I looked, and the mist had hiddenStreamlet and gorge and mountain,Mansion and church had vanished away,No trace of tree or fountain.Mist, on the roof where birdlings wakeThe strains of old love stories,Mist, like tears on the roses' cheek,In cups of the morning glories.
"Ah, like life, 'said my heart to me,'Only a world of sorrow,The lips you love, the hands you clasp,Are cold and strange to-morrow.Mists on the stream of by-gone days,Where are your childhood bowers?Mists on the path of coming years.Where are your household flowers?"
I looked again; a sunbeam brightHad shot through the heavy mist;It drew the rose to its glowing breast,And the morning glories kissed.The spire of the Ascension ChurchFlashed out like St. 'Michael's sword,When girt with glowing armor, heDoeth battle for his Lord.
Each moment some high roof or tower,Some flush of the maple leaves,Grew fair to sight, the birdlings sangIn nests on the sun-lit eaves;And Nature bathed in living light,As if she renewed her birth,The Universal Father smiledThrough his sunbeam, on the earth.
"Ah, now my heart, so sad and coldWith mists of its repining,What will thou say to see once moreThe cloud with silver lining?"Source of light! when I leave this sphere,Grant me a vision like this,Mists and shadows rolling awayFrom the Paradise of bliss.
May I look thus on mounts of God,The flash of temple spires,And hear the deathless singers chantFrom their harmonious lyres;So may I close mine eyes on earth,While heaven's pure light is breaking,And some I know will fold me close,In arms of love awaking.
Air--Stephenos
Lo, a knight in armour standing,Ready for the foe;Thee we greet, belov'd Companion,Thee we know.
Keep thine oath, oh new made soldier,Pledged in heaven's sight;Nor forget the vow thou'st taken,Malta's knight.
By the banner, o'er us waving,By thy lance at rest,Chiefly by that Cross emblazonedOn thy breast.
In the heat of danger's trial,Dare the fiercest fight;No desertion, no denial,Right or life!
See thou turn not from the conflict,On the battle field,Though men bear a dying soldierOn thy shield.
Let thy strong arm shield the helpless,And the feeble save;Mercy's voice the true knight knoweth,And the brave.
Welcome, dear Sir Knight, thrice welcome!To our tented field;God will aid us till the finalFoe shall yield.
We are pledged unto His kingdom,Who for us hath borneCross and spear, for us did sufferCrown of thorn.
Then, for Him who rose triumphantTo the heavenly Lamp,Gird thy sword though night surround thee,Wild and damp.
When at last, in mortal weakness,Sword and spear must fall,Christ, unto Thy Grand Encampment,Take us all.
How wildly blows the wintry wind, deep lies the drifting snowOn the hillside, and the roadside, and the valleys down below;And up the gorge all through last night the rushing storm flew fast,And there old walls and casements were rattling in the blast.Lady, I had a dream last night, born of the storm and pain,I dreamed it was the time of spring; but the clouds were black with rain.I thought that I was on the bay, a good way out from shoreAlone, and feeling much afraid at the wild tempest's roar,I tried to reach the distant land, but could not find the way,And suddenly my boat capsized far out upon the bay.I shrieked in wildest agony amid the thunder shock,When I heard you saying unto me, "Beneath us is a Rock,Trust not to me, these waves are strong, but lift your tear-dimmed eye--That star will lead us to the rock that higher is than I."And through the drenching wave and surf, together on we passed,Till the bright green slopes of Hamilton shone clearly out at last.It seemed so strange, we stepped ashore, your garments were all dry,And, holding hands as we do now, I heard you say "good-bye."Dear lady, now I see it all, those blessed words you saidWere with me in the storm last night, like angels round my bed."So many and great dangers that we cannot stand upright,""Defend us by thy mercy, from all perils of this night."Lady, I am a mother, none know it here save you;Don't blush for me, there is no shame, I am a wife, leal and true.Lady, true love is born of heaven, we may deem it dead and past,And sit with bowed down head alone, the heart's door closed and fast;When suddenly we hear a voice, and spite of bolt or bar,Like its dear Master, there it stands, stretching its arms afar;Though buried up it rises, though dead it lives anew,And breathes again its Master's words, "Sweet peace be unto you,"Folks say, "There is a mystery about that poor sick girl,"Lady, there's mystery round us all, that angels will unfurl,I have one favor now to ask, within this paper's fold,There's a little lock of baby's hair, just half one curl of gold,When I am in my coffin, and soon now I'll be at rest,Will you lay this little curl of gold upon my quiet breast,God and the angels only know where the other half lies hid,In the green sod of old Ireland, neath a baby's coffin lid,Don't'leave me yet, it is near night, I feel so strange to-day,You know the prayers for dying ones, oh kneel once more and pray,Thank God for sending one to me, where the wild tempests roll,You won't forget--the little curl--Saviour receive my soul.
We were wearied in the battle,Tempted, and pained, and triedBy day the din and the carnage,By night the rain's fierce tide;But we heard a loving message,From the Prince's tent it came,"Each meet in the banqueting house.In memory of my name."
We gathered; a motley regiment,Some young in the war of life,Some chiefs in the Royal Army,Some old and sick with strife,Some limped in the sacred pathway,Some were foot sore and worn,Some had their lances all shivered,Some had their banners torn.
