Part 37

One gentle vine--thy tendrils sweet Around my soul entwine; A comfort left in sorrows deep, One heart to beat with mine.

Thy life has dawned in peril's day. Mid wars that heaven shake; Thy summers five, eventful, they Like surges o'er thee break.

Thy little soul has felt the shock Of burning Babel's fall, When hell recoiled in fury black And stood in dread appal.

But wreaking out his vengeance now, Like ocean's terror dark, Hell's monster came athwart the bow Of our domestic bark.

Thy guardian angel wept to see This brunt of fury sweep The girdings of maternity From underneath thy feet.

But pity still her garland weaves Around thy gentle brow, And angels on thee softly breathe Their benedictions now.

They soothe and bless thy manly heart, And wipe away thy tears; So tempered to thy bitter lot, The bitter sweet appears.

An exile now is each to each, As banished far at sea; A martyr on his island beach, I daily think of thee.

And stronger love has seldom spanned The mocking billows wild, Than are the chords that ever bind To my beloved child.

Though sundered not by angry main, Compelled from thine embrace, We flee abroad in Jesus' name To publish Heaven's grace.

Thy little heart can not divine Why Papa stays away, But coming years will tell, if thine, The great necessity.

When sickness crushed thy little form, I knew my boy was ill; I heard thee in my visions call, But duty kept me still.

A trial deep, to feel thy pain, And yet debarred from thee, To show that sinners lost are in A greater misery.

Oh, may this lesson speak to thee When Father's work is done! And highest may thy glory be, A soul for God is won.

And now, my son, attentive hear My benediction-prayer, And ever tune thy heart and ear To heaven's music rare;

For ere the light of day had shone In thy unfolding eyes, We gave thee up to God alone, A living sacrifice;

And oft repeated when a babe, To God our child was given; And Jesus heard the vow we made, And wrote it down in heaven.

So, like a little Samuel, you Must answer, "Here am I"; Give all your heart to Jesus, too, For him to live and die.

Like Samuel, serve the living God, His temple be thy home; In love obey his holy Word, Thy gentle heart his throne.

The Lord is good, my darling boy; He made thy body well, And he will bless thee evermore, If in his love you dwell.

A new edition may you be Of Father's love and zeal, But yet enlarged so wondrously That earth thy tread may feel.

The poem Throwing Ink at the Devil, refers to the printing and publishing of the Gospel Trumpet. The place "where two lightning tracks lie crossing" is Grand Junction, Mich., where the publishing office was then located.

At Wartburg Castle sat a son of thunder Dealing heaven's dynamite, When, lo! before him 'peared an apparition, Fury-threatening demon sight.

The piercing words of truth, so long besmothered Flashed the burning wrath upon The devil's patent monk and pope religion, Which confronts the dread reform.

* * * * *

Before the dauntless, lion-hearted Luther Forth the hellish monster stood, Drawn from his prison by the scattering theses 'Gainst the Romish viper brood.

He lifted up his eyebrows knit with thunder, To the hellish specter said, With stern address, "Du bist der wahre Teufel!"-- Hurls an inkstand at his head.

The doctor's splattering missile, proving potent, Drove old Satan from his door; But ink he threw on paper at the devil Battered down his kingdom more.

* * * * *

Not now, as did the sturdy Wittenberger Fling an inkstand at the foe, But by the mighty force of steam, much faster We the battle-ink can throw.

Just at a point where lightning tracks lie crossing, Northward, southward, east, and west, The Lord has planted his revolving cannon, Firing ink at Satan's crest.

* * * * *

Not only toward the main forewinds of heaven Sin-consuming ink is shot, But right and left in force, 'tis outward given, Striking sin in every spot.

When round "Mansoul" Immanuel plants his army, To retake the famous town, On "eye-gate" hill he plants this mighty engine, Till surrendered to his crown.

If chance a pilgrim's shield of faith is drooping, And his heart with fear oppressed, Then comes the ink-winged angel, trumpet sounding, And his soul anew is blessed.

TRUTH

"And what is truth?" asked Pilate, sober. Immersed in deep perplexity, And trembled while in judgment over The One his final judge must be. He asked, but waited not the answer; For in his majesty there stood The Truth himself at his tribunal-- Yea, the incarnate Truth of God.

Shine on with all thy constellation, The precious attributes of God, Love, mercy, justice, and compassion; For second in thy magnitude Thou only art in love's effulgence. "I am the truth." and "God is love"; From both in one omnific fulness Proceed the streams of truth above.

High honored and from everlasting Thou art, O Truth, a pillar strong, Upholding justice, faith, and virtue. Before the stars together sang Our ill-doomed planet's new creation, Thy hand didst hold, on heaven's throne, The balance weighing every nation, Upon the worlds that round thee shone.

