Forget? No, Never!There are things we'll not remember,And much will be forgot,As in the bleak DecemberWhen our coffee was not hot;When the butter was much younger,When the bread was sour and dry;When are felt the pangs of hunger,With regrets and many a sigh.How the memory used to vex usAs 'twould o'er our senses steal;How we wished they might "annex" us,So we'd get one good square meal.Other things may be forgotIn this busy, hustling age,But one thing we ne'er can blotFrom off our memory's page,That we never can forgetIn a hundred months of Junes;It will long our memories fret—Those prunes—those rotten, wormy prunes.
There are things we'll not remember,And much will be forgot,
As in the bleak DecemberWhen our coffee was not hot;
When the butter was much younger,When the bread was sour and dry;
When are felt the pangs of hunger,With regrets and many a sigh.
How the memory used to vex usAs 'twould o'er our senses steal;
How we wished they might "annex" us,So we'd get one good square meal.
Other things may be forgotIn this busy, hustling age,
But one thing we ne'er can blotFrom off our memory's page,
That we never can forgetIn a hundred months of Junes;
It will long our memories fret—Those prunes—those rotten, wormy prunes.
Mother.BY OVERSTREET.Who is it, in this life so drear,That pines for the wandering boy,And ever ready with words of cheerTo turn sad thoughts to joy?Mother.Who is it, when all others do forsakeAnd leave us to our grief,That will for long hours lie awakeAnd pray for our relief?Mother.Who is it, when the world laughs onAnd gives our sighs no thought,That thinks of the boy who looks uponThis life that's come to naught?Mother.Who is it, when from prison freed—The boy goes forth so sadly—That receives him in his hour of needWith tears of joy—yea, gladly?Mother.Who is it, when the end has come,Looks fondly on her child,And prays to God for a happy homeFor the boy that's been so wild?Mother.
BY OVERSTREET.
Who is it, in this life so drear,That pines for the wandering boy,
And ever ready with words of cheerTo turn sad thoughts to joy?
Mother.
Who is it, when all others do forsakeAnd leave us to our grief,
That will for long hours lie awakeAnd pray for our relief?
Mother.
Who is it, when the world laughs onAnd gives our sighs no thought,
That thinks of the boy who looks uponThis life that's come to naught?
Mother.
Who is it, when from prison freed—The boy goes forth so sadly—
That receives him in his hour of needWith tears of joy—yea, gladly?
Mother.
Who is it, when the end has come,Looks fondly on her child,
And prays to God for a happy homeFor the boy that's been so wild?
Mother.
A Prisoner's Thanksgiving.What if the gold of the corn landsIs faded to somber grey?And what if the down of the thistleIs ripened and scattered away?There's a crowning golden harvest,There's turkey the heart to cheer,There's a basket from home with plenty of "pone,"Tho' 'tis bathed in a mother's tear.What 'f our friends are far from usAnd they know not where we are?What if those who are dearestLive ever away so far?There's room for us by th' fireside,Where in childhood days we'd play;'Tis comfort to think, tho' we stand on the brink,That we will be there some day.What if our hearts are lonelyAs we toil in our enemy's hand?What if our sad looks betray usAs we take a true manly stand?There's a coming golden harvest,There's a time when we all'll meet,When prison locks and iron barsWill fail to ther pris'n'r keep.What care we for the pang at heart?'Twill all be gone some day;And then tho' our enemies'ld crush us,They'll be scattered far away.Tho' this is a sad Thanksgiving,A better one's coming our way,When we'll all be home to share in the "pone"And hear our angeled sister pray.What if the gold of the corn landsIs faded to somber grey?And what if the down of the thistleIs ripened and scattered away?Away to the east in a far off landThere's turkey the heart to cheer.Where the dear ones are partakingAnd thinking of one that's here;There's father and mother and sister and brother, all so far away.There's a blessed time a-coming—The prisoner's Thanksgiving day.
What if the gold of the corn landsIs faded to somber grey?
And what if the down of the thistleIs ripened and scattered away?
There's a crowning golden harvest,There's turkey the heart to cheer,
There's a basket from home with plenty of "pone,"Tho' 'tis bathed in a mother's tear.
What 'f our friends are far from usAnd they know not where we are?
What if those who are dearestLive ever away so far?
There's room for us by th' fireside,Where in childhood days we'd play;
'Tis comfort to think, tho' we stand on the brink,That we will be there some day.
What if our hearts are lonelyAs we toil in our enemy's hand?
What if our sad looks betray usAs we take a true manly stand?
There's a coming golden harvest,There's a time when we all'll meet,
When prison locks and iron barsWill fail to ther pris'n'r keep.
What care we for the pang at heart?'Twill all be gone some day;
And then tho' our enemies'ld crush us,They'll be scattered far away.
Tho' this is a sad Thanksgiving,A better one's coming our way,
When we'll all be home to share in the "pone"And hear our angeled sister pray.
What if the gold of the corn landsIs faded to somber grey?
And what if the down of the thistleIs ripened and scattered away?
Away to the east in a far off landThere's turkey the heart to cheer.
Where the dear ones are partakingAnd thinking of one that's here;
There's father and mother and sister and brother, all so far away.
There's a blessed time a-coming—The prisoner's Thanksgiving day.
Hope—Eternity.The heart bowed down with silent grief.Despair its portals soon assails.Oh! let such moments be but briefWhen spirit lost o'er man prevails;Think not of friend who, false, betrayed.Nor sweetheart's change, nor colder wife—Recall those oaths when passion prayedFor vengeance and for foeman's life.We pass dear friends but once this way:Our judge, accusers and our foe.If false to God and man they play.Not thou, but they, shall suffer woe.All stay is short; the longest spanCounts less than raindrops in the sea.Arouse thee, then, despairing man.And hail with hope—Eternity!Glows in thy cell a fragrant bloom,Plucked from thy guardian angel's wreath.Do thou but nurture it with prayerAnd water it with tears of faith.To humble hearts its petals ope,Revealing bliss to streaming eye—Immortal blooms this rose of hope,God's flower of life—Eternity.
The heart bowed down with silent grief.Despair its portals soon assails.
Oh! let such moments be but briefWhen spirit lost o'er man prevails;
Think not of friend who, false, betrayed.Nor sweetheart's change, nor colder wife—
Recall those oaths when passion prayedFor vengeance and for foeman's life.
We pass dear friends but once this way:Our judge, accusers and our foe.
If false to God and man they play.Not thou, but they, shall suffer woe.
All stay is short; the longest spanCounts less than raindrops in the sea.
Arouse thee, then, despairing man.And hail with hope—Eternity!
Glows in thy cell a fragrant bloom,Plucked from thy guardian angel's wreath.
Do thou but nurture it with prayerAnd water it with tears of faith.
To humble hearts its petals ope,Revealing bliss to streaming eye—
Immortal blooms this rose of hope,God's flower of life—Eternity.
The Prisoner's Mother.BY MRS. S. E. WIRICK.To be a prisoner's motherIs to feel a piercing dartThat sets the mind a-whirlingAnd almost cleaves the heart.To be a prisoner's motherIs, upon a holiday,To visit him in prison,Then part and go away.To be a prisoner's mother'Tis, inside the lonely wall,To say, "Farewell, my darling"—Oh, I almost faint and fall.No resting place but heaven,No happy morn that dawns;Our home so drear and lonelyBecause our boy is gone.An empty bed, a missing plate,A grief that inward burns;No balm on earth to heal our heartsUntil our boy returns."Honor and shame from no condition rise;Act well your part, there all the honor lies."
BY MRS. S. E. WIRICK.
To be a prisoner's motherIs to feel a piercing dart
That sets the mind a-whirlingAnd almost cleaves the heart.
To be a prisoner's motherIs, upon a holiday,
To visit him in prison,Then part and go away.
To be a prisoner's mother'Tis, inside the lonely wall,
To say, "Farewell, my darling"—Oh, I almost faint and fall.
No resting place but heaven,No happy morn that dawns;
Our home so drear and lonelyBecause our boy is gone.
