XVIIIPOETIC INSPIRATIONS

To reflect on Brother Warner's career is to marvel at the accomplishment that was crowded into a few short years. He was active in several callings at one time. As a minister with the heavy burden of the gospel upon him he labored hard, preaching often and being everywhere in demand. On occasions he preached for three and even four hours in one discourse, the audience as well as the preacher forgetful of the passing time. Though in physical endurance he was weak, yet there were perhaps few speakers who could wear so well in the labor of the pulpit. His private work of instructing seekers, and his ministrations for the sick, requiring the exercise of prayer and faith, absorbed his strength and occupied much time. As editor of the paper, to which he contributed articles, many of them doctrinal and requiring study, and for which he had to edit articles written by others, it was necessary that he spend much time with the pen. His correspondence also was considerable, and as stenographers were not so available then as now he had to do his writing with his own hand. Where would he get time for study and prayer, and for writing hymns or poetry? And yet he accomplished all of these.

In the latter years of his life he apparently was declining to some extent in ministerial vigor; but as a writer his productions seemed only to grow richer with his years. Had his life been prolonged to the full period of what is commonly expected of man, he would have given to the world some of the finest poetical productions. His poems are not at all inferior, though written during a strenuous career.

In 1890, he collected and published his poems in abook entitled Poems of Grace and Truth. It contained 343 pages. With the exception of a small book entitled Bible Readings, and the limp-cover binding of a song-book, this book of poems was the first cloth-bound book ever made at the Gospel Trumpet publishing office. The press-work is imperfect owing to the poor stereotyped plates from which it was printed. A number of beautiful poems were written since the publication of this book and therefore were not included in it.

His longest poem was his Meditations on the Prairie. It occupies eighty-four pages of the book mentioned and is written in ten-syllable iambic verse. It touchingly describes with beautiful imagery the author's acquaintance with and his subsequent marriage to Sarah A. Keller, and the circumstances that led to her deception and separation from him. His own description of its origin, as given in the preface to the poem, is as follows:

In the summer of 1873, the author took a mission-field in Nebraska, much of which had just been settled the previous year. My companion had died one year previously. Just before going West a correspondence was arranged with Sister Sarah A. Keller, which soon kindled into a glowing flame of love. A year later I returned and we were happily joined in marriage. With her precious company I came again to this blooming plain, where one year was sweetened with the most transporting conjugal bliss. In 1875 we returned to Ohio, where life and labors flowed on in uninterrupted happiness, until in 1884 the dear object of our love was deceived by the wily foe and torn from our soul, a crisis that threatened our frail life, and which we survived only by the grace of God.In the fall of 1887, while on an extensive Western tour, we came into a new part of the great prairie, which strikingly reminded us of our travels on the new plains twelve and thirteen years before. There the Spirit touched our mind with vivid recollections of that cherished one, who made for us this prairie a blissful Eden. An inspired imagination also portrayed what dire wreck of our own life might have ensued from the crisis of broken love had not the grace of God averted the sad issue.This cast us on the sod beneath a load of gratitude, where the poem was inspired as our heart's humble tribute for Heaven's pity and sustaining arm.

In the fall of 1887, while on an extensive Western tour, we came into a new part of the great prairie, which strikingly reminded us of our travels on the new plains twelve and thirteen years before. There the Spirit touched our mind with vivid recollections of that cherished one, who made for us this prairie a blissful Eden. An inspired imagination also portrayed what dire wreck of our own life might have ensued from the crisis of broken love had not the grace of God averted the sad issue.This cast us on the sod beneath a load of gratitude, where the poem was inspired as our heart's humble tribute for Heaven's pity and sustaining arm.

A quotation from this poem appears inChapter XVof this book.

Brother Warner was a great admirer of nature as the handiwork of God, and several of his poems are on nature subjects. What we give here are in most cases but selections from the poems named, the omissions being indicated by stars.

AUTUMNGone is the spring with all its flowers,And gone the summer's verdant show;Now strewn beneath the autumn bowers,The yellow leaves await the snow.Behold, this earth so cold and grayAn emblem of our life appears;Its blooming robes sink to decay,To rise again in round of years.Earth cheers its winter sleep with dreamsOf springtime's warmth and gentle rain,When she shall wake to murmuring streamsAnd songs of merry birds again.So we come forth like springtime flowers,Soon into manhood's summer go,Then, like the leaves of autumn bowers,Lie down beneath the winter's snow.And there our bodies slumb'ring waitTill time's short winter day has fled,And Christ, our Lord and Advocate,Shall come again to wake the dead.Then winter's storm and summer's heatShall end in everlasting spring,And all immortal we shall meet,And round the throne of glory sing.

AUTUMNGone is the spring with all its flowers,And gone the summer's verdant show;Now strewn beneath the autumn bowers,The yellow leaves await the snow.

AUTUMN

Gone is the spring with all its flowers,

And gone the summer's verdant show;

Now strewn beneath the autumn bowers,

The yellow leaves await the snow.

Behold, this earth so cold and grayAn emblem of our life appears;Its blooming robes sink to decay,To rise again in round of years.

Behold, this earth so cold and gray

An emblem of our life appears;

Its blooming robes sink to decay,

To rise again in round of years.

Earth cheers its winter sleep with dreamsOf springtime's warmth and gentle rain,When she shall wake to murmuring streamsAnd songs of merry birds again.

Earth cheers its winter sleep with dreams

Of springtime's warmth and gentle rain,

When she shall wake to murmuring streams

And songs of merry birds again.

So we come forth like springtime flowers,Soon into manhood's summer go,Then, like the leaves of autumn bowers,Lie down beneath the winter's snow.

So we come forth like springtime flowers,

Soon into manhood's summer go,

Then, like the leaves of autumn bowers,

Lie down beneath the winter's snow.

And there our bodies slumb'ring waitTill time's short winter day has fled,And Christ, our Lord and Advocate,Shall come again to wake the dead.

And there our bodies slumb'ring wait

Till time's short winter day has fled,

And Christ, our Lord and Advocate,

Shall come again to wake the dead.

Then winter's storm and summer's heatShall end in everlasting spring,And all immortal we shall meet,And round the throne of glory sing.

Then winter's storm and summer's heat

Shall end in everlasting spring,

And all immortal we shall meet,

And round the throne of glory sing.

