My life is like the summer roseThat opens to the morning sky,But ere the shades of evening closeIs scattered on the ground to die.Yet on the rose's humble bedThe sweetest dews of night are shed,As if she wept a tear for me,As if she wept the waste to see.My life is like the autumn leafThat trembles in the moon's pale ray.Its hold is frail, its date is brief,Restless, and soon to pass away.Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,The parent tree will mourn its shade,The winds bewail the leafless tree;But none shall breathe a sigh for me.My life is like the prints which feetHave left on Tampa's desert strand.Soon as the rising tide shall beatAll trace will vanish from the sand.Yet, as if grieving to effaceAll vestige of the human race,On that lone shore loud moans the sea.But none, alas, shall mourn for me.
My life is like the summer roseThat opens to the morning sky,But ere the shades of evening closeIs scattered on the ground to die.Yet on the rose's humble bedThe sweetest dews of night are shed,As if she wept a tear for me,As if she wept the waste to see.
My life is like the autumn leafThat trembles in the moon's pale ray.Its hold is frail, its date is brief,Restless, and soon to pass away.Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,The parent tree will mourn its shade,The winds bewail the leafless tree;But none shall breathe a sigh for me.
My life is like the prints which feetHave left on Tampa's desert strand.Soon as the rising tide shall beatAll trace will vanish from the sand.Yet, as if grieving to effaceAll vestige of the human race,On that lone shore loud moans the sea.But none, alas, shall mourn for me.
There remains to be told the story of my conversion and how I came to write the foregoing history of my life.
In 1875 I was taken sick. I thought I was going to die, and I promised the Lord I would serve Him if he would only spare my life. When I got well again, however, I forgot all about my promise. Then I was taken sick again. It seemed I had to go through a dark desert place, where great demons stood on either side. In the distance I could just see a dim light, and I tried to get to this light, but could not reach it. Then I found myself in a great marsh, and was sinking. I threw up my hands and said, "Lord, if Thou wilt raise me from this pit, I will never fail to serve Thee." Then it seemed as if I mounted on wings into the air, and all the demons that stood about made a great roaring. My flight ended on the top of a hill. But I was troubled because I could not find the light. All at once, at the sound of a loud peal of thunder, the earthopened, and I fell down into the pits of hell. Again I prayed to God to save me from this, and again I promised to serve Him. My prayer was answered, and I was able to fly out of the pit, on to a bank. At the foot of the little hill on which I sat were some little children, and they called to me to come down. But I could not get down. Then the children raised a ladder for me, and I came down among them. A little cherub took me by the hand and led me in the River of Badjied of Jordan. I looked at my ankles and shoulders and discovered I had little wings. On the river was a ship. The children, the cherub and I got into the ship. When we reached a beautiful spot, the little cherub made the ship fast, and there opened before us pearly gates, and we all passed through into the golden street. The street led to the throne of God, about which we marched. Then the cherub conducted us to a table where a feast was spread. Then the children vanished. The cherub took me by the hand, and said, "Go back into the world, and tell the saints and sinners what a Savior you have found, and if you prove faithful I will take you to Heaven to live forever, when I come again."
When I recovered from my sickness, I was baptized by the Rev. Dr. Pope, and joined the churchin Macon. When I came North, I brought my letter. Not finding any church for colored people, I came among the white people, and was treated so kindly that I became very much attached to them. The first church I became connected with in the North, was in Newtonville. When I came to Boston, I went to the Warren Avenue Baptist Church. Before my marriage I joined Tremont Temple, when Dr. Lorimer was its pastor. When the church was burned, my letter was destroyed, but when I went South on a visit I had the letter duplicated, and took it to the new Temple. I am still a member of the Temple, and hope to remain there as long as God gives me life.
Five years ago, I began to go to the Franklin evening school. Mr. Guild was the master. At one time he requested all the pupils to write the story of their lives, and he considered my composition so interesting he said he thought if I could work it up and enlarge upon it, I could write a book. He promised to help me. My teacher was Miss Emerson, and she was interested in me. But the next year Miss Emerson gave up teaching, and Mr. Guild died.
In each of the terms that I have attended, I have received the certificates showing that I have been regular and punctual in attendance, have maintainedgood deportment, and shown general proficiency in the studies. I would have graduated in 1907, had it not been for sickness. The following was to have been my graduating composition.
