Part 5
For I dare not look behind! No shining, golden sheaves Can I ever hope to find: Nothing but withered leaves. Ah! dreams are very sweet! But will it please If only these I lay at the Master's feet.
And what will the Master say, To dreams and nothing more? Oh, idler all the day! Think, ere thy life is o'er! And when the day grows late, Oh, soul of sin, Will He let you in There at the pearly gate?
Oh, idle heart beware! On, to the field of strife! On, to the valley there, And live a useful life. Up! do not wait a day! For the old brown clock, With its "tick, tick, tock," Is ticking your life away.
FOR HIM WHO BEST SHALL UNDERSTAND IT.
I know a "righteous Christian," (That is, he thinks he's one,) He goes to church on Sunday And thinks his duty done. And always at prayer-meeting, He sighs, and groans, and prays; And talks about the sinners, And warns them from their ways.
And many of his neighbors, He knows are bound for hell; Although they love their Master, And do their duty well. But they pray within their closet, And do not own a "pew," And he's sure they'll not be numbered Among God's chosen few.
He exhorts men to be careful And keep from worldly strife. And he thinks a race for riches The worst thing in this life. "Do good," he cried, "with money, Ye who have aught to spare," And he preaches quite a sermon, And ends it with a prayer.
Well! he has bonds with coupons, And lots of cash on hand, And when the fierce Fire Demon, Went raging through our land, The neighborhood was canvassed, For money, clothes, and food, To send the starving people, And the man who cries, "Do good,"--
My preaching, praying Christian, Now boasts, in pride and glee, "Those begging, sponging rascals, Didn't get a cent from me! I don't believe their stories, About the suffering poor, The thieves were after money, And I sent them from my door."
Oh, out upon such a pretense! May a curse be upon his gold, And the cries of an hundred people, Hungry, and naked, and cold, Ring in his ears forever; And the words his false lips pray Fall on deaf ears in heaven, From now till the Judgment Day.
Oh "hypocrites, and liars!" Your prayers blaspheme God's name! And if the angels hear them, They blush for you in shame, And, though you deceive your fellows, With the pious cloak you wear; The hosts of heaven look deeper, And they know your true worth there.
DYING.
The great high arch of heaven, like tapestry On ancient walls, was grandly colored--save The quiet, cloudless west, that was a sea Of purest crystal--golden wave on wave. "Oh love," she whispered, "open wide the blind, And let me see the glory of the West; There just across the sea, my soul will find-- What here is never found--find peace and rest."
Deeper, and darklier grand, the bright clouds grew, And red and amber streaks shot through the North. The very light of heaven was shining through The crystal West. She reached her thin hand forth And a strange splendor fell upon her face; And her dark eyes glowed with unearthly light. I knew it came from God's celestial plane, Where there is neither sorrow, death, nor night.
"Oh love!" she cried, "my struggling spirit yearns To leave this clay and go across the sea, Look! how to molten gold the whole sky turns; And see that white hand beckoning to me. Oh love, my love, this is not death, to go At this sweet hour across the golden tide; To drop my every care, and henceforth know Only the pleasures of that other side."
The angel took the tapestries away, And rolled them up in heaven, out of sight, Leaving the common walls of sombre gray To catch the dews and damp fogs of the night. The west wind played upon his dulcimer. I leaned across her couch with bated breath; "Oh love," I said, as I gazed down on her, "Surely, thy words were true, this is not death!"
THANKSGIVING.
Thank God for men! I hear the shout From east and west go up, and out. Thank God for men whose hearts are true; For men who boldly dare, and do. For men who are not bought and sold, Who value honor more than gold, For men large-hearted, noble-minded, For men whose visions are not blinded With selfish aims: men who will fight With tongue or sword, for what is right; For men whom threats can never cower, For men who dare to use their power To shield the right and punish wrong E'en though his host are bold and strong; For men who work with hearts and hands For what the public good demands. Bless God the thankful people say, Such men have not all passed away.
Bless God, enough are left, at least To put a muzzle on the beast That walks our land from breadth to length And robs the strong man of his strength, Takes bread from babes, steals wise men's brains, And leaves them bound in helpless chains; Makes sin and sorrow, shame and woe, Where e'er his cloven foot may go. This is the mission of the beast Whose bloated keepers sit and feast On seasoned dainties that were bought With blood, and tears, and God knows what. Keepers who laugh when women cry, Who smile when children starve and die, If so they gain one farthing more To add to their ill-gotten store.
From south and north and west and east, The people clamored: "Chain the beast! Fetter the monster Alcohol, Before he robs us of our all."
