Part 4

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.

Impatient then, our youthful feet To climb the distant sun clad hills Where Pleasure, from her vintage sweet, For each, a golden chalice fills—To stand beneath the shining arch, By rainbow-tinted promise spanned:— What fine advance, in Life’s grand march, Our strong, young courage planned.

But ah! in life’s late afternoon, No worldly wealth, no laurels won— I grieve that time has fled so soon With so much planned, left all undone; The barren years, like surf-worn sand, With glints of sun and shadow flecked, Are strewn with fragments as the strand And show where Hope’s rich cargoes wrecked.

No mould of sloth lies o’er the years— No waste of dissipation’s fire Is smoldering in regrets and tears, Yet youth’s fond dream—intense desire A cruel fate has still denied; Or, was it Heaven’s kind decree That set that cherished wish aside To bring a richer gift to me?

There’s naught in God’s infinitude Of gifts for us, like home and wife, And happy, blessed motherhood, The crowning gift of woman’s life. These gifts transmute to dear delight Each humble task, all toil and care, And keep home’s sacred altar bright With love’s sweet offerings there.

All these, and one more gift is mine That stirs with joy my brooding thought— A friendship rare and true as thine, A chain—all precious links—inwrought With sacred trust. Oh hush, my heart, No more in bitterness complain: Thou wouldst not with thy treasures part Youth’s wildest dream of power to gain.

Hill-Crest Home.

TO MRS. A. FOSKETT POTTER.

The picture, you rave over there on the wall, Is weak by the one hung in memory’s hall. While that one is held by the fetters of art To rules of perspective—can only give part, The other has range over hill-top and dell, From the vaulted blue sky to the depths of the well— Can even give sense of refreshing from this— Show stars gleaming thro’ from its seeming abyss.

It has other delights, never reached with a brush, The ravishment held in the notes of a thrush (The sweetest voiced bird of the singing-bird throng) Reverberant groves all a-thrill with its song.

Then the river, that knit a bright edge on the farm, Enmantled with vapor—etherial charm! As if dawn and the dew, meeting, playfully kissed When the sun peeping over dissolved them in mist; Like a gauzy, white chrisom cloth lightly it lies O’er the rosy-faced morning, new-born of the skies. Now, mellow and sweet as the music of dream, Or a softly touched lute, comes the song of the stream; Enchanted I listen, ay, listen and gaze Till sound seems enwreathed with this luminous haze That’s woven for nymphs, of the sunshine and spray; And veiled in these light robes they mingle in play Till on bloom scented breezes they’re floated away.

I promised to tell of my humble old home, But my pen wanders off where my feet used to roam, So the home of my childhood I picture for you Must cover the rambles “my infancy knew.” Come, stand ’neath that maple with me, if you will: The manse, looking south from the brow of the hill, Has the River, the valley, “The Island” in view— (O! if mem’ry’s bright search-light could give it to you, And you, with my childhood’s own vision, could see The love-lighted beauty, that glowed there for me!) While eastward the valley-farms glint thro’ the trees, Whose grandeur had saved them to the thither-most shore, And hills, as a back ground of beauty for these, A richly-robed forest in stateliness bore; And this, to my child fancy, held up the skies Where the dawn, stealing in thro’ their bright rosy dyes, Peeped in at my window to waken me when The sun-gleams, aflash in the dew-spangled glen, Out rivaled Golconda in jewels and gold— When lambkins went frolicking down from the fold To nip the soft grass or to drink from the brook—Ah, there was a spot, just beyond where they drank, Where the brook cut the hill for its opposite bank, And nestled above was a shadowy nook With a rustic root-bench which a wind-warring tree Had thrown out to anchor its hold on the hill: There, glad as the laughter of innocent glee, Came the musical tinkle and play of the rill, A melody sweet, to that ærie of mine, Where, safe from intrusion as cliff dweller, I Heard, fresh from her lips, Nature’s message divine, Told sweetly, thro’ beauties, of earth and the sky.

