Brethren, go! the day is bright'ningAs the sultry noon steals on,And the fields, already whit'ning,Tell of labor to be done.
There are toilsome days before you,Burdens that you may not shun,Clouds will gather darkly o'er you,Reeds will fail you one by one.
Yet go forth to strong endeavor,'Neath the shadow of the cross;He who calls will leave you never,—Never let you suffer loss!
Go; the voices of the dyingFloat on every passing breeze;Tones of wild, imploring cryingCome from lands beyond the seas!
Go where pain and sorrow languish,Go where Sin works strife and woe,Cleanse Earth's stain, and heal her anguish,Jesus calls you—brethren, go!
Ring out your glad peals of rejoicing!Wake Music's enlivening strain!Let the sound float abroad o'er your waters,And echo through valley and plain;From the shores of the far-distant Fundy,To the lakes of the limitless West,Let the sound of a People's exultingGo forth in its joyous unrest!
For a great Christian Nation, this morning,From fragments disjointed made one,With the laws and the speech of old England,Looks up to the new-risen sun;And, scarce conscious as yet of her mission—Of the wealth of her young, earnest life—Starts out in the march of the nations,To a future with perils how rife!
Yet who shall not hope for that future—God's wide-open Book in her hand,With her sturdy and truth-loving yeomen,Her broad-spreading acres of land?—And who does not welcome the risingOf a new star of promise this morn,Whose beams shall illumine the darknessOf millions that yet are unborn?
Then hail we, in songs of rejoicing,Our father-land over the sea,Britannia, pride of the ocean,The home of the gallant and free!—Hail, Queen of dominions that girdleThe world like an emerald zone,VICTORIA, Head of three Empires,Meek Sovereign of Earth's proudest throne!
And hail to our new-born Dominion!Hail, Canada, happy and blest!May thy flag ever wave o'er the freest,Most glorious clime of the West;Be freedom thy watchword, and Onward,Thy motto, still cherished and true,And ever abroad on the breezesFloat thy time-honored "RED, WHITE AND BLUE."
Our field is the world!—let us forth to the sowing,O'er valley and mountain, o'er desert and plain,Beside the still waters through cool meadows flowing,O'er regions unblest by the dew and the rain;—Let us scatter the seed, though in sorrow and weeping,Though fields should be verdureless, wintry, and bare,The Lord of the harvest hath still in His keepingEach seed as it falls, and will guard it with care.
Our field is the world!—let us forth to the reaping;The long day is waning, the eve draweth nigh;Faint omens of storm up the heavens are creeping,And the sigh of the tempest is heard in the sky;—The work-hour is brief, but the rest is forever,Then stay not for weariness, languor, or pain,But forth to the harvest with earnest endeavor,And gather with gladness the sheaves that remain.
Our field is the world!—let us forth to the gleaning,The stores may be small that our labors reward,Yet One from the height of His glory is leaning,Attent to behold what we do for the Lord;—Where, haply, some reaper has passed on with singing,O'erladen with sheaves for the garner above,May yet be some handfuls that wait for our bringing,To crown with completeness the stores of His love.
Our field is the world!—whether sowing or reaping,Or gleaning the handfuls that others have passed,Or waiting the growth of the seed that, with weeping,On rocky and desolate plains we have cast,Yet each for his toiling, and each for his mourning,Shall sometime rejoice when the harvest is done,And know, in the flush of Eternity's morning,That the toil, the reward, and the glory are one.
Laughing and singingWith rhythmical flow,Leaping and springing,O light-hearted Sault!—Tossing up snowy handsIn thy glad play,Shaking out dewy locksBright with the spray,—Joyously everThy bright waters go,Yet wearying never,O beautiful Sault!
Kingly SuperiorLeaps to thy arms,And all his broad watersAre bright with thy charms;They sparkle, and glitter,And flash in their play,Chasing ripple and rainbowAway and away!Weary, I ween,Of his solemn repose,Gaily the mighty FloodFlashes and glows;And, buoyantly, brightly,Fleet-footed or slow,Doth dance with thee lightly,Unwearying Sault!
If I were a fairyI'd dance with thee too,Daily and nightly,Unfalt'ring and true;—In sunlight and starlight,In darkness and day,As free as the breezes,As glad in our play!We'd sing in the darkness,We'd laugh in the light,We'd whirl in the eddiesAt noonday and night,—We'd toss up the watersIn sunshine, to seeHow they'd fling us back di'mondsAnd gold in their glee;—Such amethysts, topazes,Rubies and pearls,As we'd strew o'er the tideIn our innocent whirls,And never be lonely,Or weariness know—Ourselves, and us only—O light-hearted Sault!
Yet the dance is thine own,And the song and the glee,Thou dwellest alone,Untrammelled and freeOur ships may not glideO'er thy bosom,—our feetMay not trace out one path,Or explore one retreat!We may hollow our channelsTo left or to right,And glide on our wayWith thy gambols in sight,Yet this, and this only,Of thee we may know,Thou lone, but not lonely,Free, fetterless Sault!
Farewell, ye bright waters,—We part, and for aye!—My pathway leads onO'er the billows away;—These feet will grow wearyIn life's busy mart,These eyes be oft tear-dim,And heavy this heart;But thou wilt sing onIn thy joyous unrest,Unchanging, unwearying,Buoyant and blestWhile the slow-footed centuriesGlide on their way,And nations grow hoary,And sink in decay,—Thou, tireless and tameless,Unchecked in thy flow,Shalt sing on as ever,O beautiful Sault!
