FRAE RHYMING ROBIN.

Allgreen, and bitter, and hard, and sour,The fruit on the Tree of Life is growing;But the genial sunshine, with quickening power,Will sweeten its juices like nectar flowing.For the full, fair growth of its perfect stateThere is only needed the right condition.Then labor and wait, both early and late,Till the ripening future shall bring fruition.Far out in the harvest fields of Time,The grain for the reaper is standing ready,And they who come to the work sublimeMust toil with a patience calm and steady.Truth never was subject to Chance or Fate—Its sickle, so sharp, cuts clean and even.Then labor and wait, both early and late,For the seed-field of Earth yields the harvest of Heaven.In their quiet graves, on the green hill-side,The sacred dust of your loved is sleeping;And the homes where the light of their smile has diedAre filled with the sorrowful sounds of weeping.But over the gloomy clouds of Fate,The light of the better land is shining;Then labor and wait, both early and late,For the cloud of Death has a silver lining.There are fair, sweet faces, and gentle eyes,That look through the shadows and mists above you;And the fond affection that never dies,Still speaks from the lips of the blest who love you.They call you up from your low estate,To the boundless bliss of the life supernal.Then labor and wait, both early and late,For Time is short, but Life is Eternal.

Far out in the harvest fields of Time,The grain for the reaper is standing ready,And they who come to the work sublimeMust toil with a patience calm and steady.Truth never was subject to Chance or Fate—Its sickle, so sharp, cuts clean and even.Then labor and wait, both early and late,For the seed-field of Earth yields the harvest of Heaven.

In their quiet graves, on the green hill-side,The sacred dust of your loved is sleeping;And the homes where the light of their smile has diedAre filled with the sorrowful sounds of weeping.But over the gloomy clouds of Fate,The light of the better land is shining;Then labor and wait, both early and late,For the cloud of Death has a silver lining.

There are fair, sweet faces, and gentle eyes,That look through the shadows and mists above you;And the fond affection that never dies,Still speaks from the lips of the blest who love you.They call you up from your low estate,To the boundless bliss of the life supernal.Then labor and wait, both early and late,For Time is short, but Life is Eternal.

The following poem was given under the inspiration of Robert Burns, at the close of a lecture on “The Immaculate Conception.”

Guid Friends:Iwillna’ weave my rhymes to-nightIn winsome measure,Or strive your fancies to delightWi’ songs o’ pleasure;But gin[6]ye hae na’ heard too muchO’ solemn preachin’,I’ll gie ye just anither touchO’ useful teachin’.But, aiblins,[7]when ye hear my verse,Ye may be thinkin’That I hae sunk frae bad to warse,And still am sinkin’;But though I seem to fa’ from grace,In man’s opinion,Auld Hornie ne’er will see my faceIn his dominion.An unco[8]change will come, ere lang,O’er all your dreamin’,And ye shall see that right and wrangAre much in seemin’.Man shall na’ langer perjure love,Nor think it treasonAnent[9]the mighty King above,To use his reason.Ay, love and nature, frae the first,Hae been perverted,And man, frae Adam, will be cursed,Till he’s converted:For Nature will avenge her causeOn ilka[10]creature,Who will na’ take her, wi’ her laws,For guide and teacher.Auld Custom is a sleekit[11]saint,And sae is Fashion,And baith will watch till sinners faint,To lay the lash on;Men follow them wi’ ane accord,Led by their noses,Because they cry, “Thus saith the Lord,The God o’ Moses.”The time will come when man will kenGod’s word far better;He’ll live mair in the spirit then,Less in the letter;And that which man ance called impure,Through partial seein’,He’ll find for it baith cause and cure,In his ain bein’.Man needna’ gae to auld lang syneFor truth to guide him,For if he seeks, he sure will fin’Truth close beside him.Each gowan[12]is ordained o’ graceTo be his teacher,And ilka toddlin’ weanie’s[13]faceIs text and preacher.Man was na’ born a child o’ hellFrae his creation:The love that made him will itsel’Be his salvation.Each child that’s born o’ perfect loveCan be man’s saviour:Love is his warrant frae above,For guid behavior.His mither may be high or low,A Miss or Madam;The God within him will outgrowThe sin o’ Adam;His only bed may be the earth,His hame a shealin’;[14]It will na’ change his real worth,Or inward feelin’.Though born beneath the Church’s ban,Or man’s displeasure,He will na’ be the less a manIn mind or measure.God’s image, stamped upon his brow,Is his defender,And makes him—as ye hae it now—“Guid legal tender.”But ilka child that’s born o’ hate—However lawful—Will be the victim, sune or late,O’ passions awful;Will hirple[15]o’er the ways o’ life,Wi’ friends scarce ony,And in the dour[16]warld’s angry strife,Find faes full mony.The Power aboon, sae kind and guid,Who ever sees us,Will gie to men, whene’er they need,A John or Jesus.The sin o’ Adam will na’ causeHis love to vary,Nor need he change creation’s laws[17]To form a Mary.Man’s sympathies must largely shareIn what is human,And he will love the truth the mair,That’s born o’ woman.The De’il himsel’, at last, through loveWill be converted,And, reckoned wi’ the saunts above,Leave hell deserted.The One who laid Creation’s planKnows how to end it,Nor need he ever call on manTo help him mend it.Then, syne[18]this Being is your friend,And man your brither,Gae on rejoicing to the end,Wi’ ane anither.