An empty bed, a missing plate,A grief that inward burns;
No balm on earth to heal our heartsUntil our boy returns.
"Honor and shame from no condition rise;Act well your part, there all the honor lies."
How To Be Happy In Prison.BY NO. 22700Do what is right, and day by dayTeach yourself that work is playOf brain and muscle, rightly used—And hurtful only when abused;Deep interest take in all you do;'Twill others please, as well as you.Relieve a fellow prisoner's need;Righteous counsel always heed;Be not suspicious or unjust—Few men betray a perfect trust;He trusts the most whose heart is pure,And generous thought will malice cure.Brood not o'er the ills of life;Give no cause for needless strife;Tomb the past with all its sin;Purify yourself within;Rear your standard, be aMAN,And do whatever good you can.Some, perhaps, will misconstrueAll you say and all you do,But when conscience is at restHappiness will fill the breast—'Twill be a sweet red-letter dayWhen we all shall act that way.
BY NO. 22700
Do what is right, and day by dayTeach yourself that work is playOf brain and muscle, rightly used—And hurtful only when abused;Deep interest take in all you do;'Twill others please, as well as you.
Relieve a fellow prisoner's need;Righteous counsel always heed;Be not suspicious or unjust—Few men betray a perfect trust;He trusts the most whose heart is pure,And generous thought will malice cure.
Brood not o'er the ills of life;Give no cause for needless strife;Tomb the past with all its sin;Purify yourself within;Rear your standard, be aMAN,And do whatever good you can.
Some, perhaps, will misconstrueAll you say and all you do,But when conscience is at restHappiness will fill the breast—'Twill be a sweet red-letter dayWhen we all shall act that way.
In Prison.BY HARRISON.That which the world miscals a jailA private closet is to me;Whilst a good conscience is my bail,And innocence my liberty:Locks, bars and solitude together metMake me no prisoner, but an anchoret.I, whilst I wisht to be retired,Into this private room was turned,As if their wisdoms had conspiredThe salamander should be burned;Or, like those sophists that would drown a fish,I am constrained to suffer what I wish.These manacles upon my armI as my mistress' favors wear;And for to keep my ankles warmI have some iron shackles there;These walls are but my garrison; this cell,Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.I'm in the cabinet lockt up,Like some high-prized margarite,Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope,Am cloistered up from public sight:Retiredness is a piece of majesty,And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.
BY HARRISON.
That which the world miscals a jailA private closet is to me;
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,And innocence my liberty:
Locks, bars and solitude together met
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
I, whilst I wisht to be retired,Into this private room was turned,
As if their wisdoms had conspiredThe salamander should be burned;
Or, like those sophists that would drown a fish,
I am constrained to suffer what I wish.
These manacles upon my armI as my mistress' favors wear;
And for to keep my ankles warmI have some iron shackles there;
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.
I'm in the cabinet lockt up,Like some high-prized margarite,
Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope,Am cloistered up from public sight:
Retiredness is a piece of majesty,
And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.
Erratic Musings of Unfettered Thought.[BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.]Is living thought, proud condor of the mind,By walls of rock and iron bars confined,Innate divinity by human courts enslaved,And right eternal by a dust-worm braved?Think you the spirit's rapid flight to marWith dungeon torture and by iron bar?Can rock-ribbed walls and bars of steelDeprive man of the power to feel?Can you the stream of Lethe rollIn maddening torrents o'er the soul,Pluck from my brow love's garland fairAnd brand me "Victim of despair?"No! weakling son of vengeful fate,God grants to none a power so great.My body is your lawful prey,Poor lump of spirit-crumbling clay;Seize, chain and manacle each part,Aye, even starve my bleeding heart,But know that for Creative ThoughtAll fetters by one's self is wrought.Mind, glorious Mind—Jehovah's sleepless breath,Can know no bondage and can feel no death.In yon fair regions of unreached reposeEternal Beauty's flower-chalice glows,Filled to the brim with satisfying wine,Ambrosial nectar of the Tuneful Nine.My muse can reach it on external wingsAnd drink till all the heart within me sings!I scale the lofty heights, by virtue shown,And from Eternal Wisdom seek my own.There, far above the struggling world of fate,I greet true freedom and am wisely great.'Tis mine in bright elysian fields to roam,Pluck jeweled treasure from the sleeping gnome;Bid ocean deeps their mysteries reveal,Or, soaring far above the world of space,Gain raptured visions of the Holy Place;Admire and measure every glittering throne,Count heavenly treasure as my own,Make august angels bow beneath my rod,And even dare to mould the mind of God;O radiant fields of pure, untrammeled Thought,With what sweet incense are thy zephyrs fraught;How clear the view, from thy exalted height,Of human errors and unerring right;'Tis thou alone my laboring Muse can teachThe perfect measure of her powers to reach;She cons these fragments of a Truth sublime,And art stands ready with appropriate rhymeTo trim each sentence and each word to placeIn melting numbers of seductive grace;Since first Jehovah, bending low to earth,Breathed in man's nostrils an eternal birth,The rain drop falling, from the heavy cloud,In waiting dust, finds ready shroud,And there commingling fills each separate cell,Yet still remains as pure as when it fell:To man appearing but a dampened clod,'Tis chambered favor of a gracious God;And serves his purpose till He calls aboveThis liquid semblance of Immortal Love,Therenotto perish, but return againTo deck the forest and adorn the plain;All nature feels its fructifying powerIn laughing streamlets and in nodding flower;The rain drop typifies the Pure Indwelling God,That permeates our being, to animate a clod;Give birth to all emotion, consistent with His plan,And with unmeasured tenderness weep the fall of man.From every nodding flower, from every whispering breezeFrom mountain's lofty height, from towering trees,From softly twinkling star, from lightning's giddy flash,From the softest twitter of a bird and thunder's awful crash,From hills the ants may call their own,From crested elders 'round their throne,From babbling brook, from storm-lashed wave,From nature smiling, nature grave,From earth and air, from sky and sea,There comes the self same voice to me,Like softest note of cooing dove,And sweetly whispers, "God is Love."All nature is obedient to heaven's august plan,And none will dare rebellion, save ever-erring man.He, of a dual nature—purity and lust—Defies his Great Creator and thus betrays his trust.Thrones within his being the hydra-headed sin,All his joy to murder and createhell within;Self-conscienceness completes the triple blowWhile memories of happier years augments his hapless woe.Whatever then of pleasure his wounded spirit knowsFrom the fountain of bitter repentance it onward, onward flows,His own environment, be it either fair or fell,Mustnowembower his heaven, or will create his hell.Contentment, peace, or pleasure he must create anewBy sowing seeds of virtue where vice so lately grew.He learns he must not do whatever man can do,But recognize the limits of the just and true.Law is hisAlma mater, the measure of his right,The barrier Jehovah set to curb irreverent flight;He has the truest liberty who recognizes law;'Tis made to shield his virtues and on his vices war;He who denies humanity lives for himself aloneAll history to hush, all culture to disown;And quickly he relapses into a barbarous state,Where only force and prowess can make the unit great.None so lost tovirtue, none so devoid of art,As he who fails to capture theempire of a heart;He who knows not sympathy feels no fellow's woe,Will never feel the rapture of happiness below;God planted seeds of pity in every human breast,And he who loses most of woe secures most of rest:Love is man'sall, his conqueror, his cordial and wine,The measure of his inner life that stamps him as divine.How circumscribed the circle God allots to man,His home is but an acre, his life is but a span;And yet within that circle his influence is so greatHe wakes the cooing notes ofloveor feeds the fires of hate;His influence is potential within a circle small,But beyond the limit of the same he does no good at all;All thought, all power with which our being teems,Is action predicated on events or on dreams.All we have seen or heard, all