Rest, brother, rest! Thy eyes no more shall weepO'er unhealed anguish and unconquered sin;Thy peaceful slumber, tranquilized and deep,Is marred no more by Earth's discordant din.Calm are the skies above thy quiet bed,And calm is Earth in Summer-glories dressed,And cool and sweet the fresh mould richly spreadAbove thy folded hands and peaceful breast.
Oh, could my voice thy placid slumber break,And win thee back to mortal scenes again,—Bid thee, unblamed, thy heavenly paths forsake,Once more to walk with me 'mid care and pain,I could not, dare not breathe the word, for thouHast long enough toiled where the dark curse liesOn all Earth's fairest fruitage;—brother, nowThou seest the "goodly land" with unveiled eyes!
Oh no! I would not breathe that word, though lifeFor me be sadder for the smile I miss;For thou hast gained a home unreached by strife,Undimmed by tears—a home of changeless bliss!There, in sweet fellowship with angels blessed,And all the crowned and glorified above,In thy loved Saviour's longed-for presence rest,And bask forever in the light of LOVE!
Come down from thy dazzling sphere,Bird of the gushing song!Come down where the young leaves whisper low,While the breeze steals in with a murmurous flow,And the tender branches wave to and froIn the soft air all day long!
I have watched thy daring wingCleaving the sun-bright air,Where the snowy cloud is asleep in light,Or dreamily floating in robes of white,While thy soul gushed forth in its song's free might,Till my spirit is dim with care.
For oh, I have loved thee well,Thou of the soaring wing!—And I fear lest the angels that sit on high,In the calm, still depths of the upper sky,Will love with a tenderer love than I,As they stoop to hear thee sing
Come down from the heights, my bird,And warble thy lays to me!I shall pine and droop in my grassy nookFor the passionate song that my spirit shook,And the low, sad voice of the grieving brookWill murmur all night of thee!
I shall sit alone—alone,While the noontide hour steals by;And mournful the woodland's music will be,—Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me,—Mournful the glory on earth and sea,—And mournful the sunset sky!
O voice of exulting song!—O bright, unwavering eye!—O free wing soaring in fetterless flightUp to the Fountain of quenchless Light!—O, Earth that darken'st in sudden night,I shudder, and faint, and die!
From the dewy grass upspringing—From my wing the pearl-drops flinging—Upward, with exultant singing,Let me—let me fly!Sun, with gemmed and flashing banners,List my rapturous hosannas—As I mount, on circling wing,Higher, o'er the fragrant meadow,—O'er the forest's broken shadow,—O'er the hill-tops green and golden,—Where the ivied ruins oldenEcho out with sudden gladnessAs I break their brooding sadnessWith the lays I sing!
Joy, joy!—I have caught the songOf the angels that sit above!—And warble in musical chorus alwayThose notes that oftentimes earthward straySo tenderly sweet at the fall of day,What time the rose-bud's trembling sprayThrills with their lays of love!—Joy, joy!—I have caught the songOf bright ones that sit above!—And the far-off Earth's a forgotten thing,As I mount on free and fetterless wing,Up to the sun-fields where they sing,Drawn on by their soul of love!
Hush! is it a voice of Earth—Of the far-away Earth, I hear?Breathing of the fragrant meadow,—Of the drooping willow's shadow,—Of the breezes' gentle sighing,—Of the brooklet's low replying,—Of the blue, o'er-arching heaven,—Of the violet-curtained even,—Of the tender, dreamy starlight,—Of the hushed, majestic midnight?—And through all that murmur so sad and low,Meanings of passionate anguish flow,Till I feel a weight on my glancing wingBearing me earthward while yet I sing,With its burden of heavy woe.
Bird, I am drooping in tears alone,Pressing my cheek 'gainst the cold, grey stone,And looking upward with aching eye,Through the tender depths of the morning sky;—But thy form fades out in that glorious seaThat lieth so calmly 'twixt thee and me;A speck—it is lost in the azure deep!And I droop in the deepening gloom, and weepMy sorrowful life away!
O voice of passionate song!—O bright, unwavering eye!—O free wing soaring in limitless flightBeyond the stretch of my aching sight!How the cold earth darkens in sudden night!How I shudder, and faint, and die!
Fainter and fainter—'tis heard no more—That plaintive strain from Earth's lessening shore—And I fling its weight from my fetterless wing,Higher and higher in heaven to sing,Afar from Earth's faded shore!I shall take my seat in the clouds,I shall sit beside the Sun,—I shall gaze with calm, unfaltering eyeOn the face of the radiant one!O glorious, kingly Sun!—O brightly beautiful one!—O Monarch, sitting serenely bright,In thy quenchless glory on heaven's height,I am upward drawn to thee!—And thy fiery spirit's ardent flameIs downward-drawn to me!Sun, with gemmed and flashing banners,List my rapturous hosannas,As I circle nearer,—nearer,—Where your rays burn brighter, clearer,—Up, on wings of strong desire,Higher still, and ever higher!
I droop by the cold, grey stone!—I faint in the smitten day!—I hear not the song of my own free birdWhose joyous music my glad heart stirredBut yester-morn! I can see no moreThe humming-bird's wing as it flutters o'erThe fragrant clover-bloom!The brook, with a far-off, sorrowful tone,Seemeth in measureless grief to moanAs it hurrieth on its way—The breath of my lost perfumeFloats on the wandering breeze,Over the meadow's perishing bloom,Over the cold, blue seas!I would not gather it back,I would not fill anewWith love's pure incense my broken urn,For the lost can never more returnFrom the sky's encompassing blue!