Thou art the firm and deep foundation Of hope and universal good, And on thy broad eternal bosom Is based the awful throne of God. The myriad stars that gem the ocean Of boundless space, at thy command Pursue their even-tenored motion, And are supported by thy hand.

* * * * *

AUTUMN LEAVES

A mournful sermon greets my ear! The pensive season of the year Now preaches in a muffled tone, From nature's fast-decaying throne. Come to the woodland's cold retreat; The leaves that rustle at thy feet, With all that linger o'er thy head-- Commingling, yellow, green, and red-- And all that, trembling, leave their place And softly greet their mother's face, As sailing from their lofty top They in your presence mournful drop, Remind the thoughtful passer-by, Thy falling autumn, too, is nigh.

Life has its gay and happy spring, When birds of every feather sing; Its warm and verdant summer, brief, Which hastens to the yellow leaf, Soon winter's icy hand will lie Upon our cold and lifeless clay. But oh! our soul--where will it be Throughout the long eternity? How can this question pass your mind As falling leaves drift in the wind?

* * * * *

Ah! there's a sweet and sacred spell That draws me to the shady dell; Here could my soul with God remain In meditation's holy frame. Ho! all ye men that know not God, Come seek him in the shady wood; And, all ye saints of feeble love, When will ye come and wisely prove The blessedness that crowns the hour That's spent with God in leafy bower? If only heard your prayers ye say, Then unto God ye never pray; For did ye truly seek his face And pray to win his saving grace You'd pray when mortals are not near, Right in your heavenly Father's ear. In public, too; yea, everywhere, But most of all with secret prayer; Where only silent leaves applaud, There would ye bow and worship God.

* * * * *

Then in the hush of solitude Come listen to the voice of God; Come oft, and he shall teach thine ear His gentle words of love to hear.

There is no place on earth so sweet As forest shades, where streamlets meet And sing aloud their rocky ways, With birds, and universal praise. Do not the lover and his maid, Delighted, walk the balmy shade, And there unlock, with words so blest, The pent-up love within their breast? The crazy-quilt spread on the ground, Of beauty-tinted leaves around, Each bright sunbeam and fragrant flower, And nature's music in the bower-- But, most of all, the cooing dove-- Lend inspiration to their love. And does not nature's solitude Inspire a soul to worship God? Behold, he framed her majesty, Cast up her hills, and carved the way For babbling brooks that flow between And tread the winding valley's green. The many lovely trees that spread Their sheltering wings above our head, Rose up by his supreme behest, With all their nuts and fruitage blest, He taught the vine their trunks to climb, Like cords of love their boughs entwine.

* * * * *

Hear thou, O man, our autumn chant While sunbeams coldly o'er us slant, And mournfully we fall so low To don our winding sheet of snow, There doomed in silence to decay. So, too, thou, man, must pass away; Thy springs of love shall lower run Until thy life's last setting sun; Then in thy grave-suit, coldly wound, Like us return to mother ground.

But we are not without a seed, From which anew there may proceed Our kind to grow and multiply, As round and round the seasons fly. So, man, within thy mortal breast There is a soul, immortal quest, That shall reanimate thy clay, And both, immortal, live for aye. Thou shalt from winter's sleep arise, And meet thy Savior in the skies. With this blest hope so sure and bright All seasons beam with golden light, In winter's storm and summer's heat The pure in heart have joys complete; And when the close of life appears, Their pleasures ripen with his years-- Unlike the sinner, dark and cold Who graceless, godless, hopeless, old, Sits lowly down in autumn's vale, His life all fruitless to bewail. Each falling leaf his conscience stings And thoughts of future judgment brings; Yea, warns him that the time is nigh When he in black despair must die. Unlike the life in folly spent, And now with sinful years is bent Low at the grave with dismal moan; Nay, "for the righteous light is sown," Yea, light that brightens in the vale Of falling leaves, where he can hail The glories of another world; Where mortal shafts are never hurled, Nor cruel frosts can ever sting. There life begins another spring To flourish in eternal green, In heaven's high celestial scene.

BEAUTIFUL SPRING

Ah, gentle spring, thy balmy breeze, New chanting 'mid the budding trees, A glorious resurrection sings! And on thy soft, ethereal wings Sweet nectar from ten thousand flowers, That bloom in nature's happy bowers Thou dost as holy incense bring To Him who sheds the beams of spring.

Far in the South thy bloom appeared, And all our journey northward cheered; A thousand miles in sweet embrace, We northward held an even race; Or if by starts we did outrun Thy even tenor from the sun, Ere long we blessed thy coming tread And quaffed the oders thou didst spread.

O brightest, sweetest of the year! When all is vocal with thy cheer, Thy lily-cups and roses red With us some tear-drops also shed. The cherry-trees, in shrouds of white, Bring back to mind a mournful sight-- A coffined brother 'neath the bloom, Just ere they bore him to the tomb.

