Ah, empty are the mother's armsWhich clasp a vanished form;A darling spared from life's alarms,And safe from earthly storm.In absent reverie, she hearsThat voice, nor can forget;The fond illusion disappears,—Her arms are empty, yet.
Ah, empty are the mother's armsWhich clasp a vanished form;A darling spared from life's alarms,And safe from earthly storm.
In absent reverie, she hearsThat voice, nor can forget;The fond illusion disappears,—Her arms are empty, yet.
Almighty God! Supreme! Most High!Before Thy throne, in reverence, we kneel;We cannot realize Thine infinity;Beholding not, we can Thy presence feel;Though veiled impenetrably, Thou dost revealSuch evidence as clouds cannot conceal!Acknowledged, though unseen, Almighty Power!Within its secret depths, the bosom paysIn pleasure's or affliction's calmer hour,The heart's sincerest offering of praise;Intuitive, unuttered prayers ariseWithout the outstretched arms, or reverently clos-ed eyes.Down deep within the soul's mysterious seat,The voice of reason, and inherent sense,Admits Thy Sovereign Power, and doth entreatThe guidance of a Just Omnipotence;Thus doth the human essence e'er dependOn that Supreme. Eternal. Without End.Supreme, Mysterious Power! Whate'er Thou be,Can e'er our mortal natures comprehend,This side the veil which shrouds futurity,Thy Wisdom, Power, and Love? The endOf all conclusions, reasoned o'er and o'er,We know Thou dost exist! Can we know more?
Almighty God! Supreme! Most High!Before Thy throne, in reverence, we kneel;We cannot realize Thine infinity;Beholding not, we can Thy presence feel;Though veiled impenetrably, Thou dost revealSuch evidence as clouds cannot conceal!
Acknowledged, though unseen, Almighty Power!Within its secret depths, the bosom paysIn pleasure's or affliction's calmer hour,The heart's sincerest offering of praise;Intuitive, unuttered prayers ariseWithout the outstretched arms, or reverently clos-ed eyes.
Down deep within the soul's mysterious seat,The voice of reason, and inherent sense,Admits Thy Sovereign Power, and doth entreatThe guidance of a Just Omnipotence;Thus doth the human essence e'er dependOn that Supreme. Eternal. Without End.
Supreme, Mysterious Power! Whate'er Thou be,Can e'er our mortal natures comprehend,This side the veil which shrouds futurity,Thy Wisdom, Power, and Love? The endOf all conclusions, reasoned o'er and o'er,We know Thou dost exist! Can we know more?
Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die?Or remain ever constant and sure,As the years of the future pass rapidly by,And the waves of adversity's tempest roll high,Ever changeless and fervent endure?Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day,For the love which eternally thrives;That sentiment false, is as prone to decayAs the wreath is to fade and to wither away;And like it, it never revives.
Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die?Or remain ever constant and sure,As the years of the future pass rapidly by,And the waves of adversity's tempest roll high,Ever changeless and fervent endure?
Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day,For the love which eternally thrives;That sentiment false, is as prone to decayAs the wreath is to fade and to wither away;And like it, it never revives.
Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above usAnd marks our last home with a mouldering heap?Shall the voices of those who profess that they love usE'er mention our names, as we dreamlessly sleep?Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection,Or their hands ever plant a small flower o'er the breast,Or will they gaze with a sad circumspectionAt the tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?Ah! soon shall the hearts which our memories cherishForget, as they strive with the cares of their own;And even the last dim remembrance shall perishAs we peacefully slumber, unwept and unknown.But if our lives, though of transient duration,Are filled with some work in humanity's name,Some uplifting effort, or self-immolation,Our memories shall live in the temples of Fame.
Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above usAnd marks our last home with a mouldering heap?Shall the voices of those who profess that they love usE'er mention our names, as we dreamlessly sleep?
Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection,Or their hands ever plant a small flower o'er the breast,Or will they gaze with a sad circumspectionAt the tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?
Ah! soon shall the hearts which our memories cherishForget, as they strive with the cares of their own;And even the last dim remembrance shall perishAs we peacefully slumber, unwept and unknown.
But if our lives, though of transient duration,Are filled with some work in humanity's name,Some uplifting effort, or self-immolation,Our memories shall live in the temples of Fame.
O, tomb of the pastWhere buried hopes lie,In my visions I seeThy phantoms pass by!A form, long departed,Before me appears;A sweet voice, long silent,Again greets my ears.Fond memory dwellsOn the things that have been;And my eyes calmly gazeOn a long vanished scene;A scene such as memoryStores deep in the breast,Which only appearsIn a season of rest.Once more we wander,Her fair hand in mine;Once more her promise,"I'll ever be thine";Once more the parting,The shroud, and the pall,The sods' hollow thumpAs they coffinward fall.The reverie ends—All the fancies have flown;And my sad, lonely heart,Now seems doubly alone;As the Ivy, whose tendrilsReach longingly out,Yet finds not an oakTo entwine them about.
O, tomb of the pastWhere buried hopes lie,In my visions I seeThy phantoms pass by!A form, long departed,Before me appears;A sweet voice, long silent,Again greets my ears.
Fond memory dwellsOn the things that have been;And my eyes calmly gazeOn a long vanished scene;A scene such as memoryStores deep in the breast,Which only appearsIn a season of rest.
Once more we wander,Her fair hand in mine;Once more her promise,"I'll ever be thine";Once more the parting,The shroud, and the pall,The sods' hollow thumpAs they coffinward fall.