It is well!—I would not hangA weight on his fetterless wing;For was he not make for the sun-bright sky?—To face the glories that burn on high?—And I, to sit 'mid Earth's fading bloom,And waste my life in the faint perfumeI fling to the thankless breeze?—Let him cleave the azure infinite!—Let him pour his soul out in song's free might!—Till the white-robed seraphs that dwell in lightShall stoop to hear him sing!—Be it mine to fade ere the day-beams die,And alone in the sighing grass to lie,With my dull face turned to the tearless sky,A faded, forgotten thing!
"They need not go away!"the Master said,"Give ye to them."Ah, Lord, behold our store—These loaves, these fishes,—see, we have no more!How shall this fainting throng with these be fed?"Make them sit down!"—and the disciples spedTo do His will. He blessed, and brake, and gaveAnd as they ate, each heart grew strong and brave,Filled, till they craved no more, with hallowed bread.Thus, when our hearts grow faint, and stores are small,And thou demandest all that we possess,O, help us, Lord, to bring that little all,Knowing shouldst thou the gift accept and bless,Our worthless store, so changed and glorified,Ourselves shall feed, and fainting throngs beside.
When tossed on time's tempestuous tide,By angry storms resistless driven,One hope can bid our fears subside—It is the hope of rest in Heaven.
With trusting heart we lift our eyesAbove the dark clouds, tempest-driven,And view, beyond those troubled skies,The peaceful, stormless rest of Heaven.
No more to shed the exile's tears,—No more the heart by anguish riven,—No longer bent 'neath toilful years,—How sweet will be the rest of Heaven
Good night, good night!—the daySlowly has borne away,Music and light;Once more the starry trainSweeps over vale and plain,Soft falls the dews again—Good night-good night!
Day's weary toils are done,Set is the glorious sun,Faded the light;—Now, to the weary breastEver a welcome guest,—Comes the sweet hour of rest—Good night—good night!
Evening's cool shadows lieCalmly o'er earth and sky;And, from the heightOf the far, wooded hill,Sends the lone whip-poor-will,Softer and sweeter still,Plaintive good night.
Gently let slumber lieOn every weary eyeTired of the light!E'en as the folded flowersSleep in the forest bowers,Rest, through the silent hours—Good night—good night!
I am slowly treading the mazy trackThat leadeth, through sunshine and shadows, back—Through freshest meads where the dews yet clingAs erst they did to each lowly thing,Where flowers bloom and where streamlets flowWith the tender music of long ago—To the far-off past that, through mists of tears,In its spring time loveliness still appears,And wooes me back to the gleaming shoreOf sunny years that return no more.
And to night, all weary, and sad, and lone,I return in thought to those bright years flown,Whose lingering sweetness, e'en yet, I feelLike the breath of flower-scents over me stealI am treading o'er mounds where the dead repose,—I am stirring the dust of life's perished rose,—I am rustling the withered leaves that lieThick in the pathway of Memory,—And calling out from each lonely hillEchoes of voices forever still.
And I pause again where I stood of yoreIn the Sabbath light at an old church door,And, ling'ring a moment, I turn to viewThe green hills leaning against the blueAs erewhile they stood in the golden calmOf morning's sunlight and breath of balm,With clustering verdure, and blossoming trees,And gush of bird song and hum of bees,And glancing shadows that came and wentOf soft clouds high in the firmament,Floating away in their robes of whiteOn snowy pinions through realms of light.
And I see again through the azure skyThe same white cloudlets still floating by;And a greener line through the meadow showsWhere a little streamlet still, singing, flows;And out from a woodland there floats againOf joyous warblers the old, sweet strain;While still, with serious, reverent air,Aged and young seek the house of prayer.
And with them I enter the narrow doorThat open stands as it stood of yore;And look up again at the windows tall,—At the narrow aisles and the naked wall,—At the high, straight pulpit with cushion red,And its worn, old Bible still open spread,—At the pews where, unhindered, the slant rays fall,—At the long, plain gallery over allWhere maid and matron, and son and sire,Together sang in the old church-choir.
And again, as I listen, I seem to hearThe strains of old, half-forgotten Mear,And solemn China, and grave Dundee,And stately Rockingham, calm and free,And rare Old-Hundred's majestic swell,And tender Hebron we loved so well,And tuneful Stonefield's melodies sweet,Bridgewater, Windham, and Silver-street,And rich St. Martin, and yet againOld Coronation's exultant strain,And sweet Devizes' slow, warbled tone,Resounding Lenox and Arlington,And gentle Boyleston, and many moreWhich Memory holds in her treasured store,That rise and fall on the tranquil air,As they did of old, in this house of prayer;Where, Sabbath by Sabbath, for many a year,Often and often we sang them here.
For many a year—but they all are flown,The band is broken, and hushed each tone,And voices that mingled in tuneful breath,Are silent now in the hush of death!Scattered like Autumn-leaves far and nearAre those who clustered together here,—Gone, like flowers in the swift stream cast,Like wandering birds when the summer's past,Like perfume shed in the tempest's track,Never again to be gathered back!
I am thinking now of a young, fair face,A brow of beauty, a form of grace,The tender tones of whose sweet voice longSwelled richly forth in our Sabbath-song;But she laid her own, in a loved one's hand,And he led her forth to a distant land,Where a home, all radiant with love's pure beam,Fulfilled her girlhood's enraptured dream;—Yet she only pined 'neath the stranger's sky,And he brought her back to her own—to die!
The breath of Spring-time was on the plain,And flowers were bursting to life again,And birds were carolling full and freeOn the leafy boughs of the forest tree,When the sweetest voice in our tuneful throngFaltered and failed from our choral song,And we laid her down at her pure life's close,Peaceful and pale in her last repose.