NEW YEAR'S GREETINGJanuary 1, 1890Another year has come and goneSo swiftly flows unceasing time.Forever on and on and on,With sorrow's groan and merry chime.Commingled in its surging tide,Time bears along upon its floodPoor human wrecks by sin destroyed;Yet o'er its stream, the hand of GodStill bends his bow of hope divine;Its hues of love in beauty shine.Another year of hope and fearHas swept around its dial-plate,And with it thousands disappearTo higher bliss or awful fate.God grant to us who yet surviveA heart of fervent gratitude,And grace that we may wholly liveTo glorify the Source of good;Then, should this be our final year,We'll sink to rest without a fear.Another year hath brought its storeIn rich profusion at our feet,That we should, heart and soul, adoreOur Maker's love so broad and deep.And have you cast your bread uponThe waters of the passing year,In hope that what your hands have doneWill in much future good appear?Then as thy faith so shall it be;In coming days thine eyes shall see.

NEW YEAR'S GREETING

January 1, 1890

Another year has come and gone

So swiftly flows unceasing time.

Forever on and on and on,

With sorrow's groan and merry chime.

Commingled in its surging tide,

Time bears along upon its flood

Poor human wrecks by sin destroyed;

Yet o'er its stream, the hand of God

Still bends his bow of hope divine;

Its hues of love in beauty shine.

Another year of hope and fearHas swept around its dial-plate,And with it thousands disappearTo higher bliss or awful fate.God grant to us who yet surviveA heart of fervent gratitude,And grace that we may wholly liveTo glorify the Source of good;Then, should this be our final year,We'll sink to rest without a fear.

Another year of hope and fear

Has swept around its dial-plate,

And with it thousands disappear

To higher bliss or awful fate.

God grant to us who yet survive

A heart of fervent gratitude,

And grace that we may wholly live

To glorify the Source of good;

Then, should this be our final year,

We'll sink to rest without a fear.

Another year hath brought its storeIn rich profusion at our feet,That we should, heart and soul, adoreOur Maker's love so broad and deep.And have you cast your bread uponThe waters of the passing year,In hope that what your hands have doneWill in much future good appear?Then as thy faith so shall it be;In coming days thine eyes shall see.

Another year hath brought its store

In rich profusion at our feet,

That we should, heart and soul, adore

Our Maker's love so broad and deep.

And have you cast your bread upon

The waters of the passing year,

In hope that what your hands have done

Will in much future good appear?

Then as thy faith so shall it be;

In coming days thine eyes shall see.

The poem To the Alien, is addressed to his wife, Sarah, who, early in the year 1884, through the influence of a spiritual deceiver, as already stated, left her husband.

TO THE ALIENThree years have fled since billows wildWrecked our domestic bark,And chilled your love for husband, child,Mid waters cold and dark."How wonderful the mystery,"Astonished men exclaim,"That hearts so knit in unityCould ever part in twain!"We suffered some adversities,A portion all must find,When compassed round by devoteesWhose creeds we'd left behind.When pressing to the harvest-fieldOf everlasting truth,And just before the golden yield,Alas! you turned aloof.Oh, how I wish that you could shareIn these ecstatic days,Enjoy the light of God so pure,And help to sing his praise!My soul had longed for more of God,More glory in the cross;But never dreamed that it must comeThrough such a bitter loss.I can not chide his providence,But count it all the best;For in each storm of violenceI sink to sweeter rest.'Twas not a rival filled thine eyesWith colored fancies rare;But Satan came in deep disguise,And wrought the dread affair.We still are joined in Eden's bondOf matrimony true;While life endures, yet undissolvedIt binds my heart to you.No court of man nor Satan's powerCan disannul the tie;Though spirits rent, in evil hour,"One flesh" are you and I.No face so fair, no heart so warm,Upon this verdant sod,Shall alienate with rival charmThe wife received of God.So I will walk with God alone,And bless his holy name,Till he shall bring the alien homeTo dwell in love again.In vision of the night I saw—And woke to joyful praise—True nature reimprint her lawThat ruled thy former days.From nature's pure affections thenGrace led to love divine;Then heaven's bliss alone can boundOur mutual joy sublime.God grant that this may real proveThrough coming years of time,And in his shining courts above,An endless crown be thine.The hand of God alone can takeThe broken chords of loveAnd knit them in a union sweetAs love's pure reign above.Here I will close my present rhyme;But ever pray for you,That God may give you back againThe heart of woman true.Then touched by sweet seraphic strains,With all the heavenly throng,I'll shout aloud my Savior's praise,And sing another song.

TO THE ALIENThree years have fled since billows wildWrecked our domestic bark,And chilled your love for husband, child,Mid waters cold and dark.

TO THE ALIEN

Three years have fled since billows wild

Wrecked our domestic bark,

And chilled your love for husband, child,

Mid waters cold and dark.

"How wonderful the mystery,"Astonished men exclaim,"That hearts so knit in unityCould ever part in twain!"

"How wonderful the mystery,"

Astonished men exclaim,

"That hearts so knit in unity

Could ever part in twain!"

We suffered some adversities,A portion all must find,When compassed round by devoteesWhose creeds we'd left behind.

We suffered some adversities,

A portion all must find,

When compassed round by devotees

Whose creeds we'd left behind.

When pressing to the harvest-fieldOf everlasting truth,And just before the golden yield,Alas! you turned aloof.

When pressing to the harvest-field

Of everlasting truth,

And just before the golden yield,

Alas! you turned aloof.

Oh, how I wish that you could shareIn these ecstatic days,Enjoy the light of God so pure,And help to sing his praise!

Oh, how I wish that you could share

In these ecstatic days,

Enjoy the light of God so pure,

And help to sing his praise!

My soul had longed for more of God,More glory in the cross;But never dreamed that it must comeThrough such a bitter loss.

My soul had longed for more of God,

More glory in the cross;

But never dreamed that it must come

Through such a bitter loss.

I can not chide his providence,But count it all the best;For in each storm of violenceI sink to sweeter rest.

I can not chide his providence,

But count it all the best;

For in each storm of violence

I sink to sweeter rest.

'Twas not a rival filled thine eyesWith colored fancies rare;But Satan came in deep disguise,And wrought the dread affair.

'Twas not a rival filled thine eyes

With colored fancies rare;

But Satan came in deep disguise,

And wrought the dread affair.

We still are joined in Eden's bondOf matrimony true;While life endures, yet undissolvedIt binds my heart to you.

We still are joined in Eden's bond

Of matrimony true;

While life endures, yet undissolved

It binds my heart to you.

No court of man nor Satan's powerCan disannul the tie;Though spirits rent, in evil hour,"One flesh" are you and I.

No court of man nor Satan's power

Can disannul the tie;

Though spirits rent, in evil hour,

"One flesh" are you and I.

No face so fair, no heart so warm,Upon this verdant sod,Shall alienate with rival charmThe wife received of God.

