Alone! God saw His creature man,Deprived of great felicity,And changed the order of His planThat earth in harmony might beWith all the products of the spheres,Which move in such perfect accord,That through aeons of passing yearsThey but proclaim a perfect Lord.The earth was fair and fresh and young,The stars hung in a cloudless sky,Sweet perfumes on the air were flungFrom every breeze went laughing by;The brook and bird in wanton glee,Attuned their notes in such refrainThat earth was full of minstrelsy,And heaven re-echoed it again.God's image, man, heard not the strain,No beauty charmed his listless eye,Earth spread her treasures but in vain,In vain shone the bejeweled sky;Earth gave no food for hungryheart,No solace-cup from which to sip,Defective seemed Nature and Art,Tosoulrobbed ofcompanionship.A "help meet" then to man was given,Tosootheandcheerhis lonely way;Eve was an afterthought of HeavenThat crowned the last creation-day.Create anew, Almighty Power,A "help meet" for the desolate,Let no wild sophistry devourThe solace Thou didst last create.
Alone! God saw His creature man,Deprived of great felicity,And changed the order of His planThat earth in harmony might beWith all the products of the spheres,Which move in such perfect accord,That through aeons of passing yearsThey but proclaim a perfect Lord.
The earth was fair and fresh and young,The stars hung in a cloudless sky,Sweet perfumes on the air were flungFrom every breeze went laughing by;The brook and bird in wanton glee,Attuned their notes in such refrainThat earth was full of minstrelsy,And heaven re-echoed it again.
God's image, man, heard not the strain,No beauty charmed his listless eye,Earth spread her treasures but in vain,In vain shone the bejeweled sky;Earth gave no food for hungryheart,No solace-cup from which to sip,Defective seemed Nature and Art,Tosoulrobbed ofcompanionship.
A "help meet" then to man was given,Tosootheandcheerhis lonely way;Eve was an afterthought of HeavenThat crowned the last creation-day.Create anew, Almighty Power,A "help meet" for the desolate,Let no wild sophistry devourThe solace Thou didst last create.
[Written after reading Shakespeare's sonnet commencing, "Love is not Love which alters when it alterations finds."]
Love is a sort of cannibalAnd lives upon its kind,It dares all dangers, fears no foesAnd to the world is blind,While faithful heart unswerving beats,Or pines in forced retreat;It deems all tortures fate may sendAre perfumed with the sweetAroma of implicit faith,Born of a kindred soulThat to the outer things of lifeSpurns puny hate's control.Love, undeceived, is perfect blissWhen trust reciprocatesThe purest, sweetest touch that HeavenWithin the soul creates;But fierce Vesuvius cannot burnWith such destructive flame,As fires Love's victim of deceitStung by the taunts that claimNo truthful fountain as their source,No mild-voiced Justice to allayThe cauldron of defenseless fraudDistilled through treachery.Love that dissembles is not love,But a subtle treachery,—A siren with a charming voiceThat sounds o'er a mirror sea,—A beacon light set to allureFrom a harbor safe and calm,—A soothing drug whose deadly powerYields to no proffered balm,—A smiling face with winsome glowBut poisonous, blasting breath,That breathes upon its victim, draughtsOf sorrow, tears, and death.Love that would gain a masteryTo wield for pelf or power,Is not a love born clean and pureO'er which no evils lower,But like a miasmatic climeThat yields delicious fruit,It hides the venom it distills,And seeks its sole reputeIn outward show and pageantry,Wherein are deep concealedThe poisoned arrows plumed for death,It would not have revealed.Unselfish love is but a sparkOf God's own spirit dropped from Heaven,The richest boon, the sweetest joy,That unto mortals God hath given;Within itself it hath a powerTo lift the soul on joyous wings,Attune the heart to harmonies,And softly touch the tensioned stringsThat vibrate in such unisonWith other strings so like its own,That not a discord may be heardIn cadence, blend, or tone.
Love is a sort of cannibalAnd lives upon its kind,It dares all dangers, fears no foesAnd to the world is blind,While faithful heart unswerving beats,Or pines in forced retreat;It deems all tortures fate may sendAre perfumed with the sweetAroma of implicit faith,Born of a kindred soulThat to the outer things of lifeSpurns puny hate's control.
Love, undeceived, is perfect blissWhen trust reciprocatesThe purest, sweetest touch that HeavenWithin the soul creates;But fierce Vesuvius cannot burnWith such destructive flame,As fires Love's victim of deceitStung by the taunts that claimNo truthful fountain as their source,No mild-voiced Justice to allayThe cauldron of defenseless fraudDistilled through treachery.
Love that dissembles is not love,But a subtle treachery,—A siren with a charming voiceThat sounds o'er a mirror sea,—A beacon light set to allureFrom a harbor safe and calm,—A soothing drug whose deadly powerYields to no proffered balm,—A smiling face with winsome glowBut poisonous, blasting breath,That breathes upon its victim, draughtsOf sorrow, tears, and death.
