Lines

She is not dead, but sleepeth.—Luke 8:52.

She is not dead, but sleepeth.

—Luke 8:52.

She is not dead, she’s sleepingThe dreamless sleep and drear;Her friends are gathered weepingRound her untimely bier.

She is not dead, her spirit,Too pure to dwell with clay,Has gone up to inheritThe realms of endless day.

She is not dead, she’s singingWith angel bands on high;On golden harp she’s singingGod’s praises in the sky.

She is not dead, O mother,Your loss you will deplore;Kind sisters and fond brother,Your Nora is no more!

No more, as we have seen her,The light and life of home,Of christian-like demeanor,Which ever brightly shone:

Of youth the guide and teacher,Of age the stay and hope—To all a faithful preacher,To whom we all looked up.

She is not dead, she’s sleeping,Her loving Saviour said;Then friends repress your weeping,God’s will must be obeyed.

She is not dead, she’s shiningIn robes of spotless white;Why then are we repining?God’s ways are always right.

She is not dead—O neverWill sorrow cross her track;She’s passed Death’s darksome river,And who would have her back?

Back from the joys of heaven!Back from that world of bliss!Call back the pure, forgiven,To such a world as this?

A world of grief and anguish—A world of sin and strife—In which the righteous languish,And wickedness is rife,

She is not dead, she’s shouting,Borne on triumphant wing,“O grave, where is thy vict’ry,O Death, where is thy sting?”

Thou, my friend, in dust art sleeping,Closed thine eyes to all below;Round thy grave kind friends are weeping,Ling’ring, loath to let thee go.

Husband fond and children dear,Crushed and stricken by the blow,Banish ev’ry anxious fear,While we lay the lov’d one low.

For the angel’s trump shall sound,And the bands of death will break;Then the pris’ner in this moundShall to endless life awake.

Then the spirit which is goneWill return and claim this dust,And this “mortal will put onImmortality,” we trust.

When that glorious day shall dawn,And the bridegroom shall descendWith a gorgeous angel throng,The glad nuptials to attend,

Oh, the rapture of that meeting!We of earth can never knowTill we mingle in the greeting,Of our lov’d, lost long ago.

Let me like the righteous die,Let my last end be like his;When I close, on earth, my eye,Let me wake in realms of bliss.

Read at the celebration of the Seventy-second Anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele, Dec. 13, 1884.

Dear friends and neighbors, one and all,I’m pleased to meet you here to-day;’Tis nice for neighbors thus to call,In such a social way.

We meet to celebrate a day,Which people seldom see;Time flies so rapidly away’Tis like a dream to me;

Since I, a lad with flaxen hairFirst met our friend, so gray;We both were free from thought and care,But full of hope and play.

Well Joseph Steele, we may be gladThat we are here to-day,Although it makes me somewhat sadTo think of friends away.

Of all our schoolboy friends but fewAlas! can now be found,Not many but myself and youAre still above the ground.

I count upon my fingers’ endsAbout the half, I know.Of all acquaintances and friendsWith whom we used to go;

ToHumphreysandMontgomeryToCochranand toDance,And some, who slip my memory,That used to make us prance,

Whene’er we missed a lessonOr placed a crooked pinJust where some one would press onEnough to drive it in.

O, it was fun alive, I vow,To see that fellow bounceAnd hear him howl and make a rowAnd threaten he would trounce

The boy that did the mischief,But that boy was seldom found,And so, he had to bear his griefAnd nurse the unseen wound;

But time and rhyme can never tellThe half our funny pranks,And that we ever learned to spell,We ought to render thanks.

Poor Dance! I always pitied himFor he was just from college,And never having learned to swim,Was drowned with all his knowledge.

Of Cochran, I but little knew,He was a stranger here,’Twas always said he would get blue,And acted very queer.

Montgomery I knew right well,He was rather kind than cross,He taught the willing how to spell,And always would be boss.

He wrote a very pretty handAnd could command a school:His appetite got the command,And that he could not rule.

One day he took a heavy slugOf something rather hot;He took that something from a jug,And shortly he was not.

Who “took” him, though, I never canNor need I ever say;But when the Lord doth take a man,’Tis seldom done that way.

Poor Humphreys was a sort of crank(Folks said his learning made him mad,)But this I know, he always drank,And that will make the best man, bad.

Excuse this rather long digression,My pen has carried me astray;These schoolboy days make an impressionFrom which ’tis hard to get away.

Then let me turn, and return too,For I have wandered from my text,—Well, Mr. Steele, how do you do?I hope you are not vexed.

’Tis pleasant in our riper yearsTo have our children comeAnd bring their children—little dears,They make it seem like home.

An old man’s children are his crown,And you may well be proudWhen from your throne you just look downUpon this hopeful crowd.

But now my neighbors dear, adieu;“The best of friends must part;”I’ll often kindly think of you,And treasure each one in my heart;

And if we never meet againOn this poor frozen clod,O! may we meet to part no moreAround the throne of God.

