CHAPTER VIII.

It was a weary thing to bear the burden Of that restless and rebellious race. With Sinai’s thunders almost crashing in their ears, They made a golden calf, and in the desert Spread an idol’s feast, and sung the merry songs They had heard when Mizraim’s songs bowed down before Their vain and heathen gods; and thus for many years Did Moses bear the evil manners of his race— Their angry murmurs, fierce regrets and strange Forgetfulness of God. Born slaves, they did not love The freedom of the wild more than their pots of flesh. And pleasant savory things once gathered From the gardens of the Nile. If slavery only laid its weight of chains Upon the weary, aching limbs, e’en then It were a curse; but when it frets through nerve And flesh and eats into the weary soul, Oh then it is a thing for every human Heart to loathe, and this was Israel’s fate, For when the chains were shaken from their limbs They failed to strike the impress from their souls While he who’d basked beneath the radiance Of a throne, ne’er turned regretful eyes upon The past, nor sighed to grasp again the pleasures Once resigned; but the saddest trial was To see the light and joy fade from their faces When the faithless spies spread through their camp Their ill report; and when the people wept In hopeless unbelief and turned their faces Egyptward, and asked a captain from their bands To lead them back where they might bind anew Their broken chains, when God arose and shut The gates of promise on their lives, and left Their bones to bleach beneath Arabia’s desert sands But though they slumbered in the wild, they died With broader freedom on their lips, and for their Little ones did God reserve the heritage So rudely thrust aside.

THE DEATH OF MOSES.—CHAPTER IX.

His work was done; his blessing lay Like precious ointment on his people’s head, And God’s great peace was resting on his soul. His life had been a lengthened sacrifice, A thing of deep devotion to his race, Since first he turned his eyes on Egypt’s gild And glow, and clasped their fortunes in his hand And held them with a firm and constant grasp. But now his work was done; his charge was laid In Joshua’s hand, and men of younger blood Were destined to possess the land and pass Through Jordan to the other side. He too Had hoped to enter there—to tread the soil Made sacred by the memories of his Kindred dead, and rest till life’s calm close beneath The sheltering vines and stately palms of that Fair land; that hope had colored all his life’s Young dreams and sent its mellowed flushes o’er His later years; but God’s decree was otherwise. And so he bowed his meekened soul in calm Submission to the word, which bade him climb To Nebo’s highest peak, and view the pleasant land From Jordan’s swells unto the calmer ripples Of the tideless sea, then die with all its Loveliness in sight. As he passed from Moab’s grassy vale to climb The rugged mount, the people stood in mournful groups, Some, with quivering lips and tearful eyes, Reaching out unconscious hands, as if to stay His steps and keep him ever at their side, while Others gazed with reverent awe upon The calm and solemn beauty on his aged brow, The look of loving trust and lofty faith Still beaming from an eye that neither care Nor time had dimmed. As he passed upward, tender Blessings, earnest prayers and sad farewells rose On each wave of air, then died in one sweet Murmur of regretful love; and Moses stood Alone on Nebo’s mount. Alone! not one Of all that mighty throng who had trod with him In triumph through the parted flood was there. Aaron had died in Hor, with son and brother By his side; and Miriam too was gone. But kindred hands had made her grave, and Kadesh Held her dust. But he was all alone; nor wife Nor child was there to clasp in death his hand, And bind around their bleeding hearts the precious Parting words. And yet he was not all alone, For God’s great presence flowed around his path And stayed him in that solemn hour.

He stood upon the highest peak of Nebo, And saw the Jordan chafing through its gorges, Its banks made bright by scarlet blooms And purple blossoms. The placid lakes And emerald meadows, the snowy crest Of distant mountains, the ancient rocks That dripped with honey, the hills all bathed In light and beauty; the shady groves And peaceful vistas, the vines opprest With purple riches, the fig trees fruit-crowned Green and golden, the pomegranates with crimson Blushes, the olives with their darker clusters, Rose before him like a vision, full of beauty And delight. Gazed he on the lovely landscape Till it faded from his view, and the wing Of death’s sweet angel hovered o’er the mountain’s Crest, and he heard his garments rustle through The watches of the night. Then another, fairer, vision Broke upon his longing gaze; ’twas the land Of crystal fountains, love and beauty, joy And light, for the pearly gates flew open, And his ransomed soul went in. And when morning O’er the mountain fringed each crag and peak with light, Cold and lifeless lay the leader. God had touched His eyes with slumber, giving his beloved sleep.