Love that would gain a masteryTo wield for pelf or power,Is not a love born clean and pureO'er which no evils lower,But like a miasmatic climeThat yields delicious fruit,It hides the venom it distills,And seeks its sole reputeIn outward show and pageantry,Wherein are deep concealedThe poisoned arrows plumed for death,It would not have revealed.
Unselfish love is but a sparkOf God's own spirit dropped from Heaven,The richest boon, the sweetest joy,That unto mortals God hath given;Within itself it hath a powerTo lift the soul on joyous wings,Attune the heart to harmonies,And softly touch the tensioned stringsThat vibrate in such unisonWith other strings so like its own,That not a discord may be heardIn cadence, blend, or tone.
As a cricket sang his song to meOn a late September eve,The tone had a sadness in it,That over my spirit did weaveA spell of gloom, at the requiemHe sang in his solitude,For the dying year, th' fading leaf,And flowers by frost subdued.
As a cricket sang his song to meOn a late September eve,The tone had a sadness in it,That over my spirit did weaveA spell of gloom, at the requiemHe sang in his solitude,For the dying year, th' fading leaf,And flowers by frost subdued.
If aught on earth my soul can fire,'Tis the deception of a liarWho with soft smoothness of the tongue,Has promises and pledges strungTo suit all needs that come to hand,To serve the purpose Satan planned.Satan himself, I think, would shunThe presence of that artful one,Who violates truth's sacred laws,Regardless of the end or cause,But deems it strategy to liveFor the sole purpose to deceive.If hell has any corner whereVile culprits may be doomed to shareThe merits they richly deserve,It should be held in strict reserveFor them whose flattery and artAre used to kill a trusting heart.Let me abhor, loathe, and despiseThe author of those fiendish lies,Who would for pleasure, greed, or power,The confidence of youth devour,And blight the soul with foul distrust,Or trample honor in the dust.No sting of pain can e'er atone,No purging fire was ever knownFor cleansing of a heart defiledBy falsehood; though it may be styledIn diction, affability,It poisons like the upas tree.Beware the tongue that will deceive,At last 'twill cause your soul to grieveThough smooth its accents now may be,Its motive power is treachery,Its fruits are laden with disease,Although its tones may often please.Dissimulation's oily tongueWill grace Simplicity, amongHer unsuspecting, trustful throng,That he may do her greater wrong,And covertly defile the pure,Some envied purpose to secure.
If aught on earth my soul can fire,'Tis the deception of a liarWho with soft smoothness of the tongue,Has promises and pledges strungTo suit all needs that come to hand,To serve the purpose Satan planned.
Satan himself, I think, would shunThe presence of that artful one,Who violates truth's sacred laws,Regardless of the end or cause,But deems it strategy to liveFor the sole purpose to deceive.
If hell has any corner whereVile culprits may be doomed to shareThe merits they richly deserve,It should be held in strict reserveFor them whose flattery and artAre used to kill a trusting heart.
Let me abhor, loathe, and despiseThe author of those fiendish lies,Who would for pleasure, greed, or power,The confidence of youth devour,And blight the soul with foul distrust,Or trample honor in the dust.
No sting of pain can e'er atone,No purging fire was ever knownFor cleansing of a heart defiledBy falsehood; though it may be styledIn diction, affability,It poisons like the upas tree.
Beware the tongue that will deceive,At last 'twill cause your soul to grieveThough smooth its accents now may be,Its motive power is treachery,Its fruits are laden with disease,Although its tones may often please.
Dissimulation's oily tongueWill grace Simplicity, amongHer unsuspecting, trustful throng,That he may do her greater wrong,And covertly defile the pure,Some envied purpose to secure.
The tiny trembling tendonsThat twine about the heart,Are chords that yield a musicUnknown to vocal art.Though soft the notes are sounded,Each vibration tells a taleOf the mellow, winsome sunshine,Or of fierce, destructive gale.Though the strings be few in number,They have compass far beyondThe myriad chords around them,That are less delicately tuned.List we softly to the musicAs its volumes gently roll,Varied in their intonationBy the tension of the soul.Ecstatic measures fill usWith a rapture so profound,That we fancy heaven's portalsWith such harmonies abound.Each note is rich in meaning,Each tone is full and clearTo the charming sweet delusionOf imagination's ear.If you would hear this musicAnd be charmed by its tone,Attune your heart to harmony,For the music is its own.No lessons conned in schooldays,No studied forms of art,Can profit us so greatlyAs communion with our heart.It will sing us songs of rapture,Though silent each may be;It will help to solve the questionsOf life's great mystery.If one would hear sweet harmonyHe carefully must live;For these songs will be an echoOf the keynote he shall give.If heartstrings be but tuned arightSweet melodies we hear;If strung with envy and deceit,The tone is doleful, drear.Then let us tune our hearts with joy,And touch the strings with glee,For honor, truth, and purity,Will bring soul-ecstasy.