In a little clearing in the backwoods of Harding County, Kentucky, there stood years ago a rude cabin within whose walls Abraham Lincoln passed his childhood. An "unaccountable" man he has been called, and the adjective was well chosen, for who could account for a mind and nature like Lincoln's with the ancestry he owned? His father was a thriftless, idle carpenter, scarcely supporting his family, and with but the poorest living. His mother was an uneducated woman, but must have been of an entirely different nature, for she was able to impress upon her boy a love of learning. During her life, his chief, in fact his only book, was the Bible, and in this he learned to read. Just before he was nine years old, the father brought his family across the Ohio River into Illinois, and there in the unfloored log cabin, minus windows and doors, Abraham lived and grew. It was during this time that the mother died, and in a short time the shiftless father with his family drifted back to the oldhome, and here found another for his children in one who was a friend of earlier days. This woman was of a thrifty nature, and her energy made him floor the cabin, hang doors, and open up windows. She was fond of the children and cared for them tenderly, and to her the boy Abraham owed many pleasant hours.
As he grew older, his love for knowledge increased and he obtained whatever books he could, studying by the firelight, and once walking six miles for an English Grammar. After he read it, he walked the six miles to return it. He needed the book no longer, for with this as with his small collection of books, what he once read was his. He absorbed the books he read.
During these early years he did "odd jobs" for the neighbors. Even at this age, his gift of story telling was a notable one, as well as his sterling honesty. His first knowledge of slavery in all its horrors came to him when he was about twenty-one years old. He had made a trip to New Orleans, and there in the old slave market he saw an auction. His face paled, and his spirits rose in revolt at the coarse jest of the auctioneer, and there he registered a vow within himself, "If ever I have a chance to strike against slavery, I will strike and strikehard." To this end he worked and for this he paid "the last full measure of devotion."
His political life began with a defeat for the Illinois Legislature in 1830, but he was returned in 1834, 1836, 1838, and declined re-election in 1840, preferring to study law and prepare for his future. "Honest Abe" he has been called, and throughout Illinois that characteristic was the prominent one known of him. From this time his rise was rapid. Sent to the Congress of the nation, he seldom spoke, but when he did his terse though simple expression always won him a hearing. His simplicity and frankness was deceptive to the political leaders, and from its very fearlessness often defeated them.
His famous debates with Senator Douglas, the "Little Giant," spread his reputation from one end of the country to the other, and at their close there was no question as to Lincoln's position in the North, or on the vital question of the day.
The spirit of forbearance he carried with him to the White House, "with malice toward none, with charity for all." This was the spirit that carried him through the four awful years of the war. The martyr's crown hovered over him from the outset. The martyr's spirit was always his. The burden of the war always rested on his shoulders. Thefathers, sons and brothers, the honored dead of Gettysburg, of Antietam, all lay upon his mighty heart.
He never forgot his home friends, and when occasionally one dropped in on him, the door was always open. They frequently had tea in the good old-fashioned way, and then Lincoln listened to the news of the village, old stories were retold, new ones told, and the old friendships cemented by new bonds.
Then came the end, swift and sudden, and gloom settled upon the country; for in spite of ancestry, self-education, ungainly figure, ill-fitting clothes, the soul of the man had conquered even the stubborn South, while the cold-blooded North was stricken to the heart. The noblest one of all had been taken.
As a member of the negro race, I myself have suffered as a child whose parents were born in slavery, deprived of all influences of the ennobling life, made obedient to the will of the white man by the lash and chain, and sold to the highest bidder when there was no more use for them.
The first negro fact for white thought is—that my clients, the colored people here in America, are not responsible for being here any more than they are responsible for their conditions of ignorance and poverty. They suddenly emerge from their prison house poor, without a home, without food or clothing, and ignorant. Now the enemies of God and of the progress of civilization in our country are to-day introducing a system of slavery with which they hope to again enslave the colored people. To carry out their evil designs they retain able politicians, lawyers and newspapers to represent them, such as Senator Tillman, the Hon. John Temple Graves of Georgia and the Baltimore Sun, and they are trying the negro on four counts which allege that the race is ignorant, cannot be taught, is lazy and immoral.