Thank God, the earnest cry was heard, And hearts of noble men were stirred, And though a weak-kneed host went down Before the keeper's threatening frown, Enough were left--a bold, brave few, Strong-brained, broad-souled men that were true, Men who were men, and did not fear The villain's threat, the coward's sneer; Enough to muzzle with the law The foulest beast the world e'er saw. Thank God, thank God, the people say. True men have not all passed away.
OUR ANGEL.
Upon a couch all robed by careful hands For her repose, the maiden Mable lies Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands-- A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyes
May, wondering, gaze upon a little while; That mortal hands may touch a few times more. Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile; As if the glories of that mystic shore
When first they fell upon her spirit eyes-- All the rare splendors of that unseen way-- Had touched her with a wondering, glad surprise, And left the pleased expression on her clay.
Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast-- Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow. And they have robed her for her peaceful rest. Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe,
But in that garb we loved to see her wear; A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand. I wonder, as I see her lying there, If God will give her spirit in His land
Another shape. She could not be more fair. I think he will not change her form, or face, But with the same long, rippling, golden hair She will kneel down before the throne of grace,
And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will raise Up to Christ's face, and touch Him with her hand, And will with her own sweet voice, sing God's praise And still be fairest in the Angel band.
UNTIL THE NIGHT.
Over the ocean of life's commotion We sail till the night comes on. Sail and sail in a tiny boat, Drifting wherever the billows go. Out on the treacherous sea afloat, Beat by the cruel winds that blow, Hither and thither our boat is drawn, Till the day dies out and the night comes on.
Over a meadow of light and shadow We wander with weary feet, Seeking a bauble men call "Fame," Grasping the dead-sea fruit named "wealth," Finding each but an empty name, And the night--the night steals on by stealth. And we count the season of slumber sweet, When hope lies dead in the arms of defeat.
Over the river a great Forever, Stretches beyond our sight. But I know by the glistening pearly gates Afar from the region of strife and sin, A beautiful angel always waits To welcome the sheep of the shepherd in. And out of the shadows of gloom and night, They enter the mansion of peace and light.
A TRIBUTE.
My heart that otherwise was glad (So much God gives to make it so) This golden afternoon is sad And troubled with another's woe; And stranger that I am, I fain Would send some solace for her pain.
My talks with Sorrow have been brief; She touched my robe, in gliding by-- And when I've chanced to meet with Grief, He's passed me with averted eye. Yet, through another's pain, I see Sometimes a glimpse of what may be.
And of all griefs that mortals know-- Of all that pierce the human heart, There seems to me no other woe Like that which rends the soul apart, When a fond mother sees death's night Sealing an infant's eyes of light.
The babe endeared by pangs and fears That she has suffered for its sake, The babe she watched above with tears, Or sat through lonely nights, awake. And sang some tender lullaby-- And all for this--to see it die.
And thinking of that stricken one, Who weeps to-day a double loss, Who sees a darkness o'er the sun Made by her overshadowing cross-- And thinking how her poor arms ache-- I shed some tears for her sad sake.
Yet in the perfect pure sunlight-- In flowers of beauty and perfume, I think God puts these souls so white, And gives them back to us in bloom. 'Tis thus we have the light and flowers, By yielding up these buds of ours.
In every golden, burnished ray, In every sweet unfolding leaf, Sad mother, you may find to-day Some little solace in your grief. God lets them comfort you this wise, Until you join them in the skies.
IN MEMORY OF CHARLIE SPAULDING.
Aged 6 years and 5 months; died July 4, 1875.
With eyes that scarce can see for tears, We look back o'er the little space Of baby Charlie's life. Six years Since first we looked upon his face.
Six years since from the angel band Our little cherub strayed away. We did not know or understand He was but lent, and could not stay.
We looked into his lovely eyes, So large, so soulful, and so deep, And knew he came from God's own skies, And thought that he was ours to keep.
But angels missed him 'round the Throne And ere his earthly years were seven, Christ called him, leaving us alone, To turn our sorrowing hearts to Heaven.
For now, no matter what may come, Wealth, fortune, honors, earthly bliss, No place can seem to us like home, Hereafter save where Charlie is.
Life could not grow so warm, so bright, No circumstances bring such joy, But that our thoughts each morn and night Would turn to Heaven and our boy.
The thought that we may meet him there, And walk with him the heavenly plain Alone can keep us from despair, And bring us comfort in our pain.
For Arthur, who is left below, Are many thorny paths to tread. His lips must drink of grief and woe; Not so with Charlie, who is dead.
For Arthur there must be, at best, Full many an hour of gloom and sorrow; For Charlie, dwelling with the blest, Joy only, through an endless morrow.
Walking the golden streets above, He watches o'er us ever more. God grant through Christ's redeeming love, We yet may meet him on that shore.
The thought of death is very sweet-- The grave can have no chill or gloom For those who have a child to meet Beyond in fields of living bloom.