The tiny trembling tendonsThat twine about the heart,Are chords that yield a musicUnknown to vocal art.
Though soft the notes are sounded,Each vibration tells a taleOf the mellow, winsome sunshine,Or of fierce, destructive gale.
Though the strings be few in number,They have compass far beyondThe myriad chords around them,That are less delicately tuned.
List we softly to the musicAs its volumes gently roll,Varied in their intonationBy the tension of the soul.
Ecstatic measures fill usWith a rapture so profound,That we fancy heaven's portalsWith such harmonies abound.
Each note is rich in meaning,Each tone is full and clearTo the charming sweet delusionOf imagination's ear.
If you would hear this musicAnd be charmed by its tone,Attune your heart to harmony,For the music is its own.
No lessons conned in schooldays,No studied forms of art,Can profit us so greatlyAs communion with our heart.
It will sing us songs of rapture,Though silent each may be;It will help to solve the questionsOf life's great mystery.
If one would hear sweet harmonyHe carefully must live;For these songs will be an echoOf the keynote he shall give.
If heartstrings be but tuned arightSweet melodies we hear;If strung with envy and deceit,The tone is doleful, drear.
Then let us tune our hearts with joy,And touch the strings with glee,For honor, truth, and purity,Will bring soul-ecstasy.
It matters not what be our lotUpon this mundane sphere,In spite of fears and burning tearsWhile we shall lingerhere,We must depend on foe or friendFor many things we needTo give the soul that full controlWhich makes it strong indeed.For noble end, make him a friendWho can reciprocate,A kindly act, not to it tackedThe proof of reprobate.God only knows whom we may chooseAnd safely trust as brother,The seeming saint may have a taintThat proves him quite another.In human dust we scarcely trustThe egotistic pious,Who thinks that he from sin is free—Not subject to its bias;A holy man does all he canFor God and human kind;He meekly lives, but counsel givesIn language pure, refined.
It matters not what be our lotUpon this mundane sphere,In spite of fears and burning tearsWhile we shall lingerhere,We must depend on foe or friendFor many things we needTo give the soul that full controlWhich makes it strong indeed.
For noble end, make him a friendWho can reciprocate,A kindly act, not to it tackedThe proof of reprobate.God only knows whom we may chooseAnd safely trust as brother,The seeming saint may have a taintThat proves him quite another.
In human dust we scarcely trustThe egotistic pious,Who thinks that he from sin is free—Not subject to its bias;A holy man does all he canFor God and human kind;He meekly lives, but counsel givesIn language pure, refined.
[Set to Music byCom. T. C. Adams.]
I love to spend the twilight hourWhen stars their radiance o'er me cast,With that benign mysterious powerWhich calls up mem'ries of the past,And brings anew the scenes of yore,Like sacred perfume from some shrineWhose hallowed influence ever moreProves life and love of birth divine.Sweet twilight hour! sweet twilight hour!How blissful is thy magic power,At thy return new strength is givenTo lead me to the gates of heaven.I love at such an hour as thisTo hold sweet converse with my soul,Anticipate a promised bliss,Or memory's charmed page unroll;To feel life's not alone for me,But has some aim, some end, some plan,Which to the soul gives dignity,And leads toward heaven a fellow man.I love at twilight hour to seeThe lamps of heaven in glory shineWith beacon-light effulgency,To guide me to that land divine,Where dwell the loved of former years,And where no sorrow e'er may come,Where God shall wipe away all tears,And I shall find abiding home.Oh, twilight hour, how sweet thou art!Thy coming oft relieves my pain,Thy soft communings with my heartPrepare me for life's toils again;Drive thou away my sordid thought,And give my soul augmented power;Teach me to use thee as I ought,Thou holy, blessed twilight hour.
I love to spend the twilight hourWhen stars their radiance o'er me cast,With that benign mysterious powerWhich calls up mem'ries of the past,And brings anew the scenes of yore,Like sacred perfume from some shrineWhose hallowed influence ever moreProves life and love of birth divine.Sweet twilight hour! sweet twilight hour!How blissful is thy magic power,At thy return new strength is givenTo lead me to the gates of heaven.
I love at such an hour as thisTo hold sweet converse with my soul,Anticipate a promised bliss,Or memory's charmed page unroll;To feel life's not alone for me,But has some aim, some end, some plan,Which to the soul gives dignity,And leads toward heaven a fellow man.
I love at twilight hour to seeThe lamps of heaven in glory shineWith beacon-light effulgency,To guide me to that land divine,Where dwell the loved of former years,And where no sorrow e'er may come,Where God shall wipe away all tears,And I shall find abiding home.
Oh, twilight hour, how sweet thou art!Thy coming oft relieves my pain,Thy soft communings with my heartPrepare me for life's toils again;Drive thou away my sordid thought,And give my soul augmented power;Teach me to use thee as I ought,Thou holy, blessed twilight hour.