Ah, yes, thou sweet, beguiling spring, Of thee, my inmost heart would sing. "The time of love," all bards agree To sing in merry notes to thee. Yea, such thou art, and happy they Who walk in love's delightful day Along the path thy flakes hath strewn, And know indeed her constant boon.

But what of him who walks alone, With past love fled and turned to stone? Shall not the springtide music's roll Mock withered joys and sting the soul? Not in the heart embalmed in love Transported from the worlds above, Nor seasons, no, nor else can bring Heartaches where only God is king.

That soul an endless spring enjoys Where life the will of God employs. He 'mid the fields of bliss may tread, And feast on joys that long have fled, By sacred memories' glowing trace More than the heart untouched by grace, Can drink from full fruition's stream, Or paint in fancy's wildest dream.

O God! thou art the life of spring, The source of all the seasons bring, The soul of all the joys we know, The fountain whence our pleasures flow. While nature wakes from winter's sleep, And gentle clouds effusive weep, We join creation's grateful lays, And celebrate our Maker's praise.

The deaths of individuals furnished inspiration for many a verse from Brother Warner's pen. Celia Kilpatrick Byrum was one of the early workers in the Gospel Trumpet Office, when the paper was published at Grand Junction, Mich. Her death occurred on the 11th of December, 1888.

And is she gone--dear Celia gone? Such news would tax credulity Did not the Spirit's previous tone Toll in our bosom mournfully The thought, "She's left this mortal clime, And we shall see her face no more Until we pass the bounds of time And meet upon celestial shore."

'Twas in our heart to tune our lyre To sing thy cheerful wedding-day; But debts are made by fond desire, More than our fleeting time can pay. So now we sing our mournful lay-- Another epoch followed soon To thy poor soul, a brighter day Than that when blessed beside thy groom.

The Author of these feeling hearts Chides not affection's flowing tears; But with them soothing balm imparts, And in his arms of love he bears Poor nature's heavy burden up: So when bereavements press our mind, Grace drops such sweetness in the cup That even then we comfort find.

But is she gone whose heart e'er burned With such devoted, fervent zeal? To bless mankind her spirit yearned, Wished every heart God's love might seal. She thought no sacrifice too dear, No painful toil and care too great, That all this world the truth might hear And gain redemption's blissful state.

O sister, while thy eyes beheld Whate'er thy willing hands could do, No needed rest thy footsteps held, No moderation couldst thou know; Regarding not thy slender frame-- To pious toil so passionate-- Till thy enfeebled limbs refrained To execute thy heart's mandate.

* * * * *

When sickness had already cast Its waning paleness on thy cheek, God folded thee within the breast Of love, connubial, warm and deep. Thank heav'n for this provision kind, To bless, support, and comfort thee; On those strong arms thy life declined Till from thy suffering body free.

* * * * *

Dear Celia's gone! How sad the news, Dear saints, this mourning Trumpet brings! The hands that dropped refreshing dews Upon its flying-angel wings And toiled so hard to set the lines That burned upon your hearts with love, Inspired your souls a thousand times, Has gone to blissful toils above.

* * * * *

Ah! now invert the column rules, And dress the Trumpet sad with crape, That all who read may know it feels And weeps the loss of friend so great. Her artful fingers shall no more Set up its many vocal peers, Nor shall her anxious heart yet pour Upon its sheets her moist'ning tears.

Her gentle voice, so fine and sweet The Trumpet organ's highest key Is singing now, at Jesus' feet, With heaven's joyful minstrelsy. Oh! could we near the pearly gate And listen to her ransomed song, Our souls would more felicitate The bliss of that immortal one.

The poem The Marriage of a Mr. Hope, is a play on the word "hope" and has a slight touch of the humorous.

It appeared that Mr. Hope, Entertained the pleasing hope That some hopeless one among the fair Was seeking hope from life's despair, And was pleased with Hope to share, The cheerful name of Hope to wear. And so good Hope went smiling 'round Till the object of his hope was found; Then sitting by the fair one's side, Hope beamed with prospects of a bride. The question asked, the prompt decision Turned hopeful's hope to full fruition, And so it happened very soon, The beau of hope became a groom. Then hopeless changed to Hope by name, And two hopes but one Hope became. Their bark now launched on the stream of hope, May all the blessings hope bespoke Their voyage crown along the way Of hope's uncrowded blissful day, And may their happy little bark afford A lively crew of sunny Hopes aboard; And when to anchor in the harbor driven May all their hopes be realized in heaven.

An interesting imaginative story of some length is his poem Soul Cripple City, in which he represents sectarian religion as a city wherein the inhabitants walk on crutches. The following is the first stanza.