Guid Friends:

Iwillna’ weave my rhymes to-nightIn winsome measure,Or strive your fancies to delightWi’ songs o’ pleasure;But gin[6]ye hae na’ heard too muchO’ solemn preachin’,I’ll gie ye just anither touchO’ useful teachin’.

But, aiblins,[7]when ye hear my verse,Ye may be thinkin’That I hae sunk frae bad to warse,And still am sinkin’;But though I seem to fa’ from grace,In man’s opinion,Auld Hornie ne’er will see my faceIn his dominion.

An unco[8]change will come, ere lang,O’er all your dreamin’,And ye shall see that right and wrangAre much in seemin’.Man shall na’ langer perjure love,Nor think it treasonAnent[9]the mighty King above,To use his reason.

Ay, love and nature, frae the first,Hae been perverted,And man, frae Adam, will be cursed,Till he’s converted:For Nature will avenge her causeOn ilka[10]creature,Who will na’ take her, wi’ her laws,For guide and teacher.

Auld Custom is a sleekit[11]saint,And sae is Fashion,And baith will watch till sinners faint,To lay the lash on;Men follow them wi’ ane accord,Led by their noses,Because they cry, “Thus saith the Lord,The God o’ Moses.”

The time will come when man will kenGod’s word far better;He’ll live mair in the spirit then,Less in the letter;And that which man ance called impure,Through partial seein’,He’ll find for it baith cause and cure,In his ain bein’.

Man needna’ gae to auld lang syneFor truth to guide him,For if he seeks, he sure will fin’Truth close beside him.Each gowan[12]is ordained o’ graceTo be his teacher,And ilka toddlin’ weanie’s[13]faceIs text and preacher.

Man was na’ born a child o’ hellFrae his creation:The love that made him will itsel’Be his salvation.Each child that’s born o’ perfect loveCan be man’s saviour:Love is his warrant frae above,For guid behavior.

His mither may be high or low,A Miss or Madam;The God within him will outgrowThe sin o’ Adam;His only bed may be the earth,His hame a shealin’;[14]It will na’ change his real worth,Or inward feelin’.

Though born beneath the Church’s ban,Or man’s displeasure,He will na’ be the less a manIn mind or measure.God’s image, stamped upon his brow,Is his defender,And makes him—as ye hae it now—“Guid legal tender.”

But ilka child that’s born o’ hate—However lawful—Will be the victim, sune or late,O’ passions awful;Will hirple[15]o’er the ways o’ life,Wi’ friends scarce ony,And in the dour[16]warld’s angry strife,Find faes full mony.

The Power aboon, sae kind and guid,Who ever sees us,Will gie to men, whene’er they need,A John or Jesus.The sin o’ Adam will na’ causeHis love to vary,Nor need he change creation’s laws[17]To form a Mary.

Man’s sympathies must largely shareIn what is human,And he will love the truth the mair,That’s born o’ woman.The De’il himsel’, at last, through loveWill be converted,And, reckoned wi’ the saunts above,Leave hell deserted.

The One who laid Creation’s planKnows how to end it,Nor need he ever call on manTo help him mend it.Then, syne[18]this Being is your friend,And man your brither,Gae on rejoicing to the end,Wi’ ane anither.

Given under the inspiration of Robert Burns.