No face so fair, no heart so warm,

Upon this verdant sod,

Shall alienate with rival charm

The wife received of God.

So I will walk with God alone,And bless his holy name,Till he shall bring the alien homeTo dwell in love again.

So I will walk with God alone,

And bless his holy name,

Till he shall bring the alien home

To dwell in love again.

In vision of the night I saw—And woke to joyful praise—True nature reimprint her lawThat ruled thy former days.

In vision of the night I saw—

And woke to joyful praise—

True nature reimprint her law

That ruled thy former days.

From nature's pure affections thenGrace led to love divine;Then heaven's bliss alone can boundOur mutual joy sublime.

From nature's pure affections then

Grace led to love divine;

Then heaven's bliss alone can bound

Our mutual joy sublime.

God grant that this may real proveThrough coming years of time,And in his shining courts above,An endless crown be thine.

God grant that this may real prove

Through coming years of time,

And in his shining courts above,

An endless crown be thine.

The hand of God alone can takeThe broken chords of loveAnd knit them in a union sweetAs love's pure reign above.

The hand of God alone can take

The broken chords of love

And knit them in a union sweet

As love's pure reign above.

Here I will close my present rhyme;But ever pray for you,That God may give you back againThe heart of woman true.

Here I will close my present rhyme;

But ever pray for you,

That God may give you back again

The heart of woman true.

Then touched by sweet seraphic strains,With all the heavenly throng,I'll shout aloud my Savior's praise,And sing another song.

Then touched by sweet seraphic strains,

With all the heavenly throng,

I'll shout aloud my Savior's praise,

And sing another song.

TO MY DEAR SIDNEYThe heart that feels a father's loveAnd swells with love's return,Will kindly bear this overflowToward my only son.Yes, Sidney's love so blent with mine,A poem shall employ—A token left to coming timeThat father loved his boy.One gentle vine—thy tendrils sweetAround my soul entwine;A comfort left in sorrows deep,One heart to beat with mine.Thy life has dawned in peril's day.Mid wars that heaven shake;Thy summers five, eventful, theyLike surges o'er thee break.Thy little soul has felt the shockOf burning Babel's fall,When hell recoiled in fury blackAnd stood in dread appal.But wreaking out his vengeance now,Like ocean's terror dark,Hell's monster came athwart the bowOf our domestic bark.Thy guardian angel wept to seeThis brunt of fury sweepThe girdings of maternityFrom underneath thy feet.But pity still her garland weavesAround thy gentle brow,And angels on thee softly breatheTheir benedictions now.They soothe and bless thy manly heart,And wipe away thy tears;So tempered to thy bitter lot,The bitter sweet appears.An exile now is each to each,As banished far at sea;A martyr on his island beach,I daily think of thee.And stronger love has seldom spannedThe mocking billows wild,Than are the chords that ever bindTo my beloved child.Though sundered not by angry main,Compelled from thine embrace,We flee abroad in Jesus' nameTo publish Heaven's grace.Thy little heart can not divineWhy Papa stays away,But coming years will tell, if thine,The great necessity.When sickness crushed thy little form,I knew my boy was ill;I heard thee in my visions call,But duty kept me still.A trial deep, to feel thy pain,And yet debarred from thee,To show that sinners lost are inA greater misery.Oh, may this lesson speak to theeWhen Father's work is done!And highest may thy glory be,A soul for God is won.And now, my son, attentive hearMy benediction-prayer,And ever tune thy heart and earTo heaven's music rare;For ere the light of day had shoneIn thy unfolding eyes,We gave thee up to God alone,A living sacrifice;And oft repeated when a babe,To God our child was given;And Jesus heard the vow we made,And wrote it down in heaven.So, like a little Samuel, youMust answer, "Here am I";Give all your heart to Jesus, too,For him to live and die.Like Samuel, serve the living God,His temple be thy home;In love obey his holy Word,Thy gentle heart his throne.The Lord is good, my darling boy;He made thy body well,And he will bless thee evermore,If in his love you dwell.A new edition may you beOf Father's love and zeal,But yet enlarged so wondrouslyThat earth thy tread may feel.

TO MY DEAR SIDNEYThe heart that feels a father's loveAnd swells with love's return,Will kindly bear this overflowToward my only son.

TO MY DEAR SIDNEY

The heart that feels a father's love

And swells with love's return,

Will kindly bear this overflow

Toward my only son.

Yes, Sidney's love so blent with mine,A poem shall employ—A token left to coming timeThat father loved his boy.

Yes, Sidney's love so blent with mine,

A poem shall employ—

A token left to coming time

That father loved his boy.

One gentle vine—thy tendrils sweetAround my soul entwine;A comfort left in sorrows deep,One heart to beat with mine.

One gentle vine—thy tendrils sweet

Around my soul entwine;

A comfort left in sorrows deep,

One heart to beat with mine.

Thy life has dawned in peril's day.Mid wars that heaven shake;Thy summers five, eventful, theyLike surges o'er thee break.

Thy life has dawned in peril's day.

Mid wars that heaven shake;

Thy summers five, eventful, they

Like surges o'er thee break.

Thy little soul has felt the shockOf burning Babel's fall,When hell recoiled in fury blackAnd stood in dread appal.

Thy little soul has felt the shock

Of burning Babel's fall,

When hell recoiled in fury black

And stood in dread appal.

But wreaking out his vengeance now,Like ocean's terror dark,Hell's monster came athwart the bowOf our domestic bark.

But wreaking out his vengeance now,

Like ocean's terror dark,

Hell's monster came athwart the bow

Of our domestic bark.

Thy guardian angel wept to seeThis brunt of fury sweepThe girdings of maternityFrom underneath thy feet.

Thy guardian angel wept to see

This brunt of fury sweep

The girdings of maternity

From underneath thy feet.

But pity still her garland weavesAround thy gentle brow,And angels on thee softly breatheTheir benedictions now.

But pity still her garland weaves

Around thy gentle brow,

And angels on thee softly breathe

Their benedictions now.

They soothe and bless thy manly heart,And wipe away thy tears;So tempered to thy bitter lot,The bitter sweet appears.

They soothe and bless thy manly heart,

And wipe away thy tears;

So tempered to thy bitter lot,

The bitter sweet appears.

An exile now is each to each,As banished far at sea;A martyr on his island beach,I daily think of thee.

An exile now is each to each,

As banished far at sea;

A martyr on his island beach,

I daily think of thee.

And stronger love has seldom spannedThe mocking billows wild,Than are the chords that ever bindTo my beloved child.

And stronger love has seldom spanned

The mocking billows wild,

Than are the chords that ever bind

To my beloved child.

