Chapter 2

Reduced their strength through lack of food, And fever germs on vitals preyed; Yet they o'er trouble did not brood, By night or day of cheerful mood; This burden on them weighed-- To keep the flag afloat--in brief, Till Buller came to their relief.

Brave White, accept our meed of praise! We crown thee equal to the best Of heroes of the olden days, Whose deeds inspired the poets' lays! We need no further quest; But this with gratitude we note, Thy valour kept the flag afloat!

Valor like thine does not surprise When we review thy noble past; A hero is the one who tries, Though he may not to ideal rise-- His plan may fail at last-- Yet is too brave to lay the blame On others, but takes all the shame.

"The fault was mine," thy language then, Revealing the divinest grace Possessed by truly noble men, And, prophecy of triumph, when With foe brought face to face, The choice remains, defeat or death, The flag will float till latest breath.

MARY

She brought her alabaster flask Well-filled with precious nard; Nor did she deem the act a task, Nor look for great reward; She only thought of His great love, And felt her gift was small For Him who left His home above To suffer death for all. But her blest Lord more highly prized The loving heart that gave; For loveless gifts are e'er despised, Yet men oft seek to pave The way that leads to glory land With deeds devoid of grace; But only those who love can stand Approved before His face.

A WORLD REDEEMED

This world is but the shadow Of the world that is to be, A ripple on the surface Of a deep, unfathomed sea. God's plans are always perfect, But long ages intervene From the planning of the temple To the glow upon its sheen; But we can be co-workers In accomplishing his plan; For in God's purpose is a place For every son of man.

The germ may be developed In a more salubrious clime, All obstacles surmounted In the onward march of time, And nature's forces harnessed Will their destiny fulfil, And things now deemed supernal Respond to human will; For God has so adjusted The laws of this earthly sphere, That by man's help his plans unfold, And order doth appear.

The words of God's own prophets Concerning these latter days Of mighty transformations, To our great Redeemer's praise; When wastes shall glow in beauty, And the savage beast be kind, Though they have prior fulfilment In the realm of soul and mind; Will then be more than figure, Though that we all count sublime; The earth will wear its regal robes In every land and clime.

This life is but a sample Of the life that is to be; There we know the perfect lesson, Here we learn the a--b--c; And the life beyond is fashioned By the thoughts and deeds of this; Fitting it for realms of darkness, Or for never-ending bliss; For those alone will sorrow Who receive His grace in vain, But those who wrought with God will prove That godliness is gain.

ALASKAN BOUNDARY SETTLEMENT

My neighbor's farm and mine lie side by side, And nothing should our mutual trust divide; But they who made th' original survey Were guided by the stars, the records say, So that the line that marks out our domain Is indistinct, and puzzling doubts remain.

Our farms are large, and portions near the line With rocky soil and stunted spruce and pine, With scarce a wigwam or a ranger's hearth, We left untilled, and deemed of little worth; The petals of this desert rose unfold, When man discovers mines of yellow gold.

"Where is the boundary line?" is now the cry. Each stakes his claim and gives his reason why; One sought an exit to the main highway, The other closed the gates and gained the day In custom duties on the shining ore, And stores for man and beast that inland pour.

Each claimed his own, whatever that may be, Yet, neighbors true, we feared to disagree. We studied maps and treaties old and new, Yet each his own line-fence declared was true; Then, to avoid unseemly strife, we chose To settle our dispute as friends, not foes.

My neighbor chose three men in his employ, I three, at least, accepted them with joy; Not chosen these to arbitrate our case, But from material at command to trace, In harmony with law, the primal line For boundary fence, between his farm and mine.

I _lost my case_--all but one narrow lane! All other gates are closed, but why complain? Diminished somewhat is my large estate, But self-respect remains--nor place for hate; O'er our line-fence we grasp each other's hand, And for the right, united, ever stand.

MY PRIMROSE

My sweet primrose with thy open face, And with fringe-like leaves, without a trace Of coarseness, either in flower or stem, Among all my plants thou art the gem.

My lovely lilies soon disappear; Thy bloom is constant through all the year; In summer's heat and winter's cold, Undimmed the light of thy floral gold.

Or if thy color be pink, or blue, Or white as snow, thou art ever true; My room is bright with thy smiling eyes, And thy fragrance rare I also prize.

Thou hast done thy part, my little pet-- Let me keep thy roots forever wet, But guard with care all thy tender leaves And growing crown, which the earth-crust heaves.

Thou dost heaven-ward tend, aspiring high, To kiss the stars in the vaulted sky, And they look down from the azure blue, My sweet primrose--they are smiling, too.