And we all looked dim and dusty;We all were stained with sin;But we held the Prince's message,And the porter said "Come in."We went to the banqueting house;We sat at the Prince's board,There we polished each his helmet,We sharpened each his sword.
Our Prince--we talked of his strife,The forlorn hope He had led,How He opened the gates of life,And rescued from Death the dead;And with Him we saw a bright host,Our comrades gone on before,The right wing of our armyUpon the farther shore.
And the festering wound was healed.The banners were made whole,Mists rolled back from the almost blind,Faith lit each warrior's soul;We drank of the fruit of the vine,We ate the living bread,The holy benediction fell,With healing on each head.
We entered in poor worn soldiers,We came out bolder knights,To march on to the Prince's battle,And war for His glorious rights,For had we not each re-takenThe oath of allegiance high,And sworn round the Royal StandardTo conquer, or to die.
I heard the voice of the Death Angel speak,As slowly he pass'd me by,And I saw him throw snow on the crimson cheek,And darken the laughing eye.I saw him glide down through many a street;Tears followed him like spring rain;And yet ever unheeding tears or prayers,He mattered his wild wild refrain,"Come away with me, sweet baby so bright,I love the young flowers of the rosebud's hue,What? mother would keep thee always in sight,And see the sad tears in those eyes so blue.Come with me, little one.All thorns and crosses for you are done,Mother will meet thee where all is fair,Grown to the height of the angels there.Quiet and deep,Be now thy sleep,Baby, so white.
For thou shalt travel where sorrow and strifeNever shall darken thy pathway again.Azael must take home to the Lord of LifeThe darlings He bought on the cross with pain.Ah! you smile, little one.Pleasure and glory for you are won,Near to the angels, you're not afraidOf going with me far into the shade.The casket grows cold,The jewel I hold,For hearts of love.
Come along with me, thou trader in gold,Many have turned from thy office to-day.Thou hast no time to consider the claimOf the wronged or helpless who crossed thy way.You shudder, trembling one.Close up the ledger, business is done.Let you stay till your vessel comes in?I'll take you far from the market's din,And you'll have time,In that strange clime,To meditate.
For thou wilt awaken, I would not hold.If I could, the past from memory's ken.I fancy that other ledgers unfold,Their pages for some of you business men;Rest to night, tired one.Not half of your merchandise is done?The steamers, the banks, the corn exchange?No, Azael deals not in notes or change;He keeps no gold,In his fingers cold,He takes no bribe.
Come along with me, sweet lady so fair,Who told thee I was so grim and so cold;Know you that I covet that sunny hair,And those delicate arms's caressing fold;Fear me not, gentle one.What if the hymn and the task are done,In my arms there is far calmer rest,Then thou wilt find on thy lover's breast.Sleep, sleep for awhile,Then waken to smile,Ever and aye.
True life is progressive, my lady fair,And thou wilt re-open those radiant eyes;Think you that I have no burden of care,Azael has to account for each prize.Banish doubt, gentle one.Quicksands and pitfalls for thee are all done;Human love may ere long deceive thee,But Azael's love will never leave theeTill those earth-dim eyesLook on Paradise,Never to weep.
The song of Azael melted away,On the solemn midnight's bieath,I thought of the talents, the oilless lamps--Oh, Azael, Angel of Death,I know that ere long thou wilt come for me.Immanuel, Lord of life,By Thy victory gained on the bitter cross,Save in that hour of strife.
Let me tell you a story, dear,Of someone I saw to-day,Only a man with a pale worn face,And auburn locks grown gray,One, I thought would never again,Come over my pathway here,One, I still hope to meet forgiven,In a better brighter sphere.
Why did you start, he knew me, yes,A flush as of pain, or pride,Pass'd swiftly o'er the pale stern face,And the high white forehead dyed,I heard the roll of carriage wheels,Unthinkingly raised my eyes,One glance flashed out beneatt thosee Brows,Like lightening across the skies.
Shudder not dear, 'tis he who grieves,Not I in my lonely life,I have a calm bright future now,He? well, he has gold and strife,They say that oft by the heaving lake,He wanders about alone,Waves that dash on the sandy beach,Answer his throbbing heart's moan.
Once or twice has been heard a nameAs if wrung with torturous pain,From lips to sacred silence sworn,Told only to storms and rain.He leaves the light of gilded halls,To clasp in the midnight air,Some flowers that faded years ago,One lock of a girl's dark hair.
Ask me not with those pleading eyes,If I dream about him yet;Is anything colder to your touch,Than ashes with rain-drops wet?What is harder to kindle up,Than lava grown black and cold,That once from burning mountain's heart,In fiery grandeur rolled.
Pity him, pray for him, that is well,Married for jewels and gold,Vipers crawl from the caskets bright,And they keep his fingers cold.Only a flush of pain or pride,When to-day our glances met,He in his gorgeous wealth arrayed,I, out in the cold and wet.
Hush; as we sow we surely reap,Yes, he has a wife and gold,Broad lands, a mansion white and tallLike an iceberg grand and cold,I? I've the blessings of the poor,Which fall like the gentle dew,I've claims on mansions far away,I have life, and love, andyou.