The reverie ends—All the fancies have flown;And my sad, lonely heart,Now seems doubly alone;As the Ivy, whose tendrilsReach longingly out,Yet finds not an oakTo entwine them about.
I love thee, my darling, both now and forever,My heart feels the thralldom of love's mystic spell,'Tis fettered with shackles which nothing can sever,To the heart which responds to its passionate swell.I love thee, my darling, with love that is stronger,Than all the fond ties which the heart holds enshrined;Adversity, sorrow or pain can no longerDetract from this heart, if with thine intertwined.I love thee, my darling, with sacred affection,Which death, nor the cycles of time shall efface;Nor from my heart's mirror, erase thy reflection,Nor tear thy fond heart from its fervent embrace.
I love thee, my darling, both now and forever,My heart feels the thralldom of love's mystic spell,'Tis fettered with shackles which nothing can sever,To the heart which responds to its passionate swell.
I love thee, my darling, with love that is stronger,Than all the fond ties which the heart holds enshrined;Adversity, sorrow or pain can no longerDetract from this heart, if with thine intertwined.
I love thee, my darling, with sacred affection,Which death, nor the cycles of time shall efface;Nor from my heart's mirror, erase thy reflection,Nor tear thy fond heart from its fervent embrace.
Is there a Death? The light of dayAt eventide shall fade away;From out the sod's eternal gloomThe flowers, in their season, bloom;Bud, bloom and fade, and soon the spotWhereon they flourished knows them not;Blighted by chill, autumnal frost;"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"Is there a Death? Pale forms of menTo formless clay resolve again;Sarcophagus of graven stone,Nor solitary grave, unknown,Mausoleum, or funeral urn,No answer to our cries return;Nor silent lips disclose their trust;"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"Is there a Death? All forms of claySuccessively shall pass away;But, as the joyous days of springWitness the glad awakeningOf nature's forces, may not men,In some due season, rise again?Then why this calm, inherent trust,"If ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"
Is there a Death? The light of dayAt eventide shall fade away;From out the sod's eternal gloomThe flowers, in their season, bloom;Bud, bloom and fade, and soon the spotWhereon they flourished knows them not;Blighted by chill, autumnal frost;"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"
Is there a Death? Pale forms of menTo formless clay resolve again;Sarcophagus of graven stone,Nor solitary grave, unknown,Mausoleum, or funeral urn,No answer to our cries return;Nor silent lips disclose their trust;"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"
Is there a Death? All forms of claySuccessively shall pass away;But, as the joyous days of springWitness the glad awakeningOf nature's forces, may not men,In some due season, rise again?Then why this calm, inherent trust,"If ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;When vanishes each prospect fair,When the last flickering ray has sped,And naught remains but mute despair;When inky blackness doth enshroudThe hopes the heart once held in store,As some tall pine, by great winds bowed,Doth snap, and when the tempest's o'er,Its noble form, magnificent and proud,Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more;Thus breaks the heart, which sees no hope before.Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;That heart is as some ruin old,With ancient arch and wall, o'erspreadWith moss, and desolating mold;Whose banquet halls, where once the soundOf revelry rang unconfined,Now, with the hoot of owls resound,Or echo back the mournful wind;In whose foul nooks the gruesome bat is found.The heart a ruin is, when unresigned;No hope before, and but regret behind.
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;When vanishes each prospect fair,When the last flickering ray has sped,And naught remains but mute despair;When inky blackness doth enshroudThe hopes the heart once held in store,As some tall pine, by great winds bowed,Doth snap, and when the tempest's o'er,Its noble form, magnificent and proud,Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more;Thus breaks the heart, which sees no hope before.
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;That heart is as some ruin old,With ancient arch and wall, o'erspreadWith moss, and desolating mold;Whose banquet halls, where once the soundOf revelry rang unconfined,Now, with the hoot of owls resound,Or echo back the mournful wind;In whose foul nooks the gruesome bat is found.The heart a ruin is, when unresigned;No hope before, and but regret behind.
IRONTON PARK."Its noble form magnificent and proud,Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more."IRONTON PARK, OURAY COUNTY, COLORADO.
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;That heart, to fate unreconciled,Though throbbing, is as truly deadAs though by foul decay defiled;That heart is as a grinning skull,With smiling mockery, and stareOf eyeless sockets, or the hullOf shipwrecked vessel, bleached and bare,Derelict, morbid, apathetic, dull,As drowning men, who clutch the empty air,The heart goes down, which feels but blind despair.
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;That heart, to fate unreconciled,Though throbbing, is as truly deadAs though by foul decay defiled;That heart is as a grinning skull,With smiling mockery, and stareOf eyeless sockets, or the hullOf shipwrecked vessel, bleached and bare,Derelict, morbid, apathetic, dull,As drowning men, who clutch the empty air,The heart goes down, which feels but blind despair.
For some the river of life would seemFree from the shallow, the reef, or bar,As they gently glide down the silvery streamWith scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar;But under the surface, calm and fair,Lurk the hidden snags, and the secret care;The waters are deepest where still, and clear,And the sternest anguish forbids a tear.For others, the pathway of life is strewnWith many a thorn, for each rose or bud;And their journey o'er mountain, o'er moor, and dune,Can be plainly tracked by footprints of blood;But deeper still lies the hidden smartOf some secret sorrow, which gnaws the heart,And rankles under a surface clear;For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.But, when the journey's end we see,At the bar of the Judge of quick and dead,The cross, which the one bore silentlyMay outweigh his of the bloodstained tread.The cross unseen, and the cross of light,May balance in that Judge's sight;O'er the heart that is breaking a smile may appear,For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.