The silvery Thames, as it glides along,Murmurs anear her its old, sweet song;—The tuneful robin sings still, as whenHe warbled for her in the woodland glen;—The star she loved, through the long, still nightKeeps his old, calm watch 'mid the planets bright;—Her favorite flowers are still as fairAs when twined 'mid the braids of her raven hair;—But the voice we missed in that far-off SpringIs only heard where the angels sing!
And yet another,—I see him now,With his manly bearing and noble brow—Who turned away from our old church-choir,To sing with the angels in worship higher—As an alien bird 'neath inclement skiesFoldeth its pinions to earth and dies,So he, o'erwearied with life's unrest,Folded his mantle around his breast,And, meekly bowing his weary head,Went down to rest with the quiet dead,And long were the hearts that had loved him loneFor the absent form and the missing tone!
There was still another. I yet beholdThat form as I saw it in days of old,As we stood in the calm of those Sabbath days,And mingled our voices in hymns of praise.—Ah! little we dreamed as we saw him thereIn his proud, young beauty, with brow so fair,And eye so lustrous, and tones so clear,That the cruel spoiler was then so near;—We dreamed it not, till we saw the lightOf his clear eyes growing so strangely bright.And the flush of health on his cheek give placeTo the deadly hectic's burning trace!
There's a tranquil isle amid Southern seas—A fair isle, swept by no wintry breeze—Where the wandering zephyr through long, bright hoursGathers the perfume of orange bowers,And roses droop in the fragrant bloomOf their summer life o'er a nameless tomb,—In that nameless tomb he is laid to rest,And the dust of the stranger is on his breast,And the breath of the South sweeps its viewless lyreO'er another lost from our old church-choir
One dreamt of wealth on a distant shore,And he wandered far to return no more,For the deadly pestilence swept his path,And the strong man drooped 'neath its burning wrath,And he sleeps alone in the shining dustWhose golden promises mocked his trust!
By a lonely lake in the boundless West,Another reposes in dreamless rest,—And yet another—her pure life done—Slumbers far off toward the setting sun,And the youngest voice in our old church-choirIs to-day attuned to a seraph's lyre
That old church choir—I am standing loneWhere we stood together in days by gone,But the tranquil air by no voice is stirredSave the lonely call of a distant bird.The grey, old church is no longer seen,But the rank grass over its site grows green,And, 'mid the tomb-stones, with sighing breath,The sad wind whispers of change and death
Hush! is it fancy?—or do I hearA far-off melody, faint yet clear,Of gentle voices, sweet tones of yore,Tenderly borne from an unseen shore?—Ah! loved, long parted, ye're joined once moreIn the Sabbath light of a changeless shore!And there, with never a jarring note,Your joyous anthems forever floatIn sweet accord with the seraph strainsThat sweep unchecked o'er celestial plains;And I long to rejoin you in regions higher,Loved ones, long lost from our old church-choir!
"For there is none other name under heaven, given amongmen, whereby we must be saved."
Jesus! the only name that's given,Through which salvation we may claim;This, this alone, we breathe to Heaven,For God accepts no other name.
No other name when skies are bright.And sunshine glows on field and flower;No other name when, dark as night,The heavy clouds tempestuous lower.
No other name when, drooping low,O'erburdened by sin's heavy load,The contrite spirit pines to knowThe way to hope, to Heaven, to God.
No other name when, like a flood,Temptations beat upon the soul;Faith, breathing that one name to God,The raging billows shall control.
In peace or conflict, toil or rest,In wealth or want, in praise or blame,Still wear it graven on thy breast,And, dying, pleadno other name!
Two pictures, strangely beautiful, I holdIn Mem'ry's chambers, stored with loving careAmong the precious things I prized of old,And hid away with tender tear and prayerThe first, an aged woman's placid faceFull of the saintly calm of well spent years,Yet bearing in its pensive lines the traceOf weariness, and care, and many tears.
We sat together in our Sabbath-place,Through the hushed hours of many a holy day,And sweet it was to watch the gentle graceOf that bowed form with those who knelt to pray,And lifted face, when swelled the sacred psalm,And the rich promise of God's word was shedUpon her waiting heart like heavenly balm,And all our souls with angels' meat were fed.
There came a day when missing was that face,—The form so meekly bent in prayer was gone,—Those lifted eyes, so radiant with praise,Beyond the spheres in saintly beauty shone!—Another crowned one swelling Heaven's high train—Another loved one missed from our low shrine,—Hers, the rich wealth of Heaven's eternal gain,—A tearful trust, a tender memory, mine!
The other picture is a young, fair child—A gentle boy, with curls of clustered gold,And calm, dark eyes that seldom more than smiledAs though his life had grown too grave and old—Too full of earnest thought, and anxious quest,And silent searchings after things unseen;—And yet, the quiet child seemed strangely blest,As one who inly feels Heaven's peace serene.
So close beside me, in his Sabbath-place,He sat or stood, my hand I might have laidUpon his rippling curls, or dropped a kissUpon his fair, white forehead while he prayed.Frail, beauteous boy!—upon his little feet—Though all unheard by love's quick ear attent—E'en then Death's chilling waters sternly beat,And with his sweet child-hymns their murmurs blent.
One Sabbath day there was an empty seat—I could not see for blinding tears that hour—But by and by, where Living waters meetIn God's fair Paradise, I saw my flower,And ceased to weep!-Henceforth with loving care,These precious pictures in my heart I shrine—Food for sweet thought, incentive to sweet prayer—My own, until I reachtheirhome andmine!
