Landward the tide setteth buoyantly breezily,—Landward the waves ripple sparkling and free,—Ho, the proud ship, like a thing of life, easily,Gracefully sweeps o'er the white-crested sea!In from the far-away lands she is steering now,Straight for her anchorage, fearless and free,—Lo, as I gaze, how she seems to be nearing now,Sun-lighted shores, a still haven,and me!
Landward the tide setteth!—mark my proud argosyAs the breeze flutters her pennons of snow,Wafting from far the glad mariner's melodyO'er the blue waters in rhythmical flow!Tell me, oh, soul of mine, what is the freightage fair'Neath her white wings that she beareth to thee?Treasures of golden ore, gems from Golconda's shore,Lo, she is bringing me over, the sea!
* * * * *
Seaward the tide setteth hoarsely and heavily,—Seaward the tide setteth steady and stern;—Oh, my proud ship!—she has missed the still haven! see,Baffled and drifting, far out she is borne!—Far from the shore, and the weak arms that helplessly,Wildly, are stretched toward the lessening sail!—Far, far from shore, and the white hands that hopelesslyFlutter in vain in the loud shrieking gale!
Seaward the tide setteth—oh my rich argosy,Freighted with treasures ungrasped and unwon!—Oh, the dark rocks!—the dread crash!—the fierce agony!—And seaward more madly the tide rushes on!Gems and red gold won from Earth's richest treasuryStraw the dark floor of the pitiless sea,Buried for aye—and my wealth-freighted argosyFades like the mist from the oceanand me!
Eloise! Eloise!It is morn on the seas,And the waters are curling and flashing;And our rock-sheltered seat,Where the waves ever beatWith a cadenced and rhythmical dashing,Is here—just here,But I miss thee, dear!And the sun-beams around me are flashingO seat, by the lonely sea,O seat, that she shared with me,Thou art all unfilled to day!And the plaintive, grieving mainHath a moan of hopeless painThat it had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!It is noon; and the breezeThrough the shadowy woodland is straying;And our green, mossy seat,Where the flowers kissed thy feetWhile the zephyrs around thee were playing,Is here—just here;But I miss thee, dear!And the breezes around me are straying.O seat, by the greenwood tree,O seat, that she shared with me,Thou art all unfilled to-day!And the sighing, shivering leavesHave a voice like one that grievesThat they had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!It is eve; and the treesWith the gold of the sunset are glowing;And our low, grassy seat,With the brook at its feetEver singing, and rippling, and flowing,Is here—just here;But I miss thee, dear!And the sunset is over me glowing.O seat, by the brooklet free,O seat, that she shared with me,Thou art all unfilled to-day!And the brook, to me alone,Hath a tender, grieving tone,That it had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!It is night on the seas,And the winds and the waters are sleeping;And the seat where we prayed,'Neath our home's blessed shade,With the soft shadows over us creeping,Is here-just here;But I miss thee, dear!And the drear night around me is sleeping.O seat, where she prayed of yore,O seat, where she prays no more,I am kneeling alone to-night!And the stern, unyielding graveWill restore not the gift I gaveTo its bosom yesternight.
No martyr-blood hath ever flowed in vain!—No patriot bled, that proved not freedom's gain!Those tones, which despots heard with fear and dreadFrom living lips, ring sterner from the dead;And he who dies, lives, oft, more truly soThan had he never felt the untimely blow.
And so with him thus, in an instant, hurledFrom earthly hopes and converse with the world.Each trickling blood-drop shall, with sudden powerAchieve the work of years in one short hour,And his faint death-sigh more strong arms uniteIn stern defence of Freedom and of Right,Than all he could have said by word or pen,In a whole life of threescore years and ten!
Dead! fell assassin! did you think himdead,When, with unmurmuring lips, he bowed his head,While round him bent pale, stricken-hearted men?Never more grandly did he live than then!Never that voice had such unmeasured powerTo fire men's souls, as in that solemn hour,When, on a startled world's affrighted ear,"E'er so with tyrants!" rang out wildly clear.And the red bolt that pierced his quiv'ring brainMaddened a million hearts with burning pain!
Dead?—frenzied demon of the lash and whip,What time you let your dogs of ruin slipAt his unguarded throat with raurd'rous cry,And passion-howl of rage and agony?—Nay:—in that deathful hour, from shore to shore,Men heard his voice who never heard before;And, pale with horror by his bloody clay,Vowed from that hour his mandate to obey,—Nor rest till all your fiends of Crime and Lust,'Neath Freedom's heel, lie weltering in the dust!
Dead? dead?—Nay!—'tis not thus that good mendie!Tis thus they win fame's immortality!Thus does their every utt'rance grow sublime,—A voice of power,—a watchword for all time!—And the dead arm a mightier scepter sways,Than his, who, living, half a world obeys!
