Part 4

How weak the strongest mortal love! How selfish in its tenderness! How God's angelic host above Must wonder at our blind distress! We see her still grave, dark and dim, And they see only Heaven and Him.

Perpetual youth! oh, priceless boon! Forever youthful: never old! How can we think she died too soon? What though life's story was half told? Wiser than all earth's seers, to-day, Is this fair soul, that passed away.

Magician, sage, philosopher, With all their vast brain-wealth combined, Are only babes, compared with her: This soul, that left the "things behind" And, "reaching to the things before," Gained God, through Christ, forevermore.

IN MEMORY OF J. B.

Brave heart, whose bed has now been made A twelve month neath the grasses, Checkered by sunshine and by shade, Where every breeze that passes Hushes its song and sighs along, With sorrow in its cadence, Not thinking how thy sainted brow Glows with a Christly radiance.

Do spirits hover in the air? Do the dear dead ones never Float on the gentle zyphers near Out of the vast forever! Somehow to-day my thoughts will stray To you, oh friend, in slumber! You seem so near, I feel you here, One of the angel number.

Oh, face I never looked upon! Oh, quiet, dreamless sleeper! How strange that when you journeyed on With death, the mighty reaper, I missed you so. Do angels know, Up in the City's splendor, When hearts on earth embalm their worth, And are they glad, I wonder?

BIRD OF HOPE.

Oh Bird of Hope! Soar not too high Because the skies are fair; The tempest may come on apace And overcome thee there.

When far above the mountain tops Thou soarest over all, If, then, the storm should press thee back, How great would be thy fall!

And thou wouldst lie here at my feet, A poor and lifeless thing-- A torn and bleeding birdling, with A limp and broken wing.

Sing not too loud, oh bird of Hope! Because the day is bright; The sunshine cannot always last-- The morn precedes the night.

And if thy song is of the day, Then when the day grows dim, Forlorn and voiceless thou wouldst sit Among the shadows grim.

Oh! I would have thee soar and sing, But not too high, or loud: Remembering that day meets night-- The brilliant sun the cloud.

GHOSTS.

There are ghosts in the room, As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there They come out of the gloom And they stand at my side, and they lean on my chair.

There's the ghost of a Hope That lighted my days with a fanciful glow; In her hand is the rope That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

But her ghost comes to-night, With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes, And it stands in the light And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

There's the ghost of a Joy, A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much, And the hands that destroy Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

There's the ghost of a love, Born with Joy, reared with Hope, died in pain and unrest; But he towers above All the others--this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.

I am weary, and fain Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host Make the struggle in vain. In each shadowy corner, there lurketh a ghost.

OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

Out of the midnight, rayless and starless, Into the morning's golden light; Out of the clutches of wrong and ruin, Into the arms of truth and right; Out of the ways that are ways of sorrow; Out of the paths that are paths of pain-- Yea! out of the depths has a soul arisen, And "one that is lost is found again!"

Lost in the sands of an awful desert! Lost in a region of imps accursed, With bones of a victim to mark his pathway, And burning lava to quench his thirst. Lost in the darkness, astray in the shadows-- Father above, do we pray in vain? Hark! on the winds come gleeful tidings: Lo, "he that was lost is found again."

Found! and the sunlight of God's great mercy Dispels the shadows and brings the morn; Found! and the hosts of the dear Redeemer Are shouting aloud o'er a soul re-born. Plucked, like a brand from the conflagration; Cleansed, like a garment free from stain; Saved--pray God--for now and forever-- Lost for a season, but found again.

"Out of the depths," by the grace of heaven, Out of the depths of woe and shame. And he strikes his name from the roll of drunkards, To carve it again on the heights of fame, "Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging"-- Glory to God, he has snapped the chain That bound him with fetters of steel and iron; And "he that was lost is found again."

Down with the cup, though it gleams like rubies! Down with the glass, though it sparkle and shine! "It bites like a serpent, and stings like an adder"-- There is shame, and sorrow, and woe in wine. Keen though the sword be, and deadly its mission, Three times its number the wine cup has slain. God, send thy grace upon these it has fettered; God grant the lost may be found again.

MISTAKES.

My life is full of sad mistakes,-- Today I was thinking about them, And thinking of all that I might have been If I had but lived without them. So many times have I laid my plan, Only to spoil it in doing; And much of the work that the world calls good Has left me cause for rueing.

Each thing that I do is like the page Of a hurriedly written letter;-- Full of good thoughts perhaps, but the blots Prove that it might be better. I have wished for the world's applause, and thought To make it praise and wonder, But my noblest aim and best laid plan Was sure to be spoiled by a blunder.

