Two little children sit by my side,I call them Lily and Daffodil;I gaze on them with a mother's pride,One is Edna, the other is Will.
Both have eyes of starry light,And laughing lips o'er teeth of pearl.
I would not change for a diademMy noble boy and darling girl.
To-night my heart o'erflows with joy;I hold them as a sacred trust;I fain would hide them in my heart,Safe from tarnish of moth and rust.
What should I ask for my dear boy?The richest gifts of wealth or fame?What for my girl? A loving heartAnd a fair and a spotless name?
What for my boy? That he should standA pillar of strength to the state?What for my girl? That she should beThe friend of the poor and desolate?
I do not ask they shall never treadWith weary feet the paths of pain.I ask that in the darkest hourThey may faithful and true remain.
I only ask their lives may bePure as gems in the gates of pearl,Lives to brighten and bless the world—This I ask for my boy and girl.
I ask to clasp their hands again'Mid the holy hosts of heaven,Enraptured say: "I am here, oh! God,"And the children Thou hast given."
He stood before my heart's closed door,And asked to enter in;But I had barred the passage o'erBy unbelief and sin.
He came with nail-prints in his hands,To set my spirit free;With wounded feet he trod a pathTo come and sup with me.
He found me poor and brought me gold,The fire of love had tried,And garments whitened by his blood,My wretchedness to hide.
The glare of life had dimmed my eyes,Its glamour was too bright.He came with ointment in his handsTo heal my darkened sight.
He knew my heart was tempest-tossed,By care and pain oppressed;He whispered to my burdened heart,Come unto me and rest.
He found me weary, faint and worn,On barren mountains cold;With love's constraint he drew me on,To shelter in his fold.
Oh! foolish heart, how slow wert thouTo welcome thy dear guest,To change thy weariness and careFor comfort, peace and rest.
Close to his side, oh! may I stay,Just to behold his face,Till I shall wear within my soulThe image of his grace.
The grace that changes hearts of stoneTo tenderness and love,And bids us run with willing feetUnto his courts above.
The treacherous sands had caught our boat,And held it with a strong embraceAnd death at our imprisoned crewWas sternly looking face to face.
With anxious hearts, but failing strength,We strove to push the boat from shore;But all in vain, for there we layWith bated breath and useless oar.
Around us in a fearful stormThe fiery hail fell thick and fast;And we engirded by the sand,Could not return the dreadful blast.
When one arose upon whose browThe ardent sun had left his trace,A noble purpose strong and highUplighting all his dusky face.
Perchance within that fateful hourThe wrongs of ages thronged apace;But with it came the glorious hopeOf swift deliverance to his race.
Of galling chains asunder rent,Of severed hearts again made one,
Of freedom crowning all the landThrough battles gained and victories won.
"Some one," our hero firmly said,"Must die to get us out of this;"Then leaped upon the strand and baredHis bosom to the bullets' hiss.
"But ye are soldiers, and can fight,May win in battles yet unfought;I have no offering but my life,And if they kill me it is nought."
With steady hands he grasped the boat,And boldly pushed it from the shore;Then fell by rebel bullets pierced,His life work grandly, nobly o'er.
Our boat was rescued from the sandsAnd launched in safety on the tide;But he our comrade good and grand,In our defence had bravely died.
He stood before the sons of Heth,And bowed his sorrowing head;
"I've come," he said, "to buy a placeWhere I may lay my dead.
"I am a stranger in your land,My home has lost its light;Grant me a place where I may layMy dead away from sight."
Then tenderly the sons of HethGazed on the mourner's face,And said, "Oh, Prince, amid our dead,Choose thou her resting-place.
"The sepulchres of those we love,We place at thy command;Against the plea thy grief hath madeWe close not heart nor hand."
The patriarch rose and bowed his head,And said, "One place I crave;'Tis at the end of Ephron's field,And called Machpelah's cave.
"Entreat him that he sell to meFor her last sleep that cave;I do not ask for her I lovedThe freedom of a grave."
The son of Zohar answered him,"Hearken, my lord, to me;Before our sons, the field and caveI freely give to thee."
"I will not take it as a gift,"The grand old man then said;"I pray thee let me buy the placeWhere I may lay my dead."
And with the promise in his heart,His seed should own that land,He gave the shekels for the fieldHe took from Ephron's hand.
And saw afar the glorious dayHis chosen seed should tread,The soil where he in sorrow layHis loved and cherished dead.
She came from the East a fair, young bride,With a light and a bounding heart,To find in the distant West a homeWith her husband to make a start.