we now can feel,Leaves an imprint on the heart that the future must reveal:The vain are truly lonely, they long to be admired,One wishes to be understood, another well attired,This hushed by useless longings or fashion's changing art,That sweetest of all poems,the music of the heart.But he who solves life's mystery is never quite alone,All ages is his playground and solitude his throne;He walks in subtle converse with all the mighty dead,Gathering priceless jewels their wit or wisdom bred.The watchtowers of his thought o'erlooks the struggling mass,While events both past and present before his vision pass.He sees the weary captive tugging at his chain;The weather-beaten sailor plough the raging main;The swarthy burden bearer in forest, mine and field;The merchant's soiled ledgers, the soldier's brazen shield;The child with glittering toy, the maiden at her glass;The ruler of an empire, the leader of the mass;The student in his study, the priest on bended knee;The teacher with his ferrule, the aged human tree,All fondly dream of freedom, yet all beneath the ban,Each in a separate prison presided o'er byman;Seesnatureandmoralityare ever waging war,The first as god of freedom, the latter lord of law.Sees culture raise her barriers between polite and rude,And hearsReligionthunder, "Cover up the nude!"Knows man in every station to be a willing slave,The football of his passion, the dupe of every knave.Yet hears him boast his freedom, laud his reasoning power;Rule all he can with iron hand, andfinitejudgment shower;Sees all the devious, hidden paths by sinful mortals trodWherehumanlaw and custom dare ostracise a god;Yet knows a germ of goodness, deep in the human breast,Is living in the worst of men however much depressed.Knows life is but the unit of God's Eternal Plan,And learns topity, not to blame, poor ever-erring man!In each created atom sees faultless beauty glowAnd God's Eternal purpose in onward sequence flow.Views all souls as living harps, whose seeming dissonanceIs but apparent and not real; and believes, perchance,God will mend each shattered chord, tune the quivering lyre,And from out each soul shall bring a music sweeter, higherThan earthly ears have ever heard or earthly lips essayed;Such music as the ransomed sing in innocence arrayed;While all the universe entranced shall wondering inquire:"Is this the fruitage ofHiswoe? Is this his soul's desire?Is this the harp so late unstrung? Is this poor fallen man?Ah! can it be that all was wrought obedient to God's plan"?Nature will o'er matter bear imperial sway,And all not immortal must in time decay;Man's tenement is mortal, but himself divine;Which should he most cherish, the jewel or its shrine?Yet when vice allures him with seductive ray,Gives he not to passion undisputed sway?Dreams he not of beauty who, with open arms,Calls for lust to enter and revel 'mid her charms?Is his eye not captive? Do not his senses thrill?What is left the tempted one save his feeble will?If that will prove recreant to Jehovah's trust,Pays he not the penalty in self-consuming lust?Must his spirit suffer through unending yearsFor the shame he purchased with agonizing tears?Life is but a shoe-broom, Nature is God's bookAnd he's the aptest scholar who all her laws can brook!If love of right was constant man could well defyAll of sin's allurements and unspotted die!Onesuch man has lived who, with a faith sublime,Crucified the temple where he dwelt in time,And entered heaven victorious without the aid of grace,The marvel of all centuries, the Savior of the race;But had His will but weakened, Jesus, too, had fell,And man without Redemption sank tottering into hell;All would be good did not true goodness claimSuch earnest noble effort from a will so tame;Crimeis but a sequence of misguided willInherent moral defect andsurroundingill.Man's innate love of beauty and his dread of pain,His ever raging thirst for power and his greed for gainAlternately do sway him with resistless power,The spotless blossoms of the soul, until he only yearnsFor the ever hideous lust that blackens as it burns.Guilt comes not, thundering on the wings of time,With vice-distorted feature and the leer of crime,But like enchanting vision from a pagan dream,Or softly echoed cadence of a whispering stream,She steals upon us gently, with ever-changing art,And usurps an empire—the waiting human heart!Her outward form is beauty, her voice with Passion tense,She only craves the privilege to gratify each sense;All apparent pleasures 'round her path are spread,But, alas! you seize the flower to find its fragrance fled;But still pursuing, row with bated breath,You clasp her to your bosom and—embrace a death!Then, conscience stricken, you the wreck survey,And with shuddering sorrow—humbly kneel to pray;While the pitying angels on their pinions bearThe ever sacred burden of repentant prayer,And almighty love descending reasserts control,And mercy in the guise of grace has won a humansoul;But contrast a moment, with this heavenly plan,The awful brutal conduct of exactingMan.See yon martial champion riding on the floodOf a frightful carnage and a sea of blood;His path is strewn with many a ghastly sight,Dead and dismembered bodies and defenseless fright!Yet all the people with a loud acclaimPronouncehim"Hero," and accord him Fame!True, he butchers thousands in a cruel war,Yet you deem himguiltless, he obeyedyourlaw.But if your angered brother slay a single man,Himyou brand a "Murderer," worthy of your ban;And with zeal unbounded you wage relentless warUntil he falls, a victim to rage-created law.As if a uselessmurderer, sanctioned by the state,Was less the fruitage of revenge than one new-born of hate;Perchance in some fair aiden, some far distant sphereYour poor hapless victim these just words may hear:"Thou art now forgiven, poor misguided son!"Tho' tranced with dire passion thou hast slain but one."Thou hast made atonement, breathed a fiery breath"Of a deep repentance and an awful death!"Place on him the raiment—whiter far than snow,"And teach his untried lips to sing the song the angels know."But as to yonder soldier who for the bauble fame"Led unbattled thousands without fear or shame;"And with banners flying to the bugle's chime"Hurled obedient legions into conscious crime—"All the tears he showed,allthe blood he shed,"Now in molten fire shall circle 'round his head,"And all shall learn the lesson, that horror-breeding war"Willnevermeet the sanction of Jehovah's law!"This is no fancy picture, nor idle dream of youth,But, if I know the laws of God, it is the solemn truth".Behold a homeless wanderer, poor and thinly clad,To biting cold a victim, with hunger almost mad,Entering yonder mansion, dares to boldly stealWhat none should e'er deny a dog—the pittance of a meal!See the greedy sleuth-hounds of the outraged lawWage against this robber an unrelenting war;WhileChristianjudge and jury, with ready wit, declareHis crime an awful outrage, that merits prison fare!But he who rears his costly domesO'er wreck and ruin of human homes,Plants in the breast a raging thirstAnd leaves his victims doubly cursed,Can roll in luxury, loll in prideAnd, withthe law, his gain divide!Tho' every dime he pays the stateA thousand cost in wakened hate!A simple youth by passion lured,And of but little wisdom steward,Meets with a maid of witching graceAnd dalliance ends in dire disgrace!In prison stripes you teach the foolThat he mustlovebyhumanrule!Yet you rear great, costly pilesWhere soiled doves may ply their wilesAnd lead to an unhallowed bedThe lustful brute you lately wed.If passion will assert her powerNone shall dare a maid deflowerUnless solicensedby the stateIn wedlock's bonds his lust to sate!And, if marriage prove a bane,Divorce, for cash, will ease his pain!Then to your haunts of sin he hiesAnd laws of God and man defiesBy casting, in a barren sea,The germ oflifethat is to be!'Tis true this evil you decry—And raise your taxes mountain high!As if the more the state shall gainThe less will virtue feel the strain!—You legalizedivorceandfraud,And eachsuccessfulscoundrel laud,Unmindful tho' he gain his wealthBy open plunder or by stealth.In vain his hapless victims cry,Hisgoldcan legal silence buy!But if through stress of penury's strifeOne makes a shipwreck of his life,You prisons build and place withinThis fruitage of a law-made sin,To linger till the cowering slaveShall fill—unwept—a pauper's grave.And scarce a line of obscure printAt this dark tragedy will hint;But if your millioned puppy diesWhat wailings rend the astonished skies!What sabled hue and lengthened trainAttest your deep regret and pain!How yon cathedral's vaulted archWill echo with his funeral march;What flowers will deck his costly tomb;What tapers rob the grave of gloom;While columns, nay, whole papers tellHowgreata man today has fell.Deluded mortals! raise your eyesTo yon fair regions of the skies,Wherejusticesits, each cause to tryBeneath Omniscience's searching eye;Your "convict," on low bended knee,Pleads "guilty"—and they set him free;And angels crown, with loud acclaim,The man you deemed a living shame!YourCroesus, with uplifted eye,(Still conscious of his station high)Deigns to repeat, with growing stress,How from defeat he wrung success;Tells, with a proudly swelling heart,Of millions spent on sculptured art;And millions more on lordly hall,The eye and heart of man to thrall;Tells how a church and college newFromhisdonation quickly grew;Tells how—in cushioned pew—he kneltAnd begged God other hearts to melt,Until each child of man should be,Like his dear self, from error free;All this they hear your idol tell—And cast him headlong into hell!While heaven bows her head with aweIn sanction of Jehovah's law.What mighty solons fill your halls of state!