An old fallen tree made a foot-bridge across That led to this hiding—this sanctum of mine. Bright fern fringes bordered its soft rug of moss— A wild grape had thatched with a clambering vine That hid for my coming bright sparkles of dew. O, bower of beauty, so temptingly cool! ’Twas the home of the fairies and they only knew The hours spent there that were stolen from school. The brook-bordered fields of that moderate farm Had each, for my heart, individual charm.— The skies that bent over had glories unknown To all other lands, even Italy’s own. More golden its sunsets than any since seen:— Its shadowy woodland, so rich in its green, Had springs purling down in a dusky ravine: There oft at the fount, where the waters distilled, My leaf-fashioned cup I have held to be filled. O, nectar twould be if again I could drink Of the sparkles that fell there like pearls from its brink, As it tinkled down sweetly from its rock-basined source To join with its peers in their river-ward course. In those shadowy depths, hid away from the world, Most delicate forms of the fronds were uncurled: Spring-beauties, anemonies, clematis white, With violets, bluebells and maiden-hair fern,— There were some of them ever to keep the spot bright, To waft me good-bye and to greet my return. Then the hillside, our play-ground—I never can tell Its riches of beauty in bower and dell. The sunrise would kiss with its first ruddy glow Then slip to the river that murmured below And lighting its ripples with flashes of gold It made all the valley a joy to behold. That River! It ever kept time with my heart,— Grew into my soul, of my life was a part. It echoed my laughter, was sad when I wept— When drowsy it lulled me with song till I slept.— ’Twas playmate and teacher, companion and friend, From the “deep-hole” that mirrored the trees at “the bend” To that spot of enchantment, where the willows bent low To whisper their love. There the river went slow As if hushing its wonted, wild, rollicking flow To linger and listen—the story, so sweet, ’Twould have all the zephyr-swayed branches repeat.

But the loveliest view from the home on the hill— The one that could ever enrapture and thrill, Was a calm summer eve with the stars beaming thro’ From the unclouded depths of the fathomless blue,— “The city of God” filling vastness above, Each mansion aglow with the light of His love. Enhancing the beauty a broad, rising moon, That followed a day with a languorous noon— A day that in going left the sun-door ajar, When a breeze, that was born of a rain-cloud afar, Had stolen thro, softly, with the great evening star, And whispered a vow to the languishing flowers To bring them, ere morning, refreshing in showers.

Then the murmur of waters—the ripple in view, The robings of Nature, aglitter with dew, The sway of the trees, and the rose-petals strewn— The kiss of the breeze, that has breath of the June. Just sit in our group on the balcony there And dream of this scene, inexpressibly fair (Remember this gable looks square at the noon): How the gateways of glory thrown wide by the moon Could pour their white floods on the beautiful scene— What charm in the mingling of shadow and sheen!

The river went north in its tortuous trend And wound thro’ the valley with many a bend. This lake-like expanse, deep and smoothe, as you see, Lying right in the pathway, ’tween Luna and me, On an evening like this seemed a great burnished glass. The Island shore here, had a margin of grass— The round little cove cutting into its edge Grew ferns on its banks and was dotted with sedge.

In the far-reaching shadows of lofty old trees This part of the Island was hid from the noon; Its quiet invited to slumberous ease; Here the River flowed gently as Afton or Doon. Kind Nature had woven a pleachy thick screen Of forest and vines that were standing between, And made this remote from the town and its mills. The zephyr-stirred leaves with their mystical chant— That soft, lulling murmur, that muffles and stills— Hushed the tumult and jar of the noisy “old plant” And made this a spot ever calm and serene, Fit temple for worship, embosomed in green. Here, the river seemed charmed by some mythical lore— It loitered along, seemed reluctant to pass, While eddying wavelets crept up on the shore And kissed, with their cool lips, the velvety grass.

On, slowly it flows until reaching a place Where a glimpse may be caught of the swift running “Race;” There it breaks into foam with a current so wild— They rush to the meeting like mother and child. With a plaint in its story that the mother-stream thrills, Race babbles and tells how it toiled at the mills—Was prisonned and held, by the strength of the flume— Was power that wrought on the spindle and loom. Received in her bosom with loving embrace They mingle their songs, then, the River and Race, Delighting us all with their musical tones, While silver-capped ripples go dancing o’er stones.

* * * * *

Aye, “Hill-crest” had beauty beyond all compare, But words can ne’er picture how wondrously fair For one whose misfortune ’tis not to have seen That river—that hillside—the trees in their green— Heard the music of waters, o’er pebbles at play, Or, lapping ’mong rocks and then swirling away— The brook leaping down to be lost in the stream As womanhood merges our girl-hood’s young dream—If her childhood’s bare feet have ne’er pressed that cool sod Where first I loved Nature, thro’ Nature her God.

[Illustration: HILL-CREST HOME.]

Lillies of the Valley.

O, pearly, waxen, lilly bells! Glad the tale your coming tells— Blithest time, of all the year, Happy, blooming spring is here With lillies-of-the-valley.

Shining like the precious gem, Divers bring from ocean’s floor; God in blessing scattered them Blooming by the humblest door; Springing in some sheltered nook, Peeping by a mouldering wall, Nodding by a babbling brook, Purest, sweetest flowers of all, Are lillies-of-the-valley.