He builded his cabin far away,Where the prairie flower bloomed wild;Her love made lighter all his toil,And joy and hope around him smiled.
She plied her hands to life's homely tasks,And helped to build his fortunes up;While joy and grief, like bitter and sweet,Were mingled and mixed in her cup.
He sowed in his fields of golden grain,All the strength of his manly prime;Nor music of birds, nor brooks, nor bees,Was as sweet as the dollar's chime.
She toiled and waited through weary yearsFor the fortune that came at length;But toil and care and hope deferred,Had stolen and wasted her strength.
The cabin changed to a stately home,Rich carpets were hushing her tread;But light was fading from her eye,And the bloom from her cheek had fled.
Slower and heavier grew her step,While his gold and his gains increased;
But his proud domain had not the charmOf her humble home in the East.
Within her eye was a restless light,And a yearning that never ceased,A longing to see the dear old homeShe had left in the distant East.
A longing to clasp her mother's hand,And nestle close to her heart,And to feel the heavy cares of lifeLike the sun-kissed shadows depart.
Her husband was adding field to field,And new wealth to his golden store;And little thought the shadow of deathWas entering in at his door.
He had no line to sound the depthsOf her tears repressed and unshed;Nor dreamed 'mid plenty a human heartCould be starving, but not for bread.
The hungry heart was stilled at last;Its restless, baffled yearning ceased.A lonely man sat by the bierOf a corpse that was going East.
From Rome's palaces and villasGaily issued forth a throng;From her humbler habitationsMoved a human tide along.
Haughty dames and blooming maidens,Men who knew not mercy's sway,Thronged into the ColiseumOn that Roman holiday.
From the lonely wilds of Asia,From her jungles far away,From the distant torrid regions,Rome had gathered beasts of prey.
Lions restless, roaring, rampant,Tigers with their stealthy tread,Leopards bright, and fierce, and fiery,Met in conflict wild and dread.
Fierce and fearful was the carnageOf the maddened beasts of prey,As they fought and rent each otherUrged by men more fierce than they.
Till like muffled thunders breakingOn a vast and distant shore,
Fainter grew the yells of tigers,And the lions' dreadful roar.
On the crimson-stained arenaLay the victims of the fight;Eyes which once had glared with anguish,Lost in death their baleful light.
Then uprose the gladiatorsArmed for conflict unto death,Waiting for the prefect's signal,Cold and stern with bated breath.
"Ave Caesar, morituri,Te, salutant," rose the cryFrom the lips of men ill-fated,Doomed to suffer and to die.
Then began the dreadful contest,Lives like chaff were thrown away,Rome with all her pride and powerButchered for a holiday.
Eagerly the crowd were waiting,Loud the clashing sabres rang;When between the gladiatorsAll unarmed a hermit sprang.
"Cease your bloodshed," cried the hermit,"On this carnage place your ban;"But with flashing swords they answered,"Back unto your place, old man."
From their path the gladiatorsThrust the strange intruder back,Who between their hosts advancingCalmly parried their attack.
All undaunted by their weapons,Stood the old heroic man;While a maddened cry of angerThrough the vast assembly ran.
"Down with him," cried out the people,As with thumbs unbent they glared,Till the prefect gave the signalThat his life should not be spared.
Men grew wild with wrathful passion,When his fearless words were saidCruelly they fiercely showeredStones on his devoted head.
Bruised and bleeding fell the hermit,Victor in that hour of strife;
Gaining in his death a triumphThat he could not win in life.
Had he uttered on the forumStruggling thoughts within him born,Men had jeered his words as madness,But his deed they could not scorn.
Not in vain had been his courage,Nor for naught his daring deed;From his grave his mangled bodyDid for wretched captives plead.
From that hour Rome, grown more thoughtful,Ceased her sport in human gore;And into her ColiseumGladiators came no more.
Let me make the songs for the people,Songs for the old and young;Songs to stir like a battle-cryWherever they are sung.
Not for the clashing of sabres,For carnage nor for strife;
But songs to thrill the hearts of menWith more abundant life.
Let me make the songs for the weary,Amid life's fever and fret,Till hearts shall relax their tension,And careworn brows forget.
Let me sing for little children,Before their footsteps stray,Sweet anthems of love and duty,To float o'er life's highway.
I would sing for the poor and aged,When shadows dim their sight;Of the bright and restful mansions,Where there shall be no night.
Our world, so worn and weary,Needs music, pure and strong,To hush the jangle and discordsOf sorrow, pain, and wrong.
