The meadow lark's trill and the brown thrush's whistleFrom morning to evening fill all the sweet air,And my heart is as light as the down of a thistle--The world is so bright and the earth is so fair.There is life in the wood, there is bloom on the meadow;The air drips with songs that the merry birds sing.The sunshine has won, in the battle with shadow,And she's dressed the glad earth with robes of the spring.
The bee leaves his hive for the field of red cloverAnd the vale where the daisies bloom white as the snow,And a mantle of warm yellow sunshine hangs overThe calm little pond, where the pale lilies grow.In the woodland beyond it, a thousand gay voicesAre singing in chorus some jubilant air.The bird and the bee, and all nature rejoices,The world is so bright, and the earth is so fair.
I am glad as a child, in this beautiful weather;I have tossed all my burdens and trials away;My heart is as light-yes, as light as a feather;I am care-free, and careless, and happy to-day.Can it be there approaches a dark, drear to-morrow?Can shadows e'er fall on this beautiful earth!Ah! to-day is my own! no forebodings of sorrowShall darken my skies, or shall dampen my mirth.
The sweet maid, Day, has pillowed her headOn the breast of her dusky lover. Night.The sun has made her a couch of red,And woven a cover of dim twilight;And the lover kisses the maiden's brow,As low on her couch, she sleepeth now.
Here at my window, above the street,I sit, as the day lies in repose;And I list to the ceaseless tramp of feet,And I watch this human tide that flowsUpward and downward, to and fro,As the waves of an ocean, ebb and flow.
Over and over the busy town;Hither and thither, through all the day,One goes up, and another down,Each in his own allotted way.Strangers and kinsmen pass and meet,And jar, and jostle upon the street.
People that never met before,People that never will meet again;A careless glance of the eye, no more,And both are lost in the sea of men.Strangers divided by miles, in heart,Under my window meet and part.
But whether their feet pass up, or down,Over the river, east or west;Whether it's in or out of the town,To a haunt of sin, or a home of rest,--We are journeying to a common goal--There is onelastpoint for every soul.
Strangers and kinsmen, friend and foe,Whether their aims are great or small,Whether their paths lie high or low--There is one last resting place for all.Then upward, and onward, go surging byUnder my window--you all must die.
Nay--do not bring the jewels--Away with that robe of white,I am sick of the ball room, sister--I would rather stay here, to-night."The grandest ball of the season!""The upper-ten thousands' show!"Yes, yes, I know it, my darling,But I do not care to go.
Last night I was thinking deeply,Something I seldom do.You know I came home at midnight,Well, I lay awake till two.I was thinking of my girlhood,Just how I had spent its years,And I blushed for shame, my darling,And my pillow was wet with tears.
I have lived in a whirl of fashion,I have kept right up to the "style,"I have learned how to dance the "German,"How to bow, and flirt and smile.I have worn most beautiful dresses,Been the belle of many a ball.I have won the envy of women,And the praise of fops-that's all
Does any one really respect me?--Could a single thing be saidThat would give the mourners pleasureTo-morrow, if I were dead?"She wore such beautiful dresses,""She's a dozen strings to her bow,""She could waltz like a perfect fairy"--Would you like me remembered so?
Well, there's nothing else to rememberWhat thing have I ever doneThat has made a soul the betterOr cheered a hapless one?I have spent my time and money--The best of my fortune and days--In gaining the envy of womenAnd making the poor fops gaze.
I am going to be a woman,And live for others awhile--Forgetting myself for a season,Though I know it isn't the "style."I am in no mood for a revel--Away with that robe of white!And I will stay here, my darling,And talk with my heart to-night.
My heart is like a little birdThat sits and sings for very gladness.Sorrow is some forgotten word,And so, except in rhyme, is sadness.
The world is very fair to me--Such azure skies, such golden weather,I'm like a long caged bird set free,My heart is lighter than a feather.
I rise rejoicing in my life;I live with love for God and neighbor;My days flow on unmarred by strife,And sweetened by my pleasant labor.
Oh youth! oh spring! oh happy days,Ye are so passing sweet, and tender,And while the fleeting season stays,I'll revel care-free, in its splendor.
Soar not too high, oh bird of Hope!Because the skies are fair;The tempest may come on apaceAnd overcome thee there.
When far above the mountain topsThou soarest, over all--If, then, the storm should press thee back,How great would be thy fall!
And thou would'st lie here at my feet,A poor and lifeless thing,--A torn and bleeding birdling,With a limp and broken wing.
Sing not too loud, oh bird of Hope!Because the day is bright;The sunshine cannot always last--The morn precedes the night.
And if thy song is of the day,Then when the day grows dim,Forlorn and voiceless thou wouldst sitAmong the shadows grim.
Oh! I would have thee soar and sing,But not too high, or loud,Remembering that day meets nightThe brilliant sun the cloud.
The subtle beauty of this dayHangs o'er me like a fairy spell,And care and grief have flown away,And every breeze sings, "All is well."I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?"My heart replies, "I do not know."
Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart,Today is joy undimmed, complete;In tears or pain we have no part;The act of breathing is so sweet,We care no higher joy to name.What reek we now of wealth or fame!
The past--what matters it to me?The pain it gave has passed away.The future--that I cannot see!I care for nothing save today--This is a respite from all care,And trouble flies--I know not where.
Go on, oh, noisy, restless life!Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights!I have no part in aught of strife;I do not want your vain delights.The day wraps round me like a spellAnd every breeze sings, "All is well."
All in the beautiful Autumn weatherOne thought lingers with me and stays;Death and winter are coming together,Though both are veiled by the amber haze.I look on the forest of royal splendor!I look on the face in my quiet room;A face all beautiful, sad and tender,And both are stamped with the seal of doom.