To pray as Jesus prayed,When faithless brethren sleep,—To weep the ruin sin has made—The only ones that weep,—To bear the heavy cross,—To toil, yet murmur not,—To suffer pain, reproach, and loss,—Be such our earthly lot.
Yet oh, how richly blestThe Master's cup to share,—The aching grief that wrung His breast,—His broken-hearted prayer,—If thus we may but gainOne sheaf of golden wheatGleaned from Earth's sultry harvest-plain,To lay at His dear feet!—
If thus we may but winOne precious earthly gemSnatched from the mire of vice and sin,For His rich diadem!—Here, sorrow, patience, prayer;In Heaven, the rich reward!Here, the sharp thorns, the cross,—and there"Forever with the Lord"!
"Here is a lantern, my little boy,"Said a father to his child,"And yonder's a wood, a lonely wood,Tangled, and rough, and wild;And now, this night,—this very hour,Though gloomy and dark it be,By the single light of this lamp alone,You must cross the wild to me!
"I'll be on the farther side, my son,So follow the path you see,And at the end of this narrow way,Awaiting you, I will be!"Thus bidden, the child set out, but soon,With the gloomy waste ahead,Oppressed with terror and doubt he stopped,Shaking with fear and dread.
"Father!—father!—I cannot see!—The forest is thick and black,I'm sure there is danger ahead of me,Please, father, call me back!"But the father's voice through the gloomy wild,In answering accents said,—"Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child,And don't look too far ahead!"
Thus cheered, the child pressed trustingly on,Though trembling much with fear,For around, beyond, and overhead,The forest was dark and drear,And ever, to keep his courage up,To himself he softly said,—"He told me to keep in the light of my lamp,And not look too far ahead!"
At length the other side was gained,And lo, the father was there!To welcome his child from the dreary wild,Where darkness and danger were;And, "why did you fear, my son?" he said,"You had plenty of light, you see,Though it lit but a step at a time, enoughTo guide you safely to me!
"And besides, I was just ahead in the dark—Though you did not see me at all—To be sure that no evil or accidentShould my darling child befall;Then remember, my son, in life's darkest waysThe simple words that I said,—'Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child,And not look too far ahead?'"
Lines written after hearing a returned missionary relate some of the traditions, and speak of the long-cherished hopes of this interesting people.
A voice from the distant East—A voice from a far-off shore—A voice from the perishing tribes of EarthHas wandered the blue seas o'er!It comes with a lingering cry,With a wail of anguish and pain,—"O brothers,—our brothers!—whyDo we look for you still in vain?
"We are weary,—we droop,—we die!We grope in the deepening gloom!We look above with despairing eye!We drop in the yawning tomb!Our children stretch their handsFar over the waters blue,And vainly cry from our darkened lands—Alas, how long—for you!
"Brothers! do ye not keepOur lawof the olden time,For which, through ages of woe, we weepIn darkness, and sin, and crime?There are sails from the distant WestDotting our waters blue,And the feet of strangers our shores have pressed,But they came not, alas, from you!
"We know there's a God above,We know there's a land of rest,—But there's naught that whispers of pard'ning loveTo our spirits by guilt oppressed!We call to the earth below,—To the calm, unanswering heaven,—But no voice replies to our cry of woeThat can tell us of sins forgiven!
"And yet we look and wait,With sorrowing hearts and sore,If haply we may behold, though late,Your sails from the western shore;—O, come with that precious wordWe lost in the far-off years,And tell us the voice of woe is heard,And God has beheld our tears!"
Alone, alone!—the night is very silent,Voiceless the stars are, and the pallid moonThrough the unknown sends down no tone, no utt'ranceTo break the hush of midnight's solemn noon!I stretch my arms toward the unanswering heavens,'Tis empty space,—no form, no shape is here!I call,—no answer to my cry is given,Powerless my voice falls on Night's leaden ear!
Alone, alone!—I thought the dead were near me,—The holy dead. E'en now, methought I heardLow tones whose music long ago did cheer me,That shadowy hands the parting branches stirred'Twas but the night wind's mournful sigh above me,—'Twas but the lonely streamlet's grieving tone,No voice comes back from those who once did love me,—No white hand beckons—I am all alone!
Alone?—not so! One sacred, unseen PresenceFills the far depths, broods round me and above,Enfolding all in His own Omnipresence,Pervading all with His unstinted love,In Him I live, and move, and have my being,My soul's deep yearnings all to Him are known,On me in kindness rests His eye all seeing,His arm upholds me,—I am not alone!
Thus early with the dead—Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye,The light and joyous tread,—Mary, we little thought thou would'st be first to die!
A little while agoWe saw thee first in girlhood's early bloom;Now thou art lying low,Thy pale hands crossed in slumber, silent in the tomb!
Ah me! 'tis hard to speakOf thee as of the dead—the pale, still dead!—'Tis hard to think the b'eak,Stern blast of winter sweeps above thy low, cold bed!
* * * * *
Thus early with thy God!'Twas a rich boon He sent whose loving voiceCalled thee to His abode,'Mid the sweet bowers of Heaven forever to rejoice!
Mary! thy feet have passedThe silent valley;—on thy placid browHeaven's sunlight falls at last,—Thou'rt with God's shining ones—thyself an angel now!
Thank God! the dreary tombHas lost its sting! The Saviour broke death's reign,Clothing with fadeless bloomFrail human dust! In Heaven, Mary, we'll meet again!