Let us not lose the heritageOur fathers did bequeathTo sons whose grasp should hold secureThe prize, till hour of deathShall still the heart, and loose the nerveWhose tension holds secureThe magic love of LibertyAnd Justice, strong and pure.
Let us not lose the heritageOur fathers did bequeathTo sons whose grasp should hold secureThe prize, till hour of deathShall still the heart, and loose the nerveWhose tension holds secureThe magic love of LibertyAnd Justice, strong and pure.
Since the days of primal storyOf Eden's happy pair,A woman's greatest gloryIs her glossy flowing hair;It is a safe criterionBy which to judge her life,To ascertain, if duly won,She'd prove a worthy wife.Its color and arrangement,Its sunshine and its stormPrefigure an estrangement,Or friendship true and warm.We dearly love the sunshineOf locks with golden hue,That bear this blessed combine—Kind, tender, warm, and true.We read volumes of characterIn every lock of hair;The life, the mind, the heart's preferAre plainly written there;No printed index could portrayThe soul's environment,So plainly and so perfectlyAs capillary bent.Beware the frouzy, unkempt lockThat speaks of negligence;Regardcosmetic'sfancy stockOf little consequence;Trust only such as speak of tasteBorn of a cultured mind,Whose purposes are pure and chasteWhose structure, soft, refined.
Since the days of primal storyOf Eden's happy pair,A woman's greatest gloryIs her glossy flowing hair;It is a safe criterionBy which to judge her life,To ascertain, if duly won,She'd prove a worthy wife.
Its color and arrangement,Its sunshine and its stormPrefigure an estrangement,Or friendship true and warm.We dearly love the sunshineOf locks with golden hue,That bear this blessed combine—Kind, tender, warm, and true.
We read volumes of characterIn every lock of hair;The life, the mind, the heart's preferAre plainly written there;No printed index could portrayThe soul's environment,So plainly and so perfectlyAs capillary bent.
Beware the frouzy, unkempt lockThat speaks of negligence;Regardcosmetic'sfancy stockOf little consequence;Trust only such as speak of tasteBorn of a cultured mind,Whose purposes are pure and chasteWhose structure, soft, refined.
A thoughtful mind may lessons drawFrom faded leaf or broken straw;May beauty see in some lone starThat cheers the storm-tossed mariner;May note in solitude some soundWherein soft harmonies abound;May hear no voice from human lip;Yet dwell in blest companionship.
A thoughtful mind may lessons drawFrom faded leaf or broken straw;May beauty see in some lone starThat cheers the storm-tossed mariner;May note in solitude some soundWherein soft harmonies abound;May hear no voice from human lip;Yet dwell in blest companionship.
Into the port where Liberty standsInviting the nations to woo her,Malefactors swarm from foreign lands,Whose tenets would surely undo her.Criminals, paupers, the ostracisedFrom all countries beyond the great sea,Flock into the land our fathers prized,And baptized "The Sweet Land of the Free."They come not to build a hearth and home,Or to clear and improve our rich soil,But prowl like wolves that in forest roam,And prey on fruits of our honest toil.Long were our shores a refuge secure,For the honest, the brave, and the true;With valor and pride, men would endureThe trials that for State might accrue.Men there are yet, who come to our shore,In honor high, of great moral powers,Whose hands give strength to homes we adore,And whose hearts are as loyal as ours.For these there is room and welcome, too,For there's land quite enough and to spare,But we pray that all the vicious crewTo their homes o'er the sea may repair.Shall we quarantine disease and death,Whose subtle infections float in the air,And grant free power to the pois'nous breathThat would strangle our Liberty fair?Sons of the Nation, arise in might!And then swear by the God we adore,This vicious crowd shall be put to flight,And forever debarred from our shore.Freedom and Liberty need our care,If from wounds we would e'er keep them free,For a frenzied brain would even dareTo destroy through base treachery.Long live the land unto freedom given,And forever may Liberty stand,With beacon flame from the throne of heaven,And a symbol of Light in her hand.When stars shall fade from the dome of heaven,And sun shall refuse his golden light;When noon of Time shall be changed to even,And earth shall be lost to human sight;When crash of worlds and revolving spheresShall lose in chaos, identity;And Time shall be measured not by years,But on shall roll through eternity;Then Liberty's form may sink in dust;But loyal sons shall transported beFrom the mundane scenes of moth and rust,To the perfect home of Liberty.I ween that when such an hour as this,Shall marshal friends who have fought and diedFor the sacred cause of earthly bliss,And Freedom's cause have so magnified,There shall be a special crown for himWho has stood undaunted in the fight;But the brightest star in the diademIs steadfast love for the Truth and Right.
Into the port where Liberty standsInviting the nations to woo her,Malefactors swarm from foreign lands,Whose tenets would surely undo her.
