Part 2

Sharers of a common country, They had met in deadly strife; Men who should have been as brothers Madly sought each other’s life.

In the silence of the even, When the cannon’s lips were dumb, Thoughts of home and all its loved ones To the soldier’s heart would come.

On the margin of a river, ’Mid the evening’s dews and damps, Could be heard the sounds of music Rising from two hostile camps.

One was singing of its section Down in Dixie, Dixie’s land, And the other of the banner Waved so long from strand to strand.

In the land where Dixie’s ensign Floated o’er the hopeful slave, Rose the song that freedom’s banner, Starry-lighted, long might wave.

From the fields of strife and carnage, Gentle thoughts began to roam, And a tender strain of music Rose with words of “Home, Sweet Home.”

Then the hearts of strong men melted, For amid our grief and sin Still remains that “touch of nature,” Telling us we all are kin.

In one grand but gentle chorus, Floating to the starry dome, Came the words that brought them nearer, Words that told of “Home, Sweet Home.”

For awhile, all strife forgotten, They were only brothers then, Joining in the sweet old chorus, Not as soldiers, but as men.

Men whose hearts would flow together, Though apart their feet might roam, Found a tie they could not sever, In the mem’ry of each home.

Never may the steps of carnage Shake our land from shore to shore, But may mother, home and Heaven, Be our watchwords evermore.

THE PURE IN HEART SHALL SEE GOD.

They shall see Him in the crimson flush Of morning’s early light, In the drapery of sunset, Around the couch of night.

When the clouds drop down their fatness, In late and early rain, They shall see His glorious footprints On valley, hill and plain.

They shall see Him when the cyclone Breathes terror through the land; They shall see Him ’mid the murmurs Of zephyrs soft and bland.

They shall see Him when the lips of health, Breath vigor through each nerve, When pestilence clasps hands with death, His purposes to serve.

They shall see Him when the trembling earth Is rocking to and fro; They shall see Him in the order The seasons come and go.

They shall see Him when the storms of war Sweep wildly through the land; When peace descends like gentle dew They still shall see His hand.

They shall see Him in the city Of gems and pearls of light, They shall see Him in his beauty, And walk with Him in white.

To living founts their feet shall tend, And Christ shall be their guide, Beloved of God, their rest shall be In safety by His side.

HE “HAD NOT WHERE TO LAY HIS HEAD.”

The conies had their hiding-place, The wily fox with stealthy tread A covert found, but Christ, the Lord, Had not a place to lay his head.

The eagle had an eyrie home, The blithesome bird its quiet rest, But not the humblest spot on earth Was by the Son of God possessed.

Princes and kings had palaces, With grandeur could adorn each tomb, For Him who came with love and life, They had no home, they gave no room.

The hands whose touch sent thrills of joy Through nerves unstrung and palsied frame, The feet that travelled for our need, Were nailed unto the cross of shame.

How dare I murmur at my lot, Or talk of sorrow, pain and loss, When Christ was in a manger laid, And died in anguish on the cross.

That homeless one beheld beyond His lonely agonizing pain, A love outflowing from His heart, That all the wandering world would gain.

GO WORK IN MY VINEYARD.

Go work in my vineyard, said the Lord, And gather the bruised grain; But the reapers had left the stubble bare, And I trod the soil in pain.

The fields of my Lord are wide and broad, He has pastures fair and green, And vineyards that drink the golden light Which flows from the sun’s bright sheen.

I heard the joy of the reapers’ song, As they gathered golden grain; Then wearily turned unto my task, With a lonely sense of pain.

Sadly I turned from the sun’s fierce glare, And sought the quiet shade, And over my dim and weary eyes Sleep’s peaceful fingers strayed.

I dreamed I joined with a restless throng, Eager for pleasure and gain; But ever and anon a stumbler fell, And uttered a cry of pain.

But the eager crowd still hurried on, Too busy to pause or heed, When a voice rang sadly through my soul, You must staunch these wounds that bleed.

My hands were weak, but I reached them out To feebler ones than mine, And over the shadows of my life Stole the light of a peace divine.