(Poor gibbering parrots with an empty pate),Who deem all prisons of but little useNot founded on starvation and abuse.They lock poor pris'ners in a loathsome cell,While lash and pistol drives them on to hell;They crush his manhood and his soul debase,Blot out ambition and his name disgrace,Yet wonder greatly that such humane planMakes not an angel of each convict man.These truthful samples of your legal pageCondemn your judgment and disgrace your age—Too oft repeated, who will dare to sayTo what dark horrors they may pave the way?Pause! ere the records that now strew your pathInvite the vengeance of Jehovah's wrath;Relearn the lesson early taught mankind,"To God give reverence and to man be kind."Be this your motto, and each setting sunWill kiss the feature of a work begun;Time cannot tarnish and no heart can blameYour noble effort to deserve a name;Heaven will applaud you, and the smileOf happiness the hours beguile,Why pay such homage to mere human laws?Dread you man's censure or admire applause?Are you forgetful that the crown of fameIs purchased torture and expiring shame?Think you man's plaudits or his causeless hateCan either ope or close the pearly gate?Who ever placed in man implicit trust,Nor saw his idol, soon or late, in dust?Why thus pursue an ever fading wraith?'Tis God, and God alone, deserves your faith.Survey all things with comprehensive view,Admire all beauty and enthrone the true;Know every mortal, tho' a separate soul,Is but a fragment of the mighty wholeThat fills a niche in God's eternal plan,All for the welfare of ungrateful man;Learn that in many a loathsome cellA prisoned genius or a saint may dwell,Whose power, developed by an act of love,May lead a million to the Courts above.Shall it be yours to touch that vibrant chordAnd share the honor of the great reward?What heaven endorses that alone can stand;All else is stubble, built on shifting sand,That shall vanish 'mid the fire and floodLike tiny snowflakes in a sea of blood.Oh, could my Muse, by some exalted flight,Portray her knowledge of Eternal Right—Breathe in soft accents to the listening earThe melting music which my soul can hear,Some would declare my reason half dethronedBefore my fancy to such heights had flown;Yet could such see as I have seen the scrollWhere God has written "Destiny of Soul,"They much would wonder how my MuseCould dare suppress such glorious news.What pen can picture or what brush can paintThe endless rapture of a raptured saint?Words are too feeble; they but tell in partThe truthful language of a human heart;But, Oh, when spirit from its cumbering clayShall rise triumphant to the realms of day,What strains seraphic from our lips shall breakTill all creation shall to bliss awake!O bliss supernal! when our lips shall meet—The lips long buried—and our souls shall greetThe loved and cherished of those earlier years.Ere pain had turned each quivering chord to tears,And life was smiling in her morning hoursAnd love was conscious of her magic powers.Oh, sweet reunion on the crystal strand!When we shall fondly clasp the waiting handOf buried jewels distance hides from view,And all the plighted vows of life renew,Then shall we learn the truthfulness of love,When hearts like ours, renewed in youth, aboveAll passion and the cloying cares of earthShall wake to rapture with a Second Birth!O hearts estranged, forgive and be forgiven!Your cruel coldness has already drivenThe angel sweetness from your speaking eye,And suffered everything, save pride, to die.O cradle, in the lap of everlasting sleepThe dark, fierce passions that now rudely sweepThe sounding chambers of the suffering soul,Where Hate's tumultuous torrents hourly roll,And blacken what was once so white and fair,When spotless Innocence was centered there!Oh, keep no kisses for my cold, dead brow—I am so lonely—let me feel them now.When dreamless sleep is mine I never more can needThe tenderness for which tonight I plead;My wayworn spirit and my thorn-pierced feetThe piteous pleadings of my lips repeat.Oh, shall I plead and plead with you in vainTo bring love's sunlight to my soul again?Shall acts repented, bred of undue haste,Lay all my stock of future pleasures waste?Bid me to draw a servile, galling chain,Nor wish to murmur, nor murmur to complain?Will you deprive my hungry soul of love,Nor leave one spark of happiness above?Oh, what base deed has these my fingers wroughtTo wake a malice with each vengeance fraught?If I have sinned and disobeyed your laws,Discarded fashion and despised applause,Have I not suffered all a man can know,And drank the bitterest dregs of human woe?Think you my proud and haughty soul to cowerWith scorpion lashes of tempestuous power?Go scourge the ocean with puny lash,Or raze a mountain with a feather's crash!Why thus torment my swift declining ageWith useless torture of unreasoning rage?'Twere best to sound the caverns of my soulAnd learn the being whom you dare control!'Twill teach you wisdom in a single hourAnd rob your malice of its wasting power!For heaven has writ upon each poet soul"Deal gently with him and his all control."
[BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.]
Is living thought, proud condor of the mind,By walls of rock and iron bars confined,Innate divinity by human courts enslaved,And right eternal by a dust-worm braved?Think you the spirit's rapid flight to marWith dungeon torture and by iron bar?Can rock-ribbed walls and bars of steelDeprive man of the power to feel?Can you the stream of Lethe rollIn maddening torrents o'er the soul,Pluck from my brow love's garland fairAnd brand me "Victim of despair?"No! weakling son of vengeful fate,God grants to none a power so great.My body is your lawful prey,Poor lump of spirit-crumbling clay;Seize, chain and manacle each part,Aye, even starve my bleeding heart,But know that for Creative ThoughtAll fetters by one's self is wrought.Mind, glorious Mind—Jehovah's sleepless breath,Can know no bondage and can feel no death.In yon fair regions of unreached reposeEternal Beauty's flower-chalice glows,Filled to the brim with satisfying wine,Ambrosial nectar of the Tuneful Nine.My muse can reach it on external wingsAnd drink till all the heart within me sings!I scale the lofty heights, by virtue shown,And from Eternal Wisdom seek my own.There, far above the struggling world of fate,I greet true freedom and am wisely great.'Tis mine in bright elysian fields to roam,Pluck jeweled treasure from the sleeping gnome;Bid ocean deeps their mysteries reveal,Or, soaring far above the world of space,Gain raptured visions of the Holy Place;Admire and measure every glittering throne,Count heavenly treasure as my own,Make august angels bow beneath my rod,And even dare to mould the mind of God;O radiant fields of pure, untrammeled Thought,With what sweet incense are thy zephyrs fraught;How clear the view, from thy exalted height,Of human errors and unerring right;'Tis thou alone my laboring Muse can teachThe perfect measure of her powers to reach;She cons these fragments of a Truth sublime,And art stands ready with appropriate rhymeTo trim each sentence and each word to placeIn melting numbers of seductive grace;Since first Jehovah, bending low to earth,Breathed in man's nostrils an eternal birth,The rain drop falling, from the heavy cloud,In waiting dust, finds ready shroud,And there commingling fills each separate cell,Yet still remains as pure as when it fell:To man appearing but a dampened clod,'Tis chambered favor of a gracious God;And serves his purpose till He calls aboveThis liquid semblance of Immortal Love,Therenotto perish, but return againTo deck the forest and adorn the plain;All nature feels its fructifying powerIn laughing streamlets and in nodding flower;The rain drop typifies the Pure Indwelling God,That permeates our being, to animate a clod;Give birth to all emotion, consistent with His plan,And with unmeasured tenderness weep the fall of man.From every nodding flower, from every whispering breezeFrom mountain's lofty height, from towering trees,From softly twinkling star, from lightning's giddy flash,From