Though sundered not by angry main,Compelled from thine embrace,We flee abroad in Jesus' nameTo publish Heaven's grace.

Though sundered not by angry main,

Compelled from thine embrace,

We flee abroad in Jesus' name

To publish Heaven's grace.

Thy little heart can not divineWhy Papa stays away,But coming years will tell, if thine,The great necessity.

Thy little heart can not divine

Why Papa stays away,

But coming years will tell, if thine,

The great necessity.

When sickness crushed thy little form,I knew my boy was ill;I heard thee in my visions call,But duty kept me still.

When sickness crushed thy little form,

I knew my boy was ill;

I heard thee in my visions call,

But duty kept me still.

A trial deep, to feel thy pain,And yet debarred from thee,To show that sinners lost are inA greater misery.

A trial deep, to feel thy pain,

And yet debarred from thee,

To show that sinners lost are in

A greater misery.

Oh, may this lesson speak to theeWhen Father's work is done!And highest may thy glory be,A soul for God is won.

Oh, may this lesson speak to thee

When Father's work is done!

And highest may thy glory be,

A soul for God is won.

And now, my son, attentive hearMy benediction-prayer,And ever tune thy heart and earTo heaven's music rare;

And now, my son, attentive hear

My benediction-prayer,

And ever tune thy heart and ear

To heaven's music rare;

For ere the light of day had shoneIn thy unfolding eyes,We gave thee up to God alone,A living sacrifice;

For ere the light of day had shone

In thy unfolding eyes,

We gave thee up to God alone,

A living sacrifice;

And oft repeated when a babe,To God our child was given;And Jesus heard the vow we made,And wrote it down in heaven.

And oft repeated when a babe,

To God our child was given;

And Jesus heard the vow we made,

And wrote it down in heaven.

So, like a little Samuel, youMust answer, "Here am I";Give all your heart to Jesus, too,For him to live and die.

So, like a little Samuel, you

Must answer, "Here am I";

Give all your heart to Jesus, too,

For him to live and die.

Like Samuel, serve the living God,His temple be thy home;In love obey his holy Word,Thy gentle heart his throne.

Like Samuel, serve the living God,

His temple be thy home;

In love obey his holy Word,

Thy gentle heart his throne.

The Lord is good, my darling boy;He made thy body well,And he will bless thee evermore,If in his love you dwell.

The Lord is good, my darling boy;

He made thy body well,

And he will bless thee evermore,

If in his love you dwell.

A new edition may you beOf Father's love and zeal,But yet enlarged so wondrouslyThat earth thy tread may feel.

A new edition may you be

Of Father's love and zeal,

But yet enlarged so wondrously

That earth thy tread may feel.

The poem Throwing Ink at the Devil, refers to the printing and publishing of the Gospel Trumpet. The place "where two lightning tracks lie crossing" is Grand Junction, Mich., where the publishing office was then located.

At Wartburg Castle sat a son of thunderDealing heaven's dynamite,When, lo! before him 'peared an apparition,Fury-threatening demon sight.The piercing words of truth, so long besmotheredFlashed the burning wrath uponThe devil's patent monk and pope religion,Which confronts the dread reform.Before the dauntless, lion-hearted LutherForth the hellish monster stood,Drawn from his prison by the scattering theses'Gainst the Romish viper brood.He lifted up his eyebrows knit with thunder,To the hellish specter said,With stern address,"Du bist der wahre Teufel!"—Hurls an inkstand at his head.The doctor's splattering missile, proving potent,Drove old Satan from his door;But ink he threw on paper at the devilBattered down his kingdom more.Not now, as did the sturdy WittenbergerFling an inkstand at the foe,But by the mighty force of steam, much fasterWe the battle-ink can throw.Just at a point where lightning tracks lie crossing,Northward, southward, east, and west,The Lord has planted his revolving cannon,Firing ink at Satan's crest.Not only toward the main forewinds of heavenSin-consuming ink is shot,But right and left in force, 'tis outward given,Striking sin in every spot.When round "Mansoul" Immanuel plants his army,To retake the famous town,On "eye-gate" hill he plants this mighty engine,Till surrendered to his crown.If chance a pilgrim's shield of faith is drooping,And his heart with fear oppressed,Then comes the ink-winged angel, trumpet sounding,And his soul anew is blessed.

At Wartburg Castle sat a son of thunderDealing heaven's dynamite,When, lo! before him 'peared an apparition,Fury-threatening demon sight.

At Wartburg Castle sat a son of thunder

Dealing heaven's dynamite,

When, lo! before him 'peared an apparition,

Fury-threatening demon sight.

The piercing words of truth, so long besmotheredFlashed the burning wrath uponThe devil's patent monk and pope religion,Which confronts the dread reform.

The piercing words of truth, so long besmothered

Flashed the burning wrath upon

The devil's patent monk and pope religion,

Which confronts the dread reform.

Before the dauntless, lion-hearted LutherForth the hellish monster stood,Drawn from his prison by the scattering theses'Gainst the Romish viper brood.

Before the dauntless, lion-hearted Luther

Forth the hellish monster stood,

Drawn from his prison by the scattering theses

'Gainst the Romish viper brood.

He lifted up his eyebrows knit with thunder,To the hellish specter said,With stern address,"Du bist der wahre Teufel!"—Hurls an inkstand at his head.

He lifted up his eyebrows knit with thunder,

To the hellish specter said,

With stern address,"Du bist der wahre Teufel!"—

Hurls an inkstand at his head.

The doctor's splattering missile, proving potent,Drove old Satan from his door;But ink he threw on paper at the devilBattered down his kingdom more.

The doctor's splattering missile, proving potent,

Drove old Satan from his door;

But ink he threw on paper at the devil

Battered down his kingdom more.

Not now, as did the sturdy WittenbergerFling an inkstand at the foe,But by the mighty force of steam, much fasterWe the battle-ink can throw.

Not now, as did the sturdy Wittenberger

Fling an inkstand at the foe,

But by the mighty force of steam, much faster

We the battle-ink can throw.

Just at a point where lightning tracks lie crossing,Northward, southward, east, and west,The Lord has planted his revolving cannon,Firing ink at Satan's crest.

Just at a point where lightning tracks lie crossing,

Northward, southward, east, and west,

The Lord has planted his revolving cannon,

Firing ink at Satan's crest.

Not only toward the main forewinds of heavenSin-consuming ink is shot,But right and left in force, 'tis outward given,Striking sin in every spot.

Not only toward the main forewinds of heaven

Sin-consuming ink is shot,

But right and left in force, 'tis outward given,

Striking sin in every spot.