For some the river of life would seemFree from the shallow, the reef, or bar,As they gently glide down the silvery streamWith scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar;But under the surface, calm and fair,Lurk the hidden snags, and the secret care;The waters are deepest where still, and clear,And the sternest anguish forbids a tear.
For others, the pathway of life is strewnWith many a thorn, for each rose or bud;And their journey o'er mountain, o'er moor, and dune,Can be plainly tracked by footprints of blood;But deeper still lies the hidden smartOf some secret sorrow, which gnaws the heart,And rankles under a surface clear;For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.
But, when the journey's end we see,At the bar of the Judge of quick and dead,The cross, which the one bore silentlyMay outweigh his of the bloodstained tread.The cross unseen, and the cross of light,May balance in that Judge's sight;O'er the heart that is breaking a smile may appear,For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.
O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth,And perishing, smiles on the chill autumn wind;A sweet desolation its ruin pervadeth,A fragrant remembrance still lingers behind.O, a beautiful thing is the glad consummationOf a life that is upright, untarnished and pure;That spirit, when freed from this earth's animation,Shall live, as the heavens eternal endure!
O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth,And perishing, smiles on the chill autumn wind;A sweet desolation its ruin pervadeth,A fragrant remembrance still lingers behind.
O, a beautiful thing is the glad consummationOf a life that is upright, untarnished and pure;That spirit, when freed from this earth's animation,Shall live, as the heavens eternal endure!
There is the warm, congenial smile,Benign, and honest, too,Free from deception, fraud, and guile;The smile of friendship true.There is the smile most fair to see,Which wreathes the modest glanceOf spotless maiden purity;The smile of innocence.There is the smile of woman's love,That potent, siren spell,Which uplifts men to heaven above,Or lures them down to hell!There is the vain, derisive smile,Of cynical conceit;The drunken leer, the grimace vile,Of lives with crime replete.There is the smile of vacancy,Expressionless, we findOn idiot physiognomy,The vacuum of a mind.There is a smile, which more than tearsOr language can express;The grim disguise which anguish wears,The mask of dire distressThere is a smile of practiced art,More false than treason's kiss;But penetrate that dual heart,And hear the serpent's hiss.A smile, the visage shall embrace,When nature's cup is full;Behind the stern and frowning faceThere lies a grinning skull.
There is the warm, congenial smile,Benign, and honest, too,Free from deception, fraud, and guile;The smile of friendship true.
There is the smile most fair to see,Which wreathes the modest glanceOf spotless maiden purity;The smile of innocence.
There is the smile of woman's love,That potent, siren spell,Which uplifts men to heaven above,Or lures them down to hell!
There is the vain, derisive smile,Of cynical conceit;The drunken leer, the grimace vile,Of lives with crime replete.
There is the smile of vacancy,Expressionless, we findOn idiot physiognomy,The vacuum of a mind.
There is a smile, which more than tearsOr language can express;The grim disguise which anguish wears,The mask of dire distress
There is a smile of practiced art,More false than treason's kiss;But penetrate that dual heart,And hear the serpent's hiss.
A smile, the visage shall embrace,When nature's cup is full;Behind the stern and frowning faceThere lies a grinning skull.
When close by my bed the Death Angel shall standAnd deliver his summons, at last;When my brow feels the chill of his cold, clammy hand,And mortality's struggles are past;When my pain throbbing temples, with death sweat are cold,And the spirit its strivings shall cease,As with muscular shrug, it relaxes its hold,And the suffering clay is at peace;E'er my spirit shall plunge through the shadowy vale,My lips shall this wish have expressed,That all which remains of mortality frail,In some fair enclosure may rest;Where disorganized, this pale form shall sustainThe fragrant and beautiful flowers,And reproduce beauty, again and again,Through nature's grand organic powers.
When close by my bed the Death Angel shall standAnd deliver his summons, at last;When my brow feels the chill of his cold, clammy hand,And mortality's struggles are past;When my pain throbbing temples, with death sweat are cold,And the spirit its strivings shall cease,As with muscular shrug, it relaxes its hold,And the suffering clay is at peace;
E'er my spirit shall plunge through the shadowy vale,My lips shall this wish have expressed,That all which remains of mortality frail,In some fair enclosure may rest;Where disorganized, this pale form shall sustainThe fragrant and beautiful flowers,And reproduce beauty, again and again,Through nature's grand organic powers.
Almighty Power! Who through the pastOur Nation's course has safely led;Behold again the sky o'ercast,Again is heard the martial tread!Our stay in each contingency,Our Father's God, we turn to thee!For lo! The bugle note of warIs wafted from a southern strand!O Lord of Battles! we imploreThe guidance of Thy mighty hand,While as of yore, the hero drawsHis sword in Freedom's sacred cause!And when at last the oaken wreathShall crown afresh the victor's brow;And Peace the conquering sword resheath,Be with us then, as well as now!Our stay in each contingency,In peace or war, we turn to Thee!
Almighty Power! Who through the pastOur Nation's course has safely led;Behold again the sky o'ercast,Again is heard the martial tread!Our stay in each contingency,Our Father's God, we turn to thee!
For lo! The bugle note of warIs wafted from a southern strand!O Lord of Battles! we imploreThe guidance of Thy mighty hand,While as of yore, the hero drawsHis sword in Freedom's sacred cause!
And when at last the oaken wreathShall crown afresh the victor's brow;And Peace the conquering sword resheath,Be with us then, as well as now!Our stay in each contingency,In peace or war, we turn to Thee!
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,Where wealth accumulates and men decay.—Goldsmith.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,Where wealth accumulates and men decay.—Goldsmith.