Music to soothe all its sorrow,Till war and crime shall cease;And the hearts of men grown tenderGirdle the world with peace.
The dying words of Goethe.
"Light! more light! the shadows deepen,And my life is ebbing low,Throw the windows widely open:Light! more light! before I go.
"Softly let the balmy sunshinePlay around my dying bed,E'er the dimly lighted valleyI with lonely feet must tread.
"Light! more light! for Death is weavingShadows 'round my waning sight,And I fain would gaze upon himThrough a stream of earthly light."
Not for greater gifts of genius;Not for thoughts more grandly bright,All the dying poet whispersIs a prayer for light, more light.
Heeds he not the gathered laurels,Fading slowly from his sight;All the poet's aspirationsCentre in that prayer for light.
Gracious Saviour, when life's day-dreamsMelt and vanish from the sight,May our dim and longing visionThen be blessed with light, more light.
You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed ArmenianWho weeps in her desolate home.You can mourn o'er the exile of RussiaFrom kindred and friends doomed to roam.
You can pity the men who have wovenFrom passion and appetite chainsTo coil with a terrible tensionAround their heartstrings and brains.
You can sorrow o'er little childrenDisinherited from their birth,The wee waifs and toddlers neglected,Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.
For beasts you have gentle compassion;Your mercy and pity they share.For the wretched, outcast and fallenYou have tenderness, love and care.
But hark! from our Southland are floatingSobs of anguish, murmurs of pain,And women heart-stricken are weepingOver their tortured and their slain.
On their brows the sun has left traces;Shrink not from their sorrow in scorn.When they entered the threshold of beingThe children of a King were born.
Each comes as a guest to the tableThe hand of our God has outspread,To fountains that ever leap upward,To share in the soil we all tread.
When ye plead for the wrecked and fallen,The exile from far-distant shores,Remember that men are still wastingLife's crimson around your own doors.
Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters,Just a plea, a prayer or a tear,For mothers who dwell 'neath the shadowsOf agony, hatred and fear?
Men may tread down the poor and lowly,May crush them in anger and hate,
But surely the mills of God's justiceWill grind out the grist of their fate.
Oh, people sin-laden and guilty,So lusty and proud in your prime,The sharp sickles of God's retributionWill gather your harvest of crime.
Weep not, oh my well-sheltered sisters,Weep not for the Negro alone,But weep for your sons who must gatherThe crops which their fathers have sown.
Go read on the tombstones of nationsOf chieftains who masterful trod,The sentence which time has engraven,That they had forgotten their God.
'Tis the judgment of God that men reapThe tares which in madness they sow,Sorrow follows the footsteps of crime,And Sin is the consort of Woe.
"Build me a nation," said the Lord.The distant nations heard the word,Build me a nation true and strong,Bar out the old world's hate and wrong;For men had traced with blood and tearsThe trail of weary wasting years,And torn and bleeding martyrs trodThrough fire and torture up to God.
While in the hollow of his handGod hid the secret of our land,Men warred against their fiercest foes,And kingdoms fell and empires rose,Till, weary of the old world strife,Men sought for broader, freer life,And plunged into the ocean's foamTo find another, better home.
And, like a vision fair and brightThe new world broke upon their sight.Men grasped the prize, grew proud and strong,And cursed the land with crime and wrong.The Indian stood despoiled of lands,The Negro bound with servile bands,Oppressed through weary years of toil,His blood and tears bedewed the soil.
Then God arose in dreadful wrath,And judgment streamed around his path;His hand the captive's fetters broke,His lightnings shattered every yoke.As Israel through the Red sea trod,Led by the mighty hand of God,They passed to freedom through a flood,Whose every wave and surge was blood.
And slavery, with its crime and shame,Went down in wrath and blood and flameThe land was billowed-o'er with gravesWhere men had lived and died as slaves.Four and thirty years—what change sincethen!Beings once chattles now are men;Over the gloom of slavery's night,Has flashed the dawn of freedom's light.
To-day no mother with anguish wildKneels and implores that her darling childShall not be torn from her bleeding heart,With its quivering tendrils rent apart.The father may soothe his child to sleep,And watch his slumbers calm and deep.No tyrant's tread will disturb his restWhere freedom dwells as a welcome guest.
His walls may be bare of pictured grace,His fireside the lowliest place;But the wife and children sheltered thereAre his to defend and guard with care.Where haughty tyrants once bore ruleAre ballot-box and public school.The old slave-pen of former daysGives place to fanes of prayer and praise.