Sleep, uncorrupted Patriot! faithful one!Friend of the friendless! Freedom's martyred son!Henceforth no land shall call thee all its own,—The World, Humanity, the bruised and lone,—The oppressed and burdened ones of every climeShall claim thee theirs, and bless thee thro' all time,And "are, and shall be free!" from shore to shoreSpeed grandly on till serfdom is no more,And gentle brotherhood our sorrowing raceLink man to man in warm and true embrace!
"For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt thoucompass him as with a shield."
Like the dew-drops that fallThrough the chill, midnight hours,Unheeded by all,On the close-folded flowers,—E'en so, on thy chosen,Grief stricken that bend,Thy tenderest blessingsIn silence descend.
Like the showers that moistenThe tree's shrivelled root,And quicken its branchesTo flower and fruit,E'en thus, on thy peopleDescend from above,In richest abundanceThe showers of thy love
Like the glad light that neverOur sad Earth forsakes,But, as day fadeth, everIn the star beam awakes,So certain and constant,So rich and unspent,Thy blessings unstintedFrom Heaven are sent.
Like the waters that fail notTheir course to fulfil,Like the wind's tireless pinionsThat never are still,Like the day in its rising,The night in its fall,Thus constant thy blessing,Great Father of all!
I sat beside a bed of pain,And all the muffled hours were still;The breeze that bent the summer grain,Scarce sighed along the pine-clad hill;The pensive stars, the silvery moonSeemed sleeping in a sea of calm.And all the leafy bowers of JuneWere steeped in midnight's dewy balm.
She seemed to sleep, for lull of painHad calmed the fevered pulse a while,But, as I watched, she woke again,With wondering glance and eager smile.The pale lips moved as if to speak,The thin hand trembled in my own,Then, with a sigh for words too weak,The eyelids closed, and she was gone.
Gone! gone!—but where, or how, or when?I had not seen or form or face;Unmarked God's messenger had beenBeside me in that sacred place—No sound of footsteps as he came,No gleam of glory as he went,Swift as the lightning's arrowy flame,Still as the dew the flowers that bent.
Yet she had heard the coming feet,Had seen the glory of that face,And, with unuttered raptures sweet,Had sprung to welcome his embraceAs the swift arrow leaves the string,—As the glad lark ascends the sky;—And 'neath that soft o'ershadowing wing,Swept past the radiant spheres on high.
O track of light! O car of flame!The calm sky bears no trace of you;The tranquil orbs sleep on the same,In heaven's unclouded fields of blue;And yet, upon this placid clay,There lingers still that radiance blest,—Sweet token that her untracked wayLed up to bowers of heavenly rest!
Over the mountains, under the snowLieth a valley cold and low,'Neath a white, immovable pall,Desolate, dreary, soulless all,And soundless, save when the wintry blastSweeps with funeral music past.
Yet was that valley not always so,For I trod its summer-paths long ago;And I gathered flowers of fairest dyesWhere now the snow-drift heaviest lies;And I drank from rills that, with murmurous song,Wandered in golden light alongThrough bowers, whose ever-fragrant airWas heavy with perfume of flowrets fair,—Through cool, green meadows where, all day long,The wild bee droned his voluptuous song;While over all shone the eye of LoveIn the violet-tinted heavens above.
And through that valley ran veins of gold,And the rivers o'er beds of amber rolled;—There were pearls in the white sands thickly sown,And rocks that diamond-crusted shone;—All richest fruitage, all rarest flowers,All sweetest music of summer-bowers,All sounds the softest, all sights most fair,Made Earth a paradise everywhere.
Over the mountains, under the snowLieth that valley cold and low;There came no slowly-consuming blight,But the snow swept silently down at night,And when the morning looked forth again,The seal of silence was on the plain;And fount and forest, and bower and stream,Were shrouded all from his pallid beam.
And there, deep-hidden under the snow,Is buried the wealth of the long-ago—Pearls and diamonds, veins of gold,Priceless treasures of worth untold,Harps of wonderful sweetness stilledWhile yet the air was with music filled,—Hands that stirred the resounding stringTo melodies such as the angels sing,—Faces radiant with smile and tearThat bent enraptured the strains to hear,—And high, calm foreheads, and earnest eyesThat came and went beneath sunset skies.
There they are lying under the snow,And the winds moan over them sad and low.Pale, still faces that smile no more,Calm, dosed eyelids whose light is o'er,Silent lips that will never again,Move to music's entrancing strain,White hands folded o'er marble breasts,Each under the mantling snow-drift rests;And the wind their requiem sounds o'er and o'er,In the oft-repeated "no more—no more"
"No more—no more!" I shall ever hearThat funeral dirge in its meanings drear,But I may not linger with faltering treadAnear my treasures—anear my dead.On, through many a thorny maze,Up slippery rocks, and through tangled ways,Lieth my cloud-mantled path, afarFrom that buried vale where my treasures are.
But there bursts a light through the heavy gloom,From the sun-bright towers of my distant home;And fainter the wail of the sad "no more"Is heard as slowly I near that shore;And sweet home-voices come soft and low,Half drowning that requiem's dirge-like flow.