Criminals, paupers, the ostracisedFrom all countries beyond the great sea,Flock into the land our fathers prized,And baptized "The Sweet Land of the Free."
They come not to build a hearth and home,Or to clear and improve our rich soil,But prowl like wolves that in forest roam,And prey on fruits of our honest toil.
Long were our shores a refuge secure,For the honest, the brave, and the true;With valor and pride, men would endureThe trials that for State might accrue.
Men there are yet, who come to our shore,In honor high, of great moral powers,Whose hands give strength to homes we adore,And whose hearts are as loyal as ours.
For these there is room and welcome, too,For there's land quite enough and to spare,But we pray that all the vicious crewTo their homes o'er the sea may repair.
Shall we quarantine disease and death,Whose subtle infections float in the air,And grant free power to the pois'nous breathThat would strangle our Liberty fair?
Sons of the Nation, arise in might!And then swear by the God we adore,This vicious crowd shall be put to flight,And forever debarred from our shore.
Freedom and Liberty need our care,If from wounds we would e'er keep them free,For a frenzied brain would even dareTo destroy through base treachery.
Long live the land unto freedom given,And forever may Liberty stand,With beacon flame from the throne of heaven,And a symbol of Light in her hand.
When stars shall fade from the dome of heaven,And sun shall refuse his golden light;When noon of Time shall be changed to even,And earth shall be lost to human sight;
When crash of worlds and revolving spheresShall lose in chaos, identity;And Time shall be measured not by years,But on shall roll through eternity;
Then Liberty's form may sink in dust;But loyal sons shall transported beFrom the mundane scenes of moth and rust,To the perfect home of Liberty.
I ween that when such an hour as this,Shall marshal friends who have fought and diedFor the sacred cause of earthly bliss,And Freedom's cause have so magnified,
There shall be a special crown for himWho has stood undaunted in the fight;But the brightest star in the diademIs steadfast love for the Truth and Right.
The Bison strong and the Indian wildHave departed from our plains;The land where they lived has been defiledBy man's greed for worldly gains.The human tide that on them has rolledIn merciless energy,In search of that dazzling monarch Gold,Swept on like a mighty sea,Till their prostrate forms, mingled with clay,Enrich the soil once their own;And naught but waters shrink in dismay,And winds in wild sorrow moan.O, beautiful lakes and silver streams,May your names their mem'ry keep;Dear mountains, wake from your silent dreams,When your sides so wild and steep,Shall hear your names in the Indian tongue;And echoes, reverberateThe mellow tones of the songs once sung,At the hunter's evening fete.
The Bison strong and the Indian wildHave departed from our plains;The land where they lived has been defiledBy man's greed for worldly gains.
The human tide that on them has rolledIn merciless energy,In search of that dazzling monarch Gold,Swept on like a mighty sea,
Till their prostrate forms, mingled with clay,Enrich the soil once their own;And naught but waters shrink in dismay,And winds in wild sorrow moan.
O, beautiful lakes and silver streams,May your names their mem'ry keep;Dear mountains, wake from your silent dreams,When your sides so wild and steep,
Shall hear your names in the Indian tongue;And echoes, reverberateThe mellow tones of the songs once sung,At the hunter's evening fete.
How softly, how still, are we drifting away,On the wide Sea of Life as it beckons us on,Though the sunshine allure us 'tis but for a day,Then darkness comes o'er us and hopes are all gone.We are drifting away in a bark that is frail,On a sea sometimes rough and whose waves often moan,Yet when all is peaceful we think not of gale,But are drifting away in our bark all alone.So softly we float on a smooth flowing sea,That our helm and our anchors are cast to the shore,We think them a burden and wish to be free,From every encumbrance that can serve us no more.We are drifting away with our hopes and our fears,To an ocean of life unknown to us now;We see a bright vision—though veiled by our tears,It appears like refulgence to lighten the brow.Too slowly our bark seems to drift toward the prize,We in ecstasy wish it to speed faster on;But while we are wishing, a mist dims our eyes,And lo! that bright vision has vanished and gone.A gloom of thick darkness now spreads like a pall,The winds of the tempest arise in their force,And amid their wild shriekings for succor we callOn Him who reigns o'er us, to mark out our course.We plead for protection from ruin and pain,Repiningly think of our anchor and helm,And could we secure those lost prizes again,No tempest could shake us, no wave could o'erwhelm.But swiftly we're drifting, we cannot tell where,The current moves onward regardless of gloom,We raise our weak voices and utter a prayerThat God in His mercy is drifting us home.
How softly, how still, are we drifting away,On the wide Sea of Life as it beckons us on,Though the sunshine allure us 'tis but for a day,Then darkness comes o'er us and hopes are all gone.
We are drifting away in a bark that is frail,On a sea sometimes rough and whose waves often moan,Yet when all is peaceful we think not of gale,But are drifting away in our bark all alone.