Mensay the De’il is dead at last,And that his course is ended,Which sure must be an unco lossTo those whom he befriended.No doubt he managed to evadeThe sinner’s awful sentence,By that last trick, so often played,Of a death-bed repentance.Alas! alas! we dinna kenWhat will be done without him,For all the pious sons of menMade such a rant about him.Whene’er they chanced to gang agley,Or did a deed of evil,Or winked at sin upon “the sly,”’Twas all laid to the Deevel.But henceforth they must bear their sin,And come to the confession,Without a single hope to winA pardon for transgression;Unless, indeed, they try the planOf wise old Orthodoxy,Invented for puir sinful man,O’ saving souls by proxy.But hoolie! what a grand mistakeWas made at the creation,That God should e’er a De’il make,To peril men’s salvation.He might have made puir man, nae doubt,To grace a greater debtor,Had he but left the De’il out,Or only made man better.I wad na mock at honest faith,Or utter thought profanely,But then ’tis better for us baith,That truth be spoken plainly.The great, guid God, who loves us a’,Is sure misrepresented,Whene’er men say he cursed us a’In what he could prevented.And as for Hornie—Nickie-ben—Auld cloven-foot or Deevil,—I dinna think that he has been,The cause o’ all man’s evil.Now that the puir old soul is gone,He does na’ seem so hateful,And those who live, his loss to mourn,Should speak na’ word ungrateful.The clergy, sure, have lost a friendWho never had a rival—And henceforth all their hopes must end,O’ raising a revival.For when a rout and rant they made,To turn puir souls frae error,The De’il was half their stock in trade,To fill men’s hearts wi’ terror.The politicians might as weelGie o’er each vain endeavor—What unco sorrow must they feel,Now he is gone forever!In all their dealings, hand in hand,They went with him thegither,They executed what he planned,And each helped on the ither.And then the long-faced, praying saints,Who worshiped God on Sunday,And set aside their pious feints,To serve the De’il on Monday—They evermore, with empty word,Professed their hate of evil;But while they cried “Guid Lord! Guid Lord,”They said aside, “Guid Devil!”We dinna ken what caused his death,Or ended his probation,Whether it was that he lacked breath,Or lacked appreciation.Perhaps the “origin o’ Sin”Has proved too tough a question;He took it for his meat within,And died o’ indigestion.Farewell! farewell! auld Nickie-ben;We trust ye are forgiven,For doubtless ye made haste to men’,[19]And make your peace wi’ heaven.We leave your burial, guid or bad,To Truth, as undertaker,And your puir soul, such as ye had,Commend unto its Maker.

Alas! alas! we dinna kenWhat will be done without him,For all the pious sons of menMade such a rant about him.Whene’er they chanced to gang agley,Or did a deed of evil,Or winked at sin upon “the sly,”’Twas all laid to the Deevel.

But henceforth they must bear their sin,And come to the confession,Without a single hope to winA pardon for transgression;Unless, indeed, they try the planOf wise old Orthodoxy,Invented for puir sinful man,O’ saving souls by proxy.

But hoolie! what a grand mistakeWas made at the creation,That God should e’er a De’il make,To peril men’s salvation.He might have made puir man, nae doubt,To grace a greater debtor,Had he but left the De’il out,Or only made man better.

I wad na mock at honest faith,Or utter thought profanely,But then ’tis better for us baith,That truth be spoken plainly.The great, guid God, who loves us a’,Is sure misrepresented,Whene’er men say he cursed us a’In what he could prevented.

And as for Hornie—Nickie-ben—Auld cloven-foot or Deevil,—I dinna think that he has been,The cause o’ all man’s evil.Now that the puir old soul is gone,He does na’ seem so hateful,And those who live, his loss to mourn,Should speak na’ word ungrateful.

The clergy, sure, have lost a friendWho never had a rival—And henceforth all their hopes must end,O’ raising a revival.For when a rout and rant they made,To turn puir souls frae error,The De’il was half their stock in trade,To fill men’s hearts wi’ terror.

The politicians might as weelGie o’er each vain endeavor—What unco sorrow must they feel,Now he is gone forever!In all their dealings, hand in hand,They went with him thegither,They executed what he planned,And each helped on the ither.

And then the long-faced, praying saints,Who worshiped God on Sunday,And set aside their pious feints,To serve the De’il on Monday—They evermore, with empty word,Professed their hate of evil;But while they cried “Guid Lord! Guid Lord,”They said aside, “Guid Devil!”

We dinna ken what caused his death,Or ended his probation,Whether it was that he lacked breath,Or lacked appreciation.Perhaps the “origin o’ Sin”Has proved too tough a question;He took it for his meat within,And died o’ indigestion.

Farewell! farewell! auld Nickie-ben;We trust ye are forgiven,For doubtless ye made haste to men’,[19]And make your peace wi’ heaven.We leave your burial, guid or bad,To Truth, as undertaker,And your puir soul, such as ye had,Commend unto its Maker.