Now, are the negroes, as a whole, guilty of these charges? In the first place, the negro race of America is not ignorant. In the year 1833 John C. Calhoun, senator from South Carolina, is reported to have said that if he could find a single negro who understood the Greek syntax, he would believe the negro was human and would treat him as such. At that time it was a very safe test. God accepted the challenge in behalf of the negro race, and inspired his white sons and daughters both in the North and South to teach their brothers in black; and a few years afterward black men were examined and the world pronounced them scholars, while later still the schools were using a Greek grammar written by a black man, W. S. Scarborough of Wilberforce, O. In his class were Frederick Douglas, Henry Highland Garnett, Robert Elliot, the Rev. J. C. Price and John M. Langstone, as defenders of the race. Bishop Allen Payne, Bishop Hood and John B. Reaver will ever be remembered for their godly piety and Christian example, as we shall also remember Bishop, Sumner and Bubois for their great literary productions, William Washington Brown as the greatest organizer and financier of the century, Prof. Booker Washington as the greatest industrial educator of the world, and last, but not least, Thomas Condon, the greatest crank for the spiritual training and higher education of the negro race.
Under the leadership of such men, assisted by our white friends and backed up by our colored race journals—the Christian Banner of Philadelphia, the Christian Recorder, the Star of Zion and the Afro-American Ledger of Baltimore,Ind., the National Baptist Union of Pennsylvania, the Age of New York, the Christian Organizer of Virginia and the Guardian of Boston—our onward march to civilization is phenomenal and by these means we have reduced illiteracy 50 per cent.
In the South we have over $12,000,000 worth of school property, 3,000 teachers, 50 high schools, 17 academies, 125 colleges, 10 law and medical schools, 25 theological seminaries, all doing a mighty work for God and humanity.
Now as to laziness. We have now in practice 14,000 lawyers and doctors, and have accumulated over $150,000,000 worth of church property. In the South we have over 150,000 farms and houses, valued at $900,000,000, and personal property at $170,000,000. We have raised over $11,000,000 for educational purposes. The property per capita for every colored man, woman and child in the United States is estimated at $75, and we are operating successfully several banks and factories; we have 7,500,000 acres of land, and the business activity of the colored people was never as thoroughly aroused as it is to-day.
When I come to deal with the charge of immorality I bow my head and blush for shame, first because if the charge be true, I see they are getting like the white man every day. I know that at the close of the American civil war the 4,000,000 negroes had more than 25 per cent. of white blood coursing through their veins.
What about this new educated negro? Just ask the Pullman Car Company, which employs hundreds of negroes,into whose care thousands of women and children of our best American families are entrusted every day.
Now, you cannot do without the negro, because if you send him away, you will run after him. He is here to stay. The only way to deal successfully with the colored race is God's way. First, recognize that he is your guest; second, recognize that you have robbed him of his birthplace, home, family and savings. It is these facts that are causing so much unrest on the part of the whites in this country. The negro loves his country, which he has proved beyond a doubt in every American battle, in every act of loyalty to his country, and in his long and patient suffering. Pay him what you owe him by educating him. Give him an opportunity to live. Allow him to live in decent parts of your city. Pay wages sufficient to support his children. Do this and God will remove the objectionable negro from the land.
The Negro stands to-day upon an eminence that overlooks more than two decades spent in efforts to ameliorate the condition of seven million immortal souls by opening before their hitherto dark and cheerless lives possibilities of development into a perfect and symmetrical manhood and womanhood.
The retrospect presents to us a picture of a people's moral degradation and mental gloom caused by slavery. A people absolutely sunk in the lowest depth of a poverty which reduced them to objects of charity and surrounded them with difficulties which have ever stood as impregnable barriers intheir way to speedy advancement in all those qualities that make the useful citizen. Every influence of state and society life seems to be against their progress and like some evil genius, these Negro hating ghosts are forever hunting them with the idea that their future must be one of subserviency to the white race.
Hated and oppressed by the combined wisdom, wealth and statesmanship of a mighty confederacy who watched and criticised their mistakes which were strongly magnified by those who fain would write destruction upon the Emancipation; they are expected to rise from this condition.
The idea of giving to the newly enfranchised a sound, practical education was considered at the dawn of freedom, an easy solution of what as an unsolved problem threatened the perpetuity of republican institutions. Within a year from the firing on Sumter, benevolent and farsighted Northern friends had established schools from Washington to the Gulf of Mexico, which became centers of light penetrating the darkness and scattering the blessings of an enlightened manhood far and wide.