Oh never on that mountain Was seen a lovelier sight Than the troupe of fair young angels That gathered ’round the dead. With gentle hands they bore him That bright and shining train, From Nebo’s lonely mountain To sleep in Moab’s vale. But they sung no mournful dirges No solemn requiems said, And the soft wave of their pinions Made music as they trod. But no one heard them passing, None saw their chosen grave; It was the angels secret Where Moses should be laid. And when the grave was finished They trod with golden sandals Above the sacred spot, And the brightest, fairest flowers Sprang up beneath their tread. Nor broken turf, nor hillock Did e’er reveal that grave, And truthful lips have never said We know where he is laid.

THE MISSION OF THE FLOWERS.

In a lovely garden, filled with fair and blooming flowers, stood a beautiful rose tree. It was the centre of attraction, and won the admiration of every eye; its beauteous flowers were sought to adorn the bridal wreath and deck the funeral bier. It was a thing of joy and beauty, and its earth mission was a blessing. Kind hands plucked its flowers to gladden the chamber of sickness and adorn the prisoner’s lonely cell. Young girls wore them ’mid their clustering curls, and grave brows relaxed when they gazed upon their wondrous beauty. Now the rose was very kind and generous hearted, and, seeing how much joy she dispensed, wished that every flower could only be a rose, and like herself have the privilege of giving joy to the children of men; and while she thus mused, a bright and lovely spirit approached her and said, “I know thy wishes and will grant thy desires. Thou shalt have power to change every flower in the garden to thine own likeness. When the soft winds come wooing thy fairest buds and flowers, thou shalt breathe gently o’er thy sister plants, and beneath thy influence they shall change to beautiful roses.” The rose tree bowed her head in silent gratitude to the gentle being who had granted her this wondrous power. All night the stars bent over her from their holy homes above, but she scarcely heeded their vigils. The gentle dews nestled in her arms and kissed the cheeks of her daughters; but she hardly noticed them;—she was waiting for the soft airs to awaken and seek her charming abode. At length the gentle airs greeted her, and she hailed them with a joyous welcome, and then commenced her work of change. The first object that met her vision was a tulip superbly arrayed in scarlet and gold. When she was aware of the intention of her neighbor, her cheeks flamed with anger, her eyes flashed indignantly, and she haughtily refused to change her proud robes for the garb the rose tree had prepared for her; but she could not resist the spell that was upon her, and she passively permitted the garments of the rose to enfold her yielding limbs. The verbenas saw the change that had fallen upon the tulip and dreading that a similar fate awaited them, crept closely to the ground, and, while tears gathered in their eyes, they felt a change pass through their sensitive frames, and instead of gentle verbenas they were blushing roses. She breathed upon the sleepy poppies; a deeper slumber fell upon their senses, and when they awoke, they too had changed to bright and beautiful roses. The heliotrope read her fate in the lot of her sisters, and, bowing her fair head in silent sorrow, gracefully submitted to her unwelcome destiny. The violets, whose mission was to herald the approach of spring, were averse to losing their identity. “Surely,” said they, “we have a mission as well as the rose;” but with heavy hearts they saw themselves changed like their sister plants. The snow drop drew around her her robes of virgin white; she would not willingly exchange them for the most brilliant attire that ever decked a flower’s form; to her they were the emblems of purity and innocence; but the rose tree breathed upon her, and with a bitter sob she reluctantly consented to the change. The dahlias lifted their heads proudly and defiantly; they dreaded the change, but scorned submission; they loved the fading year, and wished to spread around his dying couch their brightest, fairest flowers; but vainly they struggled, the doom was upon them, and they could not escape. A modest lily that grew near the rose tree shrank instinctively from her; but it was in vain, and with tearful eyes and trembling limbs she yielded, while a quiver of agony convulsed her frame. The marygolds sighed submissively and made no remonstrance. The garden pinks grew careless, and submitted without a murmur, while other flowers, less fragrant or less fair, paled with sorrow or reddened with anger; but the spell of the rose tree was upon them, and every flower was changed by her power, and that once beautiful garden was overrun with roses; it had become a perfect wilderness of roses; the garden had changed, but that variety which had lent it so much beauty was gone, and men grew tired of roses, for they were everywhere. The smallest violet peeping faintly from its bed would have been welcome, the humblest primrose would have been hailed with delight,—even a dandelion would have been a harbinger of joy; and when the rose saw that the children of men were dissatisfied with the change she had made, her heart grew sad within her, and she wished the power had never been given her to change her sister plants to roses, and tears came into her eyes as she mused, when suddenly a rough wind shook her drooping form, and she opened her eyes and found that she had only been dreaming. But an important lesson had been taught; she had learned to respect the individuality of her sister flowers, and began to see that they, as well as herself, had their own missions,—some to gladden the eye with their loveliness and thrill the soul with delight; some to transmit fragrance to the air; others to breathe a refining influence upon the world; some had power to lull the aching brow and soothe the weary heart and brain into forgetfulness; and of those whose mission she did not understand, she wisely concluded there must be some object in their creation, and resolved to be true to her own earth mission, and lay her fairest buds and flowers upon the altars of love and truth.