I think I have lived too far from God,-- Not that I ever doubt Him, But feeling too sure of my strength, I've tried To do some things without Him. And so we shall always make mistakes, And always our errors be rueing, Until we reach up for the Guiding Hand, Whatever we may be doing.

PRESUMPTION.

Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder-- I check myself, and say, "That mighty One Who made the solar system cannot blunder-- And for the best all things are being done." Who set the stars on their eternal courses Has fashioned this strange earth by some sure plan. Bow low, bow low to those majestic forces Nor dare to doubt their wisdom--puny man.

You cannot put one little star in motion, You cannot shape one single forest leaf, Nor fling a mountain up, nor sink an ocean, Presumptuous pigmy, large with unbelief. You cannot bring one dawn of regal splendor Nor bid the day to shadowy twilight fall, Nor send the pale moon forth with radiance tender, And dare you doubt the One who has done all?

"So much is wrong, there is such pain--such sinning." Yet look again--behold how much is right! And He who formed the world from its beginning Knows how to guide it upward to the light. Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavil At God's achievements, but with purpose strong To cling to good, and turn away from evil-- That is the way to help the world along.

TWILIGHT THOUGHTS

The God of the day has vanished, The light from the hills has fled, And the hand of an unseen artist, Is painting the West all red. All threaded with gold and crimson, And burnished with amber dye, And tipped with purple shadows, The glory flameth high.

Fair, beautiful world of ours! Fair, beautiful world, but oh, How darkened by pain and sorrow, How blackened by sin and woe. The splendor pales in the heavens And dies in a golden gleam, And alone in the hush of twilight, I sit, in a checkered dream.

I think of the souls that are straying, In shadows as black as night, Of hands that are groping blindly In search of the shining light; Of hearts that are mutely crying, And praying for just one ray, To lead them out of the shadows, Into the better way.

I think of the Father's children Who are trying to walk alone, Who have dropped the hand of the Parent, And wander in ways unknown. Oh, the paths are rough and thorny, And I know they cannot stand. They will faint and fall by the wayside, Unguided by God's right hand.

And I think of the souls that are yearning To follow the good and true; That are striving to live unsullied, Yet know not what to do. And I wonder when God, the Master, Shall end this weary strife, And lead us out of the shadows Into the deathless life.

LISTEN!

Whoever you are as you read this, Whatever your trouble or grief, I want you to know and to heed this: The day draweth near with relief.

No sorrow, no woe is unending, Though heaven seems voiceless and dumb; So sure as your cry is ascending, So surely an answer will come.

Whatever temptation is near you, Whose eyes on this simple verse fall; Remember good angels will hear you And help you to stand, if you call.

Though stunned with despair I beseech you, Whatever your losses, your need, Believe, when these printed words reach you Believe you were born to succeed.

You are stronger, I tell you, this minute, Than any unfortunate fate! And the coveted prize--you can win it; While life lasts 'tis never too late!

SONG OF THE SPIRIT.

Too sweet and too subtle for pen or for tongue In phrases unwritten and measures unsung, As deep and as strange as the sounds of the sea, Is the song that my spirit is singing to me.

In the midnight and tempest when forest trees shiver, In the roar of the surf, and the rush of the river, In the rustle of leaves and the fall of the rain, And on the low breezes I catch the refrain.

From the vapors that frame and envelope the earth, And beyond, from the realms where my spirit had birth, From the mists of the land and the fogs of the sea, Forever and ever the song comes to me.

I know not its wording--its import I know-- For the rhythm is broken, the measure runs low, When vexed or allured by the things of this life My soul is merged into its pleasures or strife.

When up to the hill tops of beauty and light My soul like a lark in the ether takes flight, And the white gates of heaven shine brighter and nearer, The song of the spirit grows sweeter and clearer.

Up, up to the realms where no mortal has trod-- Into space and infinity near to my God-- With whiteness, and silence, and beautiful things, I am borne when the voice of eternity sings.

When once in the winds or the drop of the rain Thy spirit shall listen and hear the refrain, Thy soul shall soar up like a bird on the breeze, And the things that have pleased thee will never more please.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

And now when poets are singing Their song of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet Centennial lays, My muse goes wandering backward To the groundwork of all these, To the time when our Pilgrim Fathers Came over the winter seas.

The sons of a mighty kingdom, Of a cultured folk were they, Born amidst pomp and splendor, Bred in it, day by day. Children of bloom and beauty, Reared under skies serene, Where the daisy and hawthorne blossomed And the ivy was always green.