I know it is Sorrow's baptism sternThat hath given me thus for my home to yearn,—That has quickened my ear to the tender callThat down from the jasper heights doth fall,—And lifted my soul from the songs of EarthTo music of higher and holier birth,Turning the tide of a yearning loveTo the beautiful things that are found above;—And I bless my Father, through blinding tears,For the chastening love of departed years,—For hiding my idols so low—so low—Over the mountains, under the snow.
Sleep, gentle, mysterious healer,Come down with thy balm-cup to me!Come down, O thou mystic revealerOf glories the day may not see!For dark is the cloud that is o'er me,And heavy the shadows that fall,And lone is the pathway before me,And far-off the voice that doth call—Faintly, yet tenderly ever,From over the dark river, call.
Let me bask for an hour in the sun-rayThat wraps him forever in light;Awhile tread his flowery pathwayThrough bowers of unfailing delight;—Again clasp the hands I lost sight ofIn the chill mist that hung o'er the tide,What time, with the pale, silent boatman,I saw him away from me glide—Out into the fathomless myst'ry,All silent and tranquillized, glide!
Let me look in those eyes so much brighterFor the years they have gazed on the Son,—On that pure brow grown purer and whiterIn the smile of God's glorified One;—Let me rest for a while with closed eyelids,On the bank of Life's river, to hearThe song he has learned since he left me,Breathed tenderly sweet in my ear—The song he has learned of the angelsAnd saved ones, breathed soft in my ear!
Thou canst not?—what! hast thou not enteredThe gates of yon city of light?—Not walked in the flower-bordered pathwayOf the saved ones in raiment of white?—Never stood on the bank of Life's River,Where gather the glorified throng?Or glowed with emotion ecstatic'Neath the swell of their rapturous song—That songhehas learned since he left me,The redeemed ones' exultant,newsong?
O Saviour, the wounded heart's Healer!I turn from my sorrow to thee,The gracious and tender RevealerOf glories thy ransomed shall see!They will pass—the dark cloud that is o'er me,The shadows that darken my sky,And the desolate pathway before meWill lead to thy mansions on high;—And with _him I shall rest in thy presence,Forever and ever on high!
"Yea I have loved thee with an everlasting love."
Love of God!—amazing love!Height, above all other height,Depth no creature thought can prove,Boundless, endless, infinite!Howsoe'er I sink or rise,Stretch my powers beyond, abroad,Pierce the depths or climb the skies,Find I still the love of God—Fount of bliss, exhaustless, free,Evermore unsealed for me!
Love of Christ!—amazing love!Vast as His eternity;Theme of angel-tongues above,Theme of souls redeemed like me!Outward to creation's bound,Up to Heaven's serenest height,Universal space around,Swells the chorus day and night—Fount of bliss, exhaustless, free,Evermore unsealed for me!
Oh, these tongues that falter soWhen we sing of love like this!Oh, these songs that, faint and low,More than half their sweetness miss!Saviour, lift our music higherTill the notes to rapture spring!Touch our lips with hallowed fireFrom thine altar while we sing—Fount of bliss, exhaustless, free,Evermore unsealed for me!
Away to the hills, away!—There is health in the summer air;—The rustling bough, and the bending spray,And the breath of flowers are there—The honey-bee's hum and the wild bird's song,And sunshine and summer winds all day long!
Away to the hills, away!There are peace and calmness there—White cloudlets floating in light all dayThrough the blue transparent air,—Rose-tinted mornings and noontides rare,And sunsets of crimson and gold are there!
Away to the hills, away!From your weariness and care—From toil that has held on with tyrant sway,To quiet and calmness there;And bask in the beauty and bloom that fillsThe cool, sweet depths of the summer hills!
Alien blossoms! tell me whySeek ye such a lonely place,Thus to bloom, and droop, and dieFar away from all your race?
Wherefore, from the sunny bowersWhere your beauteous kindred bloom,Have ye come, O banished flowers!Thus to decorate a tomb?
"Mortal, dost thou question whyThus beside the grave we bloom?Why we hither come to die,Aliens from our garden-home?
"'Twas Affection's gentle handPlaced us thus her dead so near;—Tis at weeping Love's commandThat we breathe our fragrance here.
"Ask not why we wither here,Thou who ne'er hast tasted woe,Who hast never felt the tearOf bereaved affection flow,—
"Ask not, till thy household bandBy death's cruel stroke is riven,Till some bright bird'scapes thy hand—Thenthy answer will be given!"
"Giving up three for one!"—mother,You said in the long ago,When father, yourself, and John, mother,I left, o'er the deep to go."Giving up three for one!"—mother,You said, and it sank in my heart;For tho' strong was my love for the one, mother,It was hard from the three to part.
But to-day, as I sit alone, mother,Rocking my little one's bed—(Not Winnie's bed, dear, but her brother's—)I am thinking of what you said;And a sweet thought glads my heart, mother—Can you guess what the thought can be?'Tis, that tho' I'd but one in the start, mother,Yet now I havethreefor three.