Oh! then my task was a sacred thing, How precious it grew in my eyes! ’Twas mine to gather the bruised grain For the “Lord of Paradise.”

And when the reapers shall lay their grain On the floors of golden light, I feel that mine with its broken sheaves Shall be precious in His sight.

Though thorns may often pierce my feet, And the shadows still abide, The mists will vanish before His smile, There will be light at eventide.

RENEWAL OF STRENGTH.

The prison-house in which I live Is falling to decay, But God renews my spirit’s strength, Within these walls of clay.

For me a dimness slowly creeps Around earth’s fairest light, But heaven grows clearer to my view, And fairer to my sight.

It may be earth’s sweet harmonies Are duller to my ear, But music from my Father’s house Begins to float more near.

Then let the pillars of my home Crumble and fall away; Lo, God’s dear love within my soul Renews it day by day.

JAMIE’S PUZZLE.

There was grief within our household Because of a vacant chair. Our mother, so loved and precious, No longer was sitting there.

Our hearts grew heavy with sorrow, Our eyes with tears were blind, And little Jamie was wondering, Why we were left behind.

We had told our little darling, Of the land of love and light, Of the saints all crowned with glory, And enrobed in spotless white.

We said that our precious mother, Had gone to that land so fair, To dwell with beautiful angels, And to be forever there.

But the child was sorely puzzled, Why dear grandmamma should go To dwell in a stranger city, When her children loved her so.

But again the mystic angel Came with swift and silent tread, And our sister, Jamie’s mother, Was enrolled among the dead.

To us the mystery deepened, To Jamie it seemed more clear; Grandma, he said, must be lonesome, And mamma has gone to her.

But the question lies unanswered In our little Jamie’s mind, Why she should go to our mother, And leave her children behind;

To dwell in that lovely city, From all that was dear to part, From children who loved to nestle So closely around her heart.

Dear child, like you, we are puzzled, With problems that still remain; But think in the great hereafter Their meaning will all be plain.

TRUTH.

A rock, for ages, stern and high, Stood frowning ’gainst the earth and sky, And never bowed his haughty crest When angry storms around him prest. Morn, springing from the arms of night, Had often bathed his brow with light, And kissed the shadows from his face With tender love and gentle grace.

Day, pausing at the gates of rest, Smiled on him from the distant West, And from her throne the dark-browed Night Threw round his path her softest light. And yet he stood unmoved and proud, Nor love, nor wrath, his spirit bowed; He bared his brow to every blast And scorned the tempest as it passed.

One day a tiny, humble seed— The keenest eye would hardly heed— Fell trembling at that stern rock’s base, And found a lowly, hiding-place. A ray of light, and drop of dew, Came with a message, kind and true; They told her of the world so bright, Its love, its joy, and rosy light, And lured her from her hiding-place, To gaze upon earth’s glorious face.

So, peeping timid from the ground, She clasped the ancient rock around, And climbing up with childish grace, She held him with a close embrace; Her clinging was a thing of dread; Where’er she touched a fissure spread, And he who’d breasted many a storm Stood frowning there, a mangled form; A Truth, dropped in the silent earth, May seem a thing of little worth, Till, spreading round some mighty wrong, It saps its pillars proud and strong, And o’er the fallen ruin weaves The brightest blooms and fairest leaves.

DEATH OF THE OLD SEA-KING.

’Twas a fearful night—the tempest raved With loud and wrathful pride, The storm-king harnessed his lightning steeds, And rode on the raging tide.

The sea-king lay on his bed of death, Pale mourners around him bent; They knew the wild and fitful life Of their chief was almost spent.

His ear was growing dull in death When the angry storm he heard, The sluggish blood in the old man’s veins With sudden vigor stirred.

“I hear them call,” cried the dying man, His eyes grew full of light; “Now bring me here my warrior robes, My sword and armor bright.

“In the tempest’s lull I heard a voice, I knew ’twas Odin’s call. The Valkyrs are gathering round my bed To lead me unto his hall.

