Part 3

Take sackcloth of the darkest hue, And shroud the pulpits round; Servants of him who cannot lie Sit mourning on the ground.

Let holy horror blanch each brow, Pale every cheek with fears, And rocks and stones, if ye could speak, Ye well might melt to tears.

Through every fane send forth a cry, Of sorrow and regret, Nor in an hour of careless ease Thy brother’s wrongs forget.

Veil not thine eyes, nor close thy lips, Nor speak with bated breath; This evil shall not always last,— The end of it is death.

Avert the doom that crime must bring Upon a guilty land; Strong in the strength that God supplies, For truth and justice stand.

For Christless men, with reckless hands, Are sowing round thy path The tempests wild that yet shall break In whirlwinds of God’s wrath.

THE NIGHT OF DEATH.

Twas a night of dreadful horror,— Death was sweeping through the land; And the wings of dark destruction Were outstretched from strand to strand.

Strong men’s hearts grew faint with terror, As the tempest and the waves Wrecked their homes and swept them downward, Suddenly to yawning graves.

’Mid the wastes of ruined households, And the tempest’s wild alarms, Stood a terror-stricken mother With a child within her arms.

Other children huddled ’round her, Each one nestling in her heart; Swift in thought and swift in action, She at least from one must part.

Then she said unto her daughter, “Strive to save one child from death.” “Which one?” said the anxious daughter, As she stood with bated breath.

Oh! the anguish of that mother; What despair was in her eye! All her little ones were precious; Which one should she leave to die?

Then outspake the brother Bennie: “I will take the little one.” “No,” exclaimed the anxious mother; “No, my child, it can’t be done.”

“See! my boy, the waves are rising, Save yourself and leave the child!” “I will trust in Christ,” he answered; Grasped the little one and smiled.

Through the roar of wind and waters Ever and anon she cried; But throughout the night of terror Never Bennie’s voice replied.

But above the waves’ wild surging He had found a safe retreat, As if God had sent an angel, Just to guide his wandering feet.

When the storm had spent its fury, And the sea gave up its dead, She was mourning for her loved ones, Lost amid that night of dread.

While her head was bowed in anguish, On her ear there fell a voice, Bringing surcease to her sorrow, Bidding all her heart rejoice.

“Didn’t I tell you true?” said Bennie, And his eyes were full of light, “When I told you God would help me Through the dark and dreadful night?”

And he placed the little darling Safe within his mother’s arms. Feeling Christ had been his guardian, ’Mid the dangers and alarms.

Oh! for faith so firm and precious, In the darkest, saddest night, Till life’s gloom-encircled shadows Fade in everlasting light.

And upon the mount of vision We our loved and lost shall greet, With earth’s wildest storms behind us, And its cares beneath our feet.

MOTHER’S TREASURES.

Two little children sit by my side, I call them Lily and Daffodil; I gaze on them with a mother’s pride, One is Edna, the other is Will.

Both have eyes of starry light, And laughing lips o’er teeth of pearl. I would not change for a diadem My noble boy and darling girl.

To-night my heart o’erflows with joy; I hold them as a sacred trust; I fain would hide them in my heart, Safe from tarnish of moth and rust.

What should I ask for my dear boy? The richest gifts of wealth or fame? What for my girl? A loving heart And a fair and a spotless name?

What for my boy? That he should stand A pillar of strength to the state? What for my girl? That she should be The friend of the poor and desolate?

I do not ask they shall never tread With weary feet the paths of pain. I ask that in the darkest hour They may faithful and true remain.

I only ask their lives may be Pure as gems in the gates of pearl, Lives to brighten and bless the world— This I ask for my boy and girl.

I ask to clasp their hands again ’Mid the holy hosts of heaven, Enraptured say: “I am here, oh! God, And the children Thou hast given.”

THE REFINER’S GOLD.

He stood before my heart’s closed door, And asked to enter in; But I had barred the passage o’er By unbelief and sin.

He came with nail-prints in his hands, To set my spirit free; With wounded feet he trod a path To come and sup with me.