The following lines suggested by the beautiful story of the sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany, (Luke, 10:38-42,) were addressed to Miss Mary M., of Wilmington, Del.

In Bethany there dwelt a maid,And she was young and very fair;’Twas at her house that Jesus stayed,And loved to stay, when he was there.

For Mary seated at his feet,In rapture hung upon His word:His language flow’d in accent sweet,Such language mortal never heard.

Her sister, cross in looks and word,(The cares of life have this effect,)Came and accused her, to her Lord,Of idleness and of neglect.

“Martha, Martha,” He kindly said,Forego thy troubles and thy care—One needful thing, a crust of bread,Is all I ask with thee to share.

“Mary hath chosen that good part,To hear my word and do my will,Which shall not from her trusting heartBe taken.” It shall flourish still.

Dear Mary, in this picture seeThy own, drawn by a master hand;Name, face and character agreeDrawn by Saint Luke, an artist grand.

Composed in the top of a cherry tree when the wind was blowing a gale.

In fishing for men, I should judge from your looksYou’ve always had biters enough at your hooks.And whenever you dipp’d your net in the tideYou had little need to spread it out wide.To encircle so many you wish’d for no moreAnd like the old fishers sat down on the shore,Casting all the worthless and bad ones away—Preserving the good and the true to this day.May the promising youth, I saw by your sideAll blooming and beaming, your hope and your pride,Be a pillar of state, so strong and so tallAs to make you rejoice, that you made such a haul.

Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society.

My tale to-night is full of woe,I would that it were one of gladness;I would not thrill your hearts, you know,With notes of grief or sadness.

My friend and yours is near his end,His pulse is beating faint and low,’Tis sad to lose so good a friend,His time has come and he must go.

His life is ebbing fast away,His mortal race is almost run,He cannot live another day,Nor see another rising sun.

While watching round his dying bed,The tears we shed are tears of sorrow,We’ll close his eyes for he’ll be dead,And carried hence before to-morrow.

His frame, so fragile now and weak,Was late the seat of vital power,But now, alas! he cannot speak,He’s growing weaker every hour.

Old seventy-seven, your friend and mine,Has done his part by you and me,Then friends, let us unite and twine,A bright wreath to his memory.

His reign has been a checker’d reign,While some have suffered loss and wrong,We have no reason to complain,So come and join me in my song.

He found me in the lowly vale,In poverty with robust health,And sweet contentment in the scale,Outweighing fame and pomp and wealth.

Destroying war beneath his reign,Has drench’d the earth with blood and tears,Which ever flow, but flow in vain,As they have done through countless years.

When will the reign of peace begin?When will the flood of human woe,That flows from folly, pride, and sin,Subside, and ever cease to flow?

God speed the time when war’s alarms,Will never more convulse the earth,And love and peace restore the charmsWhich dwelt in Eden at its birth.

Old seventy-seven, again adieu,We’ll ne’er again each other see.I’ve been a constant friend to you,As you have always been to me.

“Step down and out” you’ve had your day,Your young successor’s at the gate,Let him be crowned without delay,The royal stranger seventy-eight.

Presented to my daughter with a watch and a locket with a picture of myself.

Receive, my child, this gift of love,And wear it ever near thy heart,A pledge of union may it prove,Which time nor distance ne’er can part.

I’ve watched thy infant sleep, and prestMy eager lips against thy brow,And lingered near thy couch, and blest,Thy tender form with many a vow.

But O! the rapture of that hour,None but a parent’s heart can knowWhen first thy intellectual powerBegan the germ of life to show.

I’ve marked the progress of thy mind,And felt a thrill of joy and pride,To see thy youthful steps inclinedTo wisdom’s ways and virtue’s side.

And when this fiery restless soul,Has chafed the thread of life awayAnd reached, or high or low, the goal,And fought and won or lost the day,—

Then cherish this bright gift, my dear,And on those features kindly gaze,And bathe them with a filial tear,When I’m beyond all blame or praise.

Chill frost will nip the fairest flower;The sweetest dream is soonest pass’d;The brightest morning in an hour,May be with storm clouds overcast.

So Josephine in early bloom,Was blighted by death’s cruel blast,While weeping round her early tomb,We joy to know, she is not lost.

Fond mother, dry that tearful tide,Your child will not return, you know:She’s waiting on the other sideAnd where she is, you too may go.

Their schoolboy days have form’d a theme,For nearly all the bards I know,But mine are like a fading dreamWhich happen’d three score years ago.

My memory is not the best,While some things I would fain forgetCome like an uninvited guest,And often cause me much regret.

I see the ghosts of murdered hours,As they flit past in countless throngs,They taunt me with their meager powers,And ridicule my senseless songs.

’Tis useless now to speculate,Or grieve o’er that which might have been,My failures though they have been great,Are not the greatest I have seen.

In school I was a quiet child,And gave my teachers little fash,But as I grew I grew more wild,And hasty as the lightning’s flash.

Of study I was never fond,My school books gave me no delight,I patronized the nearest pond,To fish or swim by day or night.