“Bear me unto my noblest ship, Light up a funeral pyre; I’ll walk to the palace of the braves Through a path of flame and fire.”

Oh! wild and bright was the stormy light That flashed from the old man’s eye, As they bore him from the couch of death To his battle-ship to die,

And lit with many a mournful torch The sea-king’s dying bed, And like a banner fair and bright The flames around him spread.

But they heard no cry of anguish Break through that fiery wall, With rigid brow and silent lips He was seeking Odin’s hall.

Through a path of fearful splendor, While strong men held their breath, The brave old man went boldly forth And calmly talked with death.

SAVE THE BOYS.

Like Dives in the deeps of Hell I cannot break this fearful spell, Nor quench the fires I’ve madly nursed, Nor cool this dreadful raging thirst. Take back your pledge—ye come too late! Ye cannot save me from my fate, Nor bring me back departed joys; But ye can try to save the boys.

Ye bid me break my fiery chain, Arise and be a man again, When every street with snares is spread, And nets of sin where’er I tread. No; I must reap as I did sow. The seeds of sin bring crops of woe; But with my latest breath I’ll crave That ye will try the boys to save.

These bloodshot eyes were once so bright; This sin-crushed heart was glad and light; But by the wine-cup’s ruddy glow I traced a path to shame and woe. A captive to my galling chain, I’ve tried to rise, but tried in vain— The cup allures and then destroys. Oh! from its thraldom save the boys.

Take from your streets those traps of hell Into whose gilded snares I fell. Oh! freemen, from these foul decoys Arise, and vote to save the boys. Oh, ye who license men to trade In draughts that charm and then degrade, Before ye hear the cry, Too late, Oh, save the boys from my sad fate.

NOTHING AND SOMETHING.

It is nothing to me, the beauty said, With a careless toss of her pretty head; The man is weak if he can’t refrain From the cup you say is fraught with pain. It was something to her in after years, When her eyes were drenched with burning tears, And she watched in lonely grief and dread, And startled to hear a staggering tread.

It is nothing to me, the mother said; I have no fear that my boy will tread In the downward path of sin and shame, And crush my heart and darken his name. It was something to her when that only son From the path of right was early won, And madly cast in the flowing bowl A ruined body and sin-wrecked soul.

It is nothing to me, the young man cried: In his eye was a flash of scorn and pride; I heed not the dreadful things ye tell: I can rule myself I know full well. It was something to him when in prison he lay The victim of drink, life ebbing away; And thought of his wretched child and wife, And the mournful wreck of his wasted life.

It is nothing to me, the merchant said, As over his ledger he bent his head; I’m busy to-day with tare and tret, And I have no time to fume and fret. It was something to him when over the wire A message came from a funeral pyre— A drunken conductor had wrecked a train, And his wife and child were among the slain.

It is nothing to me, the voter said, The party’s loss is my greatest dread; Then gave his vote for the liquor trade, Though hearts were crushed and drunkards made. It was something to him in after life, When his daughter became a drunkard’s wife And her hungry children cried for bread, And trembled to hear their father’s tread.

Is it nothing for us to idly sleep While the cohorts of death their vigils keep? To gather the young and thoughtless in, And grind in our midst a grist of sin? It is something, yes, all, for us to stand Clasping by faith our Saviour’s hand; To learn to labor, live and fight On the side of God and changeless light.

VASHTI.

She leaned her head upon her hand And heard the King’s decree— “My lords are feasting in my halls; Bid Vashti come to me.

“I’ve shown the treasures of my house, My costly jewels rare, But with the glory of her eyes No rubies can compare.

“Adorn’d and crown’d I’d have her come, With all her queenly grace, And, ’mid my lords and mighty men, Unveil her lovely face.

“Each gem that sparkles in my crown, Or glitters on my throne, Grows poor and pale when she appears, My beautiful, my own!”

All waiting stood the chamberlains To hear the Queen’s reply. They saw her cheek grow deathly pale, But light flash’d to her eye:

“Go, tell the King,” she proudly said, “That I am Persia’s Queen, And by his crowds of merry men I never will be seen.