Couldye but ken, ye sons o’ men,How truly ye are brithers,Ye’d make guid speed to stand agreed,Tho’ born o’ various mithers.Ane common breath, ane common death,Ane hame in Heaven above ye—Ye are the fruit frae one great rootIn the guid God who lo’es ye.All high and low, all empty show,All envious differences,Will fade from sight and vanish quite,When men come to their senses.Each living man works out the planFor which he was intended,And he does best, who will na’ restUntil his work is ended.Your neebors’ blame, or sinful shame,Should gie your soul na’ pleasure,For while ye judge, wi’ cruel grudge,You fill your ain sad measure.The De’il himsel’ could scarcely tellWhich o’ ye was the better;He wad be laith to leave ye baith,While either was his debtor.Here in life’s school wi’ pain and dool,[20]You get your education,While mony a trip and sinful slipHelps on the soul’s salvation.The unco skeigh,[21]wi’ heads full high,Wha feel themselves maist holy,Oft learn through sin how to beginTruelife amang the lowly.Baith you and I may gang agley,[22]For ’tis a common failin’;But hauld away! we need na’ stayA weepin’ and a wailin’.The God aboon cares not how soonWe leave our sins behind us;He does not hate us in that state,Nor set the De’il to mind us.And as for Hell, o’ which men tell,I’m sure o’ the opinion,There’s na’ such place o’ “saving grace”In all the Lord’s dominion.And those who rave, puir souls to save,Wi’ long-faced, pious fleechin’,[23]Will find far hence, thatcommon senseIs better thansuchpreachin’.That which ye ca’ the power o’ law,Is but a puir invention;It counts the deed as evil seed,But winks at the intention.Could men but be mair truly free,In some things less restrickéd,The world wad find the human kindWad na’ be half sae wicked.The pent-up steed kept short o’ feedIs wildest in his roamin’;And dammed-up streams, wi’ angry gleams,Dash o’er each hindrance foamin’.Therefore (I pray take what I sayIn spirit, not in letter)Mankind should be like rivers, free—The less they’re damned the better.You need na’ heed the grousome creedWhich tells ye o’ God’s anger;On Nature’s page frae age to age,His love is written stranger.God’s providence, in ony sense,Has never been one-sided,And for the weal o’ chick, or chiel,He amply has provided.The winter’s snaw, the birken shaw,[24]The gowans[25]brightly springing,The murky night, the rosy light,The laverocks[26]gayly singing,The spring’s return, the wimplin burn,[27]The cushat[28]fondly mated,All join to tell how unco wellGod lo’es all things created.Then dinna strive to live and thriveSae selfish and unthinkin’,But firmly stand, and lend a handTo keep the weak frae sinkin’.’Tis love can make, for love’s sweet sake,A trusty fier[29]in sorrow,Wha spends his gear[30]wi’out a fearO’ what may be to-morrow.The preachers say, there’s far awa’A land o’ milk and honey,Where all is free as barley brie,And wi’out price or money;Butherethe meat o’ love is sweet,For souls in sinful blindness,And there’s a milk that’s guid for ilk[31]—“The milk o’ human kindness.”The lift aboon[32]will welcome suneThe wayworn and the weary,And angels fair will greet them there,Sae winsome and sae cheery.But while they stay, make smooth the way,Through all life’s wintry weather,Until ane bield[33]and common shield,Shall hauld ye all thegither.

All high and low, all empty show,All envious differences,Will fade from sight and vanish quite,When men come to their senses.Each living man works out the planFor which he was intended,And he does best, who will na’ restUntil his work is ended.

Your neebors’ blame, or sinful shame,Should gie your soul na’ pleasure,For while ye judge, wi’ cruel grudge,You fill your ain sad measure.The De’il himsel’ could scarcely tellWhich o’ ye was the better;He wad be laith to leave ye baith,While either was his debtor.

Here in life’s school wi’ pain and dool,[20]You get your education,While mony a trip and sinful slipHelps on the soul’s salvation.The unco skeigh,[21]wi’ heads full high,Wha feel themselves maist holy,Oft learn through sin how to beginTruelife amang the lowly.

Baith you and I may gang agley,[22]For ’tis a common failin’;But hauld away! we need na’ stayA weepin’ and a wailin’.The God aboon cares not how soonWe leave our sins behind us;He does not hate us in that state,Nor set the De’il to mind us.

And as for Hell, o’ which men tell,I’m sure o’ the opinion,There’s na’ such place o’ “saving grace”In all the Lord’s dominion.And those who rave, puir souls to save,Wi’ long-faced, pious fleechin’,[23]Will find far hence, thatcommon senseIs better thansuchpreachin’.

That which ye ca’ the power o’ law,Is but a puir invention;It counts the deed as evil seed,But winks at the intention.Could men but be mair truly free,In some things less restrickéd,The world wad find the human kindWad na’ be half sae wicked.

The pent-up steed kept short o’ feedIs wildest in his roamin’;And dammed-up streams, wi’ angry gleams,Dash o’er each hindrance foamin’.Therefore (I pray take what I sayIn spirit, not in letter)Mankind should be like rivers, free—The less they’re damned the better.