"I am doing no good!" said a little rill,As it rippled along at the foot of a hill,"I am doing no good with my babbling here,No one is listening,—no one is near!"
"'No good!—no good!'" said a violet blue,As it shook from its petals the sparkling dew,And opened its wondering, azure eyesTo the soft, clear light of the morning skies.
"'No good?'"—said a willow tree, bending lowTo kiss the rivulet, "say not so!Daily and hourly I draw from theeThe grace and beauty that dwell with me!"And the rustling reeds in the marge that stoodReproachfully murmured—"'no good!—no good!'""'No good,' indeed!"—cried a dainty bird,And she sprang from her nest as the sound she heard,And fluttered her wings o'er the sorrowing stream,While her bright plumes flashed in the morning beam."Peace, peace, my brook!"—and the young leaves stirredAt the gushing notes of the happy bird—"Do you not nourish the dear beech treeThat spreads its shelter for mine and me?You give yon wild rose its beauteous hue,—And yonder violet its tender blue,—And yonder willow its foliage fair,—And yonder lily its fragrance rare!The sun is gracious and kind, we think,But to you, my brooklet, we cometo drink!His beams with glory and warmth are rife,But you afford usthe cup of life!Gentle rivulet, cease to pine!—Sing, and be happy for me and mine!"
"And me!" said the lily, "and me!"—"and me!"Said violet, and rose-bud, and willow tree;And rustling reeds, and the gray, old beechTossing his arms high out of reach,—Fluttering insect, and waving tree,Murmured and rustled "for me!"—"and me!"
Then the rivulet brightening, sped along,With a freer step and a gladder song,Through many a valley and meadow greenMaking her flowery foot-prints seen,—Deepening ever and broadening out,Greeting the hills with a joyous shout,—Greeting the rocks with a soft caress,And singing still in her joy's excess,Till her song swelled out to an anthem free,As she caught the flash of the distant Sea—The glorious Sea that, with answering tone,Welcomed his guest from the hill-side lone.
Then the Stream shook hands with the kingly main,And, glancing back to her source again,Beheld each place where her steps had beenGlowing in tenderest, loveliest green,—Saw beauty and fruitfulness fresh and fairWherever her gladdening footsteps were,And caught from the green hills far awayThe echo of many a woodland lay,And the perfume of many a wild flower borneOn the scented wings of the dewy morn.
And then the rivulet understoodThat all along she'd been doing good;—That a rich green belt on Earth's sunny breastWas left to tell of her mission blest;—That Earth with lovelier flowers was rifeFor her calm footsteps and patient life;—That giving much, she had gathered more,Winning an ever-increasing store;—And, at length, unfettered, and strong, and free,A home she had found with the glorious Sea!
Hail, risen Lord, upon whose browThe crown of victory resteth now,Unfading as the sun!Hail, vanquisher of every foe,Of Sin, dread source of all our woe,And Death—the last undone!
Hail, risen Lord,—the empty graveProclaims aloud thy power to save,—Thy high, victorious might!Hail, Lord of life, and peace, and love,On thy exalted throne above,In uncreated light!
Hail, risen Lord,—we bend the knee,And lift the adoring eye to thee,And yield thee worship meet!—And, while the angelic hosts on highShout their hosannas through the sky,We breathe them at thy feet
For here, 'mid darkness, sin, and death,Our loudest praise is but a breath,—An infant's feeble sigh!Yet, haply, to thy gracious earOur weak hosannas are as dear,As those that swell on high!
Hail, risen Lord,—exalted King,Well may the highest heavens ringWith rapture's sweetest lays!Be ours to add our feeble sighTo the full chorus of the sky,In reverential praise!
A voice missed by the dear home-hearth—A voice of music and gentle mirth—A voice whose lingering sweetness longWill float through many a Sabbath song,And many a hallowed, evening hymn,Tenderly breathed in the twilight dim!—But that missing voice, with a richer tone,Is heard in the anthems before the throne;And another voice and another lyre,Are added now to the angel-choir!
There's a missing face when the board is spread—There's a vacant seat at the table's head,—A watchful eye and a helpful handThat will come no more to that broken band.—But she sits to-day at the board above,In the tender light of a holier love;And the kindling eye and the beaming faceAt the feast on high hold a nobler place!
A form is missed in the hour of prayer,At the altar, now, there's an empty chair,Where one lonely pleader hath scarcely wonStrength, e'en yet, for "Thy will be done!"—But that missing form in its saintly dressOf Christ's unsullied righteousness,Bows with worshipful accents sweet,Where angels bow at the Saviour's feet
A step is missed by the cradle bedWhere an infant nestles its sleeping head—Smiling, perchance, in his baby rest,Deeming his pillow her gentle breast—But the feet that moved with a soundless treadIn the calm still night by that cradle bed,Beyond the waters of death now standMid the fadeless flowers of the Heavenly land
O heart, sore pierced by the fatal dart—O, wounded, suffering, bleeding heart—More than all others doomed to missThe glance, the accent, the smile, the kiss,—Nothing is lost that you miss to day—Not even the beautiful, death cold clayBut Jesus guards it with watchful eye,Soon to restore it no more to die,Clothed in the bloom of immortal life,The sinless mother, the sainted wife!
I saw how the patient SunHasted untiringlyThe self-same old race to run;Never aspiringlySeeking some other roadThrough the blue heavenThan the one path which GodLong since had given;—And I said;—"Patient Sun,Teach me my race to run,Even as thine is done,Steadfastly ever;Weakly, impatientlyWandering never!"