The history of the world cannot produce a more affecting spectacle than the growth of this mighty Christian philanthropy which, in beginning amid the din of battle, has steadily marched on through every opposing influence, and lifted a race from weakness to strength, from poverty to wealth, from moral and intellectual nonentity to place and power among the nations of the earth.
We have ten millions of colored people in the United Stateswhose condition is much better to-day than it was fifty years ago. Then he had nothing, not even a name. To-day he has 160,000 farms under good cultivation and valued at $4,000,000 and has personal property valued at $200,000,000. In the Southland the negroes own 160 first-class drug stores, nine banks, 13 building associations, and 100 insurance and benefit companies, two street railways and an electric at Jacksonville, Fla., which they started some few years ago when the white people passed the Jim Crow law for that state.
Now it is reckoned that the negroes in the United States are paying about $700,000,000 property taxes and this is only one-fifth of all they have accumulated, for the negro is getting more like the white people every day and has learned from him that it is not a sign of loyalty and patriotism to publish his property at its full taxable value.
In education and morals the progress is still greater. As you all know, at the close of the war the whole race was practically illiterate. It was a rare thing, indeed, to find a man of the race who even knew his letters. In 1880 the illiteracy had fallen to 70 per cent. and rapid strides along that line have been made ever since.
To-day there are 37,000 negro teachers in America, of which number 23,000 are regular graduates of high and normal schools and colleges, 23 are college presidents, 169 are principals of seminaries and many are principals of higher institutions. At present there are 369 negro men and women taking courses in the universities of Europe. The negro ministry, together with these teachers have been prepared fortheir work by our schools and are the greatest factors the North has produced for the uplift of the colored man.
To-day there are those who wish to impede the negro's progress and lessen his educational advantages by industrializing such colleges as Howard University of Washington by placing on their Boards of Trustees and Managers the pronounced leaders of industrialism, giving as a reason that the better he is educated the worse he is; in other words, they say crime has increased among educated negroes. While stern facts show the opposite, the exact figures from the last census show that the greater proportion of the negro criminals are from the illiterate class. To-day the marriage vow, which by the teaching of the whites the negro held to be of so little importance before the war, is guarded more sacredly. The one room cabin, with its attendant evils, is passing away, and the negro woman, the mightiest moral factor in the life of her people, is beginning to be more careful in her deportment and is no longer the easy victim of the unlicensed passion of certain white men. This is a great gain and is a sign of real progress, for no race can rise higher than its women.
Let me plead with the friends of the negro. Please continue to give him higher ideals of a better life and stand by him in the struggle. He has done well with the opportunities given him and is doing something along all the walks of life to help himself, which is gratitude of the best sort. What he needs to-day is moral sympathy, which in his condition years ago he could hardly appreciate. The sympathy must be moral, not necessarily social. It must be the sympathy of a soul set on fire for righteousness and fair play in a republic like ours. A sympathy which will see to it that every man shall have a man's chance in all the affairs of this great nation which boasts of being the land of the free and the home of the brave for which the black man has suffered and done so much in every sense of the word.
Let this great Christian nation of eighty millions of people do justice to the Black Battalion, and seeing President Roosevelt acknowledges that he overstepped the bounds of his power in discharging and renouncing them before they had a fair trial, and now that they are vindicated before the world, to take back what he called them, Cutthroats, Brutal Murderers, Black Midnight Assassins, and Cowards. This and this alone will to some extent atone for the wrong he has done and help him to regain the respect and confidence of the world.
Now in order to change the condition of things, I would suggest: First, that an international, industrial association be formed to help Afro-Americans to engage in manufacturing and commercial pursuits, assist them to buy farms, erect factories, open shops in which their young men and women can enter and produce what the world requires every day for its inhabitants.
If they were able to-day to produce the articles in common use as boots, shoes, hats, cotton and woolen goods, made-up clothing and enterprises such as farming, mining, forging, carpentering, etc., negroes would find a ready sale in preference to all others, because of its being a race enterprise, doing what no other corporation does, giving employment to members of the race as tradesmen, and teaching others to become skilled workers. These enterprises should be started in the southern, northern and western states, where the negro population will warrant such an undertaking.