the softest twitter of a bird and thunder's awful crash,From hills the ants may call their own,From crested elders 'round their throne,From babbling brook, from storm-lashed wave,From nature smiling, nature grave,From earth and air, from sky and sea,There comes the self same voice to me,Like softest note of cooing dove,And sweetly whispers, "God is Love."All nature is obedient to heaven's august plan,And none will dare rebellion, save ever-erring man.He, of a dual nature—purity and lust—Defies his Great Creator and thus betrays his trust.Thrones within his being the hydra-headed sin,All his joy to murder and createhell within;Self-conscienceness completes the triple blowWhile memories of happier years augments his hapless woe.Whatever then of pleasure his wounded spirit knowsFrom the fountain of bitter repentance it onward, onward flows,His own environment, be it either fair or fell,Mustnowembower his heaven, or will create his hell.Contentment, peace, or pleasure he must create anewBy sowing seeds of virtue where vice so lately grew.He learns he must not do whatever man can do,But recognize the limits of the just and true.Law is hisAlma mater, the measure of his right,The barrier Jehovah set to curb irreverent flight;He has the truest liberty who recognizes law;'Tis made to shield his virtues and on his vices war;He who denies humanity lives for himself aloneAll history to hush, all culture to disown;And quickly he relapses into a barbarous state,Where only force and prowess can make the unit great.None so lost tovirtue, none so devoid of art,As he who fails to capture theempire of a heart;He who knows not sympathy feels no fellow's woe,Will never feel the rapture of happiness below;God planted seeds of pity in every human breast,And he who loses most of woe secures most of rest:Love is man'sall, his conqueror, his cordial and wine,The measure of his inner life that stamps him as divine.How circumscribed the circle God allots to man,His home is but an acre, his life is but a span;And yet within that circle his influence is so greatHe wakes the cooing notes ofloveor feeds the fires of hate;His influence is potential within a circle small,But beyond the limit of the same he does no good at all;All thought, all power with which our being teems,Is action predicated on events or on dreams.All we have seen or heard, all we now can feel,Leaves an imprint on the heart that the future must reveal:The vain are truly lonely, they long to be admired,One wishes to be understood, another well attired,This hushed by useless longings or fashion's changing art,That sweetest of all poems,the music of the heart.But he who solves life's mystery is never quite alone,All ages is his playground and solitude his throne;He walks in subtle converse with all the mighty dead,Gathering priceless jewels their wit or wisdom bred.The watchtowers of his thought o'erlooks the struggling mass,While events both past and present before his vision pass.He sees the weary captive tugging at his chain;The weather-beaten sailor plough the raging main;The swarthy burden bearer in forest, mine and field;The merchant's soiled ledgers, the soldier's brazen shield;The child with glittering toy, the maiden at her glass;The ruler of an empire, the leader of the mass;The student in his study, the priest on bended knee;The teacher with his ferrule, the aged human tree,All fondly dream of freedom, yet all beneath the ban,Each in a separate prison presided o'er byman;Seesnatureandmoralityare ever waging war,The first as god of freedom, the latter lord of law.Sees culture raise her barriers between polite and rude,And hearsReligionthunder, "Cover up the nude!"Knows man in every station to be a willing slave,The football of his passion, the dupe of every knave.Yet hears him boast his freedom, laud his reasoning power;Rule all he can with iron hand, andfinitejudgment shower;Sees all the devious, hidden paths by sinful mortals trodWherehumanlaw and custom dare ostracise a god;Yet knows a germ of goodness, deep in the human breast,Is living in the worst of men however much depressed.Knows life is but the unit of God's Eternal Plan,And learns topity, not to blame, poor ever-erring man!In each created atom sees faultless beauty glowAnd God's Eternal purpose in onward sequence flow.Views all souls as living harps, whose seeming dissonanceIs but apparent and not real; and believes, perchance,God will mend each shattered chord, tune the quivering lyre,And from out each soul shall bring a music sweeter, higherThan earthly ears have ever heard or earthly lips essayed;Such music as the ransomed sing in innocence arrayed;While all the universe entranced shall wondering inquire:"Is this the fruitage ofHiswoe? Is this his soul's desire?Is this the harp so late unstrung? Is this poor fallen man?Ah! can it be that all was wrought obedient to God's plan"?
Nature will o'er matter bear imperial sway,And all not immortal must in time decay;Man's tenement is mortal, but himself divine;Which should he most cherish, the jewel or its shrine?Yet when vice allures him with seductive ray,Gives he not to passion undisputed sway?Dreams he not of beauty who, with open arms,Calls for lust to enter and revel 'mid her charms?Is his eye not captive? Do not his senses thrill?What is left the tempted one save his feeble will?If that will prove recreant to Jehovah's trust,Pays he not the penalty in self-consuming lust?Must his spirit suffer through unending yearsFor the shame he purchased with agonizing tears?Life is but a shoe-broom, Nature is God's bookAnd he's the aptest scholar who all her laws can brook!If love of right was constant man could well defyAll of sin's allurements and unspotted die!Onesuch man has lived who, with a faith sublime,Crucified the temple where he dwelt in time,And entered heaven victorious without the aid of grace,The marvel of all centuries, the Savior of the race;But had His will but weakened, Jesus, too, had fell,And man without Redemption sank tottering into hell;All would be good did not true goodness claimSuch earnest noble effort from a will so tame;Crimeis but a sequence of misguided willInherent moral defect andsurroundingill.Man's innate love of beauty and his dread of pain,His ever raging thirst for power and his greed for gainAlternately do sway him with resistless power,The spotless blossoms of the soul, until he only yearnsFor the ever hideous lust that blackens as it burns.Guilt comes not, thundering on the wings of time,With vice-distorted feature and the leer of crime,But like enchanting vision from a pagan dream,Or softly echoed cadence of a whispering stream,She steals upon us gently, with ever-changing art,And usurps an empire—the waiting human heart!Her outward form is beauty, her voice with Passion tense,She only craves the privilege to gratify each sense;All apparent pleasures 'round her path are spread,But, alas! you seize the flower to find its fragrance fled;But still pursuing, row with bated breath,You clasp her to your bosom and—embrace a death!Then, conscience stricken, you the wreck survey,And with shuddering sorrow—humbly kneel to pray;While the pitying angels on their pinions bearThe ever sacred burden of repentant prayer,And almighty love descending reasserts control,And mercy in the guise of grace has won a humansoul;But contrast a moment, with this heavenly plan,The awful brutal conduct of exactingMan.See yon martial champion riding on the floodOf a frightful carnage and a sea of blood;His path is strewn with many a ghastly sight,Dead and dismembered bodies and defenseless fright!Yet all the people with a loud acclaimPronouncehim"Hero," and accord him Fame!True, he butchers thousands in a cruel war,Yet you deem himguiltless, he obeyedyourlaw.But if your angered brother slay a single man,Himyou brand a "Murderer," worthy of your ban;And with zeal unbounded you wage relentless warUntil he falls, a victim to rage-created law.As if a uselessmurderer, sanctioned by the state,Was less the fruitage of revenge than one new-born of hate;Perchance in some fair aiden, some far distant sphereYour poor hapless victim these just words may hear:"Thou art now forgiven, poor misguided son!"Tho' tranced with dire passion thou hast slain but one."Thou hast made atonement, breathed a fiery breath"Of a deep repentance and an awful death!"Place on him the raiment—whiter far than snow,"And teach his untried lips to sing the song the angels know."But as to yonder soldier who for the bauble fame"Led unbattled thousands without fear or shame;"And with banners flying to the bugle's chime"Hurled obedient legions into conscious crime—"All the tears he showed,allthe blood he shed,"Now in molten fire shall circle 'round his head,"And all shall learn the lesson, that horror-breeding war"Willnevermeet the sanction of Jehovah's law!"This is no fancy picture, nor idle dream of youth,But, if I know the laws of God, it is the solemn truth".