And when the frosts of winter came,And bound the streams in fetters tight,It gave me pleasure all the sameTo skate upon their bosom bright.

I was athletic in my wayAnd on my muscle went it strong,And stood to fight or ran to play,Regardless of the right or wrong.

In wrestling I did much excelAnd lov’d to douse a boasting fop,Nor cared I how or where we fellProvided I fell on the top.

I loved my friends with all my might,My foes I hated just as strong,My friends were always in the right,My foes forever in the wrong.

A sportsman early I became,A sort of second Daniel Boone,And bagg’d my share of ev’ry gameFrom cony, up or down, to coon.

No tawny chieftain’s swarthy son,Was ever fonder of the chase,Than I was of my trusty gun,Although I had a paler face.

I shot the squirrel near his den.The silly rabbit near her lair;And captured ev’ry now and then,A pheasant in my cunning snare.

And many things I think of here,Which time forbids me now to say,That happen’d in my wild career,To me, since that eventful day

When my fond mother wash’d my face,And combed my flaxen hair,And started me in learning’s race,And breath’d to heav’n a silent prayer,

That I might grow to man’s estate,And cultivate my opening mind;And not be rich or wise or great,But gentle, true and good and kind.

My mother’s face, I see it yet,That thoughtful face, with eyes of blue,I trust I never shall forgetHer words of counsel, sage and true.

She left me, when she pass’d away,More than a royal legacy,I would not for a monarch’s sway,Exchange the things she gave to me.

She gave me naught of sordid wealth,But that which wealth can never be,Her iron frame and robust health,Are more than diadems to me.

She left to me the azure sky,With all its countless orbs of light,Which wonder-strike the thoughtful eye,And beautify the dome of night.

The deep blue sea from shore to shore,The boundless rays of solar light,The lightnings flash, the thunders roar—I hold them all in my own right.

And lastly that there be no lack,Of any good thing by her given,She left to me the shining track,Which led her footsteps up to heaven.

My dear, the bard his greeting sends,And wishes you and all your friends,A happy birthday meeting.Let social pleasures crown the day,But while you chase dull care away,Remember time is fleeting.

Then learn the lesson of this day,Another year has pass’d away,Beyond our reach forever.And as the fleeting moments glide,They bear us on their noiseless tide,Like straws upon the river,

Into that vast, unfathomed sea,Marked on the map “eternity,”With neither bound nor shore.There may we find some blissful isleWhere basking in our Saviour’s smile,We’ll meet to part no more.

My cousin fair, dear Mary B,Excuse my long neglect I pray,And pardon too, the homely strain,In which I sing this rustic lay.

My muse and I are sorted ill,I’m in my yellow leaf and sere;While she is young and ardent stillAnd urges me to persevere.

She reads to me the roll of fame,And presses me to join the throng,That surge and struggle for a name,Among the gifted sons of song.

Of that vain stuff the world calls fameI’ve had I think my ample share.At best ’tis but a sounding nameAn idle puff of empty air.

For more than once I’ve been the choiceOf freemen to enact their laws,And patriots cheered me when my voice,I raised to vindicate their cause.

And more than this I’ve brought to pass,For I have made a lot of groundProduce the second blade of grass,Where formerly but one was found.

But now I love the calm retreat,Away from tumult, noise and strife,And in the works of nature sweetI learn her laws, the laws of life.

The monuments which I erectWill hand my name for ages down,While tombs of kings will meet neglect,Or worse, be greeted with a frown.

My trees will bloom and bear their fruit,My carp-pond glitter in the sun;My cherished grape-vines too, though mute,Will tell the world what I have done.

Now lest you think that I am vain,And that my trumpeter is dead,I’ll drop this graceless, boasting strain,And sing of you, dear Coz, instead.

Of all my Cousins, old or new,I love the prairie chicken best,I see the rising sun in you,—Although you’re rising in the west.

The picture you are working on,I’d almost give my eyes to see,I know it is a striking one,For it is of the “deep blue sea.”

But how you ever took the notionTo paint a picture of the seaBefore you ever saw the ocean,Is something that surprises me.

I’m glad you have the skill to paint,And pluck to labor and to wait;And too much sense to pine and faint,Because the world don’t call you great.

True greatness is achieved by toil,And labor for the public good,’Tis labor breaks the barren soil,And makes it yield our daily food.

Then cultivate your talents rare,And study nature’s lovely face,And copy every tint with care;Your work will then have life and grace.

When fame and fortune you attain,And more than royal sway is sure,’Twill be the majesty of brain,A majesty that must endure,

Till thrones of kings and queens shall tumble,And monuments of stone and brass,Shall into shapeless ruin crumble,And blow away like withered grass.

The world moves on with quickening pace,And those who falter fall behind,Then enter for the mental race,Where mind is pitted against mind.

While we are cousins in the flesh,In mind I think we’re nearer still,Your genius leads you to the brush,But mine inclines me to the quill.

And now, my cousin fair, adieu,My promise I have somehow kept,That I would write a line for you,I hope you will these lines accept.

Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott, upon the occasion of the 24th anniversary of their wedding, March 2nd, 1882.

Kind gentlemen and ladies fair,I have a word or two to say,If you have got the time to spare,Sit down, and hear my humble lay.

No tiresome homily, I bring,To chill your joys and make you sad,I’d rather hear you laugh or sing,Than see you solemn, dull or mad,

A bow that’s always bent, they say,Will lose its force and wonted spring,And Jack’s all work and never play,Makes him a dull and stupid thing.

Man’s greatest lesson is mankind,A problem difficult to solve,I’ve turned it over in my mind,And reached, at last, this sage resolve:

That when I know myself right well,I have a key to all the race,Thoughts, purposes and aims that tellOn me, are but a common case.

There is a time to laugh and sing,A time to mourn and grieve as well;Then let your song and laughter ring,This is no time on griefs to dwell.

We’ve met to greet our friend, T.J.,And tender our congratulations,Without forgetting Phebe A.,In our most heartfelt salutations.

For four-and-twenty changeful yearsThey’ve worn the bright hymenial bands,And shared each other’s hopes and fears,And each held up the other’s hands.

He, like a stately, giant oak,Has spread his branches wide and high,Unscathed by lightning’s fatal stroke,Or tempest raving through the sky.

She, like a tender, trusting vine,Twines round and through and o’er the tree;Her modesty and worth combine,To hide what roughness there might be,

Beneath this cool, refreshing shade,The wretched quite forget their woes,The hungry find the needed bread,The weary wanderer, his repose.

Long live this honored, worthy pair!May fortune come at their command!And may their sons and daughter fair,Grow up to grace their native land!

And when their earthly toils are o’er,And they repose beneath the sod,Theirs be a home on that bright shore,Illumined by the smile of God.

Written for a little girl on her ninth birthday.

In the morning of life’s day,All before is bright and gay,All behind is like a dream,Or the morn’s uncertain beam,Falling on a misty stream.

In the morning of thy youth,Learn this sober, solemn truth;Life is passing like a stream,Or a meteor’s sudden gleam;Like the bright aurora’s blaze,Disappearing while we gaze;Soon the child becomes a maid,In the pride of youth arrayed,And her mind and form expandTo proportions great and grand;Then she changes to a wife,Battling with the ills of life;Thus we come and thus we go,And our cups with joy and woe,Oft are made to overflow.Each returning bright birthday,Like the mile-stones by the way,Will remind you as you go—Though at first they pass so slowThat behind there is one moreAnd, of course, one less before;Watch the moments as they fly,With a never tiring eye—Since you cannot stop their flow,O! improve them as they go.

Written on the death of William Sutton, a member of the order of Good Templars.

Call the roll! Call the roll of our band,Let each to his name answer clear,There’s danger abroad, there’s death in the land,Call the roll, see if each one is here.

The roll call is through, one answers not,Brother Sutton, so prompt heretofore,Has answered another roll call; the spotWhich knew him shall know him no more.

He’s at rest by the beautiful river,Which flows by the evergreen shore,Where the verdure of spring lasts forever,And sickness and death are no more.

O alas! that the righteous should die,While sinners so greatly abound,In the world that’s to come we’ll know why,The latter incumber the ground.

This mystery we’ll then comprehend,And all will be plain to our sight,Then dry up the tears which flow for our friend,In full faith that God doeth right.

A noble heart is sleeping here,Beneath this lowly mound;With reverence let us draw near,For this is holy ground.

The mortal frame that rests belowThis consecrated sward,Was late with heavenly hope aglow,A temple of the Lord.

His charity was like a flood,It seemed to have no bound,But reached the evil and the good,Wherever want was found.

The poor and needy sought his door,The wretched and distressed,He blessed them from his ample store,With shelter, food and rest.

Giving his substance to the poor,He lent it to the Lord;While each returning harvest broughtHim back a rich reward.

Thus passed his useful life away,Dispensing good to all,Till on the evening of his day,He heard his Master call.

“Brave soldier of the cross, well done,You’ve fought a noble fight;Come up, and claim the victor’s crown,And wear it as your right.”

“For all your works of christian loveAnd heaven-born charity,Are registered in Heaven aboveAs so much done to Me.”

Dear Mollie, in thy early days,While treading childhood’s dreamy maze,Peruse this book with care:Peruse it by the rising sun;Peruse it when the day is done,Peruse it oft with prayer.

Search it for counsel in thy youth,For every page is bright with truthAnd wisdom from on high.Consult it in thy riper years,When foes without and inward fearsThy utmost powers defy.

And when life’s sands are well nigh runAnd all thy work on earth is done,In patience wait and trust,That He whose promises are sureWill number you among the pure,The righteous and the just.

Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society.