THE RAGGED STOCKING.

Do you see this ragged stocking, Here a rent and there a hole? Each thread of this little stocking Is woven around my soul.

Do you wish to hear my story? Excuse me, the tears will start, For the sight of this ragged stocking Stirs the fountains of my heart.

You say that my home is happy; To me ’tis earth’s fairest place, But its sunshine, peace and gladness Back to this stocking I trace.

I was once a wretched drunkard; Ah! you start and say not so; But the dreadful depths I’ve sounded, And I speak of what I know.

I was wild and very reckless When I stood on manhood’s brink, And, joining with pleasure-seekers Learned to revel and drink.

Strong drink is a raging demon, In his hands are shame and woe; He mocketh the strength of the mighty And bringeth the strong man low.

The light of my home was darkened By the shadow of my sin; And want and woe unbarr’d the door, And suffering entered in.

· · · · ·

The streets were full one Christmas eve, And alive with girls and boys, Merrily looking through window-panes At bright and beautiful toys.

And throngs of parents came to buy The gifts that children prize, And homeward trudged with happy hearts, The love-light in their eyes.

I thought of my little Charley At home in his lowly bed, With the shadows around his life, And in shame I bowed my head.

I entered my home a sober man, My heart by remorse was wrung, And there in the chimney corner, This little stocking was hung.

Faded and worn as you see it; To me ’tis a precious thing, And I never gaze upon it But unbidden tears will spring.

I began to search my pockets, But scarcely a dime was there; But scanty as was the pittance, This stocking received its share.

For a longing seized upon me To gladden the heart of my boy, And I bought him some cakes and candy, And added a simple toy.

Then I knelt by this little stocking And sobbed out an earnest prayer, And arose with strength to wrestle And break from the tempter’s snare.

And this faded, worn-out stocking, So pitiful once to see, Became the wedge that broke my chain, And a blessing brought to me.

Do you marvel then I prize it? When each darn and seam and hole Is linked with my soul’s deliverance From the bondage of the bowl?

And to-night my wife will tell you, Though I’ve houses, gold and land, He holds no treasure more precious Than this stocking in my hand.

THE FATAL PLEDGE.

“Pledge me with wine,” the maiden cried, Her tones were gay and light; “From others you have turned aside, I claim your pledge to-night.”

The blood rushed to the young man’s cheek Then left it deadly pale; Beneath the witchery of her smile He felt his courage fail.

For many years he’d been a slave To the enchanting bowl, Until he grasped with eager hands The reins of self-control;

And struggled with his hated thrall, Until he rent his chain, And strove to stand erect and free, And be a man again.

When others came with tempting words He coldly turned aside, But she who held the sparkling cup Was his affianced bride;

And like a vision of delight, Bright, beautiful and fair, With thoughtless words she wove for him The meshes of despair.

From jeweled hands he took the cup, Nor heard the serpent’s hiss; Nor saw beneath its ruby glow The deadly adder’s hiss.

Like waves that madly, wildly dash, When dykes are overthrown, The barriers of his soul gave way, Each life with wrecks was strewn.

And she who might have reached her hand To succor and to save, Soon wept in hopeless agony Above a drunkard’s grave.

And bore through life with bleeding heart Remembrance of that night, When she had urged the tempted man With wine to make his plight.

CHRIST’S ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM.