I saw how the patient EarthSat uncomplainingly,While, in his boisterous mirth,Winter disdaininglyMocked at her steadfast trust,That, from its icy chain,Spring her imprisoned dustSoon would release again;—And I said;—"Patient Earth,Biding thy hour of dearth,Waiting the voice of mirthSoon to re-waken,Teach me like thee to trust,Steadfast, unshaken!"
I saw how the patient StreamHasted unceasingly,Mindless of shade or gleam,Onward increasingly,—Widening, deepeningIts rocky bed ever,That it might thus take inRiver by river;—And I said,—"Patient Stream,Hasting through shade and gleam,Careless of noontide beam,Loitering never,So teach thou me to pressOnward forever!"
I saw how the Holiest OneSat in the Heaven,Watching each earth-born sonSin-tossed and driven,—Watching war's mad'ning strife—Brother 'gainst brother,Reckless of love and life,Slaying each other;—And I said;—"Patient One,On thy exalted throne,Never impatient grownWith our dark sinning,Though all its depth thou'st knownFrom the beginning—
"Though thy fair Earth has beenBlood-dyed for ages,Though in her valleys green,Carnage still rages,Thou, o'er whose brow serene,Calmest and Holiest!Angel has never seen,E'en toward Earth's lowliest,Shadows impatient sweepTeach me, like thee, to keepIn my soul, still and deep,Wavering never,Patience—a steady light,Burning forever!"
Father in Heaven, to thee,Guardian and friend,Lowly the suppliant kneeHere would we bend!—Blessing thee ere we part,Each with a grateful heart,For all thy love doth send—Plenteous and free!
Thanks for thy hand outspreadEver in powerO'er each defenceless headIn danger's hour!Thanks for the light arid love,From thy full fount above—A rich and constant shower,O'er us still shed!
Go thou with us, we pray,Whom duties callTo our high tasks away,Each one, and all,—Go, with thy Spirit's might,Go, with thy Gospel's light—Whatever may befall—With us alway
Now let thy blessing restOn us anew—Brother, and friend, and guest,Tried ones and true—Till, all Our pirtings o'er,Meeting, to part no more,In Heaven we renewFriendships so blest
The Wind god, Eolus, sat one mornIn his cavern of tempests, quite forlorn,He'd been ill of a fever a month and a day,And the sun had been having things all his own way,Pouring o'er earth such a torrent of heatThat the meadows were dry as the trampled street,And people were panting, and ready to dieOf the fire that blazed from the pitiless sky
But the King felt better that hot June day,So he said to himself "I will get up a playAmong the children by way of a change,No doubt they are-feeling, like me, very strangeAt this dreary confinement—a month and more,And never once stirring at all out of door!It is terribly wearisome keeping so still—They all shall go out for a dance on the hill."
Then aloud he spake, and the dreary hallRe-echoed hoarsely his hollow call:"Ho! Boreas, Auster, Eurus, ho!And you, too, dainty-winged Zephyrus, goAnd have a dance on the hills to-day,And I'll sit here and enjoy your play."
Then Boreas started with such a roarThat the King, his father, was troubled sore,And peevishly muttered within himself—"He'll burst his throat, the unmannerly elf!"But Auster, angry at seeing his brotherAstart of him, broke away with anotherAs fearful a yell from the opposite sideOf the wind-cave, gloomy, and long, and wide.
One from the South, and one from the North,The rough-tempered brothers went shrieking forth;And faster, and faster, and faster still,They swept o'er valley, and forest, and hill.The clouds affrighted before them flew,From white swift changing to black or blue;But, failing to'scape the assailants' ire,Fell afoul of each other in conflict dire.
Now hot, now cold—what a strife was there!Till the crashing hailstones smote the air,And men and women in country and townWere hastily closing their windows down,And shutting doors with a crash and a bang,While the raindrops beat, and the hailstones rang,And the lightnings glared from the fiery eyesOf the furious combatants up in the skies,And burst in thunder-claps far and near,Making the timorous shake with fear.
Then Eolus with affright grew cold,For his blood, you'll remember, is thin and old,And his turbulent sons such an uproar made,That, watching the conflict, he grew afraidLest in the rage of their desperate fight,The pair should finish each other outright.So he shouted to Eurus; "Away! away!Come up from the East by the shortest way,And try and part them; and you, too, go,Zephyrus!—why are you loitering so?"
Then away sped Eurus shrieking so loudThat he startled a lazy, half-slumbering cloud,That fled before him white in the face,And dashed away at a furious pace.But he drove it fiercely betwixt the two,Who parted, and, scarce knowing what to do,Descended, and each from an opposite placeBegan to fling dirt in the other one's face.
Then round, and round, and round again,They raced and chased over valley and plain,Catching up, in their mischievous whirls,The hats of boys and the bonnets of girls,—Tossing up feathers, and leaves, and sticks,Knocking down chimneys, and scattering bricks,Levelling fences and pulling up trees,Till Eolus—oftentimes hard to please—Clapped his hands as his wine he quaffed,And laughed as he never before had laughed
Cried Eurus;—"Ho, ho!—so this furious fightEnds up in a romp and a frolic!—all right—I am in for a share!" Then away went he,And joined with a will in the boisterous glee,Till, out of breath, ere the sun went down,They all fell asleep in the forest brown.
A full hour afterwards, ambling along,Came dainty Zephyrus humming a song,And pausing—the truant—to kiss each flowerThat blushed in garden, or field, or bower.But no one was left to be merry with him,So he danced with the leaves till the light grew dim,And, as Twilight was going to sleep in the west,He, too, fell asleep on a rose's breast.