Turn thy fair face to the breaking dawn,Lily so white, that through all the dark,Hast kept lone watch on the dewy lawn,Deeming thy comrades grown cold and stark;Soon shall the sunbeam, joyous and strong,Dry the tears in thy stamens of gold--Glinteth the day up merry and long,And the night grows old.
Turn thy fair face to Faith's rosy sky,Soul so white that lone night hath keptSighing for spirits sin-bound that lie;Wrong has ruled right, and the truth has slept;The dawn shall show thee a host ere long,Planting sweet roses abqve the mould;The sun of righteousness beameth strong,And sin's night grows old.
Turn thine eyes to the burnished zoneFrom out of thy nest neath darkened eaves,Oh bird, who hast mingled thy plaintive moanWith sobbing winds through quivering leaves;From thy heart, by light which groweth strong,Draw out the thorns that pierced on the world;Glinteth the day up merry and long,And the night grows old.
Turn thy sad eyes to God's summerland,Mourner, who waileth some love laid past,Some bark that has anchored on foreign strandAnd left her sailors free from the blast;They are not here where the grass grows long,They are not down in the red-brown mould;Heaven's day is coming up fair and strong,And earth's night grows old.
Sleep on, my darling, sleep on,I am keeping watch by your side,I have drawn in the curtains close,And banished the world outside;Rest as the reaper may rest,When the harvest work is doneRest as the soldier may rest,When the victor's work is won.
You smile in your happy sleep:Are the children with you now?Sweet baby Willie, so early called,And Nellie with thoughtful brow,And May, our loving daughter.Ah, the skies grew dark, my love,When the sunshine of her presenceVanished to Heaven above.
While you're resting, my darling,I dream of the shadowy hour,When one of us looks the lastOn the light of its household bower,Then a sad sigh heaves my breast,And tears from my eyelids burst,As I ask of the future dim,"Which shall be summoned first?"
Sometimes I pray in terrorThat you may be first to go,Never again to sorrow,Or to feel one throb of woe,Beyond the mists of the river,Where mystic shadows weave,I have no fears, my beloved,In One we both believe.
But I, oh I so lonely,Could I look as I look now,If this was thy last long sleep,The ice of death on thy brow;In sight of the holy angels,I offer my earnest plea,I cry to my God and pray,"If one goes first, take me."
Our lives have been happy dear,I fancy the tears we shed,By our lost children's coffins.On faces white and dead,Are counted as dew drops now,On the flowers early sownIn the gardens of Paradise,The Lord's, and still our own.
So we'll leave the future dim,Take the sunshine as we go,And when we come to the brink,Where black waves ebb and flow,We'll trust the voice which summons,The love that has ever kept,To fold in his arms one taken,To lead by His hand one left.
The dew was gone,The morn was bright, the skies were fair,The flowers smiled neath the sunbeams ray,Tall cedars grew in beauty there.As Adoniram took his way,To Lebanon.
Praise his heart filled,More than four hundred years had fled,Since from stern Egypt marched the bands,Whose sons, with Solomon at their head,And Tyrian brethern's skilful hands,Prepare to build.
He watched them there,Round every block, and every stone,Masonic implements were laid,But aroundonewere many thrown,And yet it seemed already made,Tried, true and square.
He wandering spake,"Are not all from one mountain broughtAs jewels for a diadem,Why, have they at this one stone wrought,Will not all see Jerusalem.One house to make?"
The Widow's sonSmiled kindly in his brother's face,And said "All are made ready here,But not all fill the same high place,The Corner stone this will be near,When toil is done."
The listener bent,His eyes on the unfinished stone,And found himself a wiser man,Through that rough child of mountains lone,A ray of the Grand Master's plan,To him was sent.
From Masonry,That just man learnt that woes are thrownAround God's children, pain and care,But draw them near the corner stone,With the Great Architect to share,Heaven's blazonry.
"Where is God my Maker, Who giveth songs in the night."--Bible.
The hour of midnight had swept past,The city bell tolled three,The moon had sank behind the clouds,No rustling in the tree.All, all was silent as the grave,And memories of the tomb,Had banished sweet sleep far away,All spoke of tears and gloom.
When suddenly upon the air.Rang out a sweet bird's song,No feeble, weak, uncertain note,No plaint of grief or wrong,No "Miserere Domine,"No "Dies Irea" sad,But "Gloria in Excelsis" rang,In accents wild and glad.
How could he sing? a birdling caged,And in the dark alone,And then methought that he had seen,Some vision from God's throne,The little birdling's eyes were bright,While mine with tears were dim,Had some bright watcher glided by,And spake in joy to him?
Then I remembered what Christ said,The God of love's dear Son,"Not one of these small birds forgotBeneath the glorious sun."They have no load of grief to bear,Of sin no dark, deep stain,And yet in patience take their shareOf storm, and frost and rain.
Oh, can it be unknown to us,Without one human word,The universal Father soothesThe death-bed of each bird;"The whole creation groaneth," yetThese pure things of the sky,Are they not nearer to the gatesThan mortals such as I?
Yet while I mused, it seemed some form,Ere yet I was aware,Bent o'er my pillow, dried my tears,And turned to sing my prayer;Some subtle presence unrevealed,Seemed to repeat the words,"Fear not, for you are dearer far,Than many little birds."