Behold a homeless wanderer, poor and thinly clad,To biting cold a victim, with hunger almost mad,Entering yonder mansion, dares to boldly stealWhat none should e'er deny a dog—the pittance of a meal!See the greedy sleuth-hounds of the outraged lawWage against this robber an unrelenting war;WhileChristianjudge and jury, with ready wit, declareHis crime an awful outrage, that merits prison fare!But he who rears his costly domesO'er wreck and ruin of human homes,Plants in the breast a raging thirstAnd leaves his victims doubly cursed,Can roll in luxury, loll in prideAnd, withthe law, his gain divide!Tho' every dime he pays the stateA thousand cost in wakened hate!
A simple youth by passion lured,And of but little wisdom steward,Meets with a maid of witching graceAnd dalliance ends in dire disgrace!In prison stripes you teach the foolThat he mustlovebyhumanrule!Yet you rear great, costly pilesWhere soiled doves may ply their wilesAnd lead to an unhallowed bedThe lustful brute you lately wed.If passion will assert her powerNone shall dare a maid deflowerUnless solicensedby the stateIn wedlock's bonds his lust to sate!And, if marriage prove a bane,Divorce, for cash, will ease his pain!Then to your haunts of sin he hiesAnd laws of God and man defiesBy casting, in a barren sea,The germ oflifethat is to be!'Tis true this evil you decry—And raise your taxes mountain high!As if the more the state shall gainThe less will virtue feel the strain!—You legalizedivorceandfraud,And eachsuccessfulscoundrel laud,Unmindful tho' he gain his wealthBy open plunder or by stealth.In vain his hapless victims cry,Hisgoldcan legal silence buy!But if through stress of penury's strifeOne makes a shipwreck of his life,You prisons build and place withinThis fruitage of a law-made sin,To linger till the cowering slaveShall fill—unwept—a pauper's grave.And scarce a line of obscure printAt this dark tragedy will hint;But if your millioned puppy diesWhat wailings rend the astonished skies!What sabled hue and lengthened trainAttest your deep regret and pain!How yon cathedral's vaulted archWill echo with his funeral march;What flowers will deck his costly tomb;What tapers rob the grave of gloom;While columns, nay, whole papers tellHowgreata man today has fell.Deluded mortals! raise your eyesTo yon fair regions of the skies,Wherejusticesits, each cause to tryBeneath Omniscience's searching eye;Your "convict," on low bended knee,Pleads "guilty"—and they set him free;And angels crown, with loud acclaim,The man you deemed a living shame!YourCroesus, with uplifted eye,(Still conscious of his station high)Deigns to repeat, with growing stress,How from defeat he wrung success;Tells, with a proudly swelling heart,Of millions spent on sculptured art;And millions more on lordly hall,The eye and heart of man to thrall;Tells how a church and college newFromhisdonation quickly grew;Tells how—in cushioned pew—he kneltAnd begged God other hearts to melt,Until each child of man should be,Like his dear self, from error free;All this they hear your idol tell—And cast him headlong into hell!While heaven bows her head with aweIn sanction of Jehovah's law.
What mighty solons fill your halls of state!(Poor gibbering parrots with an empty pate),Who deem all prisons of but little useNot founded on starvation and abuse.They lock poor pris'ners in a loathsome cell,While lash and pistol drives them on to hell;They crush his manhood and his soul debase,Blot out ambition and his name disgrace,Yet wonder greatly that such humane planMakes not an angel of each convict man.These truthful samples of your legal pageCondemn your judgment and disgrace your age—Too oft repeated, who will dare to sayTo what dark horrors they may pave the way?Pause! ere the records that now strew your pathInvite the vengeance of Jehovah's wrath;Relearn the lesson early taught mankind,"To God give reverence and to man be kind."Be this your motto, and each setting sunWill kiss the feature of a work begun;Time cannot tarnish and no heart can blameYour noble effort to deserve a name;Heaven will applaud you, and the smileOf happiness the hours beguile,Why pay such homage to mere human laws?Dread you man's censure or admire applause?Are you forgetful that the crown of fameIs purchased torture and expiring shame?Think you man's plaudits or his causeless hateCan either ope or close the pearly gate?Who ever placed in man implicit trust,Nor saw his idol, soon or late, in dust?Why thus pursue an ever fading wraith?'Tis God, and God alone, deserves your faith.Survey all things with comprehensive view,Admire all beauty and enthrone the true;Know every mortal, tho' a separate soul,Is but a fragment of the mighty wholeThat fills a niche in God's eternal plan,All for the welfare of ungrateful man;Learn that in many a loathsome cellA prisoned genius or a saint may dwell,Whose power, developed by an act of love,May lead a million to the Courts above.Shall it be yours to touch that vibrant chordAnd share the honor of the great reward?What heaven endorses that alone can stand;All else is stubble, built on shifting sand,That shall vanish 'mid the fire and floodLike tiny snowflakes in a sea of blood.Oh, could my Muse, by some exalted flight,Portray her knowledge of Eternal Right—Breathe in soft accents to the listening earThe melting music which my soul can hear,Some would declare my reason half dethronedBefore my fancy to such heights had flown;Yet could such see as I have seen the scrollWhere God has written "Destiny of Soul,"They much would wonder how my MuseCould dare suppress such glorious news.What pen can picture or what brush can paintThe endless rapture of a raptured saint?Words are too feeble; they but tell in partThe truthful language of a human heart;But, Oh, when spirit from its cumbering clayShall rise triumphant to the realms of day,What strains seraphic from our lips shall breakTill all creation shall to bliss awake!O bliss supernal! when our lips shall meet—The lips long buried—and our souls shall greetThe loved and cherished of those earlier years.Ere pain had turned each quivering chord to tears,And life was smiling in her morning hoursAnd love was conscious of her magic powers.Oh, sweet reunion on the crystal strand!When we shall fondly clasp the waiting handOf buried jewels distance hides from view,And all the plighted vows of life renew,Then shall we learn the truthfulness of love,When hearts like ours, renewed in youth, aboveAll passion and the cloying cares of earthShall wake to rapture with a Second Birth!
O hearts estranged, forgive and be forgiven!Your cruel coldness has already drivenThe angel sweetness from your speaking eye,And suffered everything, save pride, to die.O cradle, in the lap of everlasting sleepThe dark, fierce passions that now rudely sweepThe sounding chambers of the suffering soul,Where Hate's tumultuous torrents hourly roll,And blacken what was once so white and fair,When spotless Innocence was centered there!Oh, keep no kisses for my cold, dead brow—I am so lonely—let me feel them now.When dreamless sleep is mine I never more can needThe tenderness for which tonight I plead;My wayworn spirit and my thorn-pierced feetThe piteous pleadings of my lips repeat.Oh, shall I plead and plead with you in vainTo bring love's sunlight to my soul again?Shall acts repented, bred of undue haste,Lay all my stock of future pleasures waste?Bid me to draw a servile, galling chain,Nor wish to murmur, nor murmur to complain?Will you deprive my hungry soul of love,Nor leave one spark of happiness above?Oh, what base deed has these my fingers wroughtTo wake a malice with each vengeance fraught?If I have sinned and disobeyed your laws,Discarded fashion and despised applause,Have I not suffered all a man can know,And drank the bitterest dregs of human woe?Think you my proud and haughty soul to cowerWith scorpion lashes of tempestuous power?Go scourge the ocean with puny lash,Or raze a mountain with a feather's crash!Why thus torment my swift declining ageWith useless torture of unreasoning rage?'Twere best to sound the caverns of my soulAnd learn the being whom you dare control!'Twill teach you wisdom in a single hourAnd rob your malice of its wasting power!For heaven has writ upon each poet soul"Deal gently with him and his all control."
INFLUENCE.BY SAM LAW.When e'er a noble deed is wrought,When e'er is spoke a noble thought,Our hearts, in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.The sleeping purpose wakes in us,Arousing power or genius,And from their exerciseIs born good enterprise.Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our prison needs,And by their overflowRaise us from what is low.