All through the days of Indian summer,Minute by minute and hour by hour.I feel the approach of a dreaded Comer--A ghastly presence of awful power.I hear the birds in the early morning,As they fly from the fields that are turning brown,And at noon and at night my heart takes warning,For the maple leaves fall down and down.
The sumac bushes are all a-flaming!The world is scarlet, and gold, and green,And my darling's beautiful cheeks are shamingThe painted bloom of the ballroom queen.Why talk of winter, amid such glory?Why speak of death of a thing so fair?Oh, but the forest king white and hoaryIs weaving a mantle for both to wear.
God! if I could by the soft deceivingOf forests of splendor and cheeks of bloomLull my heart into sweet believingJust for a moment and drown my gloom;If I could forget for a second onlyAnd rest from the pain of this awful dreadOf days that are coming long and lonelyWhen the Autumn goes and she is dead.
But all the while the sun gilds wood and meadowAnd the fair cheeks, hectic glows and cheats,I know grim death sits veiled in shadowWeaving for both their winding sheets.I cannot help, and I cannot save her.My hands are as weak as a babe's, new-born;I must yield her up to One who gave herAnd wait for the resurrection morn.
All the world is full of babies,Sobbing, sighing everywhere,Looking out with eyes of terror,Beating at the empty air.Do they see the strife before them,That they sob and tremble so?Oh, the helpless, frightened babies;Still they come and still they go.
All the world is full of children,Laughing over little joys;Sighing over little troublesFingers bruised or broken toysWishing to be older, larger,Weeping at some fancied woe.Oh, the happy, hapless, children,Still they come and still they go.
All the earth is full of lovers,Walking slowly, whispering sweet,Dreaming dreams and building castlesThat must crumble at their feet;Breaking vows and burning letters,Smiling lest the world shall know.Oh, the foolish, trusting lovers,Still they come and still they go.
All the world is full of people,Hurrying, pushing, rushing by,Bearing burdens, carrying crosses,Passing onward with a sigh;Some like us, with smiling faces,And their heavy hearts below.Oh, the sad-eyed, burdened people--How they come and how they go!
All the earth is full of corpses,Dust and bones, laid there to rest,This the end, that babes and children,Lovers, people find at best;All their cares and all their burdens,All their sorrows, wearing soOh, the silent, happy corpses,Sleeping soundly, lying low.
Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. D. Atwood upon the celebrationof their silver wedding, August 25th, 1874.
The harvest-moon of wedded love,Fair in the heavens sailing,Has reached mid-height, and, clear and bright,Gives little sign of paling.
Since first, above the horizon,The silvery crescent lifted,The clouds of five-and-twenty yearsHave o'er its surface drifted.
But, while the days have come and gone,Though many a changing "morrow,"The growing moon sailed up and onAbove the hills of sorrow.
And, though with years came blinding tears,The guiding moon grew brighter;It gave relief, in time of grief--Made heavy burdens lighter.
One quarter of one hundred yearsIt has been growing, filling,Till, round and bright, its silvery lightOn all tonight is spilling.
Oh, harvesters on life's great plain!The young sheaves shining 'round youProve that you have not toiled in vainProve that God's blessing found you.
Smile in the moonlight's silver gleam,Rejoice in harvest weather;Ye know ye may not always keepThe precious sheaves together!
Shine on, oh moon of wedded bliss!Live on through many a morrow,Till from the sun of Immortal LoveIts golden light you borrow.
Your words came just when needed. Like a breeze,Blowing and bringing from the wide salt seaSome cooling spray, to meadow scorched with heatAnd choked with dust and clouds of sifted sand,That hateful whirlwinds, envious of its bloom,Had tossed upon it. But the cool sea breezeCame laden with the odors of the seaAnd damp with spray, that laid the dust and sandAnd brought new life and strength to blade and bloom,So words of thine came over miles to me,Fresh from the mighty sea, a true friend's heart,And brought me hope, and strength, and swept awayThe dusty webs that human spiders spunAcross my path. Friend--and the word means much--So few there are who reach like thee, a handUp over all the barking curs of spiteAnd give the clasp, when most its need is felt;Friend, newly found, accept my full heart's thanks.
She leaned out into the soft June weather,With her long loose tresses the night breeze played;Her eyes were as blue as the bells on the heather:Oh, what is so fair as a fair young maid!
She folded her hands, like the leaves of a lily,"My life," she said, "is a night in June,Fair and quiet, and calm and stilly;Bring me a change, oh changeful moon!
"Who would drift on a lake forever?Young hearts weary--it is not strange,And sigh for the beautiful bounding river;New moon, true moon, bring me a change!"
The rose that rivaled her maiden blushesDropped from her breast, at a stranger's feet;Only a glance; but the hot blood rushesTo mantle a fair face, shy and sweet.
To and fro, while the moon is waning,They walk, and the stars shine on above;And one is in earnest, and one is feigningOh, what is so sweet, as a sweet young love f
A young life crushed, and a young heart broken,A bleak wind blows through the lovely bower,And all that remains of the love vows spoken--Is the trampled leaf of a faded flower.
The night is dark, for the moon is failing--And what is so pale, as a pale old moon!Cold is the wind through the tree tops wailingWoe that the change should come so soon.
They stood together at the garden gate;They heard the night bird calling to his mate;The sun had set,And all the vines upon the summer bowers,The long green grasses, and the blooming flowersWere dewy wet.
The sun's last rays had lit the Western skiesAnd dipped the mass of clouds in golden dyesBrilliant and grand.They stood in silence for a little while,And then he turned, and with a tender smileHe took her hand.
"Of all the sweet days we have known, my friend,"He said half sadly, "This will be the end.I grieve to go,Loving, as I shall never love again;It rends my heart-strings, and it gives me pain,But well I know
"I could not make you happy with my love,You, tender hearted, gentle as a dove,And I--oh, well!I cannot grovel on in this dull life.How my soul yearns for scenes of noise and strifeNo tongue can tell.