I would suggest "A School History of the Negro Race" to be placed in our public schools as a text book. The general tone of all the histories taught in our public schools points to the inferiority of the negro and the superiority of the white. It must be indeed a stimulus to any people to be able to refer to their ancestry as distinguished in deeds of valor, and particularly so to the colored people. With what eyes can the white child look upon the colored child and the colored child look upon himself, when they have completed the assigned course of United States history, and in it found not one word of credit, not one word of favorable comment for even one among the millions of his fore-parents who have lived through nearly three centuries of his country's history. In them he is credited with no heritage of valor, he is mentioned only as a slave, while true historical records prove him to have been among the bravest of soldiers and a faithful producer of the nation's wealth. Though then a slave to the government, the negro's was the first blood shed in its defence in those days when a foreign foe threatened its destruction. In each and all of the American wars the negro was faithful, yes, faithful in battle while members of his race were being lynched to death; faithful to a landnot his own in points of rights and freedom, all and that after he had enriched with his own life's blood, shouldered his musket to defend, when all this was done, regarded him with renewed terms, Black, Negro.
Last but not least the negro needs a daily newspaper in every large city, managed and edited by members of the race.
Such papers are needed to deal with questions of state and reflect the thoughts of the social world, to enter the province of ethics and tread the domain of morals and to give their opinion on the varying phases of religious truths and pass judgment on matters of a political nature.
There are hidden wrongs perpetrated by the whites against the negro race that will never be brought to light until the race owns and controls its own daily newspapers which alone have the power to discover and enthrone truth, thus becoming a safe guide to all honest seekers of facts respecting the race whether from a moral, educational, political or religious field. To carry out the plans suggested, whether viewed from an intellectual, industrial, commercial, or editorial standpoint, the world must acknowledge that to-day the negro race has the men and women, who are true to their race and all that stands for negro progress.
It is only 132 years ago to-day that the British troops, who had occupied Boston, made a riding school of the Old South church, and otherwise sacrilegiously disported themselves, were persuaded to get out under the compulsion of the batteries set up on Dorchester Heights. But when the last company embarked for Halifax, it carried the last British flag ever unfurled by a military organization on Massachusetts soil. That was the end of foreign domination in Massachusetts. And by a happy coincidence this is the legendary anniversary of the birth of St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, whose memory has been an inspiration in the struggle of another race for Liberty.
New York, Dec. 17.—Andrew Carnegie declared yesterday in a speech on the negro question that the negroes are a blessing to America, and that their presence in the South makes this country impregnable and without need of a navy to defend itself.
"Suppose," said Mr. Carnegie, "Great Britain were to send her war fleets to America. It would amount to nothing. All that the President of the United States would have to do would be to say, 'Stop exporting cotton.' The war would be ended in four days, for England cannot do without our cotton.
"We don't need a navy; we are impregnable. Because we have 9,000,000 colored men anxious and willing to work we hold this strong position, and I am interested in the negro from this material standpoint, as well as from the more humane point of view."
On a green slope, most fragrant with the Spring,One sweet, fair day I planted a red rose,That grew, beneath my tender nourishing,So tall, so riotous of bloom, that thoseWho passed the little valley where it grewSmiled at its beauty. All the air was sweetAbout it! Still I tended it, and knewThat he would come, e'en as it grew complete.And a day brought him! Up I led him, whereIn the warm sun my rose bloomed gloriously—Smiling and saying, Lo, is it not fair?And all for thee—all thine! But he passed byColdly, and answered, Rose? I see no rose,—Leaving me standing in the barren valeAlone! alone! feeling the darkness closeDeep o'er my heart, and all my being fail.Then came one, gently, yet with eager tread,Begging one rose-bud—but my rose was dead.
On a green slope, most fragrant with the Spring,One sweet, fair day I planted a red rose,That grew, beneath my tender nourishing,So tall, so riotous of bloom, that thoseWho passed the little valley where it grewSmiled at its beauty. All the air was sweetAbout it! Still I tended it, and knewThat he would come, e'en as it grew complete.
And a day brought him! Up I led him, whereIn the warm sun my rose bloomed gloriously—Smiling and saying, Lo, is it not fair?And all for thee—all thine! But he passed byColdly, and answered, Rose? I see no rose,—Leaving me standing in the barren valeAlone! alone! feeling the darkness closeDeep o'er my heart, and all my being fail.