I fear the palace of the rich,I fear the hovel of the poor;Though fortified by moat and ditch,The castle strong could not endure;Nor can the squalid hovel beA source of strength, and those who causeThis widening discrepancyInfringe on God's eternal laws.The heritage of man, the earth,Was framed for homes, not vast estates;A lowering scale of human worthEach generation demonstrates,Which feels the landlord's iron hand,And hopeless, plod with effort brave;Who love no home can love no land;These own no home, until the grave.The nation's strongest safeguards lieIn free and unencumbered homes;Not in its hordes of vagrancy,Nor in its proud, palatial domes;Nor can the mercenary swordE'er cross with that the freeman draws.Nor oil upon the waters pouredPerpetuate an unjust cause.Eternal Justice, still prevailAnd stay this menace ere too late!Ere sturdy manhood droop and fail,The law, immutable, of fate;No foe can daunt the stalwart heartOf him who guards that sacred groundWhere every hero owns a part,Where each an ample home has found.No more shall battle's lurid gleamThe cloudless sky of peace obscure;Nor blood becrimson field, or stream,Nor avarice grind down the poor;But onward let thy progress beA pageant, beautiful and grand;May He who e'er has guided theeProtect thee still, my native land!
I fear the palace of the rich,I fear the hovel of the poor;Though fortified by moat and ditch,The castle strong could not endure;Nor can the squalid hovel beA source of strength, and those who causeThis widening discrepancyInfringe on God's eternal laws.
The heritage of man, the earth,Was framed for homes, not vast estates;A lowering scale of human worthEach generation demonstrates,Which feels the landlord's iron hand,And hopeless, plod with effort brave;Who love no home can love no land;These own no home, until the grave.
The nation's strongest safeguards lieIn free and unencumbered homes;Not in its hordes of vagrancy,Nor in its proud, palatial domes;Nor can the mercenary swordE'er cross with that the freeman draws.Nor oil upon the waters pouredPerpetuate an unjust cause.
Eternal Justice, still prevailAnd stay this menace ere too late!Ere sturdy manhood droop and fail,The law, immutable, of fate;No foe can daunt the stalwart heartOf him who guards that sacred groundWhere every hero owns a part,Where each an ample home has found.
No more shall battle's lurid gleamThe cloudless sky of peace obscure;Nor blood becrimson field, or stream,Nor avarice grind down the poor;But onward let thy progress beA pageant, beautiful and grand;May He who e'er has guided theeProtect thee still, my native land!
What means this gathering multitude,Upon thy shores, O, Galilee,As various as the billows rudeThat sweep thy ever restless sea?Can but the mandate of a KingSo varied an assemblage bring?Behold the noble, rich, and great,From Levite, Pharisee and Priest,Down to the lowest dregs of fate,From mightiest even to the least;Yes, in this motley throng we findThe palsied, sick, mute, halt, and blind.Is this some grand affair of state,A coronation, or display,By some vainglorious potentate,—Or can this concourse mark the dayOf some victorious hero's marchHomeward, through triumphal arch?Or, have they come to celebrateSome sacred sacerdotal rite;By civic feast, to emulateSome deed, on history's pages bright?Or can this grand occasion beSome battle's anniversary?But wherefore come the halt and blind?What comfort can the pain-distressedIn such a tumult hope to find?What is there here, to offer restTo those, whom adverse fate has hurled,Dismantled, on a hostile world?Let us approach! A form we see,Fairest beyond comparison;For such an heavenly purity,From other eyes, hath never shown;Nor such a calm, majestic browOn earth hath ne'er appeared, till now.Draw nearer. Lo! a voice we hear,Resonant, soft, pathetic, sweet;In ringing accents, calm and clear,He sways the thousands at his feet,With more than mortal eloquence,Or man's compassion, in his glance.Ah! Strange, that such a form should standIn raiment soiled, and travel stained;Yes, mark the contour of that hand,A hand by menial toil profaned.Can one from such a station reachAll classes by sheer force of speech?Can eloquence from mortal tongueBreak through the barriers, which divideThe toiling and down-trodden throngFrom affluence, and official pride?Then how can yonder speaker holdAn audience so manifold?He spake as never oratorBefore, or since, with burning thought,In parable, and metaphor;Each simple illustration taughtSome sacred truth, some truth which couldBy sage, or fool, be understood.With similes of common things,The lilies of the field, the saltWhich lost its savour; gently bringsA lesson, from the common faultOf self-admiring Pharisee,Of ostentatious piety.And from the prostrate penitent,The Publican, who beat his breast,Remorsefully his garment rent,And thus, with tears, his sin confessed;"Lord, Lord, a sinner vile am I,Be merciful, and hear my cry!"And from that man, beset by thieves,And left upon the road, to die;No aid or comfort he receivesFrom Priest, or Levite, passing by;How the despised SamaritanProved the true neighbor to that man.Yes, finished with such fervencyOf gesture, and similitude;Such depths of love, and purityHis hearers marvelled, as they stood;Nor through his discourse, was there heard,Abusive, vain, or idle word.Who may this wondrous speaker be?Is he some judge, or orator?Some one in high authority?Physician, prince, or conqueror?Answer, thou ever restless sea,Who may this wondrous person be?With echoes soft, the sea replies,This is a Judge, and Orator;A Judge, beyond all judges wise,And eloquent, as none before;A Judge, majestic, calm, serene;And yet, an humble Nazarene.He is a Ruler, whose commandThe myriads of the skies obey,As in the hollow of His handHe holds all human destiny.The tempest wild concedes his will,And calms before His "Peace, be still."A great Physician, too, is He,Whose word, the leper purifies;The mute converse, the blind ones see;At his command, the dead arise;He cures the ravages of sin,And makes the foulest sinner clean.He is a Prince, a Prince whose powerKnows neither limit nor degree,Whose glory, not the passing hour,Nor cycles of futurity,Can augment, alter, or decrease—Prince is He, the Prince of Peace.He is earth's greatest Conqueror,But conquers not with crimson sword;Love is the weapon of His war,Forgiveness, and gentle word;But, greatest of all victories,O'er the dark grave, His banner flies.