So softly we float on a smooth flowing sea,That our helm and our anchors are cast to the shore,We think them a burden and wish to be free,From every encumbrance that can serve us no more.
We are drifting away with our hopes and our fears,To an ocean of life unknown to us now;We see a bright vision—though veiled by our tears,It appears like refulgence to lighten the brow.
Too slowly our bark seems to drift toward the prize,We in ecstasy wish it to speed faster on;But while we are wishing, a mist dims our eyes,And lo! that bright vision has vanished and gone.
A gloom of thick darkness now spreads like a pall,The winds of the tempest arise in their force,And amid their wild shriekings for succor we callOn Him who reigns o'er us, to mark out our course.
We plead for protection from ruin and pain,Repiningly think of our anchor and helm,And could we secure those lost prizes again,No tempest could shake us, no wave could o'erwhelm.
But swiftly we're drifting, we cannot tell where,The current moves onward regardless of gloom,We raise our weak voices and utter a prayerThat God in His mercy is drifting us home.
The silver stream by the farmhouse doorFlows on and on forever,But the feet that trod its oaken floorHave crossed the mystic river,And no wind kissed by a vernal sunCan return them e'er again;Their earthly pilgrimage is done,They dwell in a new domain.
The silver stream by the farmhouse doorFlows on and on forever,But the feet that trod its oaken floorHave crossed the mystic river,And no wind kissed by a vernal sunCan return them e'er again;Their earthly pilgrimage is done,They dwell in a new domain.
Oh, give me some heart of a kindred spiritThat smiles when I smile, or that weeps when I weep,Whose solace is greater by far to inheritThan the wealth of the mines or the gems of the deep.Some heart that will echo response to my feeling,That thrills with delight when I speak of my joy;That sorrows with sorrow too deep for concealing,When cankering griefs make my own heart's alloy.Some heart that appreciates each little kindness,That knows all my feelings, tho' oft unexpressed,That sees not my faults with a passionate blindness,But clings to my soul when 'tis sorely distressed.Some heart whose affection can never be blighted,That beats all in concert with that of my own,That revels in pleasures with which I'm delighted,And grieves at the sorrows which cause me to moan.Some heart that can never be swerved from its mooring,Though tempests may thunder and billows may roar,That espouses my fate in spite of such roaring,And when trials are sorest will trust even more.My heart would exult to find such a treasure,And return ev'ry throb in fidelity's pride,Would suffer if need be, and call it but pleasureTo live or to die for a heart so allied.No frown of the world could e'er cause me to trembleWhile trusting my all in a heart such as this,Too fond to deceive me; too true to dissemble—'Twere a foretaste of Heaven, the acme of bliss.Can it be, can it be, the world is so varied,Human hearts never beat on chords that are even!Is versatile man so odd, or so searedThat perfect accord is known but in Heaven!My heart shall rejoice that some kindred vibrationsSoothe the devious marge of the pathway of fate,And gathering strength through many privationsShall learn in contentment to patiently wait.
Oh, give me some heart of a kindred spiritThat smiles when I smile, or that weeps when I weep,Whose solace is greater by far to inheritThan the wealth of the mines or the gems of the deep.
Some heart that will echo response to my feeling,That thrills with delight when I speak of my joy;That sorrows with sorrow too deep for concealing,When cankering griefs make my own heart's alloy.
Some heart that appreciates each little kindness,That knows all my feelings, tho' oft unexpressed,That sees not my faults with a passionate blindness,But clings to my soul when 'tis sorely distressed.
Some heart whose affection can never be blighted,That beats all in concert with that of my own,That revels in pleasures with which I'm delighted,And grieves at the sorrows which cause me to moan.
Some heart that can never be swerved from its mooring,Though tempests may thunder and billows may roar,That espouses my fate in spite of such roaring,And when trials are sorest will trust even more.
My heart would exult to find such a treasure,And return ev'ry throb in fidelity's pride,Would suffer if need be, and call it but pleasureTo live or to die for a heart so allied.
No frown of the world could e'er cause me to trembleWhile trusting my all in a heart such as this,Too fond to deceive me; too true to dissemble—'Twere a foretaste of Heaven, the acme of bliss.
Can it be, can it be, the world is so varied,Human hearts never beat on chords that are even!Is versatile man so odd, or so searedThat perfect accord is known but in Heaven!
My heart shall rejoice that some kindred vibrationsSoothe the devious marge of the pathway of fate,And gathering strength through many privationsShall learn in contentment to patiently wait.
To sit an hour on lichened stone,Or mould'ring log by moss o'ergrown,And use our ears and eyes,Will teach us the effect and causeOf many of great Nature's lawsThat now are mysteries.
To sit an hour on lichened stone,Or mould'ring log by moss o'ergrown,And use our ears and eyes,Will teach us the effect and causeOf many of great Nature's lawsThat now are mysteries.