Then came one, gently, yet with eager tread,Begging one rose-bud—but my rose was dead.
The old, old Wind that whispers to old trees,Round the dark country when the sun has set,Goes murmuring still of unremembered seasAnd cities of the dead that men forget—An old blind beggar-man, distained and gray,With ancient tales to tell,Mumbling of this and that upon his way,Strange song and muttered spell—Neither to East or West, or South or North,His habitation lies,This roofless vagabond who wanders forthAye under alien skies—A gypsy of the air, he comes and goesBetween the tall trees and the shadowed grass,And what he tells only the twilight knows ...The tall trees and the twilight hear him pass.To him the Dead stretch forth their strengthless hands,He who campaigns in other climes than this,He who is free of the Unshapen Lands,The empty homes of Dis.
The old, old Wind that whispers to old trees,Round the dark country when the sun has set,Goes murmuring still of unremembered seasAnd cities of the dead that men forget—An old blind beggar-man, distained and gray,With ancient tales to tell,Mumbling of this and that upon his way,Strange song and muttered spell—Neither to East or West, or South or North,His habitation lies,This roofless vagabond who wanders forthAye under alien skies—A gypsy of the air, he comes and goesBetween the tall trees and the shadowed grass,And what he tells only the twilight knows ...The tall trees and the twilight hear him pass.
To him the Dead stretch forth their strengthless hands,He who campaigns in other climes than this,He who is free of the Unshapen Lands,The empty homes of Dis.
Out of the scattered fragmentsOf castles I built in the airI gathered enough togetherTo fashion a cottage with care;Thoughtfully, slowly, I planned it,And little by little it grew—Perfect in form and in substance,Because I designed it for you.The castles that time has shatteredGleamed spotless and pearly whiteAs they stood in the misty distanceThat borders the Land of Delight;Sleeping and waking I saw themGrow brighter and fairer each day;But, alas! at the touch of a fingerThey trembled and crumbled away!Then out of the dust I gatheredA bit of untarnished gold,And a gem unharmed by contactWith stones of a baser mold;For sometimes a priceless jewelGleams wondrously pure and fairFrom glittering paste foundationsOf castles we see in the air.So, I turned from the realms of fancy,As remote as the stars above,And into the land of the livingI carried the jewel of love;The mansions of dazzling brightnessHave crumbled away, it is true;But firm upon gold foundationsStands the cottage I built for you!
Out of the scattered fragmentsOf castles I built in the airI gathered enough togetherTo fashion a cottage with care;Thoughtfully, slowly, I planned it,And little by little it grew—Perfect in form and in substance,Because I designed it for you.
The castles that time has shatteredGleamed spotless and pearly whiteAs they stood in the misty distanceThat borders the Land of Delight;Sleeping and waking I saw themGrow brighter and fairer each day;But, alas! at the touch of a fingerThey trembled and crumbled away!
Then out of the dust I gatheredA bit of untarnished gold,And a gem unharmed by contactWith stones of a baser mold;For sometimes a priceless jewelGleams wondrously pure and fairFrom glittering paste foundationsOf castles we see in the air.
So, I turned from the realms of fancy,As remote as the stars above,And into the land of the livingI carried the jewel of love;The mansions of dazzling brightnessHave crumbled away, it is true;But firm upon gold foundationsStands the cottage I built for you!