The rolling seasons come and go,As ebbs the tide again to flow,And Christmas which seemed far awayA year ago, is near to-day.And day and night in quick succession,Are passing by like a procession.While we like straws upon a stream,Are drifting faster than we deem,To that unknown, that untried shore,Where days and nights will be no more,And where time’s surging tide will be,Absorbed in vast eternity.Where then shall we poor mortals go?No man can tell, we only knowWe are but strangers in the land.Our fathers all have gone before,And shortly we shall be no more.This hall where we so often meetWill soon be trod by other’s feet,And where our voices now resound,Will other speakers soon be found.And thus like wave pursuing wave,Between the cradle and the graveThe human tide is prone to run,The sire succeeded by the son.May we so spend life’s fleeting day,That when it shall have passed away,We all may meet on that blessed shore,Where friends shall meet to part no more.

Read at the anniversary of the seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson.

No costly gifts have I to bring,To grace your festive board,This humble song, I’ve brought to sing,Is all I can afford.

Then let my humble rhyme be heardIn silence, if you please,You’ll find it true in ev’ry word,It flows along with ease.

We’ve met in honor of our friendWho seventy years ago,Came to this earth some years to spend,How many none can know.

The world is using her so well,I hope she’ll tarry long,And ten years hence I hope to tell,“I have another song.”

I’ll sing you a song of a wonderful tree,Whose beauty and strength are a marvel to me;Its cloud piercing branches ascend to the sky,While its deep rooted trunk may the tempest defy,Like the tree which the great king of Babylon saw,Which fill’d him with wonder, amazement and awe.This vision the wise men all failed to expound,Till Daniel the Hebrew, its true meaning found.What the king saw in vision, we lit’rally see,In the Peterson genealogical tree;It was feeble at first, and slowly it grew;Its roots being small and its branches but few.The whirlwinds and tempests in fury raved round it,And the rains fell in floods, as if they would drown it.Though slow in its growth it was steady and sure,And like plants of slow growth ’tis bound to endure.While the seasons roll round in their wanted succession,And the ages move on in an endless procession,While the sun in its glory reigns over the day,And the moon rules the night with her gentler sway,While the planets their courses pursue in the sky,And far distant stars light their torches on high,May this family tree grow taller and strongerAnd its branches increase growing longer and longer.May every branch of this vigorous tree,Increase and spread wider from mountain to sea,And under its shade may the poor and distressedFind shelter and comfort and kindness and rest,And when the great harvest we read of shall comeWhen the angels shall gather and carry it homeMay this tree root and branch, trunk and fruit all be found,Transplanted from earth into holier ground,Where storms never rise and where frosts never blight,Where day ever shines unsucceeded by night,Where sickness and sorrow and death are no more,And friends never part. On that beautiful shore,May we hope that the friends who have met round this board,And greeted each other in social accord,May each meet the others to part never more.

Written on the death of Jane Flounders, a pupil of Cherry Hill public school, and read at her funeral.

The mysteries of life and death,Lie hidden from all human ken,We know it is the vital breathOf God, that makes us living men.

We also know,thatbreath withdrawn,And man becomes a lifeless clod,The soul immortal having goneInto the presence of its God.

Here knowledge fails and faith appears,And bids us dry the scalding tear,And banish all our anxious fears,Which cluster round the loved ones here.

The deep, dark, cold, remorseless graveHas closed o’er lovely Jennie’s face,No art, nor skill, nor prayers could saveHer from its terrible embrace.

Home now is dark and desolate,And friends and schoolmates are in tears,While strangers wonder at the fate,Which crushed her in her tender years.

Death never won a brighter prize,Nor friends a richer treasure lost,Another star has left our skies,But heaven is richer at our cost.

We mourn but not in hopeless grief,In tears we kiss the chast’ning rod,This sweet reflection brings relief,That all is good that comes from God.

Through and beyond this scene of gloom,Faith points the mourner’s downcast eyes,While from the portals of the tomb,They see their lost loved one arise,

In blooming immortality;As she comes forth they hear her singO! grave, where is thy victory!O! monster death where is thy sting!

How are you, George, my rhyming brother?We should be kinder to each other,For we are kindred souls at least;I don’t mean kindred, like the beast,—Mere blood and bones and flesh and matter,—But what this last is makes no matter.Philosophers have tried to teach it,But all their learning cannot reach it;’Tis matter still, “that’s what’s the matter”With all their philosophic chatter,And Latin, Greek, and Hebrew clatter,Crucibles, retorts, and receivers,Wedges, inclined planes, and levers,Screws, blow pipes, electricity and light,And fifty other notions, quiteToo much to either read or write.Just ask the wisest, What is matter?And notice how he will bespatterThe subject, in his vain endeavor,With deep philosophy so clever,To prove you what you knew before,That matter’s matter, and no more.Well, this much then, we know at least,That matter’s substance, and the beastAnd bird and fish and creeping thingThat moves on foot, with fin or wing,Is matter, just like you and me.Are they our kindred? Must it beThat all the fools in all creation,And knaves and thieves of every stationIn life, can call me their relation?But that’s not all—the horse I ride,The ox I yoke, the dog I chide,The flesh and fish and fowl we feed onAre kindred, too; is that agreed on?Then kindred blood I quite disown,Though it descended from a throne,For it connects us down, also,With everything that’s mean and low—Insects and reptiles, foul and clean,And men a thousand times more mean.Let’s hear no more of noble blood,For noble brains, or actions good,Are only marks of true nobility.