What means this gathering multitude,Upon thy shores, O, Galilee,As various as the billows rudeThat sweep thy ever restless sea?Can but the mandate of a KingSo varied an assemblage bring?
Behold the noble, rich, and great,From Levite, Pharisee and Priest,Down to the lowest dregs of fate,From mightiest even to the least;Yes, in this motley throng we findThe palsied, sick, mute, halt, and blind.
Is this some grand affair of state,A coronation, or display,By some vainglorious potentate,—Or can this concourse mark the dayOf some victorious hero's marchHomeward, through triumphal arch?
Or, have they come to celebrateSome sacred sacerdotal rite;By civic feast, to emulateSome deed, on history's pages bright?Or can this grand occasion beSome battle's anniversary?
But wherefore come the halt and blind?What comfort can the pain-distressedIn such a tumult hope to find?What is there here, to offer restTo those, whom adverse fate has hurled,Dismantled, on a hostile world?
Let us approach! A form we see,Fairest beyond comparison;For such an heavenly purity,From other eyes, hath never shown;Nor such a calm, majestic browOn earth hath ne'er appeared, till now.
Draw nearer. Lo! a voice we hear,Resonant, soft, pathetic, sweet;In ringing accents, calm and clear,He sways the thousands at his feet,With more than mortal eloquence,Or man's compassion, in his glance.
Ah! Strange, that such a form should standIn raiment soiled, and travel stained;Yes, mark the contour of that hand,A hand by menial toil profaned.Can one from such a station reachAll classes by sheer force of speech?
Can eloquence from mortal tongueBreak through the barriers, which divideThe toiling and down-trodden throngFrom affluence, and official pride?Then how can yonder speaker holdAn audience so manifold?
He spake as never oratorBefore, or since, with burning thought,In parable, and metaphor;Each simple illustration taughtSome sacred truth, some truth which couldBy sage, or fool, be understood.
With similes of common things,The lilies of the field, the saltWhich lost its savour; gently bringsA lesson, from the common faultOf self-admiring Pharisee,Of ostentatious piety.
And from the prostrate penitent,The Publican, who beat his breast,Remorsefully his garment rent,And thus, with tears, his sin confessed;"Lord, Lord, a sinner vile am I,Be merciful, and hear my cry!"
And from that man, beset by thieves,And left upon the road, to die;No aid or comfort he receivesFrom Priest, or Levite, passing by;How the despised SamaritanProved the true neighbor to that man.
Yes, finished with such fervencyOf gesture, and similitude;Such depths of love, and purityHis hearers marvelled, as they stood;Nor through his discourse, was there heard,Abusive, vain, or idle word.
Who may this wondrous speaker be?Is he some judge, or orator?Some one in high authority?Physician, prince, or conqueror?Answer, thou ever restless sea,Who may this wondrous person be?
With echoes soft, the sea replies,This is a Judge, and Orator;A Judge, beyond all judges wise,And eloquent, as none before;A Judge, majestic, calm, serene;And yet, an humble Nazarene.
He is a Ruler, whose commandThe myriads of the skies obey,As in the hollow of His handHe holds all human destiny.The tempest wild concedes his will,And calms before His "Peace, be still."
A great Physician, too, is He,Whose word, the leper purifies;The mute converse, the blind ones see;At his command, the dead arise;He cures the ravages of sin,And makes the foulest sinner clean.
He is a Prince, a Prince whose powerKnows neither limit nor degree,Whose glory, not the passing hour,Nor cycles of futurity,Can augment, alter, or decrease—Prince is He, the Prince of Peace.
He is earth's greatest Conqueror,But conquers not with crimson sword;Love is the weapon of His war,Forgiveness, and gentle word;But, greatest of all victories,O'er the dark grave, His banner flies.
When the poor, erring woman soughtIn tears the Master's feet,Her breast, with deep contrition fraught,Repentance, full, complete,Divine compassion filled His eyes,He spake, says Sacred Lore,—"O, erring heart, forgiven, rise,Go, thou, and sin no more."The tear of contrite sorrow, shedBy penitence, cast down,Shall flash, when solar rays have fled,In an eternal crown;That tear shall scintillate, and shine,When comets cease to soar;If thou would'st wear that gem divine,Go, thou, and sin no more!
When the poor, erring woman soughtIn tears the Master's feet,Her breast, with deep contrition fraught,Repentance, full, complete,Divine compassion filled His eyes,He spake, says Sacred Lore,—"O, erring heart, forgiven, rise,Go, thou, and sin no more."
The tear of contrite sorrow, shedBy penitence, cast down,Shall flash, when solar rays have fled,In an eternal crown;That tear shall scintillate, and shine,When comets cease to soar;If thou would'st wear that gem divine,Go, thou, and sin no more!
Gently lead me, Star Divine,Lead with bright unchanging ray;O'er my lowly pathway shine,I shall never lose my way;Though uncertain be my tread,Pitfalls deep, and mountains high,Safely shall my feet be led,By Thy beacon, in the sky.Long ago, while journeyingWestward, o'er the desert wild,Sages sought a promised KingIn the person of a child;By Thy bright illuminings,To that manger, in the fold,Thou did'st lead those shepherd kings;Lead me, as Thou lead'st of old.