NIAGARA'S RAINBOW

Upon the "table-rock" I stand, And gaze into the depths profound, In ecstacy at sights so grand, And deafened by the sound Of rushing waters, as they leap Like maddened steeds, down hillside steep.

The falling spray my head bedews, As gently as a vernal shower; Or, as the Holy Ghost imbues In consecrated hour, The soul that inly yearns for love, And seeks it from the throne above.

But I see more than chasm deep, Than falling spray and rushing tide. Sublime, indeed, the awful leap; The awe will long abide-- God's _rainbow hangs in colors bright_, A thing of beauty in my sight.

Our cousins on the other side And we too often disagree; Puffed up, I fear, at times, with pride, Each strong, and brave, and free; But we forget the stormy past, Our lands and hearts are linked at last.

The "Union-Jack" hangs o'er my head, The "Stars and Stripes" my cousin rears, But old-time grievances are dead For all the coming years; As separate flags they still may wave, But we are _one_ the world to save.

MY SISTER NELL AND I

We strolled down by the river side, My sister Nell and I, To watch the waters onward glide, And vessels passing by.

On Nature's floor of lovely green, Bedecked with flowers of gold, The purple sassafras as sheen, Which trumpet vines enfold.

We played our youthful games for hours, And told our childish tales; Adorned each brow with fragrant flowers, And slept 'neath cooling gales.

For I was then but nine years old, And she was only seven; Yet joys like ours can ne'er be told-- They savored much of heaven.

Close by the bank, in shady nooks, The waxen lilies grew; We called them fish, and with our hooks To shore full many drew.

With these I made a wreath for Nell. She was so good and pure, They seemed to suit her brow so well, Yet could not long endure

The heated brow and dewless air-- The river suits them best; But graced awhile her golden hair, As dove would silken nest.

Frail like the lilies, too, was Nell. The fever's scorching blast Swept by, and my fair flowerette fell, And to the dust was cast.

But now she blooms in glory land, Close by the tree of Life; Better to bloom at God's right hand Than in this world of strife.

I hope some day to meet her there, And as in days of yore We plucked the lilies, pure and fair, Up there we'll gather more.

GATHER THE WAYSIDE FLOWERS

'Tis well to have a goal in mind, A life-aim, high and true; Clear as the day, and well defined, And ever kept in view. But God has strewn along the way Bright flowers of every hue. Gather the brightest while you may, For they were meant for you.

Heaven's joy transcends the joys of earth, But if earth's joys be pure They must have had a heavenly birth, And bless while they endure; So pluck the flower before it fades-- Drink from the purling stream; Nor look for sorrow's darkening shades, But for the morning gleam.

Life's burdens lose full half their weight If gay our spirits be; The rest beyond we antedate, And serve, though ever free. Our lamentations all will end, Exchanged for smile and song, And men will mark our upward trend By joy-points all along.

The poet wrote, "no room for mirth;" Much less for sigh and frown. "A vale of tears" may be this earth-- 'Tis so to every clown. The desert blossoms as the rose, And joy flows everywhere; The star of hope in brightness glows, No room for dark despair.

Before we reach God's heaven above, Enjoy His heaven below; And by the ministries of love A Christlike nature show; For he who lives a selfish life Must lose the joy of this; For highest good, vain is our strife, If man share not our bliss.

HIDE THEIR SCARS!

A painter, high in worldy fame, Was sought to reproduce by art A likeness of the man whose name Sent darts of anguish through the heart Of mighty monarchs in his day; For he by arms subdued the world. Kingdoms and empires owned his sway And bowed beneath his flag unfurled.

But Alexander bore a scar, Deep marked upon his royal brow; To paint him thus would greatly mar The monarch's beauty; as a slough Would mar the beauty of a lawn, Where queenly feet are wont to tread; Or like the cloud at early dawn, Which hides some glory 'neath its spread.

To leave it out would not be true, For Alexander bore the scar; The painter this resolved to do, Which would be true, yet would not mar: To paint the monarch's head reclined, With his fore-finger on his brow; And thus much grace with art combined, Like ornament on vessel's prow.

The finger rested on the scar, As if mere chance had placed it there; And hid from sight this fruit of war, And left a likeness true and fair. So let us try, as best we can, To cover o'er each ugly scar Upon the brow of mortal man, So none may see it, near nor far.

"ASHAMED, BUT NOT AFRAID"

O God, I am ashamed to die, But not the least afraid; Tho' death's dark shadow draweth nigh, Atonement has been made

For every member of our race, And I on it rely, And hope immortal blooms thro' grace; I'm not afraid to die.