The kindred which I claim with you,Connects us with the just and true,And great in purpose, heart and soul,And makes us parts of that great wholeWhose bonds of all embracing loveA golden chain will ever proveTo bind us to the good above.Then strive to elevate mankindBy operating on the mind;The empire of good will extend,A helping hand in trouble lend,Go to thy brother in distress,One kindly word may make it less,A single word, when fitly spoken,May heal a heart with sorrow broken,A smile may overcome your foe,And make his heart with friendship glow,A frown might turn his heart to steel.And all its tendencies congeal,Be it our constant aim to cureThe woes our fellow men endure,Teach them to act toward each otherAs they would act toward a brother.Thus may our circle wider grow,The golden chain still brighter glow;And may our kindred souls, in loveUnited live, here and above,With all the good and wise and pure,While endless ages shall endure.

Written for the anniversary of the Jackson Sabbath School, Aug. 23rd, 1870.

The ever rolling flood of years,Is bearing us, our hopes and fears,With all we are or crave,Into that fathomless abyss—A world of endless woe or bliss,Beyond the darksome grave.

One year of priceless time has passed,Since we in Sabbath school were class’d,To read and sing and pray;To hear the counsels of the good;Have we improved them as we should?How stands the case to-day?

How have we used this fleeting year?Have we grown wiser? O, I fear,And tremble to reflect,How sadly it has gone to loss,How I have shunn’d my daily cross,Some idol to erect.

To gain some trifling, selfish end,It may be I have wronged a friend,And turned his love to hate;How many idle words I’ve said;How many broken vows I’ve made;How shunn’d the narrow gate!

O Lord! forgive our wanderings wide,Our oft departures from thy side,And keep us in thy fold;Be thou our Shepherd and our all;Protect these lambs, lest any fall,And perish in the cold.

On this our Anniversary,Help us to put our trust in Thee,And lean upon Thy arm;Direct us through the coming year;Protect us, for the wolf is near,And shield us from all harm.

Our Superintendent superintend;On him Thy special blessings send,And guide him in the way;Enrich our Treasurer with Thy grace,So that he may adorn the place,He fills so well to-day.

Write on our Secretary’s heartThy perfect law; and O, impart,To our Librarian dear,The volume of thy perfect loveWhich cometh only from above,And casteth out all fear.

In pastures green, O lead us still!And help us all to do thy will,And all our wants supply;Help us in every grace to grow,And when we quit thy fold below,Receive us all on high.

Then, by life’s river broad and bright,Our blissful day will have no night;On that immortal plainMay all the Jackson scholars meet,And all their loving teachers greet,And never part again.

Dear friend! O, how my blood warms at that word,And thrills and courses through my every vein;My inmost soul, with deep emotion stirr’d—Friend! Friend! repeats it o’er and o’er again.

I’ll make a song of that sweet word, and singIt oft, to cheer me in my lonely hours,Till list’ning hills, and dells, and woodlands ring,And echo answers, Friend! with all her powers.

’Tis truly strange, and strangely true; I doubtIf any can explain, though all have seen,How kindred spirits find each other out,Though deserts vast or oceans lie between.

Some golden sympathetic cords unseen,Unite their souls as if with bands of steel,So finely strung, so sensitively keen,The slightest touch all in the circle feel.

Their pulses distance electricity,And leave the struggling solar rays behind,The slightest throb pervades immensity,And instant reaches the remotest mind.

’Tis an inspiring, glorious thought to me,Which raises me above this earthly clod,To think the cords which bind our souls may beConnected some way with the throne of God.

I sometimes think my wild and strange desires,And longings after something yet unknown,Are currents passing on those hidden wiresTo lead me on and upward to that throne.

These visions often do I entertain,And, if they are but visions, and the birthOf fancy, still they are not all in vain;They lift the soul above the things of earth.

They teach her how to use her wings though weak,And all unequal to the upward flight—The eaglet flaps upon the mountain peak,Then cleaves the heavens beyond our utmost sight.

Rude relic of a lost and savage race!Memento of a people proud and cold!Sole lasting monument to mark the placeWhere the red tide of Indian valor rolled.

Cold is the hand that fashion’d thee, rude dart!Cold the strong arm that drew the elastic bow!And cold the dust of the heroic heart,Whence, cleft by thee, the crimson tide did flow.

Unnumbered years have o’er their ashes flown;Their unrecovered names and deeds are gone;All that remains is this rude pointed stone,To tell of nations mighty as our own.

Such is earth’s pregnant lesson: through all timeKingdom succeeds to kingdom—empires fall;From out their ashes, others rise and climb,Then flash through radiant greatness, to their fall.

My much respected, fair young friendIn youth’s bright sunshine glowing:Some friendly token I would send,Some trifle, worth your knowing.