Can we e'er forget our boyhood,And the days we spent at school,With the jolly youths and maidensWho with pencil for a tool,Squared the area of a circle,And minutely did computeThe interest and discountOn a promissory note?As we worked those "grazing" questions,We could see the cattle eat;See the grass grow up by inchesBeneath their cloven feet;We could surely hear a lowingThat distinctly called our names,Inviting us to pasturesTo enjoy our childish games.If the day were warm and pleasant,The calling seemed more clearThan when chilly winds were sighing,And the clouds were dark and drear;It was no imagination,For a schoolboy's mind is real,Though we heard that calling oftenWe answered it with zeal.Then we worked like real bankersAnd claimed "three days of grace;"Then we figured "hare and greyhound"In their leaping, jaunty race;We desired an illustrationOf the problems to be solved,As no concrete computationFrom the abstract e'er evolved.We solved the size of fishes,When some fraction and a partWere all the given basesTo test our "number" art,But we never were contentedWith the fishes in the book,So we strolled off to the lakeside,Or down the purling brook.Then we had some given acresIn the form of perfect square,And a fence around its borderWith a circle must compare,Which would cost the greater moneyTo fence it in with rails,Or build with posts and stringers,Sawed lumber, and cut nails.Then we worked upon that problemWhich has never yet been solved,How to live and be contentedIn the scenes life has evolved,Though in every operationMuch must be inferred,We will find this root's extractionWill often prove a surd.As life's day of sunshine lingers,Ere the darkness draws apace,'Tis a blessed satisfactionTo look backward o'er the race,And feel that in the running,Our best was ever done,And know that at the ending,Some trophy must be won.Though the eye may lose its clearnessAnd the touch may lose its thrill,Though the senses fail to gatherAll the promptings of the will,May the mind retain its powerTo recall the days of yore,Till the spirit casts its anchorOn that far-off unseen shore.When on that shore safe landed,It seems to be quite plainThat the greatest satisfactionWill be to think of youth again;There must be a great transitionFrom this mundane sphere below,If the thoughts of early boyhoodMay not set all heaven aglow.
Can we e'er forget our boyhood,And the days we spent at school,With the jolly youths and maidensWho with pencil for a tool,Squared the area of a circle,And minutely did computeThe interest and discountOn a promissory note?
As we worked those "grazing" questions,We could see the cattle eat;See the grass grow up by inchesBeneath their cloven feet;We could surely hear a lowingThat distinctly called our names,Inviting us to pasturesTo enjoy our childish games.
If the day were warm and pleasant,The calling seemed more clearThan when chilly winds were sighing,And the clouds were dark and drear;It was no imagination,For a schoolboy's mind is real,Though we heard that calling oftenWe answered it with zeal.
Then we worked like real bankersAnd claimed "three days of grace;"Then we figured "hare and greyhound"In their leaping, jaunty race;We desired an illustrationOf the problems to be solved,As no concrete computationFrom the abstract e'er evolved.
We solved the size of fishes,When some fraction and a partWere all the given basesTo test our "number" art,But we never were contentedWith the fishes in the book,So we strolled off to the lakeside,Or down the purling brook.
Then we had some given acresIn the form of perfect square,And a fence around its borderWith a circle must compare,Which would cost the greater moneyTo fence it in with rails,Or build with posts and stringers,Sawed lumber, and cut nails.
Then we worked upon that problemWhich has never yet been solved,How to live and be contentedIn the scenes life has evolved,Though in every operationMuch must be inferred,We will find this root's extractionWill often prove a surd.
As life's day of sunshine lingers,Ere the darkness draws apace,'Tis a blessed satisfactionTo look backward o'er the race,And feel that in the running,Our best was ever done,And know that at the ending,Some trophy must be won.
Though the eye may lose its clearnessAnd the touch may lose its thrill,Though the senses fail to gatherAll the promptings of the will,May the mind retain its powerTo recall the days of yore,Till the spirit casts its anchorOn that far-off unseen shore.
When on that shore safe landed,It seems to be quite plainThat the greatest satisfactionWill be to think of youth again;There must be a great transitionFrom this mundane sphere below,If the thoughts of early boyhoodMay not set all heaven aglow.
Perhaps had I chosen some other professionThan that of moulding the human mind,I might have secured a greater possessionOf lucre and treasures and powers combined,Than all I may now of these truly own;But I have in my casket some jewels I treasureFar more than all stocks and houses and lands,In gold and silver their worth has no measure,For none may compute warm hearts and true hands,When the shadows of years are over us thrown.
Perhaps had I chosen some other professionThan that of moulding the human mind,I might have secured a greater possessionOf lucre and treasures and powers combined,Than all I may now of these truly own;But I have in my casket some jewels I treasureFar more than all stocks and houses and lands,In gold and silver their worth has no measure,For none may compute warm hearts and true hands,When the shadows of years are over us thrown.