Yes, three for three, my mother,God is good to your wandering child,So far from her father and brother,And you, in this western wild!And tho' her heart oftentimes yearnethFor its loved ones over the sea,Yet ever it gratefully turnethTo its home-ties—threefor three.
Aye, three for three, sweet mother,Say, am I not happy to-day?Tho' something must ever be wanting,While far from you all away;—Then thank the dear Lord, my mother,Who, afar o'er the lonely sea,Is blessing your absent daughter,With home ties—threefor three!
"Now is the accepted time."
Now, sinner, now!Not in the future, when thy longed-for measureThou hast attained, of fame, or power, or pleasure,When thy full coffers swell with hoarded treasure,Not then, but now.God's time may not be thine. Whenthouart willing,His Spirit may have taken flight forever,No more thy soul with keen conviction filling,Softening thy spirit to repentance never,—Now, sinner, now!
Now, Christian, now!Look round, and see what souls are daily dying;List!—everywhere the voice of human cryingSmiteth the ear;—the moan, the plaint, the sighing,Come even now.Rise! gird thyself;—go forth where sorrow weepethAnd ease the pang. Where sin holds guilty revel,Go tell of God! Where man securely sleepethOn ruin's verge, go, warn him of the evilNow, Christian, now!
Now, sinner, now!Day waneth fast! The noon is spent! To-morrowIs God's, not thine!—and dost thou hope to borrowAn hour from doom, when bursts the cloud of sorrowThat darkens now?Nay; the red bolt, e'en now, vindictive flashesThe thunder rolls nearer, and still more near!Hourly the tide of wrath more sternly dashesOn ruin's rocks!—oh, that thou wouldst butNow, sinner, now!
Now, Christian, nowGather thy sheaves—the harvest time is hastingGather thy sheaves—the precious grain is wasting!Too many hours Earth's cup of nectar tastingThou'st wasted now!Up, up!—the Master's coining steps alreadyEchoing adown the steeps of heaven are heard!The angel-reapers, with firm hand and steady,Stand, dim-descried, waiting the signal-wordNow, Christian, now!
The glorious sun, behind the western hills,Slowly, in gorgeous majesty, retires,Flooding the founts and forests, fields and rills,With the reflection of his golden fires.How beauteous all, how calm, how still!Yon star that trembles on the hill,Yon crescent moon that raises highHer beamy horns upon the sky,Seem bending down a loving glanceFrom the unclouded skies,On the green Earth that far awayIn solemn beauty lies;—And, like sweet Friendship in affliction's hour,Grow brighter still the more the shadows lower.
Soft evening bells!—sweet evening bells!O'er vale and plain your music swells,And far awayThe echoes playO'er shaggy mount and forest grey;And every rock its secret tellsTo your soft chime, sweet evening bells!
Soft evening bells!—sweet evening bells!Now twilight drapes the woodland dells,And shadows lieOn the closed eyeOf flowers that dream beneath the sky;Yet fainter, sweeter, tenderer swellsYour dying chime, sweet evening bells!
O evening bells!—sweet evening bells!With every note that sinks and swells,Sadly and slowThe warm tears flowIn pensive pleasure more than woe,As Mem'ry wakes her witching spells,'Neath your soft chime, sweet evening bells!
Thou hast marked the lonely river,On whose waveless bosom laySome deep mountain-shadow ever,Dark'ning e'en the ripples' play—Didst thou deem it had no murmurOf soft music, though unheard?Deem that, 'neath the quiet surface,The calm waters never stirred?
Thou hast marked the pensive forest,Where the moonbeams slept by night,While the elm and drooping willowSorrowed in the misty light—Didst thou think those depths so silentHeld no fount of tender songThat awoke to hallowed utt'ranceAs the hushed hours swept along?
So, the heart hath much of music,Deep within its fountains lone,Very passionate and tender,Never shaped to human tone!Dream not that its depths are silent,Though thou ne'er hast stooped to hear;Haply, even thence some musicFloats to the All-Hearing ear!
Onward, still on!—though the pathway be dreary,—Though few be the fountains that gladden the way,—Though the tired spirit grow feeble and weary,And droop in the heat of the toil-burdened day;Green in the distance the hills of thy CanaanLift their bright heads in a tenderer light,Where the full boughs with rich fruits overladenSpread their luxurious treasures in sight.
Onward, still onward!—around us are fallingLengthening shadows as daylight departs;Up from the past mournful voices are calling,Often we pause with irresolute hearts.Wherefore look backward?—the flower thou didst gatherWounded thy hand with the thorn it concealed,—Onward, and stay not!—the voice of thy FatherCalls thee to glory and bliss unrevealed.
Onward!-Earth's radiance fadeth,—the gloryThat gilded her brow when the noon was in primeFaileth each hour, and the chill mist is hoary!Gathering thick on the dim shores of time.Yet as the stars come out brighter and clearerWhile the day faints in the slow-fading west,So do the home-lights grow larger and nearer,Clearer the ray on the hills of thy rest.