"And so I give you back the pledge you gave,I should but drag you to an early graveWith my unrest.You are unfettered; but here at your feetI leave my heart; oh, may you be, my sweet,Forever blest."
She drew from off her hand the hoop of gold(Dearer to her by far than wealth untold)And gave to him,And as she, slow and silent, moved away,Her life like all that Western sky grew grayAnd bleak and grim.
He walks to-day, with kings upon the earth;He dwells in scenes of revelry and mirth,With naught of care.And she--the sun that set for her in deepest gloom,And never rose, will rise beyond the tombAnd meet her there.
The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,And I laughed, when the music fell on my ear,For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,And they played so loud that I could not hearThe wailing and moaning of souls a-weary--The strains of sorrow that floated around,For my heart's notes rang loud and cheery,And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,Played louder and louder in joyful glee;But sometimes a discord was heard by others--Though only the rhythm was heard by me.Louder and louder, and faster and fasterThe hands of the brothers played strain on strain,When all of a sudden, a Mighty MasterSwept them aside; and Pain,
Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;Each note was an echo of awful anguish,As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow,And my soul for a season seemed to languishAnd faint with its weight of woe.
With skillful hands, that were never weary,This Master of Music played strain on strain,And between the bars of the miserere,He drew up the strings of my heart again,And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,To see that they did not snap in two."They are drawn so tight they will break asunder,"I thought, but instead, they grew.
In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger;And I could hear on the stilly air--Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer--The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair;And my soul grew tender and kind to others,My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad,And I held all men to be my brothers,Linked by the chastening rod.
My soul was lifted to God and heaven,And when on my heart-strings fell againThe hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even,There was never a discord to mar the strain,For Pain, the musician, and soul-refiner,Attuned the strings with a master hand,And whether the music be major or minor,It is always sweet and grand.
I heard a low sound, like a troubled soul praying:And the winds of the winter night brought it to me.'Twas the doomed city's voice: "Oh, kind snow," it was saying,"Come, cover my ruins, so ghastly to see.I am robbed of my beauty, and shorn of my glory;And the strength that I boasted--where is it to-day?I am down in the dust; and my pitiful storyMakes tearless eyes weep, and unpious lips pray.
"I--I, who have reveled in pomp and in power,Am down on my knees, with my face in the dust;But yesterday queen, with a queen's royal dower,To-day I am glad of a crumb or a crust.But yesterday reigning, a grand mighty city,The pride of the nation, the queen of the West;To-day I am gazed at, an object of pity,A charity child, asking alms, at the best.
"My strength, and my pride, and my glory departed,My fair features scorched by the fire fiend's breath,Is it strange that I'm soul-sick and sorrowful hearted?Is it strange that my thoughts run on ruin and death?Oh, white, fleecy clouds that are drooping above me,Hark, hark to my pleadings, and answer my sighs,And let down the beautiful snow, if you love me,To cover my wounds from all pitying eyes.
"I am hurled from my throne, but not hurled down forever;I shall rise from the dust; I shall live down my woes--But my heart lies to-day, like a dumb, frozen river;When to thaw out and flow again, God only knows.Oh, sprites of the air! I beseech you to weave meA mantle of white snow, and beautiful rimeTo cover my unsightly ruins; then leave meIn the hands of the healer of all wounds--'Old Time.'"
In the warm yellow smile of the morning,She stands at the lattice pane,And watches the strong young bindersStride down to the fields of grain,And she counts the over and overAs they pass the cottage door:Are they six? she counts them seven--Are they seven? she counts one more.
When the sun swings high in the heavens,And the reapers go shouting home,She calls to the household, saying"Make haste! for the binders have come!And Johnnie will want his dinner--He was always a hungry child;"And they answer, "Yes, it is waiting;"Then tell you, "Her brain is wild."
Again, in the hush of the evening,When the work of the day is done,And the binders go singing homewardIn the last red rays of the sun,She will sit at the threshold waiting,And her withered face lights with joy:"Come, Johnnie," she says, as they pass her,"Come into the house, my boy."
Five summers ago, her JohnnieWent out in the smile of the morn,Singing across the meadow,Striding down through the corn--He towered above the binders,Walking on either side,And the mother's heart within herSwelled with exultant pride.
For he was the light of the household--His brown eyes were wells of truth,And his face was the face of the morning,Lit with its pure, fresh youth,And his song rang out from the hill-topsLike the mellow blast of a horn,As he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows,And down through the rows of corn.
But hushed were the voices of singing,Hushed by the presence of death,As back to the cottage they bore him--In the noontide's scorching breath,For the heat of the sun had slain him,Had smitten the heart in his breast,And he who had towered above themLay lower than all the rest.
The grain grows ripe in the sunshine,And the summers ebb and flow,And the binders stride to their laborAnd sing as they come and go;But never again from the hill-topsEchoes the voice like a horn;Never up from the meadows,Never back from the corn.
Yet the poor, crazed brain of the motherFancies him always near;She is blest in her strange delusion,For she knoweth no pain nor fear,And always she counts the bindersAs they pass her cottage door;Are they six, she counts them seven:Are they seven, she counts one more.
Nine o'clock, and the sun shines as yellow and warm,As though 'twere a fete day. I wish it would storm:Wish the thunder would crash,And the red lightning flash,And lap the black clouds, with its serpentine tongue.The day is too calm, for a man to be hung.Hung! ugh, what a word!The most heartless and horrible ear ever heard.
He has murdered, and plundered, and robbed, so "they say";Been the scourge of the country, for many a day.He was lawless and wild;Man, woman, or childMet no mercy, no pity, if found in his path;He was worse than a beast of the woods, in his wrath.And yet--to be hung,Oh, my God! to be swungBy the neck to, and fro, for the rabble to see--The thought sickens me.