BY SAM LAW.
When e'er a noble deed is wrought,When e'er is spoke a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.
The sleeping purpose wakes in us,Arousing power or genius,
And from their exerciseIs born good enterprise.
Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our prison needs,
And by their overflowRaise us from what is low.
Perfect Peace.["Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace."—Isaiah xxvi, 3.]Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin,The blood of Jesus whispers peace within;Peace, perfect peace, for loved ones far away;In Jesus' keeping we are safe and they.Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging 'round,On Jesus' bosom naught but calm is found;Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown;Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours;Jesus has vanquished death and all its powers.It is enough, earth's struggles soon shall cease,And Jesus calls to Heaven's own perfect peace.
["Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace."—Isaiah xxvi, 3.]
Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin,The blood of Jesus whispers peace within;Peace, perfect peace, for loved ones far away;In Jesus' keeping we are safe and they.Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging 'round,On Jesus' bosom naught but calm is found;Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown;Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours;Jesus has vanquished death and all its powers.It is enough, earth's struggles soon shall cease,And Jesus calls to Heaven's own perfect peace.
Be Lenient to the Errant One.BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.Like phantoms weird of troubled dream,In they come—a ceaseless stream—The callow youth, the aged sire,To reap the fruit of Satan's hire.With pallid brow and rueful faceThey view their garments of disgrace,And oft in eyes unused to weepUnbidden tears will slowly creep.Be lenient with the blighted crowd;Some come, perhaps, to greet a shroud;Some, perhaps, will go outsideAnd yet become a nation's pride.If by kindness you reclaimA single soul from crime and shame,God will reward the noble deedAnd aid you in the hour of need.
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
Like phantoms weird of troubled dream,In they come—a ceaseless stream—The callow youth, the aged sire,To reap the fruit of Satan's hire.
With pallid brow and rueful faceThey view their garments of disgrace,And oft in eyes unused to weepUnbidden tears will slowly creep.
Be lenient with the blighted crowd;Some come, perhaps, to greet a shroud;Some, perhaps, will go outsideAnd yet become a nation's pride.
If by kindness you reclaimA single soul from crime and shame,God will reward the noble deedAnd aid you in the hour of need.
Last Night in the Dungeon.The darkness of Hades and a vile, deathly smellIs all that I feel stealing over my senses,As lingering alone in this cold dungeon cell,Shut away from the world, where hearts' blood condenses.I feel 'tis too much for slight, trivial offenses.Shut away from the dear ones, the loved ones on earth,I suffer the tortures that no man can tellTill he's taken away from fireside and hearthAnd sees the sad visions of a dungeon cell—Then he feels that vile man can create a real hell.As I sit here alone, my head throbbing and aching,And listen to hear if the keeper is near,My thoughts they roam back to little ones takingCaresses so sweet from a mother so dear—Then I'm prompted to ask, "Do they think of me here?"But when in my heart I feel a slight flutter,I know there is sympathy somewhere about;I then to myself do silently mutter,"They have love for me still, and there is no doubt:"Aye, love for me still, and this I've found out.Then, down on the damp and cold stony floor,Without either pillow, or blanket, or gown,I stretch my weak body right close to the door,And there, in sweet sleep, my vision to drown—Then, when I awake, I'm not so cast down.There is nothing so sweet and perfectly soothingTo one who is placed in a cold dungeon cell,As the thought that yet there are dear ones a-wooingThe one who's imprisoned in a dark, dreary dell—I muttered, while sleeping, "'Tis well, ah, 'tis well."Then, when I awoke and proceeded to think,Cold, stiffened and hungry, with tongue parched from thirst,I seek but in vain for food and for drink,But bread and poor water, the same as at first—Aye, dry bread and bad water, the same as at first.Then my heart sank within me, so weak and so pale,As I gazed on the keeper of dungeon and jailAnd begged for a drink of pure Adams' ale,As he held in his hand a full water pail—But the answer came back, "Your plea it must fail."Then, giving it up in pure desperation,I try to surpass the curse of damnationThat springs to my lips ere I can but controlThe blood that is boiled by such torturing droll—Then I whisper, "Be still! Some one loves this poor soul."Then, staid by the love of those dear ones at home,I steady myself and go swimming along;I brave the hard life of a dark dungeon cellAnd I come out victorious, all perfect and well—Then I meet them again and go home there to dwell.'T is well! Ah, 't is well!
The darkness of Hades and a vile, deathly smellIs all that I feel stealing over my senses,
As lingering alone in this cold dungeon cell,Shut away from the world, where hearts' blood condenses.I feel 'tis too much for slight, trivial offenses.
Shut away from the dear ones, the loved ones on earth,I suffer the tortures that no man can tell
Till he's taken away from fireside and hearthAnd sees the sad visions of a dungeon cell—Then he feels that vile man can create a real hell.
As I sit here alone, my head throbbing and aching,And listen to hear if the keeper is near,
My thoughts they roam back to little ones takingCaresses so sweet from a mother so dear—Then I'm prompted to ask, "Do they think of me here?"
But when in my heart I feel a slight flutter,I know there is sympathy somewhere about;
I then to myself do silently mutter,"They have love for me still, and there is no doubt:"Aye, love for me still, and this I've found out.
Then, down on the damp and cold stony floor,Without either pillow, or blanket, or gown,
I stretch my weak body right close to the door,And there, in sweet sleep, my vision to drown—Then, when I awake, I'm not so cast down.
There is nothing so sweet and perfectly soothingTo one who is placed in a cold dungeon cell,
As the thought that yet there are dear ones a-wooingThe one who's imprisoned in a dark, dreary dell—I muttered, while sleeping, "'Tis well, ah, 'tis well."
Then, when I awoke and proceeded to think,Cold, stiffened and hungry, with tongue parched from thirst,
I seek but in vain for food and for drink,But bread and poor water, the same as at first—Aye, dry bread and bad water, the same as at first.
Then my heart sank within me, so weak and so pale,As I gazed on the keeper of dungeon and jail
And begged for a drink of pure Adams' ale,As he held in his hand a full water pail—But the answer came back, "Your plea it must fail."
Then, giving it up in pure desperation,I try to surpass the curse of damnation
That springs to my lips ere I can but controlThe blood that is boiled by such torturing droll—Then I whisper, "Be still! Some one loves this poor soul."
Then, staid by the love of those dear ones at home,I steady myself and go swimming along;
I brave the hard life of a dark dungeon cellAnd I come out victorious, all perfect and well—Then I meet them again and go home there to dwell.
'T is well! Ah, 't is well!
HOPE.BY SAM LAW.The world may change from old to new,—From new to old again,—Yet Hope and Heaven, forever true,Within man's heart remain.The dreams that bless the weary soul,The struggle of the strong,Are steps toward some happy goal,The story of Hope's song.
BY SAM LAW.
The world may change from old to new,—From new to old again,—
Yet Hope and Heaven, forever true,Within man's heart remain.
The dreams that bless the weary soul,The struggle of the strong,
Are steps toward some happy goal,
The story of Hope's song.
Would They Know?BY 25700.If, amid these prison shadows,These pale lips should breathe their last,Would my friends regret the summons,And forgive my guilty past?Would they know the dire temptationsI had met and nobly bravedEre the tears in guilty passionMy pale cheeks in torrents laved?Would they know how oft and earnestI had plead before the throneFor the place my crime made vacantIn the bosom of my own?Would these hours of retributionProve sufficient for my sin?Would the gates of glory openTo let this weary wanderer in?Hear, Oh, hear! From yonder heavenSpeaks the Lamb once crucified;"Look up, sad one; never falter;For such sinners once I died."
BY 25700.
If, amid these prison shadows,These pale lips should breathe their last,
Would my friends regret the summons,And forgive my guilty past?
Would they know the dire temptationsI had met and nobly braved
Ere the tears in guilty passionMy pale cheeks in torrents laved?
Would they know how oft and earnestI had plead before the throne
For the place my crime made vacantIn the bosom of my own?