To-night we would bring our meed of praiseTo noble friends of darker days;The men and women crowned with light,The true and tried in our gloomy night.To Lundy, whose heart was early stirredTo speak for freedom an earnest word;To Garrison, valiant, true and strong,Whose face was as flint against our wrong.
And Phillips, the peerless, grand and brave,A tower of strength to the outcast slave.Earth has no marble too pure and whiteTo enrol his name in golden light.Our Douglass, too, with his massive brain,Who plead our cause with his broken chain,And helped to hurl from his bloody seatThe curse that writhed and died at his feet.
And Governor Andrew, who, looking back,Saw none he despised, though poor and black;And Harriet Beecher, whose glowing penCorroded the chains of fettered men.To-night with greenest laurels we'll crownNorth Elba's grave where sleeps John Brown,Who made the gallows an altar high,And showed how a brave old man could die.And Lincoln, our martyred President,Who returned to his God with chains he had rent.*And Sumner, amid death's icy chill,Leaving to Hoar his Civil Rights Bill.And let us remember old underground,With all her passengers northward bound,The train that ran till it ceased to pay,With all her dividends given away.Nor let it be said that we have forgotThe women who stood with Lucretia Mott;Nor her who to the world was knownBy the simple name of Lucy stone.A tribute unto a host of othersWho knew that men though black werebrothers,Who battled against our nation's sin,Whose graves are thick whose ranks are thin.Oh, people chastened in the fire,To nobler, grander things aspire;
In the new era of your life,Bring love for hate, and peace for strife;Upon your hearts this vow recordThat ye will build unto the LordA nobler future, true and grand,To strengthen, crown and bless the land.A higher freedom ye may gainThan that which comes from a riven chain;Freedom your native land to blessWith peace, and love and righteousness,As dreams that are past, a tale all told,Are the days when men were bought and sold;Now God be praised from sea to sea,Our flag floats o'er a country free.
Maceo dead! a thrill of sorrowThrough our hearts in sadness ranWhen we felt in one sad hourThat the world had lost a man.
He had clasped unto his bosomThe sad fortunes of his land—Held the cause for which he perishedWith a firm, unfaltering hand.
On his lips the name of freedomFainted with his latest breath.Cuba Libre was his watchwordPassing through the gates of death.
With the light of God around us,Why this agony and strife?With the cross of Christ before us,Why this fearful waste of life?
Must the pathway unto freedomEver mark a crimson line,And the eyes of wayward mortalsAlways close to light divine?
Must the hearts of fearless valorFail 'mid crime and cruel wrong,When the world has read of heroesBrave and earnest, true and strong?
Men to stay the floods of sorrowSweeping round each war-crushed heart;Men to say to strife and carnage—From our world henceforth depart.
God of peace and God of nations,Haste! oh, haste the glorious day
When the reign of our RedeemerO'er the world shall have its sway.
When the swords now blood encrusted,Spears that reap the battle field,Shall be changed to higher service,Helping earth rich harvests yield.
Where the widow weeps in anguish,And the orphan bows his head,Grant that peace and joy and gladnessMay like holy angels tread.
Pity, oh, our God the sorrowOf thy world from thee astray,Lead us from the paths of madnessUnto Christ the living way.
Year by year the world grows weary'Neath its weight of sin and strife,Though the hands once pierced and bleedingOffer more abundant life.
May the choral song of angelsHeard upon Judea's plainSound throughout the earth the tidingsOf that old and sweet refrain.
Till our world, so sad and weary,Finds the balmy rest of peace—Peace to silence all her discords—Peace till war and crime shall cease.
Peace to fall like gentle showers,Or on parchéd flowers dew,Till our hearts proclaim with gladness:Lo, He maketh all things new.
I had a dream, a varied dream:Before my ravished sightThe city of my Lord arose,With all its love and light.
The music of a myriad harpsFlowed out with sweet accord;And saints were casting down their crownsIn homage to our Lord.
My heart leaped up with untold joy,Life's toil and pain were o'er;My weary feet at last had foundThe bright and restful shore.
Just as I reached the gates of light,Ready to enter in,From earth arose a fearful cryOf sorrow and of sin.
I turned, and saw behind me surgeA wild and stormy sea;And drowning men were reaching outImploring hands to me.
And ev'ry lip was blanched with dread,And moaning for relief;The music of the golden harpsGrew fainter for their grief.
Let me return, I quickly said,Close to the pearly gate;My work is with these wretched ones,So wrecked and desolate.
An angel smiled and gently said:This is the gate of life,Wilt thou return to earth's sad scenes,Its weariness and strife,
To comfort hearts that sigh and break,To dry the falling tear,Wilt thou forego the music sweetEntrancing now thy ear?