He found me poor and brought me gold, The fire of love had tried, And garments whitened by his blood, My wretchedness to hide.

The glare of life had dimmed my eyes, Its glamour was too bright. He came with ointment in his hands To heal my darkened sight.

He knew my heart was tempest-tossed, By care and pain oppressed; He whispered to my burdened heart, Come unto me and rest.

He found me weary, faint and worn, On barren mountains cold; With love’s constraint he drew me on, To shelter in his fold.

Oh! foolish heart, how slow wert thou To welcome thy dear guest, To change thy weariness and care For comfort, peace and rest.

Close to his side, oh! may I stay, Just to behold his face, Till I shall wear within my soul The image of his grace.

The grace that changes hearts of stone To tenderness and love, And bids us run with willing feet Unto his courts above.

A STORY OF THE REBELLION.

The treacherous sands had caught our boat, And held it with a strong embrace And death at our imprisoned crew Was sternly looking face to face.

With anxious hearts, but failing strength, We strove to push the boat from shore; But all in vain, for there we lay With bated breath and useless oar.

Around us in a fearful storm The fiery hail fell thick and fast; And we engirded by the sand, Could not return the dreadful blast.

When one arose upon whose brow The ardent sun had left his trace; A noble purpose strong and high Uplighting all his dusky face.

Perchance within that fateful hour The wrongs of ages thronged apace; But with it came the glorious hope Of swift deliverance to his race.

Of galling chains asunder rent, Of severed hearts again made one, Of freedom crowning all the land Through battles gained and victories won.

“Some one,” our hero firmly said, “Must die to get us out of this;” Then leaped upon the strand and bared His bosom to the bullets’ hiss.

“But ye are soldiers, and can fight, May win in battles yet unfought; I have no offering but my life, And if they kill me it is nought.”

With steady hands he grasped the boat, And boldly pushed it from the shore; Then fell by rebel bullets pierced, His life work grandly, nobly o’er.

Our boat was rescued from the sands And launched in safety on the tide; But he our comrade good and grand, In our defence had bravely died.

BURIAL OF SARAH.

He stood before the sons of Heth, And bowed his sorrowing head; “I’ve come,” he said, “to buy a place Where I may lay my dead.

“I am a stranger in your land, My home has lost its light; Grant me a place where I may lay My dead away from sight.”

Then tenderly the sons of Heth Gazed on the mourner’s face, And said, “Oh, Prince, amid our dead, Choose thou her resting-place.

“The sepulchres of those we love, We place at thy command; Against the plea thy grief hath made We close not heart nor hand.”

The patriarch rose and bowed his head, And said, “One place I crave; ’Tis at the end of Ephron’s field, And called Machpelah’s cave.

“Entreat him that he sell to me For her last sleep that cave; I do not ask for her I loved The freedom of a grave.”

The son of Zohar answered him, “Hearken, my lord, to me; Before our sons, the field and cave I freely give to thee.”

“I will not take it as a gift,” The grand old man then said; “I pray thee let me buy the place Where I may lay my dead.”

And with the promise in his heart, His seed should own that land, He gave the shekels for the field He took from Ephron’s hand.

And saw afar the glorious day His chosen seed should tread, The soil where he in sorrow lay His loved and cherished dead.

GOING EAST.

She came from the East a fair, young bride, With a light and a bounding heart, To find in the distant West a home With her husband to make a start.

He builded his cabin far away, Where the prairie flower bloomed wild; Her love made lighter all his toil, And joy and hope around him smiled.

She plied her hands to life’s homely tasks, And helped to build his fortunes up; While joy and grief, like bitter and sweet, Were mingled and mixed in her cup.

He sowed in his fields of golden grain, All the strength of his manly prime; Nor music of birds, nor brooks, nor bees, Was as sweet as the dollar’s chime.

She toiled and waited through weary years For the fortune that came at length; But toil and care and hope deferred, Had stolen and wasted her strength.

The cabin changed to a stately home, Rich carpets were hushing her tread; But light was fading from her eye, And the bloom from her cheek had fled.