I do not ask what seemed to speak;Whether the angel blest,Who hath been my appointed guardIn calm or wild unrest;Or whether some sweet voice I love,But hushed to me a while,Came down on gentle mission sent,To change for tears a smile.
It matters not; God knows faith's wingsDroop sometimes in the dust,And hands grow weak and lose their holdOn Hope's firm anchor trust;And so, while sending dew and rain,And glowing sunbeams bright.God giveth unto those who hear,Songs in the darkest night.
They are gone away,No prayers could avail us to longer keepThe ships called out on the unknown deep,We saw them sail off, some lingeringly,Some suddenly summoned put out to sea;They stepped aboard, and the planks were drawn in,But their sweet, pale faces were free from sin;As they turned to whisper one last good bye,We sent after each one a bitter cry;We knew on that track,They would never come back,By night or day.
Ah, we've closed dear eyes,But God be thanked that they, one and all,Had the heaven light touch them before the pall;They saw the fair land that we could not see,And one said, "Jesus is standing by me,"And one, "The water of life I hear,"And one, "There's no suffering nor sorrow here,"One, "I have seen the city of countless charms,"One, "'Neath me are the Everlasting Arms,"So we know it is best,They should be at rest,In God's paradise.
Mary's Blessed Son,Thou wilt not chide if thou see'st that lowOur harps are hanging on willow bough;We would not murmur, we know it is well,They are gone from the battle, the shot and shell,And in our anguish we're not alone;The Father knows all the grief we have known;Oh God, who once heard the Christ's bitter cry,Thou knowest what we feel when we see them die.Our light, has been hidBy the coffin lid,And dark our noon.
God hears our moan,He knows how a stricken heart had said,"Oh, number her not with the silent dead,For if she stays watching the golden sea,God help, for what will become of me?The last rose out of my childhood's bower,From my English garden, the last sweet flower;Take me instead, for none call me mother."The messenger said, "I take no other."So she went the roadThe others have trod,And I am alone.
We shall meet again;I fancy sometimes how they talk together,Of the way they travelled, the stormy weatherThat beat so hard on their pilgrim road,Now changed for the city of their God;I wonder if in their special home,They keep choice rooms till their darlings come.Saviour, who loves them, protect and guide meWhere they are waiting 'neath life's fadeless tree,Father and mother,And elder brother,And sisters twain.
"Why are you weeping, ye gentle flowers?Are ye not blest in your sunny bowers?Have you startling dreams that make ye weep,When waking up from your holy sleep?
"Ah, knowest thou not, we fold at night,The tears earth drops from her eyelids bright,Like a loving mother her griefs are born,Lest her tender nurslings should die ere morn,And the sweet dew falls in each open cup,Till the eyes of morn are lifted up;We unfold our leaves to the sun's bright face,And close them up at the night's embrace.
Dost thou ask if grief comes creeping across,From the poplar bough to the dark green moss?No, round us the sunbeams smile and glow,Round us the streamlets dance and flow,And the zephyr comes with its gentle breeze,To sigh out its life in the young green trees,And then from the beds where the flowers grow,Rises a melody soft and low.
And the glorious rose with her flushing face,And the fuschia with her form of grace,The balsam bright, and the lupin's crest,That weaves a roof for the firefly's nest;The myrtle clusters, and dahlia tall,The jessamine fairest among them all;And the tremulous lips of the lily's bell,Join in the music we love so well."
"But startle ye not when the tempests blow?Have you no dread of a wily foe?Do you not tremble, when the serpents hissMid leaves that the zephyr alone should kiss?
Lady, the bells of the fainting flowersClose at the coming of thunder showers;The branches and tendrils merrily danceAt the whirlwind's cry, and the lightning's glance.We dread not to see the snake's back of gold?Dart through the lilacs or marigold,For fears that dwell in the human breast,Find in the heart of flowers no rest.
We have no fears when we hear thee passOver the fold of the tangled grass,We have no dread when we hear thee breatheOver the flowers we love to wreathe,Nor tremble when night falls from heaven above,And nature is stillness and earth is love;We steal from thy keeping when summer is o'er,And wait thee where flowers can die no more."
Cities and men, and nations, have passed by,Like leaves upon an autumn's dreary sky;Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud,Like drops of rain on summer's fleecy cloud;Like flowers of a wilderness,Vanished into forgetfulness.
O! Nineveh, thou city of young Ashur's pride,With thy strong towers, and thy bulwarks wide;Ah! while upon thee splashed the Tigris' waters,How little thought thy wealth-stored sons and daughters,
That Cyaxerses and his troops should waitThree long years before thy massive gate;Then Medes and Persians, by the torches' light,Should ride triumphantly thy streets by night;And from creation banish thee,O! Nineveh. O! Nineveh.
And country of the pride of Mizriam's heart,With pyramids that speak thy wealth and art,Why is it that no minstrel comes, who singsOf all the glory of thy shepherd kings?Tyre, why are thy walls in ruins thus?Why is thy name so seldom spoke by us?Sidon, among the nations thou art fled,Thy joy departed and thy glory dead;Far gone ere all thy generations,Fallen nations! Fallen nations!