I must return, I firmly said,The strugglers in that seaShall not reach out beseeching handsIn vain for help to me.
I turned to go; but as I turnedThe gloomy sea grew bright,And from my heart there seemed to flowTen thousand cords of light.
And sin-wrecked men, with eager handsDid grasp each golden cord;And with my heart I drew them onTo see my gracious Lord.
Again I stood beside the gate.My heart was glad and free;For with me stood a rescued throngThe Lord had given me.
Year after year the artist wroughtWith earnest, loving care,The music flooding all his soulTo pour upon the air.
For this no metal was too rare,He counted not the cost;Nor deemed the years in which he toiledAs labor vainly lost.
When morning flushed with crimson lightThe golden gates of day,He longed to fill the air with chimesSweet as a matin's lay.
And when the sun was sinking lowWithin the distant West,He gladly heard the bells he wroughtHerald the hour of rest.
The music of a thousand harpsCould never be so dearAs when those solemn chants and thrillsFell on his list'ning ear.
He poured his soul into their chimes,And felt his toil repaid;He called them children of his soul,His home a'near them made.
But evil days came on apace,War spread his banner wide,And from his village snatched awayThe artist's love and pride.
At dewy morn and stilly eveThe chimes no more he heard;With dull and restless agonyHis spirit's depths was stirred.
A weary longing filled his soul,It bound him like a spell;He left his home to seek the chimes—The chimes he loved so well.
Where lofty fanes in grandeur rose,Upon his ear there fellNo music like the long lost chimesOf his beloved bell.
And thus he wandered year by year.Touched by the hand of time,Seeking to hear with anxious heartEach well remembered chime.
And to that worn and weary heartThere came a glad surcease:He heard again the dear old chimes,And smiled and uttered peace.
"The chimes! the chimes!" the old man cried,"I hear their tones at last;"A sudden rapture filled his heart,And all his cares were past.
Yes, peace had come with death's sweet calm,His journeying was o'er,The weary, restless wandererHad reached the restful shore.
It may be that he met again,Enfolded in the air,The dear old chimes beside the gatesWhere all is bright and fair;
That he who crossed and bowed his headWhen Angelus was sungIn clearer light touched golden harpsBy angel fingers strung.
Do not cheer, for men are dyingFrom their distant homes in pain;And the restless sea is darkenedBy a flood of crimson rain.
Do not cheer, for anxious mothersWait and watch in lonely dread;Vainly waiting for the footstepsNever more their paths to tread.
Do not cheer, while little childrenGather round the widowed wife,Wondering why an unknown peopleSought their own dear father's life.
Do not cheer, for aged fathersBend above their staves and weep,While the ocean sings the requiemWhere their fallen children sleep.
Do not cheer, for lips are palingOn which lay the mother's kiss;'Mid the dreadful roar of battleHow that mother's hand they miss!
Do not cheer: once joyous maidens,Who the mazy dance did tread,Bow their heads in bitter anguish,Mourning o'er their cherished dead.
Do not cheer while maid and matronIn this strife must bear a part;While the blow that strikes a soldierReaches to some woman's heart.
Do not cheer till arbitrationO'er the nations holds its sway,And the century now closingUshers in a brighter day.
Do not cheer until the nationShall more wise and thoughtful growThan to staunch a stream of sorrowBy an avalanche of woe.
Do not cheer until each nationSheathes the sword and blunts the spear,And we sing aloud for gladness:Lo, the reign of Christ is here,
And the banners of destructionFrom the battlefield are furled,And the peace of God descendingRests upon a restless world.
We may sigh o'er the heavy burdensOf the black, the brown and white;But if we all clasped hands togetherThe burdens would be more light.How to solve life's saddest problems,Its weariness, want and woe,Was answered by One who sufferedIn Palestine long ago.
He gave from his heart this precept,To ease the burdens of men,"As ye would that others do to youDo ye even so to them."Life's heavy, wearisome burdensWill change to a gracious trustWhen men shall learn in the light of GodTo be merciful and just.
Where war has sharpened his weapons,And slavery masterful had,Let white and black and brown uniteTo build the kingdom of God.And never attempt in madnessTo build a kingdom or state,Through greed of gold or lust of power,On the crumbling stones of hate.
The burdens will always he heavy,The sunshine fade into night,Till mercy and justice shall cementThe black, the brown and the white.And earth shall answer with gladness,The herald angel's refrain,When "Peace on earth, good will to men"Was the burden of their strain.