You need na’ heed the grousome creedWhich tells ye o’ God’s anger;On Nature’s page frae age to age,His love is written stranger.God’s providence, in ony sense,Has never been one-sided,And for the weal o’ chick, or chiel,He amply has provided.

The winter’s snaw, the birken shaw,[24]The gowans[25]brightly springing,The murky night, the rosy light,The laverocks[26]gayly singing,The spring’s return, the wimplin burn,[27]The cushat[28]fondly mated,All join to tell how unco wellGod lo’es all things created.

Then dinna strive to live and thriveSae selfish and unthinkin’,But firmly stand, and lend a handTo keep the weak frae sinkin’.’Tis love can make, for love’s sweet sake,A trusty fier[29]in sorrow,Wha spends his gear[30]wi’out a fearO’ what may be to-morrow.

The preachers say, there’s far awa’A land o’ milk and honey,Where all is free as barley brie,And wi’out price or money;Butherethe meat o’ love is sweet,For souls in sinful blindness,And there’s a milk that’s guid for ilk[31]—“The milk o’ human kindness.”

The lift aboon[32]will welcome suneThe wayworn and the weary,And angels fair will greet them there,Sae winsome and sae cheery.But while they stay, make smooth the way,Through all life’s wintry weather,Until ane bield[33]and common shield,Shall hauld ye all thegither.

Once, when Death, the mighty hunter,Bent his bow and sent an arrowThrough the shadows of the forest,Harming not the Bear or Panther,Harming not the Owl or Raven,In the bosom of Oweena,Fairest of the Indian maidens,Was the fatal arrow hidden.On the lodge of Massa-wam-settFell a deep and dreadful shadow;He, the wise and warlike Sachem,Mourned in silence for Oweena;But the mother, Nah-me-o-ka,Like a tall pine in the tempest,Tossed her arms in wildest anguish,Pouring forth her lamentation:“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su![34]O my darling! my Oweena!Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men—[35]I shall never see thee more!“Ho-bo-mo-co, evil Spirit,Hiding darkly in the forest,Making shadow in the sunshine,You have stolen her away.“She was like the flowers in spring time,She was like the singing waters,She was like the summer sunshine,Neen wo-ma-su! She is dead!“Hear me! Hear me, O Great Spirit!I will bring thee Bear and Bison,I will bring thee Beads and Wampum;Wilt thou give her back to me?“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!O my darling! My Oweena!Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,I shall never see thee more!”Ceaseless was her plaintive wailing,Even when the fair OweenaSlept beneath the pine trees’ shadow,In the green and silent forest,Where the birds sang in the branches,Where the roses of the summer,And the vines, with slender fingers,Clasped their loving hands above her.From the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,While the brave old chieftain slumbered,In the silence of the midnight,To the grave stole Nah-me-o-ka,Pouring forth her lamentations:“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,I shall never see thee more!”Once, the tempest, on its war-path,Painted all the sky with blackness,Sped the arrows of the lightning,And the war-whoop of the thunder,Made the mighty forest tremble.But it moved not Nah-me-o-ka,Only moaning, “Neen wo-ma-su!I shall never see thee more!”All the forest leaves were weeping,And the black wings of the darkness,Brooding over Nah-me-o-ka,Filled her with a chilling shudder:And the thunder seemed to mutterWith a cruel exultation,“You shall never see her more.”But thereafter came a whisper—“I am with you, O my mother!For I cannot turn my footstepsTo the land of the Great Spirit,While I hear your mournful wailing,Calling, calling me again.“In the hunting-grounds beyond meThere are sunshine, peace and plenty,But I wander, sad and lonely,In the land of death and darkness,Listening only to your cry.“Let me go to the Great Spirit,To the lodge of peace and plenty,To the land of summer sunshine,That with life and strength and gladness,I may meet you yet again.”Then the soft hand of OweenaGently lifted Nah-me-o-ka,Who with wondering eyes beheld her,Like a light amid the darkness.And Oweena safely led herThrough the tempest and the midnight,To the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,Kissed her tenderly—and vanished.From that time did Nah-me-o-kaDry her tears, and cease her moaning,For she said, “I will not keep herFrom the land of summer sunshine,From the home of peace and plenty,From the lodge of the Great Spirit.Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!In the land of the HereafterI shall meet her yet again.”

On the lodge of Massa-wam-settFell a deep and dreadful shadow;He, the wise and warlike Sachem,Mourned in silence for Oweena;But the mother, Nah-me-o-ka,Like a tall pine in the tempest,Tossed her arms in wildest anguish,Pouring forth her lamentation:

“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su![34]O my darling! my Oweena!Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men—[35]I shall never see thee more!

“Ho-bo-mo-co, evil Spirit,Hiding darkly in the forest,Making shadow in the sunshine,You have stolen her away.