A lovely bird; the garden’s pride;Nurs’d with the utmost care,No flow’r, in all the gardens wide;Incited hopes so rare:Each passing day develops moreEach beauty, than the day before.

Lovely in form, in features mild;In thy deportment pure:Zealous for right, e’en from a child,A friend, both true and sure.

May thy maturer years be bright,Cloudless and fair thy skies;No storms to fright, nor frosts to blight,And cause thy fears to rise.May thy last days, in peace go past,Each being better than the last;Eternally thy joys grow brighter—So prays D. Scott the humble writer.

My muse inspire me, while I tellThe weighty matters that befellOn Monday night at Jackson HallDecember fifth. I’ll tell it all,Day and year I’ll tell you even,’Twas eighteen hundred seventy-seven.The Jacksonites were out in force,No common thing was up of course,But something rare and rich and great,’Twas nothing short of a debate;What was the question? Let me see,Yes; “Can Christians consistentlyEngage in war against a brotherAnd at the same time love each other?”But first and foremost let me say,My muse has taken me astray,So I’ll return to the beginningDigression is my common sinningFor which your pardon I implore,If granted, I will sin no more,That is no more till the next time,For when I’m forging out a rhyme,The narrative which I would fix up,I somehow rather oddly mix up.

A president must first be got,So they elected James M. Scott,He said he’d serve; (and that was clever,)A little while, but not forever.A paper called a “constitution,”Was read and on some person’s motion,Was all adopted, at a word,A thing that seemed to me absurd.Then instantly to work they went,And filled the chair of president,And William Henderson they took,They knew their man just like a book.A scribe was wanted next to keep,A record of their doings deep.On looking round they cast the lot,And so it fell on David Scott.A treasurer was next in orderWhen looking up and down the border,For one to hoard the gold and silver,The mantle fell on Joseph Miller.The executive committeeWas now to fill and here we seeA piece of work I apprehend,May lead to trouble in the end,For while they only wanted five,Yet six they got, as I’m alive,First they installed Peter Jaquett,Then John Creswell, two men well met,James Law, but they were not enough,And so they added William Tuft.One more was wanted that was plain,That one was found in John McKane,But when the five were call’d to meetThere were but four came to the seat;There are but four, said one so racy,So they elected William Gracy.Now you perceive this grave committeeWhich numbers five both wise and witty,Has got into a pretty fixWith but five seats and numbers six.The question for the next debateWas then selected, which I’ll stateIf I have only got the gumptionTo make some word rhyme with resumption,“Should Congress now repeal the actTo pay all debts in gold in fact.”

The speakers now were trotted outTheir sides to choose and take a boutUpon the question, which I statedAs having been so well debated,Namely, “Can christians go to war,”The very devil might abhorTo contemplate this propositionOffspring of pride and superstitionThat brothers by a second birth,Should make a very hell of earth.The war of words waxed loud and long,Each side was right, the other wrong;The speakers eager for the fray,Wished their ten minutes half a day;But time and tide will wait for none,So glibly did the gabble run,That nine o’clock soon spoiled the fun,And all that rising tide of words,Was smothered never to be heard.The fight is o’er, the race is run,And soon we’ll know which side has won,But this is not so easy done;Indeed I have a world of pityFor the executive committeeWho hear in silence all this clatterAnd then decide upon the matter;To give each speaker justice due,And sift the error from the true,Is not an easy thing to do.To decide what facts have any bearingUpon the question they are hearing,And generally keep in handThe arguments, so strong and grand,And draw from them a just conclusionWithout a mixture of confusion;The negative got the decisionUnanimous, without division.The speakers then took their position,Upon the doubtful propositionOf the repeal of gold resumption,Upon the plausible presumption,That those who pay must have the money,That laws of Congress, (that seems funny,)Are not above the laws of trade,And therefore cannot be obeyed.Here now my muse, poor worthless jade,Deserted, as I was afraidFrom the beginning she would do;So I must say good-night to you,And these long rambling minutes close,In just the dullest kind of prose.

The phantoms have flown which I cherished;The dreams which delighted have passed;My castles in air have all perished—I grieved o’er the fall of the last.

’Twas bright, but as frail as a shadow;It passed like a vapor away—As the mist which hangs over the meadowDissolves in the sun’s burning ray.

The joys of my youth are all shattered;My hopes lie in wrecks on the shore;The friends of my childhood are scattered;Their faces I’ll see never more.

Some are estranged, some have gone under;The battle of life is severe.When I stand by their graves, the wonder,The mystery, seems to be clear:

They were vet’rans more noble than I;And placed in the van of the fight,They fell where the hero would die,When he bleeds for truth and the right.

The battle of life is proceeding—The rear will advance to the van;I’ll follow where duty is leading,And fall at my post like a man.

Maiden, lovely, young and gay,In the bloom of life’s young May!Sweet perfumes are in the air;Songs of gladness ev’rywhere!