And Babylon, with all thy thronging bands,The glory of Chaldea's ancient lands;Thy temple, where a numerous host was seen,Thy gardens hung to please the Midian queen;Where beauteous flowers smiled on their terrace beds,Proud kings have passed through thee, and crowned heads;And grandeur and magnificence could viewIn thee a resting place--thy stores not few;Why is it thou art all alone?O! Babylon. O! Babylon.
And Greece, who shone in literature and might,When Marathon's broad plains saw sword and fight;Thy monumental ruins stand alone,Decay has breathed upon thy sculptured stoneAnd desolation walks thy princely halls,The green branch twines around thy olden walls;And ye who stood the ten years' siege of Troy,Time's fingers now your battlements annoy;Why is it that thy glories cease?O! Classic Greece. O! Classic Greece!
And thou, best city of olden time,O! we might weep for thee, once chosen clime.City, where Solomon his temple reared,City, where gold and silver stores appeared;City, where priest and prophet lowly knelt,City, where God in mortal flesh once dwelt.Titus, and Roman soldiers, laid thee low,The music in thy streets has ceased to flow;Yet wilt thou not return in joy once more,And Lebanon give up her cedar store?And vines and olives smile as now they smile,Yet not upon the ruin of a holy pile;Wilt thou Destruction's flood not stem?Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Cities and men, and nations, have gone by,Like leaves upon an Autumn's dreary sky;Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud,Like drops upon the summer's passing cloud;Like flowers of a wilderness,Vanished into forgetfulness.
One evening a short time since, our attention was attracted by the prolonged ringing of a bell. The given number of strokes had sounded, yet ring, ring, ring. Was it an alarm of fire? No other bell signalled an answer. Was it some danger to our city? No crowds were gathering. At length we questioned a passer by, and received for answer, "It is ringing because an Apprentice is out of his time." "Out of his time!" We knew nothing of the boy, neither his name or home, but the waves of air told us something concerning him. We knew he had overcome difficulties, often had he been disheartened and dismayed, often had he heard the mocking laugh or coarse jest of his companions, at his imperfect workmanship, often heard the angry words over goods or tools spoiled through his ignorance or carelessness. He had risen on dark mornings when his neighbors, lads his own age, were snugly sleeping; he had toiled on glorious summer days when his indolent companions were resting under green trees, or plunging into the cool waters; he had done the rough work because he was "the boy." Yes, but there is another side to the picture. With courage renewed, with eyes and fingers becoming more and more accustomed to the handicrafts of his trade, every month has found him progressing, till to-night, as the still ringing bell tells us, he has overcome. His companions gather around him with boisterous mirth, and the "older hands" feel a certain pride in him, as wringing his hand they know he ranks among themselves, the means of an honest living at his disposal, one of God's great army of working men. A few hours passed and another bell resounded upon our ears. We listened, for that bell had a sad and solemn sound. Ah, another "Apprentice was out of his time." We knew something of how he had fought, not with rough iron, but with "the waves of this troublesome world." We knew how in every day life he strove to do his duty to his Lord and Master. Dismayed, how often? Discouraged, how frequently bearing the taunt, the sneer? But he too had overcome. His companions gather around him, but all mirth is hushed, tears fill their eyes, and choking words are whispered as they file round the casket, and look upon the calm dead face, that no more on earth will meet them with its wonted smile, and the pale hands that have done all their rough earthwork. His welcome we did not hear. Ah, it is well that the sound of harps and the silvery peals from the chiming bells of the city of God reach us not, or perchance we should "stand all the day idle." For are we not all entered Apprentices in this strange world of ours? Are we not all "serving our time?" How are we learning our trades? Are we likely to prove "workmen that need not be ashamed," or are we through fear or negligence hiding in the earth our Lord's money? Our indentures bear the blood-red seals of Calvary, our Covenant is "ordered in all things and sure." The time of our serving here is unknown to us, of the hour of our release knoweth no man. There have been some who "being made perfect in a short time, fullfilled for a long time." We have a long line of witnesses gone on before, but all drawing their life and courage from that Wonderful Man, the Redeemer of the world, the Carpenter of Galilee. He whose mysterious indentures were cancelled in the noon-day of His life. He who could stand among His sorrowing companions and say, "Father, I have finished the work which Thou gavest me to do." Oh, my fellow apprentices, how often are we tempted to leaveourwork unfinished. Do we not thus sometimes think, "I can never learn my trade for heaven here." We see one wasting his Master's goods, we see the tables of the money-changers in the temple of God, we hear our fellows arraigning the Master before their petty tribunals, we grow faint and weary, we have foes within and without. Doubt says, "The Master is feasting royally and forgets his poor apprentices." Courage, courage, my brothers, we are treading the path the saints have trod. This is but a state of preparation. We know not what work for the King we may have to do by-and-by; over how many cities of whose locality we at present know nothing. He may give us authority to which of the countless worlds in our Father's universe we may be sent on the King's message of love, to what spirits in prison we, in our spiritual life, may go to preach of mercy. If here permitted to be the servants of Christ, and through His merits attaining to that better country, may we not reasonably infer that we shall aid Him more and more, till the mediatorial work is ended. Let these thoughts encourage us amidst the cold and heat, the scorn and shame. Let us see to it that wedowork the works of our Master. Let us often turn our eyes to those two grand rules of our workshop, "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you," our golden rule framed in the royal crimson of the King's authority; and that other silver lettered motto, framed in the clear, true blue of heaven, "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father, is to visit the widow and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." Let us imitate that brother workman of whom Whittier says:
"He gave up his life to others,Himself to his brothers lending;He saw the Lord in His suffering brothers,And not in the clouds descending."