“I’ll take the crown from off my head And tread it ’neath my feet, Before their rude and careless gaze My shrinking eyes shall meet.

“A queen unveil’d before the crowd!— Upon each lip my name!— Why, Persia’s women all would blush And weep for Vashti’s shame!

“Go back!” she cried, and waved her hand, And grief was in her eye: “Go, tell the King,” she sadly said, “That I would rather die.”

They brought her message to the King; Dark flash’d his angry eye; ’Twas as the lightning ere the storm Hath swept in fury by.

Then bitterly outspoke the King, Through purple lips of wrath— “What shall be done to her who dares To cross your monarch’s path?”

Then spake his wily counsellors— “O King of this fair land! From distant Ind to Ethiop, All bow to thy command.

“But if, before thy servants’ eyes, This thing they plainly see, That Vashti doth not heed thy will Nor yield herself to thee,

“The women, restive ’neath our rule, Would learn to scorn our name, And from her deed to us would come Reproach and burning shame.

“Then, gracious King, sign with thy hand This stern but just decree, That Vashti lay aside her crown, Thy Queen no more to be.”

She heard again the King’s command, And left her high estate; Strong in her earnest womanhood, She calmly met her fate,

And left the palace of the King, Proud of her spotless name— A woman who could bend to grief, But would not bow to shame.

THANK GOD FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.

Thank God for little children, Bright flowers by earth’s wayside, The dancing, joyous lifeboats Upon life’s stormy tide.

Thank God for little children; When our skies are cold and gray, They come as sunshine to our hearts, And charm our cares away.

I almost think the angels, Who tend life’s garden fair, Drop down the sweet wild blossoms That bloom around us here.

It seems a breath of heaven Round many a cradle lies, And every little baby Brings a message from the skies.

Dear mothers, guard these jewels, As sacred offerings meet, A wealth of household treasures To lay at Jesus’ feet.

THE MARTYR OF ALABAMA.

[The following news item appeared in the newspapers throughout the country, issue of December 27th, 1894:

“Tim Thompson, a little negro boy, was asked to dance for the amusement of some white toughs. He refused, saying he was a church member. One of the men knocked him down with a club and then danced upon his prostrate form. He then shot the boy in the hip. The boy is dead: his murderer is still at large.”]

He lifted up his pleading eyes, And scanned each cruel face, Where cold and brutal cowardice Had left its evil trace.

It was when tender memories Round Beth’lem’s manger lay, And mothers told their little ones Of Jesu’s natal day.

And of the Magi from the East Who came their gifts to bring, And bow in rev’rence at the feet Of Salem’s new-born King.

And how the herald angels sang The choral song of peace, That war should close his wrathful lips, And strife and carnage cease.

At such an hour men well may hush Their discord and their strife, And o’er that manger clasp their hands With gifts to brighten life.

Alas! that in our favored land, That cruelty and crime Should cast their shadows o’er a day, The fairest pearl of time.

A dark-browed boy had drawn anear A band of savage men, Just as a hapless lamb might stray Into a tiger’s den.

Cruel and dull, they saw in him For sport an evil chance, And then demanded of the child To give to them a dance.

“Come dance for us,” the rough men said; “I can’t,” the child replied, “I cannot for the dear Lord’s sake, Who for my sins once died.”

Tho’ they were strong and he was weak, He wouldn’t his Lord deny. His life lay in their cruel hands, But he for Christ could die.

Heard they aright? Did that brave child Their mandates dare resist? Did he against their stern commands Have courage to resist?

Then recklessly a man (?) arose, And dealt a fearful blow. He crushed the portals of that life, And laid the brave child low.

And trampled on his prostrate form, As on a broken toy; Then danced with careless, brutal feet, Upon the murdered boy.

Christians! behold that martyred child! His blood cries from the ground; Before the sleepless eye of God, He shows each gaping wound.

Oh! Church of Christ arise! arise! Lest crimson stain thy hand, When God shall inquisition make For blood shed in the land.