“She was like the flowers in spring time,She was like the singing waters,She was like the summer sunshine,Neen wo-ma-su! She is dead!

“Hear me! Hear me, O Great Spirit!I will bring thee Bear and Bison,I will bring thee Beads and Wampum;Wilt thou give her back to me?

“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!O my darling! My Oweena!Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,I shall never see thee more!”

Ceaseless was her plaintive wailing,Even when the fair OweenaSlept beneath the pine trees’ shadow,In the green and silent forest,Where the birds sang in the branches,Where the roses of the summer,And the vines, with slender fingers,Clasped their loving hands above her.

From the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,While the brave old chieftain slumbered,In the silence of the midnight,To the grave stole Nah-me-o-ka,Pouring forth her lamentations:“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men,I shall never see thee more!”

Once, the tempest, on its war-path,Painted all the sky with blackness,Sped the arrows of the lightning,And the war-whoop of the thunder,Made the mighty forest tremble.But it moved not Nah-me-o-ka,Only moaning, “Neen wo-ma-su!I shall never see thee more!”

All the forest leaves were weeping,And the black wings of the darkness,Brooding over Nah-me-o-ka,Filled her with a chilling shudder:And the thunder seemed to mutterWith a cruel exultation,“You shall never see her more.”But thereafter came a whisper—

“I am with you, O my mother!For I cannot turn my footstepsTo the land of the Great Spirit,While I hear your mournful wailing,Calling, calling me again.

“In the hunting-grounds beyond meThere are sunshine, peace and plenty,But I wander, sad and lonely,In the land of death and darkness,Listening only to your cry.

“Let me go to the Great Spirit,To the lodge of peace and plenty,To the land of summer sunshine,That with life and strength and gladness,I may meet you yet again.”

Then the soft hand of OweenaGently lifted Nah-me-o-ka,Who with wondering eyes beheld her,Like a light amid the darkness.And Oweena safely led herThrough the tempest and the midnight,To the lodge of Massa-wam-sett,Kissed her tenderly—and vanished.

From that time did Nah-me-o-kaDry her tears, and cease her moaning,For she said, “I will not keep herFrom the land of summer sunshine,From the home of peace and plenty,From the lodge of the Great Spirit.Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su!In the land of the HereafterI shall meet her yet again.”

“On returning to the inn, he found there a wandering minstrel—a woman—singing, and accompanying her voice with the music of a harp. The burden of her song was, ‘Gone is gone, and dead is dead.’ The utter hopelessness of these words filled his soul with anguish. ‘O,’ he exclaimed, ‘thou loved and lost one! patient and long-suffering, would that I could call thee back again, not to forgive me—O, no!—but rather that I might have the consolation of showing thee, by my repentance, how differently I would conduct towards thee now.”—Jean Paul Richter.

“Goneis gone, and dead is dead!”Words to hopeless sorrow wed—Words from deepest anguish wrung,Which a lonely wand’rer sung,While her harp prolonged the strain,Like a spirit’s cry of painWhen all hope with life is fled:“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”Mournful singer! hearts unknownThrill responsive to that tone;By a common weal and woe,Kindred sorrows all must know.Lips all tremulous with painOft repeat that sad refrainWhen the fatal shaft is sped—“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”Pain and death are everywhere—In the earth, and sea, and air;And the sunshine’s golden glance,And the heaven’s serene expanse,With a silence calm and high,Seem to mock that mournful cryWrung from hearts by hope unfed—“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”O, ye sorrowing ones, arise;Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes;Lift your faces to the light;Read Death’s mystery aright.Life unfolds from life within,And with death does life begin.Of the soul can ne’er be said,“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”As the stars, which, one by one,Lit their torches at the sun,And across ethereal spaceSwept each to its destined place,So the soul’s Promethean fire,Kindled never to expire,On its course immortal sped,Is not gone, and is not dead.By a Power to thought unknown,Love shall ever seek its own.Sundered not by time or space,With no distant dwelling-place,Soul shall answer unto soul,As the needle to the pole.Leaving grief’s lament unsaid,“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”Evermore Love’s quickening breathCalls the living soul from death;And the resurrection’s powerComes to every dying hour.When the soul, with vision clear,Learns that Heaven is always near,Never more shall it be said,“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

Mournful singer! hearts unknownThrill responsive to that tone;By a common weal and woe,Kindred sorrows all must know.Lips all tremulous with painOft repeat that sad refrainWhen the fatal shaft is sped—“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

Pain and death are everywhere—In the earth, and sea, and air;And the sunshine’s golden glance,And the heaven’s serene expanse,With a silence calm and high,Seem to mock that mournful cryWrung from hearts by hope unfed—“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

O, ye sorrowing ones, arise;Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes;Lift your faces to the light;Read Death’s mystery aright.Life unfolds from life within,And with death does life begin.Of the soul can ne’er be said,“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

As the stars, which, one by one,Lit their torches at the sun,And across ethereal spaceSwept each to its destined place,So the soul’s Promethean fire,Kindled never to expire,On its course immortal sped,Is not gone, and is not dead.