Flowers are springing round thy way,Lovely flowers, bright and gay:Over head and all aboutRings one constant joyous shout!Earth is carpeted with green,Nature greets you as her queen.Call the trees and flow’rs your own,Each will bow before your throne.While in youth’s enchanting maze,Incline thy steps to wisdom’s ways!Lead a quiet peaceful life;Swiftly fly from noise and strife;Own thy Lord before mankind;’Neath his banner you will findMore than all this world can give;Contentment while on earth you live,Nearer to your journey’s end,All your aspirations tend:May you end your days in peace;Earthly ties in joy release;Eternally thy joys increase;That this may be thy joyous lotEver prays thy friend D. Scott.

Written on a blank leaf of a Bible presented to Martha Cowan, June 1st, 1868.

Esteemed young friendThis book I send,I know full well thou wilt receive;For thou canst readIts shining creed,And understand it and believe.

Oh could I sayAs much to-day,What joys would thrill this heart of grief,—I do believe.Oh Lord, receiveMy prayer—help THOU mine unbelief!

This book though small,Is more than allThe wealth of India to thee;Oh priceless treasure!Rich beyond measureAre all who build their hopes on thee.

Written for a little girl on her eleventh birthday.

Fleeting time is on the wing—Surely Winter, joyous Spring,Glowing Summer, Autumn sere,Mark the changes of the year.

Late the earth was green and fair,Flowers were blooming everywhere;Birds were singing in the trees,While the balmy healthful breeze,Laden with perfume and song,Health and beauty flowed along.

But a change comes o’er the scene;Still the fields and trees are green,And the birds keep singing on,Though the early flowers are gone;And the melting noon-day heat,Strips the shoes from little feet,And the coats from little backs;While the paddling bare-foot tracks,In the brooklet which I see,Tell of youthful sports and glee.Hay is rip’ning on the plain,Fields are rich in golden grain,Mowers rattle sharp and shrill,Reapers echo from the hill,Farmer, dark and brown with heat,Push your labor—it is sweet,For the hope, in which you plow,And sow, you are reaping now.Corn, which late, was scarcely seen,Struggling slowly into green,’Neath the Summer’s torrid glow—How like magic it does grow;Rising to majestic height,Drinks the sunbeams with delight,Sends its rootlets through the soil,Foraging for hidden spoil;Riches more than golden ore,Silent workers they explore:With their apparatus small,Noiselessly they gather all.When their work is done, beholdTreasures, richer far than gold,Fill the farmers store-house wide—And his grateful soul beside.

But the scene must change again,Hill and dell and spreading plain,Speak so all can comprehendSummer’s reign is at an end.Forests, gorgeously arrayed,(Queens such dresses ne’er displayed)Grace the coronation sceneOf the lovely Autumn queen.Birds, with multifarious notes,Ringing from ten thousand throats,Shout aloud that Summer’s dead,And Autumn reigns in her stead.Now another change behold—All the varied tints of gold,Purple, crimson, orange, green—Every hue and shade between,That bedecked the forest trees,Now lie scattered by the breeze.The birds have flown. Faithless friendsLove the most when they’re best fed;And when they have gained their ends,Shamefully have turned and fled.Winter claims his wide domain,And begins his frigid reign.Thus the seasons come and go:Spring gives place to Summer’s glow;Then comes mellow Autumn’s sway,Rip’ning fruits and short’ning day;Gorgeous woods in crimson dress,Surpassing queens in loveliness.Then the Frost King mounts the throne,Claims the empire for his own;Hail and rain and sleet and snowAre his ministers that goOn the swift wings of the blast,At his bidding, fierce and fast.

Like the seasons of the year,Your young life will change, my dear.Now you’re in your early Spring,Hope and joy are on the wing;Flow’rets blooming fresh and gay,Shed their fragrance round your way.Summer’s heat is coming fast,And your Spring will soon be past;For, where you are, I have been;All that you see, I have seen.Hopes that beamed around my way,Cast their light on yours to-day.All that you do, I have done;All your childish ways I’ve run,All your joys and pangs I’ve had—All that make you gay or sad;I have sported in the brook,Truant from my work or book;Chased the butterfly and bee,Robb’d the bird’s nest on the tree;Damm’d the brook and built my mill;Flew my kite from hill to hill;Sported with my top and ball—Childish joys, I know them all.Childish sorrows, too I’ve felt—Anguish that my heart would melt;Tears have wet my burning cheek,Caused by thoughts I could not speak.Mysteries then confused my brain,Which have since become more plain;Much that then seemed plain and clearHas grown darker year by year;When my artless prayers I said,Skies were near—just over head;And the angels seemed so near,I could whisper in their ear.All that I have learned since then,I would give, if once again,Those bright visions would return.For I find, the more I learn,Further off the skies appear,And the angels come not near.Though in better words I pray,Heaven seems so far away,That I wish, but wish in vain,That the skies were near again;That no other words I knew,But those simple ones and few,That the angels used to hear,When I whispered in their ear.I would barter all the fame,Wealth and learning that I claim,Which a life of toil have cost,For those priceless seasons lost.

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