There are two kinds of discontent—Malignant, and progressive,—The latter is the proper sort,Of it, be quite possessive.The former, born of parentageWhose motive powers are evil,Serves but one purpose here below—To aid its father—Devil.
There are two kinds of discontent—Malignant, and progressive,—The latter is the proper sort,Of it, be quite possessive.The former, born of parentageWhose motive powers are evil,Serves but one purpose here below—To aid its father—Devil.
There are times when the fate of nationsMay hang on a moment's call;When spheres in their mute rotationsMay swing on a hinge so small,That the breath of a spirit's pinionMight unpoise a balanced world,And lost to law's dominionThrough endless space be hurled.There are times when the herdsman's callingMay vibrate thro' alpine ranchTill the pendent drop, by its falling,Sweeps down in an avalanche,Till the mountain trembles and totters'Neath the mighty force of snow,And the lives and homes of the cottersAre lost in the vale below.There are times when the mind's inactionHas robbed the soul of power,When moments of deep reflectionArrive at so late an hourThat they lose the force of their missionIn the laggard way they come,And like withered buds of fruition,Are lifeless, powerless, dumb.There are words that have been spokenThat have echoed on thro' years;Though the vessel has been brokenThat voiced them to our ears,Yet they come with increased ardorAs the years are passing by,Since the soul stood on the borderOf vast eternity.There are scenes that ever mirrorTheir forms in thought divine,That with lapse of time grow dearerTill we hold them as some shrine,Wherein are kept the treasuresOf Faith and Trust and Love—A trio fraught with pleasuresDrawn from the realms above.There are hours upon whose decisionThe fate of a soul may be;Though clouds may obscure the visionAnd we pray for a light to seeThe way that shall lead to heaven,And keep our pathway bright,We can use but the knowledge givenAnd walk in our purest light.Let us scan each hour's requisitionAnd answer every demand,Knowing that want of decisionIs a foe we cannot withstand;If we shrink from performing our duty,Or tardily fashion our thought,Life loses its charm and its beautyAnd existence profits us naught.
There are times when the fate of nationsMay hang on a moment's call;When spheres in their mute rotationsMay swing on a hinge so small,That the breath of a spirit's pinionMight unpoise a balanced world,And lost to law's dominionThrough endless space be hurled.
There are times when the herdsman's callingMay vibrate thro' alpine ranchTill the pendent drop, by its falling,Sweeps down in an avalanche,Till the mountain trembles and totters'Neath the mighty force of snow,And the lives and homes of the cottersAre lost in the vale below.
There are times when the mind's inactionHas robbed the soul of power,When moments of deep reflectionArrive at so late an hourThat they lose the force of their missionIn the laggard way they come,And like withered buds of fruition,Are lifeless, powerless, dumb.
There are words that have been spokenThat have echoed on thro' years;Though the vessel has been brokenThat voiced them to our ears,Yet they come with increased ardorAs the years are passing by,Since the soul stood on the borderOf vast eternity.
There are scenes that ever mirrorTheir forms in thought divine,That with lapse of time grow dearerTill we hold them as some shrine,Wherein are kept the treasuresOf Faith and Trust and Love—A trio fraught with pleasuresDrawn from the realms above.
There are hours upon whose decisionThe fate of a soul may be;Though clouds may obscure the visionAnd we pray for a light to seeThe way that shall lead to heaven,And keep our pathway bright,We can use but the knowledge givenAnd walk in our purest light.
Let us scan each hour's requisitionAnd answer every demand,Knowing that want of decisionIs a foe we cannot withstand;If we shrink from performing our duty,Or tardily fashion our thought,Life loses its charm and its beautyAnd existence profits us naught.
We know that like all humanOur work is imperfect at best,And will bristle with imperfectionsTill our hands shall be at rest;But to justify our blundersOr pass them lightly o'er,Is the fatal way of invitingA thousand errors more.
We know that like all humanOur work is imperfect at best,And will bristle with imperfectionsTill our hands shall be at rest;But to justify our blundersOr pass them lightly o'er,Is the fatal way of invitingA thousand errors more.
We know not all that we have done,Nor may we ever know;No field was ever lost or won,Until the final blowHas registered itself in Heaven,And every impulse known,That tells a reason why 'twas given,To Him upon the Throne.Then let us boast not of our deeds,Nor let our true hearts fail,Because we think some plan succeedsWhile others ne'er prevail;For he who works as best he canWith lofty, pure intent,Will not be judged by puny man,But God Omnipotent.
We know not all that we have done,Nor may we ever know;No field was ever lost or won,Until the final blowHas registered itself in Heaven,And every impulse known,That tells a reason why 'twas given,To Him upon the Throne.
Then let us boast not of our deeds,Nor let our true hearts fail,Because we think some plan succeedsWhile others ne'er prevail;For he who works as best he canWith lofty, pure intent,Will not be judged by puny man,But God Omnipotent.