By a Power to thought unknown,Love shall ever seek its own.Sundered not by time or space,With no distant dwelling-place,Soul shall answer unto soul,As the needle to the pole.Leaving grief’s lament unsaid,“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

Evermore Love’s quickening breathCalls the living soul from death;And the resurrection’s powerComes to every dying hour.When the soul, with vision clear,Learns that Heaven is always near,Never more shall it be said,“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

Farin the land of Love and Light,Where Death’s cold touch can never blightThe buds most precious to the sight—The Power DivineHath given to my fostering care,A youthful band of spirits fair.Thusare theymine.Sweet blossoms from the earthly spring—Weak fledglings with the untried wing—Dear lambs—such as the angels bring,With tenderest love,From earthly storms and tempests cold,Safe to the warm and sheltering fold,In heaven above.O, gentle mothers of the earth,Who gave these precious spirits birth,Your homes have lost their sounds of mirthAnd childish glee;But not in Death’s embrace they sleep—Nay, gentle mothers, cease to weep—They dwell with me.There, ’mid the amaranthine bowers,Through all the long, bright, gladsome hours,Your loved ones tend their birds and flowers,And often comeWith gifts of love and garlands bright,To gladden, with their forms of light,Your earthly home.Their gentle lips to yours are pressed,Their heads are pillowed on your breast,And in your loving arms they rest,For they are givenBy Him whose ways are ever kind,As precious links of love, to bindYour souls to heaven.O, could the sunshine of the heartDispel the blinding tears that start,And all your doubts and fears depart—Those forms, concealedLike blossoms ’neath the shades of night,Before your spirit’s quickening sightWould stand revealed.They still are yours, and yet are mine;I teach them of the Life Divine,And lead them to the truth’s pure shrine,That evermore,Through heavenly wisdom understood,The True, the Beautiful, the Good,They may adore.They know no griefs, they shed no tears,For perfect love dispels their fears,And through their life’s eternal years,They haste to meetThe humblest duty of the way,And every call of love obeyWith willing feet.O, ye who tears of anguish shedAbove some empty cradle-bed,Where once reposed a precious head—Be reconciled.For yet your longing eyes shall see,In heaven’s broad sunshine, glad and free,Your spirit child.They are all there—they are all there—The young, the beautiful, the fair;They know no want, they feel no care.They are not dead;But quickened in their spirit’s powers,Life crowns with her immortal flowersEach shining head.Some are no longer weak and small,But fair, and beautiful, and tall;And yet I call themchildrenall,For they believe,With child-like faith, the truths I teach,And render back in simple speechWhat they receive.They are more precious in my sightThan all the radiant gems of lightThat on the royal brow of nightArise and shine;And through a pure maternal love,Known even in the world above,I call them mine.O, ask them not for earth again,The bitter cup of grief to drain,To tread in sorrow and in painLife’s thorny track.Love’s rainbow arch to heaven they crossed;Gone, but not dead—unseen, not lost—Call them not back.O, gentle mothers, cease to weep;The faithful shepherd of the sheepThe tender little lambs will keep.’Mid shadows dim,Lean calmly on the Father’s breast—“He giveth his belovéd rest”—Trust ye in him.

Sweet blossoms from the earthly spring—Weak fledglings with the untried wing—Dear lambs—such as the angels bring,With tenderest love,From earthly storms and tempests cold,Safe to the warm and sheltering fold,In heaven above.

O, gentle mothers of the earth,Who gave these precious spirits birth,Your homes have lost their sounds of mirthAnd childish glee;But not in Death’s embrace they sleep—Nay, gentle mothers, cease to weep—They dwell with me.

There, ’mid the amaranthine bowers,Through all the long, bright, gladsome hours,Your loved ones tend their birds and flowers,And often comeWith gifts of love and garlands bright,To gladden, with their forms of light,Your earthly home.

Their gentle lips to yours are pressed,Their heads are pillowed on your breast,And in your loving arms they rest,For they are givenBy Him whose ways are ever kind,As precious links of love, to bindYour souls to heaven.

O, could the sunshine of the heartDispel the blinding tears that start,And all your doubts and fears depart—Those forms, concealedLike blossoms ’neath the shades of night,Before your spirit’s quickening sightWould stand revealed.