Onward, and stay not!—the fountain, the flower,Toward which thou'rt pressing with wearying haste.Are but the mirage that floats for an hour,Glowing and green o'er the desolate waste;Yet from the distance come tender home-melodiesBorne from the Summer-land over the flood,Lovingly wooing thee homeward and HeavenwardTo the sweet rest of thy Saviour and God.
Do the dancing leaves of summerTo the time of buds look back?—Does the river moan regretfulFor the brooklet's mountain-track?Does the ripened sheaf of summer,Heavy with precious grain,Ask for its hour of blossom,And the breath of Spring again?
Does the golden goblet, brimmingWith the precious, ruby wine,Look back with weary longingTo the damp and dusky mine?Is the sparkling coin, that bearethA monarch's image, fainTo seek the glowing furnace,Where they purged its dross again?
Would the chiselled marble gatherIts rubbish back once more.And lie down, undistinguished,In the rough rock as before?Does the costly diamond, blazingOn that crowned and queenly one,Look back with sorrowful gazingTo the coarse unpolished stone?
And shall man, the grandly gifted,Earth's monarch, tho' Earth's son,Turn back to court the shadowsOf existence scarce begun?Nay; with strong arm and helpfulTo aid the world's great lack,Press on, nor pause a moment,Supinely to look back!
Where the willow weepethBy a fountain lone,—Where the ivy creepethO'er a mossy stone,—With pale flowers above her,In a quiet dell.Far from those who love her,Slumbers Minniebel.
There thy bed I made thee,By that fountain side,And in anguish laid theeDown to rest, my bride!Tenderest and fairest,Who thy worth may tell!Flower of beauty rarest,Saintly Minniebel!
Weary years have borrowedFrom my eye its light,Time my cheek has furrowed,And these locks are white;But my heart will everMid its memories dwell,Fondly thine forever,Angel Minniebel!
Weary of dreaming what never comes true,Weary of thinking what never is new,Of endeav'ring, yet never succeeding to do.
Weary of walking the dusty, old ways,Weary of saying what every one says,Weary of singing old, obsolete lays.
Weary of laughing, to make others laugh,Weary of gleaning for nothing but chaff,Of giving the whole, and receiving but half.
Weary of making, so shortly to mend,Weary of patching, to turn round and rend,Weary of earning only to spend.
Weary of weeping when tears are so cheap,Weary of waking when longing to sleep,Of giving what nobody wishes to keep.
Weary of drinking to thirst ere I've done,Weary of eating what satisfies none,Weary of doing what still is undone.
Weary of glitter without any gold,Weary of ashes grown fireless and cold,Weary!—the half of it cannot be told!
O tyrant soul of mine,What's the useOf this never-ceasing toil,Of this struggle, this turmoil,This abuseOf the body and the brain,Of this labor and this pain,Of this never-ceasing strainOn the cords that bind us twainEach to each?
O tyrant soul of mine,Is it wellThus to waste and wear awayThe poor, fragile walls of clayWhere you dwell?Was I made your slave to be—I the abject, you the free,That you task me ceaselessly?—Tyrant soul, come, answer me,Isit well?
O tyrant soul of mine,Don't you knowThat in slow, but sure decay,I am wasting day by day,While you growNone the better for the strainOn my nerves and on my brain,For my head's incessant pain,And my sick heart's longings vainFor repose?
O tyrant soul of mine,God, the good,Joined together you and meIn a wondrous unity,That we shouldWork together,-not that I,You degrade and stupefy,Nor that you His laws defyBy maltreating ceaselesslyHapless me!
O tyrant soul of mine,By and by,Weary of your cruel reign,Quite worn out with toil and pain,I shall dieThen, when I have passed away,And you're asked whose hand did slayYour companion of the clay,Much I wonder what you'll say,Soul of mine!
"Go thy way, and when I have a more convenient season I will call for thee."
* * * * *
"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour,Although thou callest meIn life's unclouded morningWhy should I follow thee?The world and all its pleasuresOutspread before me lie,When I have grasped its treasuresI'll hear thee, by and by.
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour!—True, thou hast called me long,Yet, almost more than ever,I love the world's glad song!Say not the years are hastingWith rapid footsteps by,—Say not life's sands are wasting,But call me by and by!
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour!I have no time to stay;The goal tow'rd which I hastenIs now not far away.Another day—and haplyThe triumph I shall see,And grasp my crown of vic'try,—Then, I will call for thee!
* * *
No more, no more, O sinner,The Saviour's call is o'er!The door is shut forever,To be unclosed no more!—So late the hour and lonely,So dark the night and drear,And He who called thee onlyTo bless thee, will not hear!
Past is the harvest-gladness,The summer-bloom is o'er,Thy sun has set in sadness,To rise-oh, nevermore!So late the hour and lonely,So dark the night and drear,And He who called thee onlyTo bless thee, will not hear!
Lightly the shadowsPlay through the trees,Green are the meadows,Soft is the breeze,—June's early roses,Pensive and sweet,Droop where reposesLost Marguerite!