Gently lead me, Star Divine,Lead with bright unchanging ray;O'er my lowly pathway shine,I shall never lose my way;Though uncertain be my tread,Pitfalls deep, and mountains high,Safely shall my feet be led,By Thy beacon, in the sky.
Long ago, while journeyingWestward, o'er the desert wild,Sages sought a promised KingIn the person of a child;By Thy bright illuminings,To that manger, in the fold,Thou did'st lead those shepherd kings;Lead me, as Thou lead'st of old.
BEAR CREEK FALLS."Wherever I wander my ears hear the sound,Of thy waters which plunge with a turbulent sound."BEAR CREEK FALLS, UNCOMPAHGRE CAÑON, NEAR OURAY, COLORADO.
The hour-glass speeds its final sands,In splendor sinks the golden sun,So men must yield to death's demandsWhen human life its course has run.We view the ruins of the past,We stand surrounded by decay,Our transient hours are speeding fastAnd, e'er we think, have passed away.Weep not, nor mourn with idle tearThat hour, inevitable and sure;We move, our sojourn finished here,To nobler realms which shall endure.
The hour-glass speeds its final sands,In splendor sinks the golden sun,So men must yield to death's demandsWhen human life its course has run.
We view the ruins of the past,We stand surrounded by decay,Our transient hours are speeding fastAnd, e'er we think, have passed away.
Weep not, nor mourn with idle tearThat hour, inevitable and sure;We move, our sojourn finished here,To nobler realms which shall endure.
DYING THOUGHTS.
As Life's receding sunset fadesAnd night descends,I calmly watch the gathering shades,As darkness stealthily invadesAnd daylight ends.Earth's span is drawing to its close,With every breath;My pain-racked brain no respite knows,Yet shrinks it, from the grim reposeIt feels in death.The curtain falls on Life's last scene,The end is neared;At last I face death's somber screen,The fleeting joys which interveneHave disappeared.And as a panoramic scrollThe past unreels;The mocking past, beyond control,Though buried, as a parchment roll,Its tale reveals.I stand before the dread, unknown,Yet solemn fact;I see the seeds of folly sownIn wayward years, maturely grown,Nor can retract.My weaknesses rise to my sight;And now, too late,I fain would former actions right,Which years have buried in their flight;Now sealed by fate.My frailties and iniquitiesI plainly see;Committed acts accusive rise,Omitted duties criticiseIn mockery.I feel I have offended oft,E'en at my bestHave failed to guide my course aloft;Perhaps in trival hour, have scoffedWith idle jest.Prone to misgiving, prone to doubt,And frail from birth;More light and frivolous than devout;With life's brief candle flickering out,I speed from earth.Can grief excuse indifferenceWith groan or tear?Can deep remorse and penitence,Or anguish mitigate offenseWith pang sincere?Ah! Tears can ne'er unlock the pastWhich opens not;And what is done is welded fast,Through all eternity to last,Nor change one jot.Whate'er may lie beyond the veilI calmly face,And sink, as grievous tears bewailMy faults and imperfections frail,In death's embrace.And as I think the matter o'er,Pensive and sad,While its shortcomings I deplore,The fruits which my existence boreWere not all bad.From all which can rejoice or grieveI shortly go,And now, in life's declining eveI wonder, hope, try to believe—Soon I shall know!My spirit flees, as night enwraps,To its reward;The earth recedes, I feel it lapse;I sink as dissolution snapsThe silver cord.O, Thou whose presence I can feelEach hour I live,While passing through death's stern ordeal,Wilt Thou Thy mercy still reveal,And still forgive?
As Life's receding sunset fadesAnd night descends,I calmly watch the gathering shades,As darkness stealthily invadesAnd daylight ends.
Earth's span is drawing to its close,With every breath;My pain-racked brain no respite knows,Yet shrinks it, from the grim reposeIt feels in death.
The curtain falls on Life's last scene,The end is neared;At last I face death's somber screen,The fleeting joys which interveneHave disappeared.
And as a panoramic scrollThe past unreels;The mocking past, beyond control,Though buried, as a parchment roll,Its tale reveals.
I stand before the dread, unknown,Yet solemn fact;I see the seeds of folly sownIn wayward years, maturely grown,Nor can retract.
My weaknesses rise to my sight;And now, too late,I fain would former actions right,Which years have buried in their flight;Now sealed by fate.
My frailties and iniquitiesI plainly see;Committed acts accusive rise,Omitted duties criticiseIn mockery.
I feel I have offended oft,E'en at my bestHave failed to guide my course aloft;Perhaps in trival hour, have scoffedWith idle jest.
Prone to misgiving, prone to doubt,And frail from birth;More light and frivolous than devout;With life's brief candle flickering out,I speed from earth.
Can grief excuse indifferenceWith groan or tear?Can deep remorse and penitence,Or anguish mitigate offenseWith pang sincere?
Ah! Tears can ne'er unlock the pastWhich opens not;And what is done is welded fast,Through all eternity to last,Nor change one jot.
Whate'er may lie beyond the veilI calmly face,And sink, as grievous tears bewailMy faults and imperfections frail,In death's embrace.
And as I think the matter o'er,Pensive and sad,While its shortcomings I deplore,The fruits which my existence boreWere not all bad.
From all which can rejoice or grieveI shortly go,And now, in life's declining eveI wonder, hope, try to believe—Soon I shall know!