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well.How could the hand be enemy of the arm,Or seed and sod be rivals? How could lightFeel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf,Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?Like strands in one great braid we intertwineAnd make the perfect whole. You could not beUnless we gave you birth: we are the soilFrom which you sprang, yet sterile were that soilSave as you planted. (Though in the Book we readOne woman bore a child with no man's aid,We find no record of a man-child bornWithout the aid of woman! FatherhoodIs but a small achievement at the best,While motherhood is heaven and hell.)This ever-growing argument of sexIs most unseemly, and devoid of sense.Why waste more time in controversy, whenThere is not time enough for all of love,Our rightful occupation in this life?Why prate of our defects—of where we fail,When just the story of our worth would needEternity for telling; and our bestDevelopment comes ever through your praise,As through our praise you reach your highest self?Oh! had you not been miser of your praiseAnd let our virtues be their own reward,The old established order of the worldWould never have been changed. Small blame is oursFor this unsexing of ourselves, and worseEffeminizing of the male. We wereContent, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain.All we have done, or wise or otherwise,Traced to the root, was done for love of you.Let us taboo all vain comparisons,And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,Companions, mates and comrades evermore;Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well.How could the hand be enemy of the arm,Or seed and sod be rivals? How could lightFeel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf,Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?Like strands in one great braid we intertwineAnd make the perfect whole. You could not beUnless we gave you birth: we are the soilFrom which you sprang, yet sterile were that soilSave as you planted. (Though in the Book we readOne woman bore a child with no man's aid,We find no record of a man-child bornWithout the aid of woman! FatherhoodIs but a small achievement at the best,While motherhood is heaven and hell.)This ever-growing argument of sexIs most unseemly, and devoid of sense.Why waste more time in controversy, whenThere is not time enough for all of love,Our rightful occupation in this life?Why prate of our defects—of where we fail,When just the story of our worth would needEternity for telling; and our bestDevelopment comes ever through your praise,As through our praise you reach your highest self?Oh! had you not been miser of your praiseAnd let our virtues be their own reward,The old established order of the worldWould never have been changed. Small blame is oursFor this unsexing of ourselves, and worseEffeminizing of the male. We wereContent, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain.All we have done, or wise or otherwise,Traced to the root, was done for love of you.Let us taboo all vain comparisons,And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,Companions, mates and comrades evermore;Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.
A widow had two sons,And one knelt at her knees,And sought to give her joyAnd toiled to give her ease;He heard his country's callAnd longed to go, to dieIf God so willed, but sawHer tears and heard her sigh.A widow had two sons,One filled her days with careAnd creased her brow and broughtHer many a whitened hairHis country called—he went.Nor thought to say good-by,And recklessly he fought,And died as heroes die.A widow had two sons,One fell as heroes fall,And one remained and toiled,And gave to her his all.She watched "her hero's" graveIn dismal days and fair,And told the world her love,Her heart was buried there.
A widow had two sons,And one knelt at her knees,And sought to give her joyAnd toiled to give her ease;He heard his country's callAnd longed to go, to dieIf God so willed, but sawHer tears and heard her sigh.
A widow had two sons,One filled her days with careAnd creased her brow and broughtHer many a whitened hairHis country called—he went.Nor thought to say good-by,And recklessly he fought,And died as heroes die.
A widow had two sons,One fell as heroes fall,And one remained and toiled,And gave to her his all.She watched "her hero's" graveIn dismal days and fair,And told the world her love,Her heart was buried there.
In the legends of the Norsemen,Stories quaint and weird and wild,There's a strange and thrilling story,Of a mother and her child.And that child, so runs the story,In those quaint old Norsemen books,Fell one day from dangerous play ground,Dashed in pieces on the rocks;But with gentle hand that motherGathered every tender part,Bore them gently, torn and bleeding,On her loving mother heart.And within her humble dwelling,Strong in faith and brave of soul,With her love-song low and tenderRocked and sang the fragments whole.Such the mission of the Christian,Taught by Christ so long ago;This the mark that bids us stay not,This the spirit each should know:Rent and torn by sin the race is,Heart from heart, and soul from soul;This our task with Christ's sweet love-song,Join, and heal, and make them whole.
In the legends of the Norsemen,Stories quaint and weird and wild,There's a strange and thrilling story,Of a mother and her child.And that child, so runs the story,In those quaint old Norsemen books,Fell one day from dangerous play ground,Dashed in pieces on the rocks;But with gentle hand that motherGathered every tender part,Bore them gently, torn and bleeding,On her loving mother heart.And within her humble dwelling,Strong in faith and brave of soul,With her love-song low and tenderRocked and sang the fragments whole.Such the mission of the Christian,Taught by Christ so long ago;This the mark that bids us stay not,This the spirit each should know:Rent and torn by sin the race is,Heart from heart, and soul from soul;This our task with Christ's sweet love-song,Join, and heal, and make them whole.