Strike the chords softly with tremulous fingers,While, on the threshold of happiest years,For a brief moment fond memory lingers,Ere we go forth to life's conflicts and fears!
Strike the chords softly!—yet no, as we tarry,Swiftly the morning is gliding away;Weary ones droop 'neath the burdens they carry,Toiling ones faint in the heat of the day.
Let us not linger!—Earth's millions are crying"Come to us, aid us, we grope in the night!Come to us, aid us, we're perishing, dying—Give us, oh, give us, the heavenly Light!"
Let us not linger!—our brethren are calling,—"Aid us, the harvest increases each day;—Some have grown weary, alas, of their toiling!—Others have passed from their labors away."
Gracious Redeemer we go at thy bidding,Gladly encountering peril and loss;Take us—ourselves to thy work we are giving,Giveus—'tis more than we merit—thy cross!
I thought it pleasant when a manly sireWeary of foreign travel, at the doorOf his own cottage left his dusty staff,And entering in, sat down with those he lovedBeside the hearth of home;—and pleasant, too,When a fond mother, absent for a day,At eve returning, from the sunset hillThat overlooked her cot, descried her boysFlying with joyous feet along the pathTo greet her coming; and, with clasping handsOf baby welcome, lead her through the gateOf her sweet home.
Pleasant I deemed it, too,When a young man, a wanderer for yearsFrom those he loved, at length sat down againWith sire and mother in the twilight hourAt home;—and when a gentle daughter, longFrom mother's kiss and father's blessing far,Heard once again their ne'er forgotten tonesGiving her joyous welcome home again,I felt that life had few such joys as that.And yet, methought there was—canst tell me why—Thou, who in Earth alone hast found thy bliss?—A higher, sweeter, purer joy than those,When, free from sin and Earth's encumb'ring cares,A ransomed soul went home to be with Christ.I knew a man in life's strong; healthful prime—Aye more, the flush of youth was on his brow,And all his bounding pulses were astirWith the great joy of work for God, while hope—Such hope as only Heaven-taught manhood firesTo loftiest ambition—pointed downThe radiant vista of the coming yearsTo deeds immortal. But the Master called,And, in mid-race he heard—"Come home, my child!"—And paused, and listened in surprise and doubt.
"Come home my child!" Then, listening, I heardThe pale lips murmur, while the head was bentIn reverent submission—"Oh, so soon?—So soon, my Lord? Thou knowest there is muchI fain would do for thee!—thy precious lambsTo gather and to feed—thy sheep to leadIn quiet pastures, and thy name belovedTo herald forth, till Earth's remotest shoreShall thrill with rapture, and send up to theeThe new-born utterance of love's great joy!"
"Come home, dear child!"—again the Master's voice—And eagerly he flung his robe aside,Ungirt his loins, and cast his sandals by;And while he sweetly sang—"I love the Lord!"—Entered the peaceful river, and went o'er,To be forever with the Lord he loved.
———————————I knew an aged man,Yet one scarce bent, with fresh, luxuriant hairSo beautifully white, and clear, blue, loving eyes;—We almost worshipped that most princely manIn his pure, patriarchal beauty. But one dayA whisper came to him. It was so lowWe heard it not, nor knew till he was gone—Gone home! Our sun was set on earth,Yet risen in Heaven; and through our falling tearsWe saw our loved at home, thenceforth to beForever with the Lord—Oh, highest bliss—Forever with his Lord!
Our mother sleptAt eve in a poor, earthly home. At dawnShe stood upon the golden shore, a sainted one,A victor crowned. We wept, as well we might,When we looked down upon those folded handsWhose tender touch had often thrilled alongOur baby temples,—those pale, patient handsThat toiled for us what time sweet slumber layOn our young eyelids, and in sunny dreamsWe gathered wild flowers on the hill-side green,Or chased the butterfly 'mid orchard blooms,While she, till the night waned, toiled bravely on—Not for herself, but us, then knelt and prayedFor each young sleeper, ere herself might sleep.
This morn she slept, and every line that griefHad ever left on her pale, settled face,And every furrow care had ever tracedUpon her brow had faded in the calmOf that blest slumber. Did we softly tread,And hold our breath suspended, in vague fearOf breaking the sweet spell, or all too soonRousing those tired feet to tread againTheir round of daily toil?—or did we checkOur rising grief, lest one o'er-lab'ring sobFrom hearts so full, should banish the sweet smileWhich the glad vision of her Lord's dear faceHad left upon her lips? It may be so,—And yet the hour of weeping was not long;For, 'mid the light by mortal eyes unpierced,We caught the gleam of her unsullied robe,And we rejoiced, beholding herat home!
A little babe, a tiny, broken bud,A snow-white, breathless lamb lay still and coldUpon its mother's knees. She did not weep—She did not pray; but with white, trembling lipsAnd stony gaze looked down upon her child,And only moaned in gasping accents—"dead!My tender babe, my lamb, my own sweet boy!—Dead, silent, dead!"
Then sweet, as borneO'er silver seas, there came a voice that said,"Do not their angels evermore beholdMy Father's face in Heaven?"—and, swift as thought,Faith overswept the bounds of space, and caughtA glimpse of her beloved on Jesus' breastThen tears gushed forth—a precious, healing flood—And the lips murmured—"Safe, oh, safe at home!—My bright boy waits at home, thank God, for me!"
Then let us ever when the righteous dieSpeak of them joyously as gone before;Not dead, but sweetly drawn within the veilTo the blest home we're nearing—to the houseOf Christ our Elder Brother, mansion fair,Prepared and set in order by His hand,—Their home, and ours to be; forevermore