Soon, soon we shall be out of our time; but here the figure ends. The earthly apprentice, freed from his articles of apprenticeship, may serve any master, the heavenly apprentice asks butone. Oh, Jesus, Master, Thou Saviour of our race, have mercy upon us, grant us so to serve Thee in time, that our earthly labours ended, we may hear Thee say, "Well done good and faithful servant," while the pure and beautiful angels shall rehearse to each other, "Rejoice, another apprentice is out of his time."
"And Cain talked with Abel, his brother."
The sun was rising on earth, sin-tainted, yet beautiful,Delicate gold-colored cloudlets in all their primeval beauty,Ushered the bright orb of day to his task well appointed,Like a bevy of beautifal girls in the court of their monarch,Or a regiment of soldiers all bright in new rose-colored armour.Two altars arose between earth and the cloud-speckled firmament;Cain walked in a stern and defiant advance to his altar,A recklessness flashed from his eyes, and passions unconquered,As he scornfully looked on the kneeling, worshipping Abel,Ay scornfully thus he addressed his young innocent brother:
"Look at my sacrifice, Abel, these glistening dew-colored roses,Those delicate lillies and mosses, these graceful arbutulas;Look at the golden brown tints of these fruits in their lusciousness; 'Look at the bright varied hues of these green leaves, closely encirclingThese rich scarlet blossoms, like yonder clouds, glorious and wonderful;Nothing on earth or in heaven could make fairer oblation.Abel, what have you carved on your altar, in that wild devotionBy which you in vain seek to soften the anger of heaven?A circle, to show that your God is all near, is fillingThe seen and unseen with His incomprehensible presence.
Well, so let it be, then; I'll not contradict the illusion.One thing appears certain, that we have offended our Maker,Who visits unjustly on us the mistakes of our parents,As if we ever reached out our hands for fruit once forbidden.Shall we never be free from the thorns and the thistles upspringing?Why do you still try to follow the steps and voice of your Maker?And why still persist in slaying the white lambs of your meadows?Take of my beautiful flowers and despise all blood shedding."
"My brother," spoke Abel, "I love the dear innocent flowers.Are they not all, nearly all that is left us of Eden's fair glory,All but the singing of birds, the winds and the waters, wild music,All but the whispers of love and blessings of heart-broken parents;But you heard, my brother, as well as myself the commandment,Not to offer to heaven whatwechoose, but what God declarethWill shadow our Faith and sweet Hope in the promised atonement;And that terrible sin, those spots in our souls, my dear brother,Can never be cleansed by the lives of the beautiful flowers,Only by His, shadowed forth in the death of an innocent victim."
Then angrily answered Cain back to his young brother's pleading,"Abel, I have no patience with such mock humiliations,I have no need of a Saviour, I have no need of blood-sheddingTo wash out the stain of my own or my father's transgression.I for myself can make perfect and full restitution;Look at the smoke of your altar curling upward so clearly,Making white cloudlets on high in the blue of the firmament,While mine sweeps the ground that is cursed like the trail of the serpent:Why comes down the Maker of this blighted universe, askingWhy art thou wroth, and why is thy countenance fallen?"
Stand I not here in the image of God, who created us?Have I not courage, and freedom, and strength above my inferiors?Did not our father give name to beast, bird, insect and reptile?Shall his children crouch down and kneel like the creature that crawleth?I will not obey this commandment, but I'll wreath up my altarWith offerings of earth, with gold of the orange, and red of the roses,I'll not stain my hands with the blood of an innocent creature."So Cain turned away from his wondering brother; perhaps then little dreamingThat on the next morrow he would become earth's first murderer;And, scorning the death of a lamb, take the life of a brother.
The Lord Said, "What hast thou done?"
Oh, erring Cain,What hast thou done? Upon the blighted earthI hear a melancholy wail resounding;Among the blades of grass where flowers have birthI hear a new-born tone mournfully sounding.It is thy brother's bloodCrying aloud to GodIn helpless pain.
Unhappy Cain!Thou hast so loved to wreathe the clinging vine,And welcomed with pure joy the delicate fruit,Till thou hast felt a kindred feeling twineAround thy heart, grown with each fibrous rootOf tree, or moss, or flower,Growing in field or bower,Or ripening grain.
But henceforth, Cain,When the bright gleaming of the rosy mornProclaims another glorious summer day,Thou may'st walk forth to greet the earth newborn,And pluck the blushing roses on thy way;They at thy touch shall blight,Stricken with some strange might,Some dire pain.
In time to come,When thy fair child (for thou shalt have a son)Shall lay his little, soft, warm hands in thine,And say, "My father, growing neath the sunAre lovely flowers, trees and moss and vine;Here is rich soil and roomFor me; make bowers bloomAround our home."