Meeting thee neverIn the green bowers,—Missing thee ever'Mid the fresh flowers,—Till the long hours die—Hours once so fleet—Hopelessly wait I,Lost Marguerite!
Day has grown wearyIn the blue sky,Summer is dreary,Melodies die;Lowly the willowDroopeth to meetAnd kiss thy pillow,Lost Marguerite!
Flower the fairestOf sweet summer time,Rosebud the rarestPlucked ere its prime,Mine to weep everWhere the wares beat,Meeting thee never,Lost Marguerite!
Weary soul, by care oppressed,Wouldst thou find a place of rest?Listen, Jesus calls to thee,Come, and find thy rest in me!
Hungry soul, why pine and dieWith exhaustless stores so nigh?Lo, the board is spread for thee,Come, and feast to-day with me!
Thirsty soul, earth's sweetest rillMocks thee with its promise still;Hark, the Saviour calls to thee,Here is water, come to me!
Homeless soul, thy path is drear,Angry tempests gather near,Night is darkening over thee,Here is shelter, come to me!
Heavenly bread and heavenly wine,Living waters, all are mine!—Mine they are, and thine may be,Weary wand'rer, come to me!
Nay, I will not let thee go,Though the midnight glideth slow,—Though the darkness deep and longDim the sight and hush the song,On thy tender, faithful breast,Find I still my perfect rest—Soothing sweet for keenest woe—And I will not let thee go!
Nay, I will not let thee go,Though the morn's enkindling glowFlame along the mountain-height.Flooding all the hills with light;What can morning bring to me,Tender Shepherd, wanting thee?What its songs but sobs of woe?Nay, I will not let thee go!
Nay, I will not let thee go,Though the day no shadows know;Though, the sky's serene to dim,Lower no storm-cloud dark and grim;Whom have I in Heaven but thee?—What beside hath earth for me?—Thou, the only trust I know,—Nay, I will not let thee go!
Let thee go?—my Saviour, nayThou my night's unfailing day,Thou my dawning's tenderest gleam,Thou my noonday's richest beam,—Night is day if thou art near,Day without thee, joyless, drear,—Wanting thee, all bliss were woe,—Nay, I will not let thee go!
Written for the Alumni of Albion College, Michigan; and sung at theirlast re-union, June, 1881.
The gliding years have rolled along,And once again we come,With greeting hand and choral song,To our old college-home;—Sweet college-home! dear college-home!We gladly gather here,Old friends to greet,Old faces meet,And sing our songs of cheer!
A welcome true for those we meet,For those we miss, a sigh;Of some we ne'er again may greet,We speak with tearful eye;Some rest with God, whose feet once trodThese halls with ours of yore;And some there areWho wander farOn many a distant shore!
God, bless and keep the ones who roam,And us who meet again;And lit us each for that bright homeWhere comes no parting pain;—Oh, aid us still, thro' good or illStill earnest for the right,With spirits true,To dare and do,With Heaven and thee in sight!
And as the lingering years go by,And changeful seasons come,Still let thine eye rest lovinglyOn this old college-home;—Sweet college-home! dear college-home!We gladly gather here,Old friends to meet,Old faces greet,And sing our songs of cheer!
One by one, ye are passing, beloved,Out of the shadow into the light.One by one,Are your tasks all done.Ended the toil, and the swift race run.Child and maiden, mother and sire,Sister and brother,Ye follow each other,Out of the darkness where we stand weeping,Weary and faint with our virgil-keeping,Into die summer-land, peaceful and bright!
One by one, ye are passing, beloved,Out of the darkness round us that lies—One by one,Gliding on alone,Hearing nor heeding our plaint and moan.Friend and lover, the fondest, best,Most tender and true,Ye pass from our view,Out of the night that enfolds us ever,Out of the mists where we moan and shiver;Into the joy-light of sunniest skies!
One by one, we are hasting, beloved,Out of the midnight into the day.One by one,Areourtasks all done,And the race that is set us with swift feet run.Loved and parted ones, still our own,Nearing you everWe press toward the river.Over whose waters ye passed on before us,Shortly to join in your rapturous chorus,And swell the hosannas of Heaven for aye!
One by one, ye are greeting, beloved,Those whom you left for a while in tears.One by oneIs the bright goal wonBy those ye lost sight of at set of sun.Child and maiden, mother and sire,Sister and brother,Ye're greeting each other,Up where the holy ones round you are singing,Up where the new song of Heaven is ringing,Never to part through eternity's years!
God so loved me that He gaveJesus for my sins to die;Jesus loved me in the grave,Jesus loves me still on high,—Father-love and Saviour-love,Mine on earth and mine above!
Love, from highest heights that stooped,—Love, to deepest depths that came,—Love, that 'neath my burden drooped,—Bore my anguish and my shame—Died, that I may never die,—Living, lifts me to the sky!
Love, the arm that reached me first,—Love, the hand that raised me up,—Love, my prison-bars that burst,—Love, that filled my brimming cup—Filled it full of Heavenly wine—Filled, and blessed, and made it mine!