Thirty minutes past nine. How the time hurries by,But a half hour remains, at ten he will die.Die? No! he'll be killed!For God never willedMen should die in this way."Vengeance is mine," He saith, "I will repay."Yet what could be doneWith this wild, lawless one!No prison could hold him, and so--he must swing,It's a horrible thing!
Outcast, Desperado, Fiend, Knave; all of theseAnd more. But call him whatever you please,I cannot forgetHe's a mortal man yet:That he once was a babe, and was hushed into rest,And fondled and pressed, to a woman's warm breast.Was sung to, and rocked,And when he first walkedWith his weak little feet, he was petted, and toldHe was "mamma's own pet, worth his whole weight in gold."And this is the endOf a God-given life. Just think of it, friend!
Hark! hear you that chime? 'Tis the clock striking ten.The dread weight falls down, with a sound like "Amen."Does murder pay murder? do two wrongs make a right?Oh, that horrible sight!I am shut in my room, and have covered my face,But the dread scene has followed me into this place.I see that strange thing,Like a clock pendulum swingTo and fro, in the air, back and forth, to and fro.One moment ago'Twas a man, in God's image! now hide it, kind grave.What a terrible end, to the life that God gave.
When I am dead, if some chastened one,Seeing the "item," or hearing it saidThat my play is over and my part done,And I lie asleep in my narrow bed--If I could know that some soul would say,Speaking aloud or silently,"In the heat and the burden of the day,She gave a refreshing draught to me;"
Or, "When I was lying nigh unto deathShe nursed me to life and to strength again,And when I labored and struggled for breathShe smoothed and quieted down my pain;"Or, "When I was groping in grief and doubt,Lost, and turned from the light o' the day,Her hand reached me and helped me outAnd led me up to the better way;"
Or, "When I was hated and shunned by all,Bowing under my sin and my shame,She, once in passing me by, let fallWords of pity and hope, that cameInto my heart like a blessed calmOver the waves of the stormy sea,Words of comfort, like oil and balm,She spake, and the desert blossomed for me;"
Better, by far, than a marble tomb--Than a monument towering over my head(What shall I care, in my quiet room,For headboard or footboard when I am dead?);Better than glory, or honors, or fame(Though I am striving for those to-day),To know that some heart would cherish my nameAnd think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.
Across the sodden field we gaze,To woodlands, painted gold and brown;To hills that hide in purple haze,And proudly wear the Autumn's crown.Oh, lavish Autumn! fair, we know,And yet we cannot deem her so.
The blossoms had their little day;The grasses, and the green-hung trees.They lived, grew old, and passed away.And yet, not satisfied with these,The cruel Autumn could not passWithout this last fell stroke. Alas!
"Alas," we cry, because God's waysSeem so at variance with our own,And grieving through the nights and days,We see not that His love was shownIn gathering to His "Harvest Home"Our lost one, from the grief to come.
Oh, tears! she will not have to weep!Oh, Woes! she will not have to bear!For her, who fell so soon asleep,No furrowed face, no whitened hair.And yet we would have given her these,In lieu of heavenly victories.
How weak the strongest mortal love!How selfish in its tenderness!How God's angelic host aboveMust wonder at our blind distress!We see her still grave, dark and dim,And they see only Heaven and Him.
Perpetual youth! oh, priceless boon!Forever youthful: never old!How can we think she died too soon?What though life's story was half told?Wiser than all earth's seers, to-day,Is this fair soul, that passed away.
Magician, sage, philosopher,With all their vast brain-wealth combined,Are only babes, compared with her:This soul, that left the "things behind"And, "reaching to the things before,"Gained God, through Christ, forevermore.
Brave heart, whose bed has now been madeA twelve month neath the grasses,Checkered by sunshine and by shade,Where every breeze that passesHushes its song and sighs along,With sorrow in its cadence,Not thinking how thy sainted browGlows with a Christly radiance.
Do spirits hover in the air?Do the dear dead ones neverFloat on the gentle zyphers nearOut of the vast forever!Somehow to-day my thoughts will strayTo you, oh friend, in slumber!You seem so near, I feel you here,One of the angel number.
Oh, face I never looked upon!Oh, quiet, dreamless sleeper!How strange that when you journeyed onWith death, the mighty reaper,I missed you so. Do angels know,Up in the City's splendor,When hearts on earth embalm their worth,And are they glad, I wonder?
Oh Bird of Hope! Soar not too highBecause the skies are fair;The tempest may come on apaceAnd overcome thee there.
When far above the mountain topsThou soarest over all,If, then, the storm should press thee back,How great would be thy fall!
And thou wouldst lie here at my feet,A poor and lifeless thing--A torn and bleeding birdling, withA limp and broken wing.
Sing not too loud, oh bird of Hope!Because the day is bright;The sunshine cannot always last--The morn precedes the night.
And if thy song is of the day,Then when the day grows dim,Forlorn and voiceless thou wouldst sitAmong the shadows grim.
Oh! I would have thee soar and sing,But not too high, or loud:Remembering that day meets night--The brilliant sun the cloud.
There are ghosts in the room,As I sit here alone, from the dark corners thereThey come out of the gloomAnd they stand at my side, and they lean on my chair.
There's the ghost of a HopeThat lighted my days with a fanciful glow;In her hand is the ropeThat strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.
But her ghost comes to-night,With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes,And it stands in the lightAnd mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.
There's the ghost of a Joy,A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,And the hands that destroyClasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.
There's the ghost of a love,Born with Joy, reared with Hope, died in pain and unrest;But he towers aboveAll the others--this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.
I am weary, and fainWould forget all these dead: but the gibbering hostMake the struggle in vain.In each shadowy corner, there lurketh a ghost.