Would these hours of retributionProve sufficient for my sin?
Would the gates of glory openTo let this weary wanderer in?
Hear, Oh, hear! From yonder heavenSpeaks the Lamb once crucified;
"Look up, sad one; never falter;For such sinners once I died."
Guilt's Queries and Truth's Replies.BY HARRISON.GUILT.Will the fountain of life, now bathed in tears,Ebb and flow ten weary years?Will the soul escape the horrible blightThat stalks in prison's gruesome night?TRUTH.Trust, weary one, alone inMe;Living or dead, thou shalt be freeFrom prison blight and sin's alarms,While closely nestling in my arms.GUILT.Will the absent ones I love the best'Neath heaven's smile serenely rest?Will every branch of the family treeStill bud and bloom till I am free?TRUTH.If they lean upon my breastI will give thy loved ones rest;If death a single jewel stealHeaven its presence it shall reveal.GUILT.While prayers ascend from sacred faneShall penitent tears be shed in vain?Will Christ ascend to a prison cellAnd deign in a convict heart to dwell?TRUTH.None will I spurn who pardon crave—I came on earth the lost to save:He loves the most whose debt is large—That soul is heaven's peculiar charge.GUILT.If ever again I shall be freeWill the wreck of my life still haunted be?Will the much loved friends in the days of yoreSpurn me from their open door?TRUTH.Those who bathe in Calvary's streamSin regard as a hideous dream;My children clothed in white by meA welcome meet where'er they be.
BY HARRISON.
GUILT.
Will the fountain of life, now bathed in tears,Ebb and flow ten weary years?Will the soul escape the horrible blightThat stalks in prison's gruesome night?
TRUTH.
Trust, weary one, alone inMe;Living or dead, thou shalt be freeFrom prison blight and sin's alarms,While closely nestling in my arms.
GUILT.
Will the absent ones I love the best'Neath heaven's smile serenely rest?Will every branch of the family treeStill bud and bloom till I am free?
TRUTH.
If they lean upon my breastI will give thy loved ones rest;If death a single jewel stealHeaven its presence it shall reveal.
GUILT.
While prayers ascend from sacred faneShall penitent tears be shed in vain?Will Christ ascend to a prison cellAnd deign in a convict heart to dwell?
TRUTH.
None will I spurn who pardon crave—I came on earth the lost to save:He loves the most whose debt is large—That soul is heaven's peculiar charge.
GUILT.
If ever again I shall be freeWill the wreck of my life still haunted be?Will the much loved friends in the days of yoreSpurn me from their open door?
TRUTH.
Those who bathe in Calvary's streamSin regard as a hideous dream;My children clothed in white by meA welcome meet where'er they be.
A Letter From Home.BY NO. 24138.I am far from the land where my loved ones are dwelling;Between rolls the sea, with its billows and foam;Yet my heart with fondest emotions is swellingAs I read the dear letter they've sent me from home.For I fancy I see the brown cottage again,And the garden where sweetly the red roses blow;I kneel by a grave in the shade of the glen,Where slumbers the dear one I lost long ago.And oft to my heart, when in solitude straying,Fond memory recalls the bright days of yore,And I sigh for the fields, where the children are playing,The hills and the valley I may never see more.Long years have I wandered, alone and a stranger,And dark is the pathway o'er which I must roam,But I know there isOnewho can shield me from danger,And his blessing I ask on the dear ones at home.
BY NO. 24138.
I am far from the land where my loved ones are dwelling;Between rolls the sea, with its billows and foam;
Yet my heart with fondest emotions is swellingAs I read the dear letter they've sent me from home.
For I fancy I see the brown cottage again,And the garden where sweetly the red roses blow;
I kneel by a grave in the shade of the glen,Where slumbers the dear one I lost long ago.
And oft to my heart, when in solitude straying,Fond memory recalls the bright days of yore,
And I sigh for the fields, where the children are playing,The hills and the valley I may never see more.
Long years have I wandered, alone and a stranger,And dark is the pathway o'er which I must roam,
But I know there isOnewho can shield me from danger,And his blessing I ask on the dear ones at home.
The Reformer.BY SAM LAW.All grim and soiled and brown with tan,I saw a strong one in his wrathSmiting the godless shrines of manAlong his path.I looked: aside the dust cloud rolled—The Master seemed the Builder too;Upspringing from the ruined OldI saw the New.Through prison walls, like heaven-sent hope,Fresh breezes blew and sunbeams strayed,And with the idle gallows ropeThe young child played.Where the doomed victim in his cellHad counted o'er the weary hoursGlad school girls, answering to the bell,Came crowned with flowers.
BY SAM LAW.
All grim and soiled and brown with tan,I saw a strong one in his wrath
Smiting the godless shrines of manAlong his path.
I looked: aside the dust cloud rolled—The Master seemed the Builder too;
Upspringing from the ruined OldI saw the New.
Through prison walls, like heaven-sent hope,Fresh breezes blew and sunbeams strayed,
And with the idle gallows ropeThe young child played.
Where the doomed victim in his cellHad counted o'er the weary hours
Glad school girls, answering to the bell,Came crowned with flowers.
Reflections.How pleasant it is to be at home,Surrounded by those we love;How sweet to list to words of cheerThat softly fall on the listening earLike the notes of a cooing dove.How the soft caress of a loving handCan dry the eyes that weep!How the mind is eased and the pulses thrillAs we feel the strength of a loving willThat rocks our grief to sleep.How soft that hand has ever beenWhen sickness laid us low,How its soft caress could summon restAnd bring relief to the laboring breast,And cool the fever's glow.How soft the light in love-lit eye,That welcomes our safe return;How the tender kiss and warm embraceCan soothe the pain of late disgraceWhen fate has been too stern.God bless the home where love abides—'Tis the dearest spot on earth!Be it hovel or palace, or great or small,It holds man's hope, his joy, his all,And heaven gave it birth!
How pleasant it is to be at home,Surrounded by those we love;
How sweet to list to words of cheer
That softly fall on the listening earLike the notes of a cooing dove.
How the soft caress of a loving handCan dry the eyes that weep!
How the mind is eased and the pulses thrill
As we feel the strength of a loving willThat rocks our grief to sleep.
How soft that hand has ever beenWhen sickness laid us low,
How its soft caress could summon rest
And bring relief to the laboring breast,And cool the fever's glow.
How soft the light in love-lit eye,That welcomes our safe return;
How the tender kiss and warm embrace
Can soothe the pain of late disgraceWhen fate has been too stern.
God bless the home where love abides—'Tis the dearest spot on earth!
Be it hovel or palace, or great or small,
It holds man's hope, his joy, his all,And heaven gave it birth!
The Prisoner Released.BY COL. H. C. PARSONS.I could stand and look at the stars all night—Where tides run in wreaths to the rivers and rills,Where the sea breezes play with the wind from the hills—Where by land and by sea man can go where he wills—I'm a free man again, and a free man of right.I could stand and look at the stars all night,For months that were years they have prisoned my stars;My silver-veiled Venus and red-hooded MarsWere fettered and framed by the merciless bars,That shaded their glory or shivered their light.I will stand and look at the stars all night;I will wait in the shadow and lee of the towerTill morning shall come, with his magical power—Perhaps in the flame of that wonderful hourThe prison shall tremble and pass from my sight.
BY COL. H. C. PARSONS.
I could stand and look at the stars all night—
Where tides run in wreaths to the rivers and rills,
Where the sea breezes play with the wind from the hills—
Where by land and by sea man can go where he wills—
I'm a free man again, and a free man of right.
I could stand and look at the stars all night,
For months that were years they have prisoned my stars;
My silver-veiled Venus and red-hooded Mars
Were fettered and framed by the merciless bars,
That shaded their glory or shivered their light.
I will stand and look at the stars all night;
I will wait in the shadow and lee of the tower
Till morning shall come, with his magical power—
Perhaps in the flame of that wonderful hour
The prison shall tremble and pass from my sight.