My spirit flees, as night enwraps,To its reward;The earth recedes, I feel it lapse;I sink as dissolution snapsThe silver cord.
O, Thou whose presence I can feelEach hour I live,While passing through death's stern ordeal,Wilt Thou Thy mercy still reveal,And still forgive?
Deprive this strange and complex worldOf all the charms of art;Deprive it of those sweeter joysWhich music doth impart;But oh, preserve that smile, which tellsThe secret of the heart!The world may lose its massive pilesWhich point their spires above;May spare the tuneful nightingaleAnd gently cooing dove;But woe betide it, if it loseThe sentiment of love!
Deprive this strange and complex worldOf all the charms of art;Deprive it of those sweeter joysWhich music doth impart;But oh, preserve that smile, which tellsThe secret of the heart!
The world may lose its massive pilesWhich point their spires above;May spare the tuneful nightingaleAnd gently cooing dove;But woe betide it, if it loseThe sentiment of love!
St. Regimund, e'er he became a saint,Was much imbued with vulgar earthly taint;E'er he renounced the honors of a KnightAnd doffed his coat of mail and helmet bright,For sober cassock and monastic hood,Leaving the castle for the cloister rude,And changed the banquet's sumptuous repastFor frugal crusts and the ascetic fast;Forsook his charger and equipments forThe crucifix and sacerdotal war;While yet with valiant sword and blazoned shieldHe braved the dangers of the martial field,Or sought the antlered trophies of the chaseIn forest and sequestered hunting place;Or, tiring of the hunt's exciting sport,Enjoyed the idle pleasures of the court,Whiling away the time with games of chance,With music and the more voluptuous dance,The hollow paths of vanity pursued,Laughed, jested, swore, drank, danced, and even wooed;No tongue more prone to questionable wit,Nor chaste, when time and place demanded it;His basso voice, both voluble and strong,Excelled in wassail mirth and ribald song;He swore with oaths most impious and unblest;Ate much, drank more, on these lines did his best;Caroused by day, caroused by candle light,In fact behaved like any other knight.This medieval knight (the legend saith)For months would scarcely draw a sober breath;But as his appetite grew more and moreDrank each day worse than on the day before;Was drunk all night, all day continued so,Indulged in every vice he chanced to know.But long debauch and riotous excessReduce their strongest votaries to distress;When nature can the strain no longer standShe chastens with a sure and irate hand,So when the day of reckoning had come,She smote with fever and deliriumThis valiant knight whom we have tried to paint;A very slim foundation for a saint!The crisis reached, his fever stricken brainSurrendered reason to excessive pain;Nor moment's respite, comatose and kind,Relieved the raging furnace of his mind;And gruesome spectres, awful and unreal,Through his disordered vagaries would steal;When last his scorching temples sought reposeIn hasty nap or intermittent doze,His eyes beheld, though starting from his head,A grizzly figure leaning o'er his bed,With aspect foul beyond descriptive word,As one for months in sepulchre interred,Restored again to animated breath,A weird composite type of life and death;With countenance most hideous and vile,Leering with ghastly and unearthly smile;Pointing its shriveled finger, as in scorn,Of mockery and accusation born.As he beheld in terror and surpriseThis gruesome shape which mocked before his eyesHe could distinguish in its haughty mienA bearing, something as his own had been;Nor had its withered visage quite the lookOf vampire, ghoul or evanescent spook;And as the apparition o'er him bent,He saw that every seam or lineament,Contour of feature, prominence of bone,Bore all a striking semblance to his own.The horror stricken knight essayed to speak,But words responded tremulous and weak,And mustering his dissipated strength,A sitting posture he assumed at length,—"Whate'er thou art, thou harbinger of gloom,Thou fiend or ghoul, fresh from the new made tomb,Thou vampire, diabolical and fell,Thou stygian shade or denizen of hell,I charge thee, thing of evil, to confessWhy thou hast thus disturbed my sore distress.Why hast thou burst my chamber's bolted doorWhere guest unbidden never trod before?Break this suspense, so horrible and still!Declare thy tidings, be they good or ill,Be thou from Heaven or from the realms below.I charge thee speak, be thou a friend or foe;Break thou thy silence, ominous and deep,Or hence! Pursue thy way and let me sleep!"The grizzly spectre, still more ghastly grown,Surveyed with visage obdurate as stone,Then smiled with grimace of derisive craft,And in a most repugnant manner, laughed,But all the knight discerned with eye and ear,Was his own maudlin laugh and drunken leer."Breathe thou thy message," shrieked the frantic knight"Discharge thy purpose, though it blast and blight,I charge thee, speak, by all that is most fair.By all most foul, I charge thee to declare;By my bright armor and my trusty sword;I charge thee, speak, by Holy Rood and Word!"He sank exhausted, in such pallid frightThe snowy sheets looked dark beside such white.The spectre paused in silence for awhile,Then broke into a most repulsive smile,And answered in a weird and hollow tone,Enough to freeze the marrow in the bone:"I am thy blasted spirit's counterpart,A body fit for thy most evil heart,I am thy life, its psychic image sentTo bear thee company, till thou repent."'Tis said, for forty days the spectre stayed.For forty days the knight incessant prayed;With scourge, with vigil and ascetic rite,With fast, with groan remorseful and contrite,He cleansed his blackened spirit by degrees,And purified it from its vanities;And as he prayed, the spectre's gruesome scowlGrew day by day less hideous and foul,As he waxed holy, it became more bright;And after forty days, arrayed in whiteIt spread its spotless arms, devoid of taintAbove this erstwhile knight and henceforth saintIn benediction, as he knelt in prayer,—Then vanished instantly to empty air.Such is the tale, embellished by the Muse,'Tis true or false, believe it as you choose;Some folks accept the story out and out,While some prefer to entertain a doubt.But if it be fictitious and unreal,'Tis not subscribed and sworn, and bears no seal;It points a moral, as the legend old,If it conveys it, 'twas not vainly told,For should I such an apparition see—I think t'would almost make a monk of me.