When round "Mansoul" Immanuel plants his army,To retake the famous town,On "eye-gate" hill he plants this mighty engine,Till surrendered to his crown.

When round "Mansoul" Immanuel plants his army,

To retake the famous town,

On "eye-gate" hill he plants this mighty engine,

Till surrendered to his crown.

If chance a pilgrim's shield of faith is drooping,And his heart with fear oppressed,Then comes the ink-winged angel, trumpet sounding,And his soul anew is blessed.

If chance a pilgrim's shield of faith is drooping,

And his heart with fear oppressed,

Then comes the ink-winged angel, trumpet sounding,

And his soul anew is blessed.

TRUTH"And what is truth?" asked Pilate, sober.Immersed in deep perplexity,And trembled while in judgment overThe One his final judge must be.He asked, but waited not the answer;For in his majesty there stoodThe Truth himself at his tribunal—Yea, the incarnate Truth of God.Shine on with all thy constellation,The precious attributes of God,Love, mercy, justice, and compassion;For second in thy magnitudeThou only art in love's effulgence."I am the truth." and "God is love";From both in one omnific fulnessProceed the streams of truth above.High honored and from everlastingThou art, O Truth, a pillar strong,Upholding justice, faith, and virtue.Before the stars together sangOur ill-doomed planet's new creation,Thy hand didst hold, on heaven's throne,The balance weighing every nation,Upon the worlds that round thee shone.Thou art the firm and deep foundationOf hope and universal good,And on thy broad eternal bosomIs based the awful throne of God.The myriad stars that gem the oceanOf boundless space, at thy commandPursue their even-tenored motion,And are supported by thy hand.

TRUTH

"And what is truth?" asked Pilate, sober.

Immersed in deep perplexity,

And trembled while in judgment over

The One his final judge must be.

He asked, but waited not the answer;

For in his majesty there stood

The Truth himself at his tribunal—

Yea, the incarnate Truth of God.

Shine on with all thy constellation,The precious attributes of God,Love, mercy, justice, and compassion;For second in thy magnitudeThou only art in love's effulgence."I am the truth." and "God is love";From both in one omnific fulnessProceed the streams of truth above.

Shine on with all thy constellation,

The precious attributes of God,

Love, mercy, justice, and compassion;

For second in thy magnitude

Thou only art in love's effulgence.

"I am the truth." and "God is love";

From both in one omnific fulness

Proceed the streams of truth above.

High honored and from everlastingThou art, O Truth, a pillar strong,Upholding justice, faith, and virtue.Before the stars together sangOur ill-doomed planet's new creation,Thy hand didst hold, on heaven's throne,The balance weighing every nation,Upon the worlds that round thee shone.

High honored and from everlasting

Thou art, O Truth, a pillar strong,

Upholding justice, faith, and virtue.

Before the stars together sang

Our ill-doomed planet's new creation,

Thy hand didst hold, on heaven's throne,

The balance weighing every nation,

Upon the worlds that round thee shone.

Thou art the firm and deep foundationOf hope and universal good,And on thy broad eternal bosomIs based the awful throne of God.The myriad stars that gem the oceanOf boundless space, at thy commandPursue their even-tenored motion,And are supported by thy hand.

Thou art the firm and deep foundation

Of hope and universal good,

And on thy broad eternal bosom

Is based the awful throne of God.

The myriad stars that gem the ocean

Of boundless space, at thy command

Pursue their even-tenored motion,

And are supported by thy hand.

AUTUMN LEAVESA mournful sermon greets my ear!The pensive season of the yearNow preaches in a muffled tone,From nature's fast-decaying throne.Come to the woodland's cold retreat;The leaves that rustle at thy feet,With all that linger o'er thy head—Commingling, yellow, green, and red—And all that, trembling, leave their placeAnd softly greet their mother's face,As sailing from their lofty topThey in your presence mournful drop,Remind the thoughtful passer-by,Thy falling autumn, too, is nigh.Life has its gay and happy spring,When birds of every feather sing;Its warm and verdant summer, brief,Which hastens to the yellow leaf,Soon winter's icy hand will lieUpon our cold and lifeless clay.But oh! our soul—where will it beThroughout the long eternity?How can this question pass your mindAs falling leaves drift in the wind?Ah! there's a sweet and sacred spellThat draws me to the shady dell;Here could my soul with God remainIn meditation's holy frame.Ho! all ye men that know not God,Come seek him in the shady wood;And, all ye saints of feeble love,When will ye come and wisely proveThe blessedness that crowns the hourThat's spent with God in leafy bower?If only heard your prayers ye say,Then unto God ye never pray;For did ye truly seek his faceAnd pray to win his saving graceYou'd pray when mortals are not near,Right in your heavenly Father's ear.In public, too; yea, everywhere,But most of all with secret prayer;Where only silent leaves applaud,There would ye bow and worship God.Then in the hush of solitudeCome listen to the voice of God;Come oft, and he shall teach thine earHis gentle words of love to hear.There is no place on earth so sweetAs forest shades, where streamlets meetAnd sing aloud their rocky ways,With birds, and universal praise.Do not the lover and his maid,Delighted, walk the balmy shade,And there unlock, with words so blest,The pent-up love within their breast?The crazy-quilt spread on the ground,Of beauty-tinted leaves around,Each bright sunbeam and fragrant flower,And nature's music in the bower—But, most of all, the cooing dove—Lend inspiration to their love.And does not nature's solitudeInspire a soul to worship God?Behold, he framed her majesty,Cast up her hills, and carved the wayFor babbling brooks that flow betweenAnd tread the winding valley's green.The many lovely trees that spreadTheir sheltering wings above our head,Rose up by his supreme behest,With all their nuts and fruitage blest,He taught the vine their trunks to climb,Like cords of love their boughs entwine.Hear thou, O man, our autumn chantWhile sunbeams coldly o'er us slant,And mournfully we fall so lowTo don our winding sheet of snow,There doomed in silence to decay.So, too, thou, man, must pass away;Thy springs of love shall lower runUntil thy life's last setting sun;Then in thy grave-suit, coldly wound,Like us return to mother ground.But we are not without a seed,From which anew there may proceedOur kind to grow and multiply,As round and round the seasons fly.So, man, within thy mortal breastThere is a soul, immortal quest,That shall reanimate thy clay,And both, immortal, live for aye.Thou shalt from winter's sleep arise,And meet thy Savior in the skies.With this blest hope so sure and brightAll seasons beam with golden light,In winter's storm and summer's heatThe pure in heart have joys complete;And when the close of life appears,Their pleasures ripen with his years—Unlike the sinner, dark and coldWho graceless, godless, hopeless, old,Sits lowly down in autumn's vale,His life all fruitless to bewail.Each falling leaf his conscience stingsAnd thoughts of future judgment brings;Yea, warns him that the time is nighWhen he in black despair must die.Unlike the life in folly spent,And now with sinful years is bentLow at the grave with dismal moan;Nay, "for the righteous light is sown,"Yea, light that brightens in the valeOf falling leaves, where he can hailThe glories of another world;Where mortal shafts are never hurled,Nor cruel frosts can ever sting.There life begins another springTo flourish in eternal green,In heaven's high celestial scene.