He had plunged into our sorrows, And our sin had pierced his heart, As before him loomed death’s shadow, And he knew he must depart.

But they hailed him as a victor As he into Salem came, And the very children shouted Loud hosannas to his name.

But he knew behind that triumph, Rising gladly to the sky, Soon would come the cries of malice: Crucify him! Crucify!

Onward rode the blessed Saviour, Conscious of the coming strife Soon to break in storms of hatred Round his dear, devoted life.

Ghastly in its fearful anguish Rose the cross before his eyes, But he saw the joy beyond it, And did all the shame despise.

Joy to see the cry of scorning Through the ages ever bright, And the cross of shame transfigured To a throne of love and light.

Joy to know his soul’s deep travail Should not be a thing in vain, And that joy and peace should blossom From his agonizing pain.

THE RESURRECTION OF JESUS.

It was done, the deed of horror; Christ had died upon the cross, And within an upper chamber The disciples mourned their loss.

Peter’s eyes were full of anguish, Thinking sadly of the trial When his boasted self-reliance Ended in his Lord’s denial.

Disappointment, deep and heavy, Shrouded every heart with gloom, As the hopes so fondly cherished Died around the garden tomb.

And they thought with shame and sorrow How they fled in that dark hour, When they saw their Lord and Master In the clutch of Roman power.

We had hoped, they sadly uttered, He would over Israel reign, But to-day he lies sepulchred, And our cherished hopes are vain.

In the humble home of Mary Slowly waned the hours away, Till she rose to seek the garden And the place where Jesus lay.

Not the cross with all its anguish Could her loving heart restrain, But the tomb she sought was empty, And her heart o’erflowed with pain.

To embalm my Lord and Master To this garden I have strayed, But, behold, I miss his body, And I know not where he’s laid.

Then a wave of strange emotion Swept her soul, as angels said, “Wherefore do ye seek the living ’Mid the chambers of the dead?”

Unperceived, her Lord stood by her, Silent witness of her grief, Bearing on his lips the tidings Sure to bring a glad relief.

But her tear-dimmed eyes were holden When she heard the Master speak; Thought she, only ’tis the gardener Asking whom her soul did seek.

Then a sudden flush of gladness O’er her grief-worn features spread; When she knew the voice of Jesus All her bitter anguish fled.

Forth she reached hands in rapture. Touch me not, the Saviour said; Take the message to my brethren, I have risen from the dead.

Take them words of joy and comfort, Which will all their mourning end; To their Father and my Father, Tell them that I will ascend.

“Brethren, I have seen the Master: He is risen from the dead.” But like words of idle meaning Seemed the glorious words she said.

Soon they saw the revelation Which would bid their mourning cease: Christ, the risen, stood before them Breathing words of love and peace.

Timid men were changed to heroes, Weakness turned to wondrous might, And the cross became their standard, Luminous with love and light.

From that lonely upper chamber, Holding up the rugged cross, With a glad and bold surrender They encountered shame and loss.

In these days of doubt and error, In the conflict for the right, May our hearts be ever strengthened By the resurrection’s might.

SIMON’S COUNTRYMEN.

They took away his seamless robe, With thorns they crowned his head, As harshly, fiercely cried his foes: “Barabbas in his stead.”

The friends he loved unto the end, Who shared his daily bread, Before the storms of wrath and hate Forsook their Lord and fled.

To rescue men from death and sin He knew the awful cost, As wearily he bent beneath The burden of the cross.

When Pilate had decreed his fate, And Jews withheld their aid, Then Simon, the Cyrenean, came: On him the cross was laid.

Not his to smite with cruel scorn, Nor mock the dying one, That helpful man came from the land Kissed by the ardent sun—

The land within whose sheltering arms The infant Jesus lay When Herod vainly bared his sword And sought the child to slay.

Amid the calendar of saints We Simon’s name may trace, On history’s page thro’ every age He bears an honored place.

He little knew that cross would change Unto a throne of light; The crown of thorns upon Christ’s brow Would be forever bright.

Beneath the shadow of that cross Brave men with outstretched hands Have told the wondrous tale of love In distant heathen lands.

And yet within our favored land, Where Christian churches rise, The dark-browed sons of Africa Are hated and despised.

Can they who speak of Christ as King, And glory in his name, Forget that Simon’s countrymen Still bear a cross of shame?