And yet, for the sake of freedom, For a free religious faith, They turned from home and people, And stood face to face with death. They turned from a tyrant ruler And stood on the new world's shore, With a waste of waters behind them, And a waste of land before.

Oh, men of a great Republic; Of a land of untold worth; Of a nation that has no equal Upon God's round green earth; I hear you sighing and crying Of the hard, close times at hand; What think you of those old heroes, On the rock 'twixt sea and land.

The bells of a million churches Go ringing out to-night, And the glitter of palace windows Fills all the land with light; And there is the home and college, And here is the feast and ball, And the angels of peace and freedom Are hovering over all.

They had no church, no college, No banks, no mining stock; They had but the waste before them, The sea and Plymouth Rock. But there in the night and tempest, With gloom on every hand, They laid the first foundation Of a nation great and grand.

There were no weak repinings, No shrinking from what might he, But with their brows to the tempest, And with their backs to the sea, They planned out a noble future, And planted the corner-stone Of the grandest, greatest republic The world has ever known.

Oh, women in homes of splendor, Oh lily-buds frail and fair, With fortunes upon your fingers, And milk-white pearls in your hair, I hear you longing and sighing For some new fresh delight; But what of those Pilgrim mothers On that December night?

I hear you talking of hardships, I hear you moaning of loss, Each has her fancied sorrow, Each bears her self-made cross. But they, they had only their husbands, The rain, the rock, and the sea; Yet, they looked up to God and blessed Him, And were glad because they were free.

Oh, grand old Pilgrim heroes, Oh, souls that were tried and true, With all of our proud possessions We are humbled at thought of you. Men of such might and muscle, Women so brave and strong, Whose faith was fixed as the mountains, Through a night so dark and long.

We know of your grim, grave errors, As husbands and as wives; Of the rigid bleak ideas That starved your daily lives; Of pent-up, curbed emotions, Of feelings crushed, suppressed, That God with the heart created In every human breast.

We know of the little remnant Of British tyranny, When you hunted Quakers and witches, And swung them from a tree; Yet back to a holy motive, To live in the fear of God, To a purpose light, exalted, To walk where martyrs trod.

We can trace your gravest errors. Your aim was fixed and sure; And e'en if your acts were fanatic, We know your hearts were pure. You lived so near to heaven, You overreached your trust, And deemed yourselves creators, Forgetting you were but dust

But we with our broader visions, With our wider realms of thought, I often think would be better If we lived as our fathers taught. Their lives seemed bleak and rigid, Narrow and void of bloom; Our minds have too much freedom, And conscience too much room.

They overreached in duty, They starved their hearts for the right; We live too much in the senses, We bask too long in the light. They proved by their clinging to Him The image of God in man; And we, by our love of license, Strengthen a Darwin's plan.

But bigotry reached its limit, And license must have its sway, And both shall result in profit To those of a later day. With the fetters of slavery broken, And freedom's flag unfurled, Our nation strides onward and upward, And stands the peer of the world.

Spires and domes and steeples Glitter from shore to shore; The waters are white with commerce, The earth is studded with ore; Peace is sitting above us, And Plenty, with laden hand, Wedded to sturdy Labor, Goes singing through the land.

Then let each child of the nation Who glories in being free, Remember the Pilgrim Fathers Who stood on the rock by the sea; For there in the rain and tempest Of a night long passed away, They sowed the seeds of a harvest We gather in sheaves to-day.

LINES WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES BUELL.

Something is missing from the balmy spring; There is no perfume in its gentle breath; And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing, And all the bees chant of the grave and death-- Something is missing from the earth. One morn The angels called a new name on the roll; A spirit soldier to their ranks was borne, And all Christ's army welcomed the pure young soul.

He died. Two little words, but only God Can understand the awful depths of woe They hold for those who pass beneath the rod, Praying for strength, from Him who aimed the blow. He died. The soldier who fought long and well, Who walked with Death upon the battle-field, Among the bellowing guns--the shrieking shell-- In poison prison dens--and would not yield.

A six month three times told, he languished there, And yet he lived; oh, young heart, strong and brave! Thank God, who heard the oft repeated prayer; Thank God, he does not fill a Southern grave; That when he died, the loved ones gathered round, And eased the anguish of those last, sad hours; That gentle hands can keep the precious mound All green with mosses, and abloom with flowers.