They still are yours, and yet are mine;I teach them of the Life Divine,And lead them to the truth’s pure shrine,That evermore,Through heavenly wisdom understood,The True, the Beautiful, the Good,They may adore.

They know no griefs, they shed no tears,For perfect love dispels their fears,And through their life’s eternal years,They haste to meetThe humblest duty of the way,And every call of love obeyWith willing feet.

O, ye who tears of anguish shedAbove some empty cradle-bed,Where once reposed a precious head—Be reconciled.For yet your longing eyes shall see,In heaven’s broad sunshine, glad and free,Your spirit child.

They are all there—they are all there—The young, the beautiful, the fair;They know no want, they feel no care.They are not dead;But quickened in their spirit’s powers,Life crowns with her immortal flowersEach shining head.

Some are no longer weak and small,But fair, and beautiful, and tall;And yet I call themchildrenall,For they believe,With child-like faith, the truths I teach,And render back in simple speechWhat they receive.

They are more precious in my sightThan all the radiant gems of lightThat on the royal brow of nightArise and shine;And through a pure maternal love,Known even in the world above,I call them mine.

O, ask them not for earth again,The bitter cup of grief to drain,To tread in sorrow and in painLife’s thorny track.Love’s rainbow arch to heaven they crossed;Gone, but not dead—unseen, not lost—Call them not back.

O, gentle mothers, cease to weep;The faithful shepherd of the sheepThe tender little lambs will keep.’Mid shadows dim,Lean calmly on the Father’s breast—“He giveth his belovéd rest”—Trust ye in him.

A POEM FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE LYCEUM.

Clearthe wintry sky was glowing,Sharp and loud the wind was blowing,Icy cold the stream was flowingIn the little woodland dell,When, with pitcher clasped so tightly,Tripping cheerfully and lightly,With her soft eyes smiling brightly,To the spring came little Nell.Late to bed and early rising,With a patience quite surprising,And without the least advising,Faithful as a little dove—Thus she toiled for her sick mother,For, poor child! there was none other,Not a sister or a brother,Who could share her work of love.As she stooped to dip the water,Straight the cruel north wind caught her,Down upon the ground it brought her,And the little pitcher fell.But with merry laugh upspringing,And again the pitcher bringing,As she filled it, gayly singing,Homeward hastened little Nell.“Ho!” cried Jack Frost, “if I catch her,Such cold feet and hands I’ll fetch her,I will make her drop her pitcher—Little good-for-nothing thing!Let me only once get at her,It will be no trifling matter!I will make her teeth to chatterSo, she will not dare to sing.”“Holy angels, guard us ever,God himself forsakes us never,”Sung the maiden, blithe as ever—“We are his forevermore.”Then the wild wind beating o’er her,Rudely on her way it bore her,Heaping up the snow before her,Till she reached the cottage door.Scarcely had her mother missed her.Hastening quickly to assist her,Tenderly she stooped and kissed her,And the poor, sick mother smiled.Closely to her heart she pressed her,Looking up to heaven she blessed her,And before her God, confessed herAs His gift—that precious child.Now, one little word of teaching—Though I am not fond of preaching—Yet most earnestly beseeching,I would say to children small—Learn that duties, howe’er lowly,Done inlove, will make life holy,And will bring, though ofttimes slowly,Sure and sweet reward to all.

Late to bed and early rising,With a patience quite surprising,And without the least advising,Faithful as a little dove—Thus she toiled for her sick mother,For, poor child! there was none other,Not a sister or a brother,Who could share her work of love.

As she stooped to dip the water,Straight the cruel north wind caught her,Down upon the ground it brought her,And the little pitcher fell.But with merry laugh upspringing,And again the pitcher bringing,As she filled it, gayly singing,Homeward hastened little Nell.

“Ho!” cried Jack Frost, “if I catch her,Such cold feet and hands I’ll fetch her,I will make her drop her pitcher—Little good-for-nothing thing!Let me only once get at her,It will be no trifling matter!I will make her teeth to chatterSo, she will not dare to sing.”

“Holy angels, guard us ever,God himself forsakes us never,”Sung the maiden, blithe as ever—“We are his forevermore.”Then the wild wind beating o’er her,Rudely on her way it bore her,Heaping up the snow before her,Till she reached the cottage door.

Scarcely had her mother missed her.Hastening quickly to assist her,Tenderly she stooped and kissed her,And the poor, sick mother smiled.Closely to her heart she pressed her,Looking up to heaven she blessed her,And before her God, confessed herAs His gift—that precious child.

Now, one little word of teaching—Though I am not fond of preaching—Yet most earnestly beseeching,I would say to children small—Learn that duties, howe’er lowly,Done inlove, will make life holy,And will bring, though ofttimes slowly,Sure and sweet reward to all.

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