Out of the midnight, rayless and starless,Into the morning's golden light;Out of the clutches of wrong and ruin,Into the arms of truth and right;Out of the ways that are ways of sorrow;Out of the paths that are paths of pain--Yea! out of the depths has a soul arisen,And "one that is lost is found again!"
Lost in the sands of an awful desert!Lost in a region of imps accursed,With bones of a victim to mark his pathway,And burning lava to quench his thirst.Lost in the darkness, astray in the shadows--Father above, do we pray in vain?Hark! on the winds come gleeful tidings:Lo, "he that was lost is found again."
Found! and the sunlight of God's great mercyDispels the shadows and brings the morn;Found! and the hosts of the dear RedeemerAre shouting aloud o'er a soul re-born.Plucked, like a brand from the conflagration;Cleansed, like a garment free from stain;Saved--pray God--for now and forever--Lost for a season, but found again.
"Out of the depths," by the grace of heaven,Out of the depths of woe and shame.And he strikes his name from the roll of drunkards,To carve it again on the heights of fame,"Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging"--Glory to God, he has snapped the chainThat bound him with fetters of steel and iron;And "he that was lost is found again."
Down with the cup, though it gleams like rubies!Down with the glass, though it sparkle and shine!"It bites like a serpent, and stings like an adder"--There is shame, and sorrow, and woe in wine.Keen though the sword be, and deadly its mission,Three times its number the wine cup has slain.God, send thy grace upon these it has fettered;God grant the lost may be found again.
My life is full of sad mistakes,--Today I was thinking about them,And thinking of all that I might have beenIf I had but lived without them.So many times have I laid my plan,Only to spoil it in doing;And much of the work that the world calls goodHas left me cause for rueing.
Each thing that I do is like the pageOf a hurriedly written letter;--Full of good thoughts perhaps, but the blotsProve that it might be better.I have wished for the world's applause, and thoughtTo make it praise and wonder,But my noblest aim and best laid planWas sure to be spoiled by a blunder.
I think I have lived too far from God,--Not that I ever doubt Him,But feeling too sure of my strength, I've triedTo do some things without Him.And so we shall always make mistakes,And always our errors be rueing,Until we reach up for the Guiding Hand,Whatever we may be doing.
Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder--I check myself, and say, "That mighty OneWho made the solar system cannot blunder--And for the best all things are being done."Who set the stars on their eternal coursesHas fashioned this strange earth by some sure plan.Bow low, bow low to those majestic forcesNor dare to doubt their wisdom--puny man.
You cannot put one little star in motion,You cannot shape one single forest leaf,Nor fling a mountain up, nor sink an ocean,Presumptuous pigmy, large with unbelief.You cannot bring one dawn of regal splendorNor bid the day to shadowy twilight fall,Nor send the pale moon forth with radiance tender,And dare you doubt the One who has done all?
"So much is wrong, there is such pain--such sinning."Yet look again--behold how much is right!And He who formed the world from its beginningKnows how to guide it upward to the light.Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavilAt God's achievements, but with purpose strongTo cling to good, and turn away from evil--That is the way to help the world along.
The God of the day has vanished,The light from the hills has fled,And the hand of an unseen artist,Is painting the West all red.All threaded with gold and crimson,And burnished with amber dye,And tipped with purple shadows,The glory flameth high.
Fair, beautiful world of ours!Fair, beautiful world, but oh,How darkened by pain and sorrow,How blackened by sin and woe.The splendor pales in the heavensAnd dies in a golden gleam,And alone in the hush of twilight,I sit, in a checkered dream.
I think of the souls that are straying,In shadows as black as night,Of hands that are groping blindlyIn search of the shining light;Of hearts that are mutely crying,And praying for just one ray,To lead them out of the shadows,Into the better way.
I think of the Father's childrenWho are trying to walk alone,Who have dropped the hand of the Parent,And wander in ways unknown.Oh, the paths are rough and thorny,And I know they cannot stand.They will faint and fall by the wayside,Unguided by God's right hand.
And I think of the souls that are yearningTo follow the good and true;That are striving to live unsullied,Yet know not what to do.And I wonder when God, the Master,Shall end this weary strife,And lead us out of the shadowsInto the deathless life.
Whoever you are as you read this,Whatever your trouble or grief,I want you to know and to heed this:The day draweth near with relief.
No sorrow, no woe is unending,Though heaven seems voiceless and dumb;So sure as your cry is ascending,So surely an answer will come.
Whatever temptation is near you,Whose eyes on this simple verse fall;Remember good angels will hear youAnd help you to stand, if you call.
Though stunned with despair I beseech you,Whatever your losses, your need,Believe, when these printed words reach youBelieve you were born to succeed.
You are stronger, I tell you, this minute,Than any unfortunate fate!And the coveted prize--you can win it;While life lasts 'tis never too late!
Too sweet and too subtle for pen or for tongueIn phrases unwritten and measures unsung,As deep and as strange as the sounds of the sea,Is the song that my spirit is singing to me.
In the midnight and tempest when forest trees shiver,In the roar of the surf, and the rush of the river,In the rustle of leaves and the fall of the rain,And on the low breezes I catch the refrain.
From the vapors that frame and envelope the earth,And beyond, from the realms where my spirit had birth,From the mists of the land and the fogs of the sea,Forever and ever the song comes to me.
I know not its wording--its import I know--For the rhythm is broken, the measure runs low,When vexed or allured by the things of this lifeMy soul is merged into its pleasures or strife.
When up to the hill tops of beauty and lightMy soul like a lark in the ether takes flight,And the white gates of heaven shine brighter and nearer,The song of the spirit grows sweeter and clearer.
Up, up to the realms where no mortal has trod--Into space and infinity near to my God--With whiteness, and silence, and beautiful things,I am borne when the voice of eternity sings.