St. Regimund, e'er he became a saint,Was much imbued with vulgar earthly taint;E'er he renounced the honors of a KnightAnd doffed his coat of mail and helmet bright,For sober cassock and monastic hood,Leaving the castle for the cloister rude,And changed the banquet's sumptuous repastFor frugal crusts and the ascetic fast;Forsook his charger and equipments forThe crucifix and sacerdotal war;While yet with valiant sword and blazoned shieldHe braved the dangers of the martial field,Or sought the antlered trophies of the chaseIn forest and sequestered hunting place;Or, tiring of the hunt's exciting sport,Enjoyed the idle pleasures of the court,Whiling away the time with games of chance,With music and the more voluptuous dance,The hollow paths of vanity pursued,Laughed, jested, swore, drank, danced, and even wooed;No tongue more prone to questionable wit,Nor chaste, when time and place demanded it;His basso voice, both voluble and strong,Excelled in wassail mirth and ribald song;He swore with oaths most impious and unblest;Ate much, drank more, on these lines did his best;Caroused by day, caroused by candle light,In fact behaved like any other knight.
This medieval knight (the legend saith)For months would scarcely draw a sober breath;But as his appetite grew more and moreDrank each day worse than on the day before;Was drunk all night, all day continued so,Indulged in every vice he chanced to know.But long debauch and riotous excessReduce their strongest votaries to distress;When nature can the strain no longer standShe chastens with a sure and irate hand,So when the day of reckoning had come,She smote with fever and deliriumThis valiant knight whom we have tried to paint;A very slim foundation for a saint!
The crisis reached, his fever stricken brainSurrendered reason to excessive pain;Nor moment's respite, comatose and kind,Relieved the raging furnace of his mind;And gruesome spectres, awful and unreal,Through his disordered vagaries would steal;When last his scorching temples sought reposeIn hasty nap or intermittent doze,His eyes beheld, though starting from his head,A grizzly figure leaning o'er his bed,With aspect foul beyond descriptive word,As one for months in sepulchre interred,Restored again to animated breath,A weird composite type of life and death;With countenance most hideous and vile,Leering with ghastly and unearthly smile;Pointing its shriveled finger, as in scorn,Of mockery and accusation born.
As he beheld in terror and surpriseThis gruesome shape which mocked before his eyesHe could distinguish in its haughty mienA bearing, something as his own had been;Nor had its withered visage quite the lookOf vampire, ghoul or evanescent spook;And as the apparition o'er him bent,He saw that every seam or lineament,Contour of feature, prominence of bone,Bore all a striking semblance to his own.
The horror stricken knight essayed to speak,But words responded tremulous and weak,And mustering his dissipated strength,A sitting posture he assumed at length,—"Whate'er thou art, thou harbinger of gloom,Thou fiend or ghoul, fresh from the new made tomb,Thou vampire, diabolical and fell,Thou stygian shade or denizen of hell,I charge thee, thing of evil, to confessWhy thou hast thus disturbed my sore distress.Why hast thou burst my chamber's bolted doorWhere guest unbidden never trod before?Break this suspense, so horrible and still!Declare thy tidings, be they good or ill,Be thou from Heaven or from the realms below.I charge thee speak, be thou a friend or foe;Break thou thy silence, ominous and deep,Or hence! Pursue thy way and let me sleep!"
The grizzly spectre, still more ghastly grown,Surveyed with visage obdurate as stone,Then smiled with grimace of derisive craft,And in a most repugnant manner, laughed,But all the knight discerned with eye and ear,Was his own maudlin laugh and drunken leer."Breathe thou thy message," shrieked the frantic knight"Discharge thy purpose, though it blast and blight,I charge thee, speak, by all that is most fair.By all most foul, I charge thee to declare;By my bright armor and my trusty sword;I charge thee, speak, by Holy Rood and Word!"He sank exhausted, in such pallid frightThe snowy sheets looked dark beside such white.The spectre paused in silence for awhile,Then broke into a most repulsive smile,And answered in a weird and hollow tone,Enough to freeze the marrow in the bone:"I am thy blasted spirit's counterpart,A body fit for thy most evil heart,I am thy life, its psychic image sentTo bear thee company, till thou repent."
'Tis said, for forty days the spectre stayed.For forty days the knight incessant prayed;With scourge, with vigil and ascetic rite,With fast, with groan remorseful and contrite,He cleansed his blackened spirit by degrees,And purified it from its vanities;And as he prayed, the spectre's gruesome scowlGrew day by day less hideous and foul,As he waxed holy, it became more bright;And after forty days, arrayed in whiteIt spread its spotless arms, devoid of taintAbove this erstwhile knight and henceforth saintIn benediction, as he knelt in prayer,—Then vanished instantly to empty air.
Such is the tale, embellished by the Muse,'Tis true or false, believe it as you choose;Some folks accept the story out and out,While some prefer to entertain a doubt.But if it be fictitious and unreal,'Tis not subscribed and sworn, and bears no seal;It points a moral, as the legend old,If it conveys it, 'twas not vainly told,For should I such an apparition see—I think t'would almost make a monk of me.