Hidden from life’s cares and frets Is the loved embowered spot Sacred to our floral pets— Lillies and forget-me-not; Tho’ the poet’s fondest dream Wreaths about the violet, With the morning’s dew agleam, Lovlier and sweeter yet Are lillies-of-the-valley.

Roses fade and fall apart— Lose their beauty with their bloom, In the lillies perfect heart Lingers long its sweet perfume; Mem’ries dear we’ll ne’er forget, With their tender thrills of bliss, Hover round the mignonette, Yet, a charm supreme to this, Have lillies-of-the-valley.

Queens of color, tall and proud Bloom among the asphodels, But of all that lauded crowd None so loved as lilly bells! Pansy bright with dreamy eyes Seems acquaint with mystic lore, Whispers “hope” when sorrow sighs, Yet, we love the lillies more, Sweet lillies-of-the-valley.

They will breathe the tender thought Sympathy would fain reveal, But, with love’s fond message fraught, Half their charm is to conceal. Lillies of the Valley. Rosebud boldly tells the tale Cupid sent it to confess— With the fragrance they exhale Lillies whisper,—“You may guess.”

Pearly Shells.

All the rainbow hues are hiding In the pearly shells of white, But their beauties are depending On the mystic powers of light;— Going, coming, like the blushes On a modest maiden’s cheek, As her heart-throb quick confesses What her lips would never speak.

Husband, there’s a heart that’s loving With devotion pure and deep; If you’d know its fullest blessing, If the treasure you would keep, You must flash the light upon it, Beaming out from loving eyes; Then, as shell, reflecting sunlight, It will glow with lovely dyes.

All within and all about it Soon will catch the won’drous charm, By reflection and absorption Home will aye be bright and warm; But if left alone in darkness, Through a life of gloom and night, Like the sea-shell, pure and pearly, It will be but cold and white.

Courage.

Now with zeal that will not falter Rally once again for Right, Trusting ever and believing God is all supreme in might.

Let us work—give earnest effort, Ere the day in darkness set, Work with faith and love untiring— He will crown our labors yet.

Though allies of rum are legion, Fear no evil may betray, For He’s given angels o’er us Charge to keep us in the way.

We shall “tread upon the adder,” If our faith be strong in God; Aye, “the dragon we shall trample” If with “Gospel Peace” we’re shod.

Trailing Arbutus.

_Emblematic Flower of Michigan W. C. T. U._

In Flora’s dominion no flower’s so fitting To symbol our union of labor and love; Not tender and petted, a hot-house exotic, It lives when the tempest is raging above. Sweet forest-born flower! ’Twas Michigan’s dower When Nature apportioned her gifts that are rare— So lovely, yet lowly! Affection, that’s holy, Seems blent with its fragrance and breathing a prayer That the loved may be borne in the arms of His care.

Its coming we hail as a promise of blessing— That chains shall be riven, a glory be born; Its delicate hue is a hint of our mission— The soft, rosy blush that first tinges the morn, When hope is awakening and gloom is receding— A pressage of light that shall gladden the world, When darkness has fled and the cloud-rack is lifted And day’s golden banners on the hills are unfurled.

It needs not the florist, with art and punctilio Nor asks for the smiles of the sun-lighted skies, But richest and brightest, ’tis found in seclusion, In depths of the woodland where dark shadow lies; Far up on the highlands, or creeping on lowlands, ’Mong towering oaks or ’neath whispering pines, The shell-tinted bloom of our sweet, trailing laurel The lowliest objects with beauty entwines.

’Tis Purity’s emblem—Priscilla’s loved flower! Oft springing in fenlands where dark, sodden mould Grows vile-odored herbage, e’en poison-fed night-shade, Yet, pure there, its waxen, sweet blossoms unfold. Thus white-ribbon bands, thro’ the moral morasses, Tho’ threading the paths which the vilest are in, With purity throned in the soul of all action, May labor ’mid evils, unsullied by sin.

Ah! truly, no flower in Flora’s dominion, Can symbol the virtues and graces like this— ’Tis faith and endurance in winter’s wild tempest, While gentleness tenderly speaks in the kiss That comes in its fragrance, on fairy winged zephyr And hope, in the buds swelling under the snow, Is whispering of joys when the full opened blossoms Shall herald the summer, with roseate glow.

We’ll gather it in, from our own native woodlands, And wreathe, with its beauty, our altar of prayer; The holiest thought, with its ambient odor, Is stirred, as with incense, afloat on the air. We love it!—we love it! our sweet trailing laurel, And make it our emblem in labor for God— For home, with its blessings and love-lighted altar, And land of our birth, with its trial-tracked sod.