When once in the winds or the drop of the rainThy spirit shall listen and hear the refrain,Thy soul shall soar up like a bird on the breeze,And the things that have pleased thee will never more please.
And now when poets are singingTheir song of olden days,And now, when the land is ringingWith sweet Centennial lays,My muse goes wandering backwardTo the groundwork of all these,To the time when our Pilgrim FathersCame over the winter seas.
The sons of a mighty kingdom,Of a cultured folk were they,Born amidst pomp and splendor,Bred in it, day by day.Children of bloom and beauty,Reared under skies serene,Where the daisy and hawthorne blossomedAnd the ivy was always green.
And yet, for the sake of freedom,For a free religious faith,They turned from home and people,And stood face to face with death.They turned from a tyrant rulerAnd stood on the new world's shore,With a waste of waters behind them,And a waste of land before.
Oh, men of a great Republic;Of a land of untold worth;Of a nation that has no equalUpon God's round green earth;I hear you sighing and cryingOf the hard, close times at hand;What think you of those old heroes,On the rock 'twixt sea and land.
The bells of a million churchesGo ringing out to-night,And the glitter of palace windowsFills all the land with light;And there is the home and college,And here is the feast and ball,And the angels of peace and freedomAre hovering over all.
They had no church, no college,No banks, no mining stock;They had but the waste before them,The sea and Plymouth Rock.But there in the night and tempest,With gloom on every hand,They laid the first foundationOf a nation great and grand.
There were no weak repinings,No shrinking from what might he,But with their brows to the tempest,And with their backs to the sea,They planned out a noble future,And planted the corner-stoneOf the grandest, greatest republicThe world has ever known.
Oh, women in homes of splendor,Oh lily-buds frail and fair,With fortunes upon your fingers,And milk-white pearls in your hair,I hear you longing and sighingFor some new fresh delight;But what of those Pilgrim mothersOn that December night?
I hear you talking of hardships,I hear you moaning of loss,Each has her fancied sorrow,Each bears her self-made cross.But they, they had only their husbands,The rain, the rock, and the sea;Yet, they looked up to God and blessed Him,And were glad because they were free.
Oh, grand old Pilgrim heroes,Oh, souls that were tried and true,With all of our proud possessionsWe are humbled at thought of you.Men of such might and muscle,Women so brave and strong,Whose faith was fixed as the mountains,Through a night so dark and long.
We know of your grim, grave errors,As husbands and as wives;Of the rigid bleak ideasThat starved your daily lives;Of pent-up, curbed emotions,Of feelings crushed, suppressed,That God with the heart createdIn every human breast.
We know of the little remnantOf British tyranny,When you hunted Quakers and witches,And swung them from a tree;Yet back to a holy motive,To live in the fear of God,To a purpose light, exalted,To walk where martyrs trod.
We can trace your gravest errors.Your aim was fixed and sure;And e'en if your acts were fanatic,We know your hearts were pure.You lived so near to heaven,You overreached your trust,And deemed yourselves creators,Forgetting you were but dust
But we with our broader visions,With our wider realms of thought,I often think would be betterIf we lived as our fathers taught.Their lives seemed bleak and rigid,Narrow and void of bloom;Our minds have too much freedom,And conscience too much room.
They overreached in duty,They starved their hearts for the right;We live too much in the senses,We bask too long in the light.They proved by their clinging to HimThe image of God in man;And we, by our love of license,Strengthen a Darwin's plan.
But bigotry reached its limit,And license must have its sway,And both shall result in profitTo those of a later day.With the fetters of slavery broken,And freedom's flag unfurled,Our nation strides onward and upward,And stands the peer of the world.
Spires and domes and steeplesGlitter from shore to shore;The waters are white with commerce,The earth is studded with ore;Peace is sitting above us,And Plenty, with laden hand,Wedded to sturdy Labor,Goes singing through the land.
Then let each child of the nationWho glories in being free,Remember the Pilgrim FathersWho stood on the rock by the sea;For there in the rain and tempestOf a night long passed away,They sowed the seeds of a harvestWe gather in sheaves to-day.
Something is missing from the balmy spring;There is no perfume in its gentle breath;And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing,And all the bees chant of the grave and death--Something is missing from the earth. One mornThe angels called a new name on the roll;A spirit soldier to their ranks was borne,And all Christ's army welcomed the pure young soul.
He died. Two little words, but only GodCan understand the awful depths of woeThey hold for those who pass beneath the rod,Praying for strength, from Him who aimed the blow.He died. The soldier who fought long and well,Who walked with Death upon the battle-field,Among the bellowing guns--the shrieking shell--In poison prison dens--and would not yield.
A six month three times told, he languished there,And yet he lived; oh, young heart, strong and brave!Thank God, who heard the oft repeated prayer;Thank God, he does not fill a Southern grave;That when he died, the loved ones gathered round,And eased the anguish of those last, sad hours;That gentle hands can keep the precious moundAll green with mosses, and abloom with flowers.
He was so young and fair; and life was sweet.Christ give the mourners strength to drain the cup.He went to make the Heavenly ranks complete.God sent the angel Death, to bear him upSo young, and fair and brave; so loved by all;The lisping child-life's veteran, bent and gray--The eyes grew dim, and bitter tear-drops fallUpon the mound where lies the soldier's clay.
Oh! it is sweet to feel that God knows best,Who called in youth this brother, friend and son,And sweet to lean upon the Saviour's breast,And looking upward, say, "Thy will be done."But something is missing from the balmy spring;There is no perfume in its gentle breath,And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing,And all the bees chant of the grave, and death.
These quiet autumn days,My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wingsGoes out, and searches for the hidden thingsBeyond the hills of haze.
With mournful, pleading cries,Above the waters of the voiceless seaThat laps the shores of Eternity,Day after day it flies.