He was so young and fair; and life was sweet. Christ give the mourners strength to drain the cup. He went to make the Heavenly ranks complete. God sent the angel Death, to bear him up So young, and fair and brave; so loved by all; The lisping child-life's veteran, bent and gray-- The eyes grew dim, and bitter tear-drops fall Upon the mound where lies the soldier's clay.

Oh! it is sweet to feel that God knows best, Who called in youth this brother, friend and son, And sweet to lean upon the Saviour's breast, And looking upward, say, "Thy will be done." But something is missing from the balmy spring; There is no perfume in its gentle breath, And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing, And all the bees chant of the grave, and death.

SEARCHING.

These quiet autumn days, My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings Goes out, and searches for the hidden things Beyond the hills of haze.

With mournful, pleading cries, Above the waters of the voiceless sea That laps the shores of Eternity, Day after day it flies.

Searching, but all in vain, For some stray leaf that it may light upon And read the future as the days agone-- Its pleasure and its pain.

Listening, patiently, For some voice speaking from the mighty deep, Revealing all the secrets it doth keep In silence, there for me.

Come back and wait, my soul! Day after day thy search has been in vain. Voiceless and silent o'er the future's pain, Its mystic waters roll.

God seeing, knoweth best, And day by day the waters shall subside, And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide; Then wait, my soul, and rest.

FADING.

She sits beside the window. All who pass Turn once again to gaze on her sweet face. She is so fair; but soon, too soon, alas, To lie down in her last low resting place.

No gems are brighter than her sparkling eyes, Her brow like polished marble, white and fair-- Her cheeks as glowing as the sunset skies-- You would not dream that death was lurking there.

But, oh! he lingers closely at her side, And when the forest dons her Autumn dress, We know that he will claim her as his bride, And earth will number one fair spirit less.

She sees the meadow robed in richest green-- The laughing stream--the willows bending o'er. With tear dimmed eyes she views each sylvan scene, And thinks earth never was so fair before.

We do not sigh for Heaven, till we have known, Something of sorrow, something of grief and woe, And as a summer day her life has flown. Then, can we wonder she is loath to go?

She has no friends in Heaven: all are here. No lost one waits her in that unknown land, And life grows doubly, trebly sweet and dear As day by day, she nears the mystic strand.

We love her and we grieve to see her go. But it is Christ who calls her to His breast, And He shall greet her, and she soon shall know The joys of souls that dwell among the blest.

A DREAM.

The shadows of a winter night were falling, The snows were drifting in my cottage door-- And loud the voices of the winds were calling, When there came a stranger, lone, despised, and poor!

Came to my glowing hearth, all humbly pleading For food and shelter till the day should dawn-- But to his every word I stood unheeding, And turned him forth and bade him wander on.

I have six little ones to guard from danger; I have a pillow for each precious head; But nought to waste upon a beggared stranger-- And "charity begins at home," I said.

All fierce and loud the winter wind was groaning, Like some lost spirit, doomed to death it seemed; While at some door it made its ceaseless moaning, I sought my pillow, and I slept and dreamed.

I dreamed I stood at Heaven's gate entreating, Weeping and wailing for the other side; While in the gloom I stood, all wildly beating, Begging the angel guard to open wide.

At length I heard the pearly hinges turning, And saw the glories that no tongue can tell. Before me all the hues of Heaven burning, Behind me all the gloom of death and hell.

I strove to enter, but a voice like thunder, Cried "Come no nearer, oh! thou soul of sin." And I shrank down in awful fear and wonder, For I had thought to enter boldly in.

Again the voice cried, "When in woe and anguish, I sought a shelter at thy glowing hearth, Thou turned me out, unclothed, unfed to languish, And wander wearily upon the earth.

"Depart from here, thou selfish sinful mortal, On heaven's perfect face, a stain and blot; For never can'st thou cross the shining portal, Ye knew not me and now I know ye not."

IDLER'S SONG.

I sit in the twilight dim, At the close of an idle day, And list to the sweet, soft hymn That rises far away And dies on the evening air. Oh, all day long, They sing their song, Who toil in the valley there.

But never a song sing I, Sitting with folded hands, The hours pass me by-- Dropping their golden sands-- And I list from day to day, To the "tick, tick, tock," Of the old brown clock, Ticking my life away.

And I see the twilight fade, And I see the night come on, And then, in the gloom and shade, I weep for the day that's gone-- Weep and wail in pain, For the misspent day That has flown away, And will not come again.

Another morning beams, But I forget the last, And sit in my idle dreams Till the day is over--past. Oh, the toiler's heart is glad! When the day is gone And the night comes on, But mine is sore and sad.