Encouragement.

What wealth of enjoyment a sentence may hold That flows in a rill of encouraging words! The heart’s weary wings with new strength will unfold, While quick resolution all feebleness girds. The sunset may brighten—outrival the dawning, If sympathy’s warm touch the drooping life thrills; Tho’ autumn has put out her gold-tassled awning And mantled with haze all the woodlands and hills— Tho’ the vintage hath yielded the first of its wines— Tho’ shadows lie eastward in wavering lines, And evening has whispered the low uttered warning— “The glories of Day have all drifted afar”— The spirit will rally encouraged by love. E’en twilight may deepen, if only this star Shall gleam with its vestal light brightly above, We’ll work thro’ life’s gloaming, till angels unbar The orient gates of Eternity’s morning.

Faith.

O, by and by the sun will shine again— Will throw glad light on hill, and field, and plain; The earth will smile ’neath Plenty’s joyous reign, And we shall know that “God remembers the world.”

Aye, by and by the clouds will roll away And then a greater boon, a golden day Will seem, because we’ve known a gloomy May When Doubt, o’er brooding, shadowed all our world.

Let Hope’s bright sunshine gladden every hour, E’en tho’ the skies with angry tempests lower; Believe, beyond, above, a higher Power Doth watch and guard, with loving, care the world.

Shrink not nor e’er, with dread, thy part delay; With faith and courage meet each coming day— Let duties well performed pave all thy way, Thus make a royal pathway thro’ the world.

Tho’ sorrows should be thick along thy path, Remember none are sent to thee in wrath; Love fires the bolt that makes the lightning scath— A law that gives a brighter, better world.

With frowning face Calamity may come, Ay, strike a hemisphere with terror dumb, But let no boding fear thy faith benumb, For He who made, in wisdom rules the world.

Tho’ skies and seas their floods together roll— Tho’ earth should pass, a shriveled scroll, His care is over each immortal soul— He’ll gather us to His eternal world.

Nirvana.

Possession blest of that Celestial sphere Beyond the reach of hope and fear; Salvation’s port—Elysian shore Where souls remain, forevermore, In blissful calm, disturbed by naught Evolved by ranging, restless Thought, And where Eternal arms of Peace Enfolding, give secure release From chains that bind, to Death and Sin— A severance from the What-has-been— An end of seeming endless range; No farther transmigrating change, But REST of soul, that’s sweet, supreme, Beyond, the touch of Life’s wild dream: A draught that quenches all desire— Extinguishes Ambition’s fire, And leave, an essence, pure, divine, That shall with Brama ever shine, Quiescent in that blest repose To which the wise Guatama rose.

Heredity.

Thro’ your Eden creeps the Serpent Luring to the paths of sin: In your own, weak self-indulgence Life accursing crimes begin: Aye, you blight your own with evils Yielding to the tempter’s sway, Hushing conscience, Sin imputing To Eve’s early, shadowed day.

Science swings her torch above you From her lofty templed heights— Paths, by which the Race climb upward, By command of God she lights; Can you, with His laws before you, Violate your sacred trust? Dare you taint the soul you’re moulding For Eternity, with lust?

Holy is your mission, mother, Lives confided to your care— Shall they, of your dissipations Foulest scars forever bear? Hush the voice of self-indulgence— Thrust the serpent from your heart, That he lure not to partaking Of the sins you may impart.

While the fires of Being kindle At your own life’s flame and glow And the mother love is springing From this holy interflow— While the crimson tide is pulsing Thro’ but one heart, for the two, Stain not thou, with sin, the fountain That the new life passes through.

Pebbles.

Pebbles, thrown upon the shore By a storm-stirred wild commotion, Tell of tumult, crash and roar, When wild furies lashed the ocean.

Pebbles, gathered from the shore When the waves were only sighing, Tell of balmy evening strolls When the sunset fires were dying.

Pebbles—some of brightest hue— That were snatched by dimpled fingers When the waves came rolling in— Loving thought around them lingers.

Pebbles, in life’s pathway lie That the careless roughly tread, While another passing by Finds them gems that lustre shed.

Pebbles—scan them—cast away Wave-worn, rounded bits of stone, But if one hath lighting ray, Keep the treasure as thine own.

* * * * *

When the heart is sorrow-laden Seek the spirit’s shrine of prayer, Jesus there will meet and bless you And you’ll leave your burdens there.

* * * * *

As the blessed, healing mentha Holds for mortal pains nepentha, So hath sympathy the art To soothe the bruises of the heart.