Not a mere imaginary Object, borne on fancy's wing, Is the city of this story, But a real historic thing. Though by troupes and proper figures We delineate her fame, Though she has some mystic features, She's an entity the same.

He takes up the different denominations as particular brands of crutches on which people hobble.

But whereunto shall we liken, Or with what similitude, Paint this foolish generation? Ah! behold the sinful brood! All within that mystic city Walk not upright on their feet, But on crutches play the cripple-- 'Tis a custom they must keep.

Not a man in all Soul Cripple, Not a woman, girl, or boy, But must go it on quadruple, Must the wooden legs employ. Not one ever tried it walking On created feet alone; Not on crutches to be stalking Were a scandal to the town.

* * * * *

Next appeared the English crutches, And the High Episcopal. Thence the mania fast increases, Every style conceivable. Wycliffe crutches, Calvin crutches, Quaker, Shaker, Mennonite, Wesley crutches, twenty branches, M. E. crutches, black and white.

* * * * *

Then there are the Baptist crutches, Hard-shelled and inflexible, Free-will Baptist, bond-will Baptist, And the creed Six Principle. There are Baptists called Ephrata, Saturnarian Baptists, too, Anabaptist, Calvinistic Baptist crutches we'll undo.

* * * * *

In this mart of vain religions You will find on Water Street, And at all her river stations, Crutches vaunted as complete. But the clubs that they are vending, Are as hollow as a horn; They that buy need no repenting, In cold water they are born.

* * * * *

All these bapto 'sociations Have a god of water made, Leaving fire and salvation And the blood without the trade, More than all the sects who clamor, Just to make the sinner wet, Who have swallowed down a Campbell, And are straining at a gnat.

He allots special "Additions" to the city for Adventism, the Salvation Army, Russellism, and Lyman Johnson of the Stumbling stone. The last of the poem is devoted to God's call to his people to come out of Babylon. We give but three stanzas.

But adieu, for we must travel With the remnant who return, Fleeing from the fall of Babel, To the new Jerusalem. Hark! a noise like many waters! 'Tis the captive's jubilee, Like the voice of mighty thunders, Halleluiah! we are free!

* * * * *

Jesus is our head and ruler, And his Word our only guide, And his gentle Spirit leader, He our peace, a constant tide Flowing in our tranquil bosom, Where is reared the mystic throne Of the King of peace eternal, Where he dwells and reigns alone.

Oh, the glorious hope of Zion! Oh, the riches of her grace! Ever happy are the people Who abide in such a place. God is over all in glory, And is through them great and small, And he's in them by his Spirit, Jesus, Jesus, all in all.

The Crusades of Hell is the title of a serial poem describing the fall of man, the plan of salvation, and the different epochs of Christian history. It shows how Satan attempted to destroy the church by martyrdom and, failing in that, next attempted counterfeiting the church by making false churches.

His poems To the Ocean and Good-By Old Rockies were written on his Pacific Coast trip in the autumn of 1892.

TO THE OCEAN

Help me, O sweet voice of inspiration, Help me sing one gentle lay To the ocean's wide and deep creation, Singing for us night and day. And thou restless sea, with all thy wonders, Touch my heart with melody; For no bard can sing thy awful numbers Uninspired indeed by thee.

'Twas a balmy evening in October, As our train sped on its time, That we came in sight of God's great ocean, To the old Pacific brine. Swiftly gliding down its ancient orbit, The great monarch of the light Dropped his golden smiles upon the water Ere he bid us all goodnight.

* * * * *

Thou a preacher art to all the ages, And thy audience all the world; Lo! we read thy sermon on the pages Of the book that God unfurled. And to all that tread thy sand evirons Thou dost thunder, yea, and show How the human heart in sin's dominion Never, never peace can know.

As thy waves in ceaseless turmoil labor, And in fury beat the shore, As they writhe and moan and dash asunder, Rise and fall for evermore, So the blasting hopes and guilty terrors Of the sinner's wretched heart, Restless, fearful, and despairing ever, From his bosom never part.

Only One has sailed upon the bosom Of the tempest-troubled sea, Who could hush the winds and calm the billows-- He who spoke to Galilee. Only he can break the storms of passion, And rebuke the fears of hell; Only he can calm the struggling spirit, Speak the word, Be still, be still.

* * * * *

Oh, I bless thy kindness, friend Pacific, For thy temporizing breath; For the climate wafted from thee truly Is an enemy to death. Sweet and soft and balmy are thy breathings, Keeping winter blasts away; And I thank thee, Providence, that brought me Here to San Diego Bay.

* * * * *

On this seacoast I would fondly linger, Where the zephyrs gently breathe O'er the vineyards vast, and lemon orchards, Where the bright pomegranates wave; And the golden orange, figs, and guavas, Apples, pears, and prunes abound; With delicious nectarines and peaches, Blessing all the season round.