Love, the holy, cleansing fountWhere I wash my garments white,—Love, my Tabor, hallowed mount,Where I stand with Him in sight,—Love, my watch-tower, till the dayChase all earth-born mists away!
"I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep; for thou, Lord, onlymakest me dwell in safety"
The tranquil hours steal byOn drowsy wings and slow,And over all the peaceful skyThe stars of evening glow.
No gathering clouds I see,I hear no rising blast,I fold my tired hands restfully,As though all storms were past.
Yet, whether so or not,O Lord, thou knowest best!This night, let every anxious thoughtAnd trembling fear have rest
This night I will lie downIn peace beneath thine eye,Nor heed what ills unseen may frown,Since thou art ever nigh.
I will lie down and sleep,From every terror free;Nor wake to tremble or to weep,Secure, O Lord, with thee!
'Tis but to fold the arms in peace,To close the tear-dimmed, aching eye,From sin and suffering to cease,And wake to sinless life on high.
'Tis but to leave the dusty wayOur pilgrim feet so long have pressed,And passon angel-wings away,Forever with the Lord to rest.
'Tis but with noiseless step to glideBehind the curtain's mystic screenThat from our mortal gaze doth hideThe glories of the world unseen.
Tis but to sleep a passing hour,Serene as cradled infants sleep;Then wake in glory and in power,An endless Sabbath day to keep.
I shall be satisfied when I awakenIn thy dear likeness, my King and my Lord,—When the dark prison of death shall be shaken,And the freed spirit comes forth at thy word!—I shall be satisfied, Saviour, be satisfied,Wearing thy likeness and near to thy side!Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,What can I ask for in glory beside?
I shall be satisfied loving thee ever,Hearing thy accents and sharing thy joy,Fearing nor change nor estrangement to severMe from my Lord and His blissful employ!—Satisfied, satisfied, evermore satisfied,Wearing thy likeness and near to thy side!Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,What can I ask for in glory beside?
I shall be satisfied when I behold thee,I shall be like thee, my Saviour and King!And, in the radiance that will enfold thee,I shall enfolded be, too, while I sing—Lo, I am satisfied, Saviour, am satisfied,Wearing thy likeness and near thy side!Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,What can I ask for in glory beside!
A transient day,A troubled night,The swift decay,The certain blight,And death and dust;—
And are these all?—Nay: those are past;And she who sleepsShall wake at lastAmong the just!
Go, dream no more of a sun-bright skyWith never a cloud to dim!—Thou hast seen the storm in its robes of night,Them hast felt the rush of the whirlwind's might,Thou hast shrunk from the lightning's arrowy flight,When the Spirit of Storms went by!
Go, dream no more of a crystal seaWhere never a tempest sweeps!—For thy riven bark on a surf-beat shore,Where the wild winds shriek, and the billows roar,A shattered wreck to be launched no more,Will mock at thy dream and thee!
Go, dream no more of a fadeless flowerWith never a cankering blight'—For the queenliest rose in thy garden bed,The pride of the morn, ere the noon is fled,With the worm at its heart, withers cold and deadIn the Spoiler s fearful power!
Go, dream no more—for the cloud will rise,And the tempest will sweep the sea,Yet grieve not thou, for beyond the strife,The storm and the gloom with which Earth is rife,Gleam out the light of a calmer life,And the glow of serener skies!
Come home! come home! O loved and lost, we sighThus, ever, while the weary days go by,And bring thee not. We miss thy bright, young face,Thy bounding step, thy form of girlish grace,Thy pleasant, tuneful voice,—We miss thee when the dewy evening hoursCome with their coolness to our garden, bowers,—We miss thee when the warbler's tuneful layWelcomes the rising glories of the dayAnd all glad things rejoice!
Come home!—the vine that climbs our cottage eaves,Hath a low murmur 'mid its glossy leavesWhen the south wind sweeps by, that seems to beToo deeply laden with sad thoughts of thee—Of thee, our absent one!—The roses blossom, and their beauties die,And the sweet violet opes its pensive eyeBy thee unseen; and from the old, beech treeThy robin pours his song unheard by thee,Dally at set of sun!
Dearest, come home! Thy harp neglected lies,Breathing no more its wonted melodies;Thy favourite books, unopened, in their case,Just as thy hands arranged them, keep their place,And vacant is thy seatBeside the hearth. At the still hour of prayerThou com'st no more with quiet, reverent air;And when, around the social board, each faceBrings its warm welcome, there's one vacant place—One smile we may not meet.
Come home!—thyhome was never wont to beA place where clouds might rest; yet, wanting thee,All pleasant scenes have dull and tasteless grown,And shadows lower-shadows, erewhile unknownOf ever-deepening gloom.The halls where erst thy happy childhood played,The pleasant garden by thy fair hands made,The bower thy sunny presence made so fair,Are all unchanged,—yet grief is everywhere;—Dear one, come home!