Thy heart will shrink,And thou wilt hear the voice the Lord has heard,The voice of brother's blood speaking from earth,And each pulse of thy sad soul will be stirred,As he to whom the girl thou love'st gave birthBrings back with fearful truthThe playmate of thy youthFrom the grave's brink.
For on no shoreShall fair earth yield unto thy stalwart arms;No, thou may'st dig, and prune, and plant in vain,And noxious worms and things of poisonous harmsShall not be banished at the will of Cane;Thou'lt set seed-bearing root,Thou'lt plant life-giving fruitNo more, no more.
Depart! Depart!Ah no, not greater than the soul can bear,Did'st thou not always find whatever grainThou cast, the same grew upward full and fair,Thouwould'st notlook upon the pure lamb slain,To faith true sacrificeThou would'st not turn thine eyes;Go, till thine heart.
"Our poor and penniless brethren, dispersed over land and sea."--Masonic Sentiment
They met in the festive hall,Lamps in their brightness shone,And merry music and mirth,Aided the feast of St. John.Men pledged the health of their QueenAnd of all the Royal band,The flags of a thousand years,The swords of their motherland.
Then mid the revelry cameThe sound of a mournful strain,Like a minor chord in music,A sweet but sad refrain;It rose on the heated air,Like a mourner's earnest plea,"Our poor and penniless brethrenDispersed over land and sea."
Poor and penniless brethrenScattered over the world,Want and misfortune and woeRound them fierce darts have hurled;Wandering alone upon mountains,Sick and fainting and cold,Lying heart-broken in prisons,Chained in an enemy's hold.
Dying in fields of combat,With none to answer backThe masonic sign of distress,Left on the battle's track.Shipwrecked in foaming waters,Clinging to broken spars,Dying, this night of St. John,Mid the ocean and the stars.
Others with hunger faint--weTaste these rich and varied meats--Oppression gives them no homeBut dark and desolate streets.Oh, God of mercy, hear us,As we ask a boon for Thee,For poor and penniless brethrenDispersed over land and sea.
Poor and penniless brethren,Ah, in the Master's sight,We all lay claim to the titleOn this, our festival night.Lone pilgrims journeying onTowards light that points above,Treading the chequered earthworksTill we reach the land of love.
Work up to the landmark, brothers,We shall not always stay,The falling shadows warn usTo work in the light of day.How often our footsteps turnWhere a brother's form is hid,Oft we cast evergreen sprigsOn a brother's coffin lid.
Thou, who dost give to eachSome appointed post to hold,Teach us to cherish the weak,To give Thy silver and gold;To guard as a soldier guardsHonor and Love's pure shrine,To give our lives for others,As Thou did'st for us give Thine.
To Masons all over the worldGive wisdom to work aright,That they may gather in peaceTheir working tools at night.May love's star glitter o'er each,Amid darkness, storm or mist,As on this night of St. John,Our Blest Evangelist.
--"Throughout the day, I walk,My path o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him."--Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin.
Mother, gazing on thy son,He, thy precious only one,Look into his azure eyes,Clearer than the summer skies.Mark his course; on scrolls of fameRead his proud ancestral name;Pause! a cloud that path will dim,Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Young bride, for the altar crowned,Now thy lot with one is bound,Willhekeep each solemn vow?Willheever love as now?Ah! a dreamy shadow liesIn the depths of those bright eyes;Time will this day's glory dim,Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Sister, has thy brother gone,To the fields where fights are won;Oh! it was an hour of prideWhen he was last by thy side;Thou dost see him coming backIn the conqueror's proud track;Hush! the bayonets earthward turn,Dream vain dreams, he'll not return.
Woman, on the cottage green,Gazing at the sunset scene,Now the vintage toil is o'er,But the gleaner comes no moreThrough the fields of burnished corn;Lo! a peasant's bier is borneBy the sparkling river's brim,Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Maiden, who in every prayerBreath'st a name thou dost not bear,Sing again thy lover's song;Yes, he will be back ere long,Back in all his manhood's pride,Back, but with another bride;Cease those bridal robes to trim,Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Earthly idols! how we mouldSand with fruit and clay with gold!How we cherish crumbling dust,Then lament our futile trust!Saviour, who on earth didst proveAll the agony of love,Fit us for that brighter shore,Where they dream vain dreams no more.
Amid the forest verdant shade,A peaceful river flowed:Wild flowers their home on its banks had made,The sunbeam's rays on its breast were laid,When the light of morning glowed.
By its marge the wolf had found a lair,He roamed through each lonely spot;That deep designer, the beaver, thereBuilt his palace; the shaggy bearIn the tall tree had his cot.
And voices sweet were heard on the bankOf the river's gentle flow;The whip-poor-will sang when the sun had sank,And the hum-drum bee to his home had shrank,When the wind of eve did blow.
The tree-frog joined with his sonorous call,The grasshopper chirped along,The dormice came out of their underground hole,The squirrels peeped over their pine-tree wall,To list to the revel song.
Nothing disturbed the murmur deepOf the river broad and fair;No one awoke it from peaceful sleep,Save when floating mice o'er its breast would creep,Or the rusty-coated bear.