Searching, but all in vain,For some stray leaf that it may light uponAnd read the future as the days agone--Its pleasure and its pain.
Listening, patiently,For some voice speaking from the mighty deep,Revealing all the secrets it doth keepIn silence, there for me.
Come back and wait, my soul!Day after day thy search has been in vain.Voiceless and silent o'er the future's pain,Its mystic waters roll.
God seeing, knoweth best,And day by day the waters shall subside,And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide;Then wait, my soul, and rest.
She sits beside the window. All who passTurn once again to gaze on her sweet face.She is so fair; but soon, too soon, alas,To lie down in her last low resting place.
No gems are brighter than her sparkling eyes,Her brow like polished marble, white and fair--Her cheeks as glowing as the sunset skies--You would not dream that death was lurking there.
But, oh! he lingers closely at her side,And when the forest dons her Autumn dress,We know that he will claim her as his bride,And earth will number one fair spirit less.
She sees the meadow robed in richest green--The laughing stream--the willows bending o'er.With tear dimmed eyes she views each sylvan scene,And thinks earth never was so fair before.
We do not sigh for Heaven, till we have known,Something of sorrow, something of grief and woe,And as a summer day her life has flown.Then, can we wonder she is loath to go?
She has no friends in Heaven: all are here.No lost one waits her in that unknown land,And life grows doubly, trebly sweet and dearAs day by day, she nears the mystic strand.
We love her and we grieve to see her go.But it is Christ who calls her to His breast,And He shall greet her, and she soon shall knowThe joys of souls that dwell among the blest.
The shadows of a winter night were falling,The snows were drifting in my cottage door--And loud the voices of the winds were calling,When there came a stranger, lone, despised, and poor!
Came to my glowing hearth, all humbly pleadingFor food and shelter till the day should dawn--But to his every word I stood unheeding,And turned him forth and bade him wander on.
I have six little ones to guard from danger;I have a pillow for each precious head;But nought to waste upon a beggared stranger--And "charity begins at home," I said.
All fierce and loud the winter wind was groaning,Like some lost spirit, doomed to death it seemed;While at some door it made its ceaseless moaning,I sought my pillow, and I slept and dreamed.
I dreamed I stood at Heaven's gate entreating,Weeping and wailing for the other side;While in the gloom I stood, all wildly beating,Begging the angel guard to open wide.
At length I heard the pearly hinges turning,And saw the glories that no tongue can tell.Before me all the hues of Heaven burning,Behind me all the gloom of death and hell.
I strove to enter, but a voice like thunder,Cried "Come no nearer, oh! thou soul of sin."And I shrank down in awful fear and wonder,For I had thought to enter boldly in.
Again the voice cried, "When in woe and anguish,I sought a shelter at thy glowing hearth,Thou turned me out, unclothed, unfed to languish,And wander wearily upon the earth.
"Depart from here, thou selfish sinful mortal,On heaven's perfect face, a stain and blot;For never can'st thou cross the shining portal,Ye knew not me and now I know ye not."
I sit in the twilight dim,At the close of an idle day,And list to the sweet, soft hymnThat rises far awayAnd dies on the evening air.Oh, all day long,They sing their song,Who toil in the valley there.
But never a song sing I,Sitting with folded hands,The hours pass me by--Dropping their golden sands--And I list from day to day,To the "tick, tick, tock,"Of the old brown clock,Ticking my life away.
And I see the twilight fade,And I see the night come on,And then, in the gloom and shade,I weep for the day that's gone--Weep and wail in pain,For the misspent dayThat has flown away,And will not come again.
Another morning beams,But I forget the last,And sit in my idle dreamsTill the day is over--past.Oh, the toiler's heart is glad!When the day is goneAnd the night comes on,But mine is sore and sad.
For I dare not look behind!No shining, golden sheavesCan I ever hope to find:Nothing but withered leaves.Ah! dreams are very sweet!But will it pleaseIf only theseI lay at the Master's feet.
And what will the Master say,To dreams and nothing more?Oh, idler all the day!Think, ere thy life is o'er!And when the day grows late,Oh, soul of sin,Will He let you inThere at the pearly gate?
Oh, idle heart beware!On, to the field of strife!On, to the valley there,And live a useful life.Up! do not wait a day!For the old brown clock,With its "tick, tick, tock,"Is ticking your life away.
I know a "righteous Christian,"(That is, he thinks he's one,)He goes to church on SundayAnd thinks his duty done.And always at prayer-meeting,He sighs, and groans, and prays;And talks about the sinners,And warns them from their ways.
And many of his neighbors,He knows are bound for hell;Although they love their Master,And do their duty well.But they pray within their closet,And do not own a "pew,"And he's sure they'll not be numberedAmong God's chosen few.
He exhorts men to be carefulAnd keep from worldly strife.And he thinks a race for richesThe worst thing in this life."Do good," he cried, "with money,Ye who have aught to spare,"And he preaches quite a sermon,And ends it with a prayer.
Well! he has bonds with coupons,And lots of cash on hand,And when the fierce Fire Demon,Went raging through our land,The neighborhood was canvassed,For money, clothes, and food,To send the starving people,And the man who cries, "Do good,"--
My preaching, praying Christian,Now boasts, in pride and glee,"Those begging, sponging rascals,Didn't get a cent from me!I don't believe their stories,About the suffering poor,The thieves were after money,And I sent them from my door."
Oh, out upon such a pretense!May a curse be upon his gold,And the cries of an hundred people,Hungry, and naked, and cold,Ring in his ears forever;And the words his false lips prayFall on deaf ears in heaven,From now till the Judgment Day.
Oh "hypocrites, and liars!"Your prayers blaspheme God's name!And if the angels hear them,They blush for you in shame,And, though you deceive your fellows,With the pious cloak you wear;The hosts of heaven look deeper,And they know your true worth there.
