless, support, and comfort thee;
On those strong arms thy life declined
Till from thy suffering body free.
* * * * *
Dear Celia's gone! How sad the news,
Dear saints, this mourning Trumpet brings!
The hands that dropped refreshing dews
Upon its flying-angel wings
And toiled so hard to set the lines
That burned upon your hearts with love,
Inspired your souls a thousand times,
Has gone to blissful toils above.
* * * * *
Ah! now invert the column rules,
And dress the Trumpet sad with crape,
That all who read may know it feels
And weeps the loss of friend so great.
Her artful fingers shall no more
Set up its many vocal peers,
Nor shall her anxious heart yet pour
Upon its sheets her moist'ning tears.
Her gentle voice, so fine and sweet
The Trumpet organ's highest key
Is singing now, at Jesus' feet,
With heaven's joyful minstrelsy.
Oh! could we near the pearly gate
And listen to her ransomed song,
Our souls would more felicitate
The bliss of that immortal one.
The poem The Marriage of a Mr. Hope, is a play on the word "hope" and
has a slight touch of the humorous.
It appeared that Mr. Hope,
Entertained the pleasing hope
That some hopeless one among the fair
Was seeking hope from life's despair,
And was pleased with Hope to share,
The cheerful name of Hope to wear.
And so good Hope went smiling 'round
Till the object of his hope was found;
Then sitting by the fair one's side,
Hope beamed with prospects of a bride.
The question asked, the prompt decision
Turned hopeful's hope to full fruition,
And so it happened very soon,
The beau of hope became a groom.
Then hopeless changed to Hope by name,
And two hopes but one Hope became.
Their bark now launched on the stream of hope,
May all the blessings hope bespoke
Their voyage crown along the way
Of hope's uncrowded blissful day,
And may their happy little bark afford
A lively crew of sunny Hopes aboard;
And when to anchor in the harbor driven
May all their hopes be realized in heaven.
An interesting imaginative story of some length is his poem Soul
Cripple City, in which he represents sectarian religion as a city
wherein the inhabitants walk on crutches. The following is the first
stanza.
Not a mere imaginary
Object, borne on fancy's wing,
Is the city of this story,
But a real historic thing.
Though by troupes and proper figures
We delineate her fame,
Though she has some mystic features,
She's an entity the same.
He takes up the different denominations as particular brands of
crutches on which people hobble.
But whereunto shall we liken,
Or with what similitude,
Paint this foolish generation?
Ah! behold the sinful brood!
All within that mystic city
Walk not upright on their feet,
But on crutches play the cripple--
'Tis a custom they must keep.
Not a man in all Soul Cripple,
Not a woman, girl, or boy,
But must go it on quadruple,
Must the wooden legs employ.
Not one ever tried it walking
On created feet alone;
Not on crutches to be stalking
Were a scandal to the town.
* * * * *
Next appeared the English crutches,
And the High Episcopal.
Thence the mania fast increases,
Every style conceivable.
Wycliffe crutches, Calvin crutches,
Quaker, Shaker, Mennonite,
Wesley crutches, twenty branches,
M. E. crutches, black and white.
* * * * *
Then there are the Baptist crutches,
Hard-shelled and inflexible,
Free-will Baptist, bond-will Baptist,
And the creed Six Principle.
There are Baptists called Ephrata,
Saturnarian Baptists, too,
Anabaptist, Calvinistic
Baptist crutches we'll undo.
* * * * *
In this mart of vain religions
You will find on Water Street,
And at all her river stations,
Crutches vaunted as complete.
But the clubs that they are vending,
Are as hollow as a horn;
They that buy need no repenting,
In cold water they are born.
* * * * *
All these bapto 'sociations
Have a god of water made,
Leaving fire and salvation
And the blood without the trade,
More than all the sects who clamor,
Just to make the sinner wet,
Who have swallowed down a Campbell,
And are straining at a gnat.
He allots special "Additions" to the city for Adventism, the
Salvation Army, Russellism, and Lyman Johnson of the Stumbling stone.
The last of the poem is devoted to God's call to his people to come
out of Babylon. We give but three stanzas.
But adieu, for we must travel
With the remnant who return,
Fleeing from the fall of Babel,
To the new Jerusalem.
Hark! a noise like many waters!
'Tis the captive's jubilee,
Like the voice of mighty thunders,
Halleluiah! we are free!
* * * * *
Jesus is our head and ruler,
And his Word our only guide,
And his gentle Spirit leader,
He our peace, a constant tide
Flowing in our tranquil bosom,
Where is reared the mystic throne
Of the King of peace eternal,
Where he dwells and reigns alone.
Oh, the glorious hope of Zion!
Oh, the riches of her grace!
Ever happy are the people
Who abide in such a place.
God is over all in glory,
And is through them great and small,
And he's in them by his Spirit,
Jesus, Jesus, all in all.
The Crusades of Hell is the title of a serial poem describing the
fall of man, the plan of salvation, and the different epochs of
Christian history. It shows how Satan attempted to destroy the church
by martyrdom and, failing in that, next attempted counterfeiting the
church by making false churches.
His poems To the Ocean and Good-By Old Rockies were written on his
Pacific Coast trip in the autumn of 1892.