—Rev. E. M. Bartlett
Lord over all! Whose power the sceptre swayed,Ere first Creation's wondrous form was framed,When by His will Divine all things were made;Then, King, Almighty was His name proclaimed.When all shall cease—the universe be o'er,In awful greatness He alone will reign,Who was, Who is, and Who will evermoreIn glory most refulgent still remain.Sole God! unequalled and beyond compare,Without division or associate;Without commencing date, or final year,Omnipotent He reigns in awful state.He is my God! my living Savior He!My sheltering Rock in sad misfortune's hour!My standard, refuge, portion, still shall be,My lot's disposer when I seek His power.Into His hands my spirit I consignWhilst wrapped in sleep, that I again may wake,And with my soul, my body I resign;The Lord's with me—no fears my soul can shake.
Lord over all! Whose power the sceptre swayed,Ere first Creation's wondrous form was framed,When by His will Divine all things were made;Then, King, Almighty was His name proclaimed.
When all shall cease—the universe be o'er,In awful greatness He alone will reign,Who was, Who is, and Who will evermoreIn glory most refulgent still remain.
Sole God! unequalled and beyond compare,Without division or associate;Without commencing date, or final year,Omnipotent He reigns in awful state.
He is my God! my living Savior He!My sheltering Rock in sad misfortune's hour!My standard, refuge, portion, still shall be,My lot's disposer when I seek His power.
Into His hands my spirit I consignWhilst wrapped in sleep, that I again may wake,And with my soul, my body I resign;The Lord's with me—no fears my soul can shake.
The earth, the firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,Were made by God's creative powerSix thousand years ago or more.Man, too, was formed to till the ground;Birds, beasts, and fish to move around;The fish to swim, the birds to fly,And all to praise the Love most high.This world is round, wise men declare,And hung on nothing in the air.The moon around the earth doth run;The earth moves on its center, too;The earth and moon around the sunAs wheels and tops and pulleys do.Water and land make up the whole,From East to West, from pole to pole.Vast mountains rear their lofty heads,Rivers roll down their sandy beds;And all join in one grand acclaimTo praise the Lord's almighty name.
The earth, the firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,Were made by God's creative powerSix thousand years ago or more.Man, too, was formed to till the ground;Birds, beasts, and fish to move around;The fish to swim, the birds to fly,And all to praise the Love most high.This world is round, wise men declare,And hung on nothing in the air.The moon around the earth doth run;The earth moves on its center, too;The earth and moon around the sunAs wheels and tops and pulleys do.Water and land make up the whole,From East to West, from pole to pole.Vast mountains rear their lofty heads,Rivers roll down their sandy beds;And all join in one grand acclaimTo praise the Lord's almighty name.
There were ninety and nine that safely layIn the shelter of the fold,But one was out on the hills away,Far-off from the gates of gold—Away on the mountains lone and bare,Away from the tender Shepherd's care."Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine:Are they not enough for Thee?"But the Shepherd made answer: "This of mineHas wandered away from me,And, although the road be rough and steep,I go to the desert to find my sheep."But none of the ransomed ever knewHow deep were the waters crossed;Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed throughEre he found His sheep that was lost.Out in the desert he heard the cry—Sick and helpless, and ready to die."Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the wayThat mark out the mountain's track?""They were shed for one who had gone astrayEre the Shepherd could bring him back.""Lord, whence are Thy hands so rent and torn?""They are pierced tonight by many a thorn."But all through the mountains, thunder-riven,And up from the rocky steep,There arose a glad cry to the height of heaven,"Rejoice! I have found my sheep!"And the angels echoed around the throne:"Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!"
There were ninety and nine that safely layIn the shelter of the fold,But one was out on the hills away,Far-off from the gates of gold—Away on the mountains lone and bare,Away from the tender Shepherd's care.
"Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine:Are they not enough for Thee?"But the Shepherd made answer: "This of mineHas wandered away from me,And, although the road be rough and steep,I go to the desert to find my sheep."
But none of the ransomed ever knewHow deep were the waters crossed;Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed throughEre he found His sheep that was lost.Out in the desert he heard the cry—Sick and helpless, and ready to die.
"Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the wayThat mark out the mountain's track?""They were shed for one who had gone astrayEre the Shepherd could bring him back.""Lord, whence are Thy hands so rent and torn?""They are pierced tonight by many a thorn."
But all through the mountains, thunder-riven,And up from the rocky steep,There arose a glad cry to the height of heaven,"Rejoice! I have found my sheep!"And the angels echoed around the throne:"Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!"