The great high arch of heaven, like tapestryOn ancient walls, was grandly colored--saveThe quiet, cloudless west, that was a seaOf purest crystal--golden wave on wave."Oh love," she whispered, "open wide the blind,And let me see the glory of the West;There just across the sea, my soul will find--What here is never found--find peace and rest."
Deeper, and darklier grand, the bright clouds grew,And red and amber streaks shot through the North.The very light of heaven was shining throughThe crystal West. She reached her thin hand forthAnd a strange splendor fell upon her face;And her dark eyes glowed with unearthly light.I knew it came from God's celestial plane,Where there is neither sorrow, death, nor night.
"Oh love!" she cried, "my struggling spirit yearnsTo leave this clay and go across the sea,Look! how to molten gold the whole sky turns;And see that white hand beckoning to me.Oh love, my love, this is not death, to goAt this sweet hour across the golden tide;To drop my every care, and henceforth knowOnly the pleasures of that other side."
The angel took the tapestries away,And rolled them up in heaven, out of sight,Leaving the common walls of sombre grayTo catch the dews and damp fogs of the night.The west wind played upon his dulcimer.I leaned across her couch with bated breath;"Oh love," I said, as I gazed down on her,"Surely, thy words were true, this is not death!"
Thank God for men! I hear the shoutFrom east and west go up, and out.Thank God for men whose hearts are true;For men who boldly dare, and do.For men who are not bought and sold,Who value honor more than gold,For men large-hearted, noble-minded,For men whose visions are not blindedWith selfish aims: men who will fightWith tongue or sword, for what is right;For men whom threats can never cower,For men who dare to use their powerTo shield the right and punish wrongE'en though his host are bold and strong;For men who work with hearts and handsFor what the public good demands.Bless God the thankful people say,Such men have not all passed away.
Bless God, enough are left, at leastTo put a muzzle on the beastThat walks our land from breadth to lengthAnd robs the strong man of his strength,Takes bread from babes, steals wise men's brains,And leaves them bound in helpless chains;Makes sin and sorrow, shame and woe,Where e'er his cloven foot may go.This is the mission of the beastWhose bloated keepers sit and feastOn seasoned dainties that were boughtWith blood, and tears, and God knows what.Keepers who laugh when women cry,Who smile when children starve and die,If so they gain one farthing moreTo add to their ill-gotten store.
From south and north and west and east,The people clamored: "Chain the beast!Fetter the monster Alcohol,Before he robs us of our all."
Thank God, the earnest cry was heard,And hearts of noble men were stirred,And though a weak-kneed host went downBefore the keeper's threatening frown,Enough were left--a bold, brave few,Strong-brained, broad-souled men that were true,Men who were men, and did not fearThe villain's threat, the coward's sneer;Enough to muzzle with the lawThe foulest beast the world e'er saw.Thank God, thank God, the people say.True men have not all passed away.
Upon a couch all robed by careful handsFor her repose, the maiden Mable liesHer long bright hair is braided in smooth bands--A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyes
May, wondering, gaze upon a little while;That mortal hands may touch a few times more.Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile;As if the glories of that mystic shore
When first they fell upon her spirit eyes--All the rare splendors of that unseen way--Had touched her with a wondering, glad surprise,And left the pleased expression on her clay.
Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast--Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow.And they have robed her for her peaceful rest.Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe,
But in that garb we loved to see her wear;A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand.I wonder, as I see her lying there,If God will give her spirit in His land
Another shape. She could not be more fair.I think he will not change her form, or face,But with the same long, rippling, golden hairShe will kneel down before the throne of grace,
And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will raiseUp to Christ's face, and touch Him with her hand,And will with her own sweet voice, sing God's praiseAnd still be fairest in the Angel band.
Over the ocean of life's commotionWe sail till the night comes on.Sail and sail in a tiny boat,Drifting wherever the billows go.Out on the treacherous sea afloat,Beat by the cruel winds that blow,Hither and thither our boat is drawn,Till the day dies out and the night comes on.
Over a meadow of light and shadowWe wander with weary feet,Seeking a bauble men call "Fame,"Grasping the dead-sea fruit named "wealth,"Finding each but an empty name,And the night--the night steals on by stealth.And we count the season of slumber sweet,When hope lies dead in the arms of defeat.
Over the river a great Forever,Stretches beyond our sight.But I know by the glistening pearly gatesAfar from the region of strife and sin,A beautiful angel always waitsTo welcome the sheep of the shepherd in.And out of the shadows of gloom and night,They enter the mansion of peace and light.
My heart that otherwise was glad(So much God gives to make it so)This golden afternoon is sadAnd troubled with another's woe;And stranger that I am, I fainWould send some solace for her pain.
My talks with Sorrow have been brief;She touched my robe, in gliding by--And when I've chanced to meet with Grief,He's passed me with averted eye.Yet, through another's pain, I seeSometimes a glimpse of what may be.
And of all griefs that mortals know--Of all that pierce the human heart,There seems to me no other woeLike that which rends the soul apart,When a fond mother sees death's nightSealing an infant's eyes of light.
The babe endeared by pangs and fearsThat she has suffered for its sake,The babe she watched above with tears,Or sat through lonely nights, awake.And sang some tender lullaby--And all for this--to see it die.
And thinking of that stricken one,Who weeps to-day a double loss,Who sees a darkness o'er the sunMade by her overshadowing cross--And thinking how her poor arms ache--I shed some tears for her sad sake.
Yet in the perfect pure sunlight--In flowers of beauty and perfume,I think God puts these souls so white,And gives them back to us in bloom.'Tis thus we have the light and flowers,By yielding up these buds of ours.
In every golden, burnished ray,In every sweet unfolding leaf,Sad mother, you may find to-daySome little solace in your grief.God lets them comfort you this wise,Until you join them in the skies.