One morn the sound of an axe was heardIn the forest, dark and lone;Then started with fear the beasts disturbed,Their reign was broke at the woodman's word,And they scowled with anger on.
On the river's brink the emigrant's childPassed all his lonely hours,He laughed when he ruffled the bosom mildOf the flowing streamlet so bright and wild,As it bore his boon of flowers.
Soon the throng of the forest heard the hornOf the boat, the commerce boat;Then they started up from the brake and thorn,And hastening away by the light of the morn,They fled from cavern and moat.
And the bird peeped out of a pine tree tower,And shrank away at the sight,The humming-bird fled to his rose-hung bower,The bright bee curled himself snug in a flower,O'ertaken by fear and fright.
And the river which rolled for ages, stillIn a gentle flow unriven,Now bears on its bosom by man's proud will,By the arts of industry and skill,The blessings to mortals given.
Over its billows the steamboats tread,With their waters rushing high,Or the snowy sail to the wind is spread,As the noble bark on her way is spedTo the crowded city nigh.
Oh river bright, we sail over thy breast,Once bearing wood runners wild;But the birds who built on the bank their nest,Have fled long ago to the boundless west,From thee and from man exiled.
"Let there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men."
The shades of death were gathering thick around a soldier's head,A war stained, dust strewn band of men gathered around his bed."Comrade, good-bye; thank God your voice may cheer the dauntless braveWhen I, your friend and countryman, am resting in the grave.Hush, soldiers, hush, no word of thanks, it is little I have doneFor the glory of the land we love, toward the setting sun.I have but one request to make: When all is over, thenLet there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men.
Heap up no splendid monument in memory of my clay,No tributary words to tell of one who's far away;It matters not to passers by where lies my crumbling dust,The cherubim and seraphim may have it in their trust;And bones of better men than I have bleached all cold and whiteWhere scorching sunbeam goes by day and the prowling beast by night.Give me a few spare feet of earth away down in the glen,Breathing the words of faith and hope, bury me with the men.
Bury me with the men; when the fearful seige was gained,With British blood and British dead the Indian soil was stained.Poor Dugald lay that fearful night and never asked for aid,And Fraser, wounded, cheered us on, and Allan, dying, prayed,And brave Macdonald cheered the flag with his expiring breath.These are the men who jeopardised their lives unto the death,They drove the murderous Sepoys back, the wild wolf to his den;All honor to their noble hearts; bury me with my men.
Is it death that's coming nearer? how clammy grows my brow;Yes, I'm going home for promotion, the battle's over now.Comrades, I often fancy, how upon yon blessed shore,In that land of recognition, we may yet all meet once more.Colonel, we'll gather round you then, as in the days of old;Why do whisper, comrades, are my fingers growing cold?Oh, tell my brother-officers that I thought about them whenI was going across the river; bury me with my men.
How very dark it's growing, I suppose it's nearly night;Well, I think we shall see England in the morning's ruddy light.And my mother and my sister surely I see them standUpon the beach, and summer flowers waving in each hand;And sounds of joy and victory comes on the evening air.Colonel, if I go down home first, you'll come and see us there?Do I hear my comrades sighing? Where am I? ah, amen.Let there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men.
Onward, sail on in your boundless flight,Neath shadowing skies and moonbeams bright,Kissing the clouds as it drops the rain,Touching the wall of the rainbow's fane;With your wings unfurled, your lyres strung,You sail where stars in their orbs are hung,Or for stranger lands where bright flow'rs spring,Ye have plumed the down and spread the wing.
We lay the strength of the forest down,We wear the robe and the shining crown,We tread down kings in our battle path,And voices fail at our gathered wrath;We touch; the numbers forget to pour,From the serpent's hiss to the lion's roar;But we may not tread the paths ye've trod,Though children of men and sons of God.
Ye haste, ye haste, but ye bring not backTo waiting spirits the news we lack,Ye do not tell what it is to seeThe snow capped home of the thunder free,Ye do not speak of the worlds above,Ye tell no tales of the things we love,No height or breadth of the sunbeam's roof,You touch in your travels--terror proof.
You're strange in bright radience, wonderful;You're soft in your plumage, beautiful.Bold to bask in the clouds of even,Free in your flight to floors of heaven.Like dews that over the flowers spring,Like billows rolled over Egypt's king,You leave no track in the misty air,Or records of wonders that meet you there.
Air--Belmont.
Hark! unto thee a voice doth speak,A voice of heavenly breath,And this, the solemn charge it gives,Be faithful unto death.
Faithful as stars in heaven's blue skies,Though dark clouds roll between,Or rocks that show their signal lightsIn tempest's wildest scene.
Faithful 'till death, which finallyShall close thy mortal strife,When thy reward shall surely beThe crown of endless life.
Blest Ruler, at whose wordThe universe was stirred,And there was light;Look now with gracious loveFrom Thy bright home above,Direct in every move,Each proved, Sir Knight.
In mysteries well skilled,Their hearts with courage filled,Behold they stand;Strengthen their faith in thee,Let hope their anchor be,And heaven-born charityMark their command.
Endure with holy lightEach suppliant, Sir Knight;May each one proveFaithful in watch and word;Strong the oppressed, to guardAnd win the just rewardOf Faith and Love.