AUTUMN LEAVES

A mournful sermon greets my ear!

The pensive season of the year

Now preaches in a muffled tone,

From nature's fast-decaying throne.

Come to the woodland's cold retreat;

The leaves that rustle at thy feet,

With all that linger o'er thy head—

Commingling, yellow, green, and red—

And all that, trembling, leave their place

And softly greet their mother's face,

As sailing from their lofty top

They in your presence mournful drop,

Remind the thoughtful passer-by,

Thy falling autumn, too, is nigh.

Life has its gay and happy spring,When birds of every feather sing;Its warm and verdant summer, brief,Which hastens to the yellow leaf,Soon winter's icy hand will lieUpon our cold and lifeless clay.But oh! our soul—where will it beThroughout the long eternity?How can this question pass your mindAs falling leaves drift in the wind?

Life has its gay and happy spring,

When birds of every feather sing;

Its warm and verdant summer, brief,

Which hastens to the yellow leaf,

Soon winter's icy hand will lie

Upon our cold and lifeless clay.

But oh! our soul—where will it be

Throughout the long eternity?

How can this question pass your mind

As falling leaves drift in the wind?

Ah! there's a sweet and sacred spellThat draws me to the shady dell;Here could my soul with God remainIn meditation's holy frame.Ho! all ye men that know not God,Come seek him in the shady wood;And, all ye saints of feeble love,When will ye come and wisely proveThe blessedness that crowns the hourThat's spent with God in leafy bower?If only heard your prayers ye say,Then unto God ye never pray;For did ye truly seek his faceAnd pray to win his saving graceYou'd pray when mortals are not near,Right in your heavenly Father's ear.In public, too; yea, everywhere,But most of all with secret prayer;Where only silent leaves applaud,There would ye bow and worship God.

Ah! there's a sweet and sacred spell

That draws me to the shady dell;

Here could my soul with God remain

In meditation's holy frame.

Ho! all ye men that know not God,

Come seek him in the shady wood;

And, all ye saints of feeble love,

When will ye come and wisely prove

The blessedness that crowns the hour

That's spent with God in leafy bower?

If only heard your prayers ye say,

Then unto God ye never pray;

For did ye truly seek his face

And pray to win his saving grace

You'd pray when mortals are not near,

Right in your heavenly Father's ear.

In public, too; yea, everywhere,

But most of all with secret prayer;

Where only silent leaves applaud,

There would ye bow and worship God.

Then in the hush of solitudeCome listen to the voice of God;Come oft, and he shall teach thine earHis gentle words of love to hear.

Then in the hush of solitude

Come listen to the voice of God;

Come oft, and he shall teach thine ear

His gentle words of love to hear.

There is no place on earth so sweetAs forest shades, where streamlets meetAnd sing aloud their rocky ways,With birds, and universal praise.Do not the lover and his maid,Delighted, walk the balmy shade,And there unlock, with words so blest,The pent-up love within their breast?The crazy-quilt spread on the ground,Of beauty-tinted leaves around,Each bright sunbeam and fragrant flower,And nature's music in the bower—But, most of all, the cooing dove—Lend inspiration to their love.And does not nature's solitudeInspire a soul to worship God?Behold, he framed her majesty,Cast up her hills, and carved the wayFor babbling brooks that flow betweenAnd tread the winding valley's green.The many lovely trees that spreadTheir sheltering wings above our head,Rose up by his supreme behest,With all their nuts and fruitage blest,He taught the vine their trunks to climb,Like cords of love their boughs entwine.

There is no place on earth so sweet

As forest shades, where streamlets meet

And sing aloud their rocky ways,

With birds, and universal praise.

Do not the lover and his maid,

Delighted, walk the balmy shade,

And there unlock, with words so blest,

The pent-up love within their breast?

The crazy-quilt spread on the ground,

Of beauty-tinted leaves around,

Each bright sunbeam and fragrant flower,

And nature's music in the bower—

But, most of all, the cooing dove—

Lend inspiration to their love.

And does not nature's solitude

Inspire a soul to worship God?

Behold, he framed her majesty,

Cast up her hills, and carved the way

For babbling brooks that flow between

And tread the winding valley's green.

The many lovely trees that spread

Their sheltering wings above our head,

Rose up by his supreme behest,

With all their nuts and fruitage blest,

He taught the vine their trunks to climb,

Like cords of love their boughs entwine.

Hear thou, O man, our autumn chantWhile sunbeams coldly o'er us slant,And mournfully we fall so lowTo don our winding sheet of snow,There doomed in silence to decay.So, too, thou, man, must pass away;Thy springs of love shall lower runUntil thy life's last setting sun;Then in thy grave-suit, coldly wound,Like us return to mother ground.

Hear thou, O man, our autumn chant

While sunbeams coldly o'er us slant,

And mournfully we fall so low

To don our winding sheet of snow,

There doomed in silence to decay.

So, too, thou, man, must pass away;

Thy springs of love shall lower run

Until thy life's last setting sun;

Then in thy grave-suit, coldly wound,

Like us return to mother ground.

But we are not without a seed,From which anew there may proceedOur kind to grow and multiply,As round and round the seasons fly.So, man, within thy mortal breastThere is a soul, immortal quest,That shall reanimate thy clay,And both, immortal, live for aye.Thou shalt from winter's sleep arise,And meet thy Savior in the skies.With this blest hope so sure and brightAll seasons beam with golden light,In winter's storm and summer's heatThe pure in heart have joys complete;And when the close of life appears,Their pleasures ripen with his years—Unlike the sinner, dark and coldWho graceless, godless, hopeless, old,Sits lowly down in autumn's vale,His life all fruitless to bewail.Each falling leaf his conscience stingsAnd thoughts of future judgment brings;Yea, warns him that the time is nighWhen he in black despair must die.Unlike the life in folly spent,And now with sinful years is bentLow at the grave with dismal moan;Nay, "for the righteous light is sown,"Yea, light that brightens in the valeOf falling leaves, where he can hailThe glories of another world;Where mortal shafts are never hurled,Nor cruel frosts can ever sting.There life begins another springTo flourish in eternal green,In heaven's high celestial scene.