Can they forget the cruel scorn Men shower on a race Who treat the hues their Father gives As emblems of disgrace?

Will they erect to God their fanes And Christ with honor crown, And then with cruel weights of pain The African press down?

Oh, Christians, when we faint and bleed In this our native land, Reach out to us when peeled, opprest, A kindly helping hand,

And bear aloft that sacred cross, Bright from the distant years, And say for Christ’s and Simon’s sake, We’ll wipe away your tears.

For years of sorrow, toil and pain We’ll bring you love and light, And in the name of Christ our Lord We’ll make your pathway bright.

That seamless robe shall yet enfold The children of the sun, Till rich and poor and bond and free In Christ shall all be one.

And for his sake from pride and scorn Our spirits shall be free, Till through our souls shall sound the words He did it unto me.

DELIVERANCE.

Rise up! rise up! Oh Israel, Let a spotless lamb be slain; The angel of death will o’er you bend And rend your galling chain.

Sprinkle its blood upon the posts And lintels of your door; When the angel sees the crimson spots Unharmed he will pass you o’er.

Gather your flocks and herds to-night, Your children by your side: A leader from Arabia comes To be your friend and guide.

With girded loins and sandled feet Await the hour of dread, When Mizraim shall wildly mourn Her first-born and her dead.

The sons of Abraham no more Shall crouch ’neath Pharoah’s hand, Trembling with agony and dread, He’ll thrust you from the land.

And ye shall hold in unborn years A feast to mark this day, When joyfully the fathers rose And cast their chains away.

When crimson tints of morning flush The golden gates of day, Or gorgeous hue of even melt In sombre shades away,

Then ye shall to your children teach The meaning of this feast, How from the proud oppressor’s hand Their fathers were released,

And ye shall hold through distant years This feast with glad accord, And children’s children yet shall learn To love and trust the Lord.

Ages have passed since Israel trod In triumph through the sea, And yet they hold in memory’s urn Their first great jubilee.

When Moses led the ransomed hosts, And Miriam’s song arose, While ruin closed around the path Of their pursuing foes.

Shall Israel thro’ long varied years These memories cherish yet, And we who lately stood redeemed Our broken chains forget?

Should we forget the wondrous change That to our people came, When justice rose and sternly plead Our cause with sword and flame?

And led us through the storms of war To freedom’s fairer shore, When slavery sank beneath a flood Whose waves were human gore.

Oh, youth and maidens of the land, Rise up with one accord, And in the name of Christ go forth To battle for the Lord.

Go forth, but not in crimson fields, With fratricidal strife, But in the name of Christ go forth For freedom, love and life.

Go forth to follow in his steps, Who came not to destroy, Till wastes shall blossom as the rose, And deserts sing for joy.

SIMON’S FEAST.

He is coming, she said, to Simon’s feast, The prophet of Galilee, Though multitudes around him throng In longing his face to see.

He enters the home as Simon’s guest, But he gives no welcome kiss; He brings no water to bathe his feet— Why is Simon so remiss?

The prophet’s face is bright with love, And mercy beams from his eye; He pities the poor, the lame and blind, An outcast, I will draw nigh.

If a prophet, he will surely know The guilt of my darkened years; With broken heart I’ll seek his face, And bathe his feet with my tears.

No holy rabbi lays his hand In blessing on my head; No loving voice floats o’er the path, The downward path I tread.

Unto the Master’s side she pressed, A penitent, frail and fair, Rained on his feet a flood of tears, And then wiped them with her hair.

Over the face of Simon swept An air of puzzled surprise; Can my guest a holy prophet be, And not this woman despise?

Christ saw the thoughts that Simon’s heart Had written upon his face, Kindly turned to the sinful one In her sorrow and disgrace.

Where Simon only saw the stains, Where sin and shame were rife, Christ looked beneath and saw the germs Of a fair, outflowering life.

Like one who breaks a galling chain, And sets a prisoner free, He rent her fetters with the words, “Thy sins are forgiven thee.”

God be praised for the gracious words Which came through that woman’s touch That souls redeemed thro’ God’s dear Son May learn to love him so much;

That souls once red with guilt and crime May their crimson stains outgrow; The scarlet spots upon their lives Become whiter than driven snow.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page Changed from Changed to

28 The king’s degree hung like a The king’s decree hung like a gloomy pall gloomy pall

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.