Come home?—come home?—alas, what have I said?Beyond the stars, beloved, thy feet have sped!No more to press these garden paths with mine,Or walk beside my own at day's decline—No more—no more to comeTo these old summer haunts! But I shall stayA little while; and then, at fall of day,I, too, like thee, shall sleep, and wake to seeThy Lord and mine, and so shall ever beWith Him and thee at home!
Be in earnest, Christian toilers,Life is not the summer, dreamOf the careless, child that gathersDaisies in the noontide beam!It hath conflict, it hath danger,It hath sorrow, toil, and strife;Yet the weak alone will falterIn the battle-field of life.
There are burdens you may lighten,Toiling, struggling ones may cheer,Tear-dimmed eyes that you may brighten,Thorny paths that you may clear;—Erring ones, despised, neglected,You may lead to duty back,—Beacon-lights to be erected,All along life's crowded track.
There are wrongs that must be righted,Sacred rights to be sustained,Truths, though trampled long and slighted,'Mid the strife to be maintained;—Heavy, brooding mists to scatter—Mists of ignorance and sin,—Walls of adamant to shatter,Thus to let God's sunlight in.
Boundless is the field and fertile,Let the ploughshare deep be driven;So, at length, the plenteous harvestShall look smiling up to heaven!Sow the seed at early morning,Nor at evening stay thy hand;Precious fruits, the earth adorning,Shall at length around thee stand
Be in earnest, Christian toilers,Life is not the summer-dreamOf the careless child that gathersDaisies in the noontide beam!Life hath conflict, toil, and danger,—It hath sorrow, pain, and strife,—Yet the weak alone will falterIn the battle-field of life!
We met one fresh June-morn, Chlodine,Where two roads came together;I'd travelled far through storm and rain,And you, through pleasant weather.I loved you for the light, Chlodine,Of summer all around you,—I loved you foil the sweet June-flowers,Whose dewy garlands bound you!
You loved me not, Chlodine, becauseThe storms had beat upon me;Because there was no breath of flowers,No summer sunshine on me;—You could not see, Chlodine, that deepWithin my soul were growingFresh flowers that evermore would keepThe fragrance of their blowing.
And so we parted—you and I—Your ways all fresh and flowering;Mine, rocky steeps up mountains high,'Neath skies with tempests lowering;And yet the sunshine spoilt your flowers,—Mine, bitter grief-drops nourished,And while yours withered day by day,Mine bloomed the more, and flourished
And now we're met again, Chlodine,You love me for my flowers,Their perfume scenting all the air.Like breath of Eden-bowers;—I love you not, Chlodine, alas!You're changed since those old mornings,Your regal summer-robes are lost,With all their rare adornings!
We stand together side by side,And yet, at farthest, never,Before stretched out so far and wideThe distance that did severUs, as to-day it does, Chlodine,Though hand touch hand in greeting,And never again shall we know, Chlodine,Another June-day meeting.
Little bird, is that thy sphere,Yonder threat'ning cloud so near?Sunbeams blaze along its brow,Yet what darkness reigns below!There the sullen thunder mutt'ring,Wrathful sounds is sternly utt'ring;—There the red-eyed lightning gleameth,Where no more the sunlight beameth,And the strong wind, fiercely waking,Wings of fearful might is taking;—Creature of the calmer air,Wherefore art thou soaring there?
Wert thou weary of the vale,With its blossom-scented gale?—Weary of thy breezy bowers?—Weary of thy wild-wood flowers?—Weary of thy wind-rocked nestIn the bright, green willow's breast?—Didst thou sigh, on daring wing,Up in heaven's blue depths to sing?—Claim with storms companionship,And in clouds thy free wings dip?—And, where rushing winds are strong,Pour thy melody of song?
Bird, thy wing is all too weakSuch adventurous heights to seek;In the bower thou seem'dst to beTrembling with timidity;Now, with proud, unshrinking glanceThou art daring yon expanse,And, with wild, exultant singing,Upward thy free flight art winging;—Creature of the calmer air,Wherefore art thou sporting there?
Bird, that cannot be thy sphere,Yonder threatening cloud so near!—With thy bright, unfearing eye,Wherefore seek that troubled sky?Ah! a hand is o'er thee spread,To defend thy beauteous head;Sheltering arms are round thee cast,'Mid the lightning and the blast;God doth shield thee, and shall HeThine, and notmyguardian be?
No: He, who guards thy fragile formMidst the dread, o'erwhelming storm,Will His kind protection spreadO'er His child's defenceless head,—Temper every blast severe,—Mingle hope with every fear,—Pour into the bleeding heartBalm for sorrow's keenest smart,And will gift the feeblest formWith a might to brave each storm!
Bird, thou well mayst soar and singHigh in heaven on raptured wing!Thou hast never learned to fearBlighting change, in thy bright sphere;'Tis to us, and us alone,Faith's mysterious might is known:We, that tremble at the blast,Shall o'ersweep the storms at last!Though around us tempests lower,We shall know our triumph-hour;And on glad exultant wingSoar, and with the angels sing