But we are not without a seed,

From which anew there may proceed

Our kind to grow and multiply,

As round and round the seasons fly.

So, man, within thy mortal breast

There is a soul, immortal quest,

That shall reanimate thy clay,

And both, immortal, live for aye.

Thou shalt from winter's sleep arise,

And meet thy Savior in the skies.

With this blest hope so sure and bright

All seasons beam with golden light,

In winter's storm and summer's heat

The pure in heart have joys complete;

And when the close of life appears,

Their pleasures ripen with his years—

Unlike the sinner, dark and cold

Who graceless, godless, hopeless, old,

Sits lowly down in autumn's vale,

His life all fruitless to bewail.

Each falling leaf his conscience stings

And thoughts of future judgment brings;

Yea, warns him that the time is nigh

When he in black despair must die.

Unlike the life in folly spent,

And now with sinful years is bent

Low at the grave with dismal moan;

Nay, "for the righteous light is sown,"

Yea, light that brightens in the vale

Of falling leaves, where he can hail

The glories of another world;

Where mortal shafts are never hurled,

Nor cruel frosts can ever sting.

There life begins another spring

To flourish in eternal green,

In heaven's high celestial scene.

BEAUTIFUL SPRINGAh, gentle spring, thy balmy breeze,New chanting 'mid the budding trees,A glorious resurrection sings!And on thy soft, ethereal wingsSweet nectar from ten thousand flowers,That bloom in nature's happy bowersThou dost as holy incense bringTo 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 outrunThy even tenor from the sun,Ere long we blessed thy coming treadAnd quaffed the oders thou didst spread.O brightest, sweetest of the year!When all is vocal with thy cheer,Thy lily-cups and roses redWith 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 agreeTo sing in merry notes to thee.Yea, such thou art, and happy theyWho walk in love's delightful dayAlong 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 rollMock withered joys and sting the soul?Not in the heart embalmed in loveTransported from the worlds above,Nor seasons, no, nor else can bringHeartaches where only God is king.That soul an endless spring enjoysWhere 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 traceMore 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.

BEAUTIFUL SPRING

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 outrunThy even tenor from the sun,Ere long we blessed thy coming treadAnd quaffed the oders thou didst spread.

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 redWith 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.

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 agreeTo sing in merry notes to thee.Yea, such thou art, and happy theyWho walk in love's delightful dayAlong the path thy flakes hath strewn,And know indeed her constant boon.

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 rollMock withered joys and sting the soul?Not in the heart embalmed in loveTransported from the worlds above,Nor seasons, no, nor else can bringHeartaches where only God is king.

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 enjoysWhere 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 traceMore than the heart untouched by grace,Can drink from full fruition's stream,Or paint in fancy's wildest dream.

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.

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 credulityDid not the Spirit's previous toneToll in our bosom mournfullyThe thought, "She's left this mortal clime,And we shall see her face no moreUntil we pass the bounds of timeAnd meet upon celestial shore."'Twas in our heart to tune our lyreTo 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 soonTo thy poor soul, a brighter dayThan that when blessed beside thy groom.The Author of these feeling heartsChides not affection's flowing tears;But with them soothing balm imparts,And in his arms of love he bearsPoor nature's heavy burden up:So when bereavements press our mind,Grace drops such sweetness in the cupThat even then we comfort find.But is she gone whose heart e'er burnedWith 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 hearAnd gain redemption's blissful state.O sister, while thy eyes beheldWhate'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 refrainedTo execute thy heart's mandate.When sickness had already castIts waning paleness on thy cheek,God folded thee within the breastOf love, connubial, warm and deep.Thank heav'n for this provision kind,To bless, support, and comfort thee;On those strong arms thy life declinedTill from thy suffering body free.Dear Celia's gone! How sad the news,Dear saints, this mourning Trumpet brings!The hands that dropped refreshing dewsUpon its flying-angel wingsAnd toiled so hard to set the linesThat 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 feelsAnd weeps the loss of friend so great.Her artful fingers shall no moreSet up its many vocal peers,Nor shall her anxious heart yet pourUpon its sheets her moist'ning tears.Her gentle voice, so fine and sweetThe Trumpet organ's highest keyIs singing now, at Jesus' feet,With heaven's joyful minstrelsy.Oh! could we near the pearly gateAnd listen to her ransomed song,Our souls would more felicitateThe bliss of that immortal one.

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 lyreTo 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 soonTo thy poor soul, a brighter dayThan that when blessed beside thy groom.

'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 heartsChides not affection's flowing tears;But with them soothing balm imparts,And in his arms of love he bearsPoor nature's heavy burden up:So when bereavements press our mind,Grace drops such sweetness in the cupThat even then we comfort find.

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 burnedWith 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 hearAnd gain redemption's blissful state.

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 beheldWhate'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 refrainedTo execute thy heart's mandate.

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 castIts waning paleness on thy cheek,God folded thee within the breastOf love, connubial, warm and deep.Thank heav'n for this provision kind,To bless, support, and comfort thee;On those strong arms thy life declinedTill from thy suffering body free.

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 dewsUpon its flying-angel wingsAnd toiled so hard to set the linesThat burned upon your hearts with love,Inspired your souls a thousand times,Has gone to blissful toils above.

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 feelsAnd weeps the loss of friend so great.Her artful fingers shall no moreSet up its many vocal peers,Nor shall her anxious heart yet pourUpon its sheets her moist'ning tears.

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 sweetThe Trumpet organ's highest keyIs singing now, at Jesus' feet,With heaven's joyful minstrelsy.Oh! could we near the pearly gateAnd listen to her ransomed song,Our souls would more felicitateThe bliss of that immortal one.

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 hopeThat some hopeless one among the fairWas 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 'roundTill 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 decisionTurned 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 bespokeTheir voyage crown along the wayOf hope's uncrowded blissful day,And may their happy little bark affordA lively crew of sunny Hopes aboard;And when to anchor in the harbor drivenMay all their hopes be realized in heaven.

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 imaginaryObject, borne on fancy's wing,Is the city of this story,But a real historic thing.Though by troupes and proper figuresWe delineate her fame,Though she has some mystic features,She's an entity the same.

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 cityWalk 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 walkingOn created feet alone;Not on crutches to be stalkingWere 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, CalvinisticBaptist crutches we'll undo.In this mart of vain religionsYou 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 'sociationsHave a god of water made,Leaving fire and salvationAnd 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.

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 walkingOn created feet alone;Not on crutches to be stalkingWere a scandal to the town.

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.

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, CalvinisticBaptist crutches we'll undo.