Her husband was adding field to field, And new wealth to his golden store; And little thought the shadow of death Was entering in at his door.

Slower and heavier grew her step, While his gold and his gains increased; But his proud domain had not the charm Of her humble home in the East.

He had no line to sound the depths Of her tears repressed and unshed; Nor dreamed ’mid plenty a human heart Could be starving, but not for bread.

Within her eye was a restless light, And a yearning that never ceased, A longing to see the dear old home She had left in the distant East.

A longing to clasp her mother’s hand, And nestle close to her heart, And to feel the heavy cares of life Like the sun-kissed shadows depart.

The hungry heart was stilled at last; Its restless, baffled yearning ceased. A lonely man sat by the bier Of a corpse that was going East.

THE HERMIT’S SACRIFICE.

From Rome’s palaces and villas Gaily issued forth a throng; From her humbler habitations Moved a human tide along.

Haughty dames and blooming maidens, Men who knew not mercy’s sway, Thronged into the Coliseum On that Roman holiday.

From the lonely wilds of Asia, From her jungles far away, From the distant torrid regions, Rome had gathered beasts of prey.

Lions restless, roaring, rampant, Tigers with their stealthy tread, Leopards bright, and fierce, and fiery, Met in conflict wild and dread.

Fierce and fearful was the carnage Of the maddened beasts of prey, As they fought and rent each other Urged by men more fierce than they.

Till like muffled thunders breaking On a vast and distant shore, Fainter grew the yells of tigers, And the lions’ dreadful roar.

On the crimson-stained arena Lay the victims of the fight; Eyes which once had glared with anguish, Lost in death their baleful light.

Then uprose the gladiators Armed for conflict unto death, Waiting for the prefect’s signal, Cold and stern with bated breath.

“Ave Cæsar, morituri, Te, salutant,” rose the cry From the lips of men ill-fated, Doomed to suffer and to die.

Then began the dreadful contest, Lives like chaff were thrown away, Rome with all her pride and power Butchered for a holiday.

Eagerly the crowd were waiting, Loud the clashing sabres rang, When between the gladiators All unarmed a hermit sprang.

“Cease your bloodshed,” cried the hermit, “On this carnage place your ban;” But with flashing swords they answered, “Back unto your place, old man.”

From their path the gladiators Thrust the strange intruder back, Who between their hosts advancing Calmly parried their attack.

All undaunted by their weapons, Stood the old heroic man; While a maddened cry of anger Through the vast assembly ran.

“Down with him,” cried out the people, As with thumbs unbent they glared, Till the prefect gave the signal That his life should not be spared.

Men grew wild with wrathful passion, When his fearless words were said. Cruelly they fiercely showered Stones on his devoted head.

Bruised and bleeding fell the hermit, Victor in that hour of strife; Gaining in his death a triumph That he could not win in life.

Had he uttered on the forum Struggling thoughts within him born, Men had jeered his words as madness, But his deed they could not scorn.

Not in vain had been his courage, Nor for naught his daring deed; From his grave his mangled body Did for wretched captives plead.

From that hour Rome, grown more thoughtful, Ceased her sport in human gore; And into her Coliseum Gladiators came no more.

SONGS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Let me make the songs for the people, Songs for the old and young; Songs to stir like a battle-cry Wherever they are sung.

Not for the clashing of sabres, For carnage nor for strife; But songs to thrill the hearts of men With more abundant life.

Let me make the songs for the weary, Amid life’s fever and fret, Till hearts shall relax their tension, And careworn brows forget.

Let me sing for little children, Before their footsteps stray, Sweet anthems of love and duty, To float o’er life’s highway.

I would sing for the poor and aged, When shadows dim their sight; Of the bright and restful mansions, Where there shall be no night.

Our world, so worn and weary, Needs music, pure and strong, To hush the jangle and discords Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.

Music to soothe all its sorrow, Till war and crime shall cease; And the hearts of men grown tender Girdle the world with peace.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. p. 38, changed “Sea King” to “Sea-King” to agree with usage in the poem. 2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. 3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.