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 religionsYou 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.

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 'sociationsHave a god of water made,Leaving fire and salvationAnd 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.

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 travelWith 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 tideFlowing in our tranquil bosom,Where is reared the mystic throneOf 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 peopleWho 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.

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 tideFlowing in our tranquil bosom,Where is reared the mystic throneOf the King of peace eternal,Where he dwells and reigns alone.

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 peopleWho 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.

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.

TO THE OCEANHelp me, O sweet voice of inspiration,Help me sing one gentle layTo the ocean's wide and deep creation,Singing for us night and day.And thou restless sea, with all thy wonders,Touch my heart with melody;For no bard can sing thy awful numbersUninspired indeed by thee.'Twas a balmy evening in October,As our train sped on its time,That we came in sight of God's great ocean,To the old Pacific brine.Swiftly gliding down its ancient orbit,The great monarch of the lightDropped his golden smiles upon the waterEre he bid us all goodnight.Thou a preacher art to all the ages,And thy audience all the world;Lo! we read thy sermon on the pagesOf the book that God unfurled.And to all that tread thy sand evironsThou dost thunder, yea, and showHow the human heart in sin's dominionNever, never peace can know.As thy waves in ceaseless turmoil labor,And in fury beat the shore,As they writhe and moan and dash asunder,Rise and fall for evermore,So the blasting hopes and guilty terrorsOf the sinner's wretched heart,Restless, fearful, and despairing ever,From his bosom never part.Only One has sailed upon the bosomOf the tempest-troubled sea,Who could hush the winds and calm the billows—He who spoke to Galilee.Only he can break the storms of passion,And rebuke the fears of hell;Only he can calm the struggling spirit,Speak the word, Be still, be still.Oh, I bless thy kindness, friend Pacific,For thy temporizing breath;For the climate wafted from thee trulyIs an enemy to death.Sweet and soft and balmy are thy breathings,Keeping winter blasts away;And I thank thee, Providence, that brought meHere to San Diego Bay.On this seacoast I would fondly linger,Where the zephyrs gently breatheO'er the vineyards vast, and lemon orchards,Where the bright pomegranates wave;And the golden orange, figs, and guavas,Apples, pears, and prunes abound;With delicious nectarines and peaches,Blessing all the season round.Where the ocean moans its solemn numbers,And the sun outpours its goldOn the clouds which hang, while twilight lingers,O'er the sea-waves rising bold.And the glorious king of day, descending,Bids the vintage toilers rest,While he cools his fevered brow each eveningOn the great Pacific breast.

TO THE OCEAN

Help me, O sweet voice of inspiration,

Help me sing one gentle lay

To the ocean's wide and deep creation,

Singing for us night and day.

And thou restless sea, with all thy wonders,

Touch my heart with melody;

For no bard can sing thy awful numbers

Uninspired indeed by thee.

'Twas a balmy evening in October,As our train sped on its time,That we came in sight of God's great ocean,To the old Pacific brine.Swiftly gliding down its ancient orbit,The great monarch of the lightDropped his golden smiles upon the waterEre he bid us all goodnight.

'Twas a balmy evening in October,

As our train sped on its time,

That we came in sight of God's great ocean,

To the old Pacific brine.

Swiftly gliding down its ancient orbit,

The great monarch of the light

Dropped his golden smiles upon the water

Ere he bid us all goodnight.

Thou a preacher art to all the ages,And thy audience all the world;Lo! we read thy sermon on the pagesOf the book that God unfurled.And to all that tread thy sand evironsThou dost thunder, yea, and showHow the human heart in sin's dominionNever, never peace can know.

Thou a preacher art to all the ages,

And thy audience all the world;

Lo! we read thy sermon on the pages

Of the book that God unfurled.

And to all that tread thy sand evirons

Thou dost thunder, yea, and show

How the human heart in sin's dominion

Never, never peace can know.

As thy waves in ceaseless turmoil labor,And in fury beat the shore,As they writhe and moan and dash asunder,Rise and fall for evermore,So the blasting hopes and guilty terrorsOf the sinner's wretched heart,Restless, fearful, and despairing ever,From his bosom never part.

As thy waves in ceaseless turmoil labor,

And in fury beat the shore,

As they writhe and moan and dash asunder,

Rise and fall for evermore,

So the blasting hopes and guilty terrors

Of the sinner's wretched heart,

Restless, fearful, and despairing ever,

From his bosom never part.

Only One has sailed upon the bosomOf the tempest-troubled sea,Who could hush the winds and calm the billows—He who spoke to Galilee.Only he can break the storms of passion,And rebuke the fears of hell;Only he can calm the struggling spirit,Speak the word, Be still, be still.

Only One has sailed upon the bosom

Of the tempest-troubled sea,

Who could hush the winds and calm the billows—

He who spoke to Galilee.

Only he can break the storms of passion,

And rebuke the fears of hell;

Only he can calm the struggling spirit,

Speak the word, Be still, be still.

Oh, I bless thy kindness, friend Pacific,For thy temporizing breath;For the climate wafted from thee trulyIs an enemy to death.Sweet and soft and balmy are thy breathings,Keeping winter blasts away;And I thank thee, Providence, that brought meHere to San Diego Bay.

Oh, I bless thy kindness, friend Pacific,

For thy temporizing breath;

For the climate wafted from thee truly

Is an enemy to death.

Sweet and soft and balmy are thy breathings,

Keeping winter blasts away;

And I thank thee, Providence, that brought me

Here to San Diego Bay.

On this seacoast I would fondly linger,Where the zephyrs gently breatheO'er the vineyards vast, and lemon orchards,Where the bright pomegranates wave;And the golden orange, figs, and guavas,Apples, pears, and prunes abound;With delicious nectarines and peaches,Blessing all the season round.

On this seacoast I would fondly linger,

Where the zephyrs gently breathe

O'er the vineyards vast, and lemon orchards,

Where the bright pomegranates wave;

And the golden orange, figs, and guavas,

Apples, pears, and prunes abound;

With delicious nectarines and peaches,

Blessing all the season round.

Where the ocean moans its solemn numbers,And the sun outpours its goldOn the clouds which hang, while twilight lingers,O'er the sea-waves rising bold.And the glorious king of day, descending,Bids the vintage toilers rest,While he cools his fevered brow each eveningOn the great Pacific breast.

Where the ocean moans its solemn numbers,

And the sun outpours its gold

On the clouds which hang, while twilight lingers,

O'er the sea-waves rising bold.

And the glorious king of day, descending,

Bids the vintage toilers rest,

While he cools his fevered brow each evening

On the great Pacific breast.

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