But Thou hast done great things for me, And I have nothing done. To set my sin-bound spirit free, Was sacrificed Thy Son;

And every day by Thy kind hand Rich blessings are bestowed; Oh, how can I before Thee stand, Or rest in Thine abode

With self-respect, or feel at home With no returns to show, My whole life like the worthless foam On time's incessant flow.

Oh, that in life's great harvest field, I may some reaping do; Early and late the sickle wield, And prove a reaper true.

And when the summons comes from Thee, While I on Christ rely, Thou wilt not be ashamed of me, Nor I ashamed to die.

DUNBAR

Up to Dunbar our Cromwell went, Not to invade was his intent; But they who first King Charles sold Now turn their backs on friends of old, And principles they then held dear Were sacrificed for self, I fear. Another Stuart they receive, Who knew too well how to deceive; The most perfidious of his race, Corrupt in life, and void of grace, The menial of the Papacy; And yet content by oath to free Himself from Holy See's control, And covenant to save his soul By the Scotch Presbyterian mode, As to the crown this paved the road. But Cromwell brooked not this control; He wished man free to save his soul As conscience may to him dictate, Without subservience to the State. He saw also thro' the disguise Of one well versed in fraud and lies, And saw how England's liberties Were threatened by this scheme of his. So up to Dunbar Cromwell went; To break this compact his intent, Conserve the rights of Britons true To worship God in desk and pew As conscience may to them dictate, Without control of king, or state, Or Papal "bull," or legate's rod-- Only accountable to God. On Sunday night he reached Dunbar. From darkened sky gleamed not a star; The way he travelled o'er was drear, Made doubly so by Scotchmen's fear. At his approach like sheep they fled, Made frantic by an awful dread Of red-hot irons, spear, and sword, Of breasts thrust thro', and bodies gored, Which they were told would be their lot When Cromwell came. So from each cot They bore away what pleased them best, And to the flames consigned the rest. But now Dunbar is reached; yet he Finds himself in extremity; Midst swamps and bogs unfit to tent, By Lammermoor from hillside rent, Leslie in front defiant stands A noble army he commands Of thousands two score seven, or more, Ready on Cromwell shot to pour. Behind the sea cut off retreat; With such great odds can he compete? The mountain sheep may safely tread The Lammermoor, but men may dread To cross this heath at any time; Much more now, midst the rain and slime, Will Cromwell with the smaller score Dare to cross o'er to Dunbar shore? Tho' shipped were half his guns and men The foe falls ere he turn again. With foresight keen, like one inspired, He saw the end ere Leslie fired. "THE LORD," said he, as rapt he stands, "HATH GIVEN THEM INTO OUR HANDS!" 'Tis the ninth month and second day, A wild, wet night, historians say. Quit you like men, and bravely stand; Death's wrestle now is close at hand; Heed not the hoarse sea's doleful moan, As on the cliffs its waves are thrown. Think not of life nor kindred dear-- Who goes to war should nothing fear But God, whose eye-lids never sleep-- His Israel He will safely keep. Oh, pray! but keep your powder dry-- Your part do, then on God rely. Stand to your arms the whole night thro' Or lie awake with arms in view. And you, ye Scots, your lights blow out, But stay not in your strong redoubt. 'Midst shocks of corn your shelter seek, And rest in sleep; your foe is weak, Yet ere another night comes 'round In deeper slumber shall be found Full many of your stalwart host, And stilled for aye their every boast. In Cromwell's camp all night was heard The voice of prayer in tones which stirred The tender hearts of "Ironside" men, As never can be told by pen. Ere shone the first faint streak of morn, The Scots beneath the shocks of corn, Stretched out full length in quiet sleep, Hear a loud blast, and upward leap To seize their arms and face the foe. Too late the warning! or, too slow Their movements when the trump was heard, Yet rang along the lines the word Of battle-cry by Leslie sent, "_The Covenant! The Covenant!_" While high and strong was Cromwell's boast, "_The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts!_" With master skill he struck the blow, And when shone out the crimson glow Of morning sun upon the sea, Brave Leslie's men began to flee. "_They run! Oh, I protest they run! Let God arise! Let God arise! And scattered be His enemies!_" Loud Cromwell cried. _The work was done._ Then rose from England's host a cry Which rent the very heavens on high. Now halt they on the battle field And to the Lord their homage yield-- And sing this song with hearts devout: "_O praise the Lord, ye nations all! Laud Him all peoples on this ball! His mercy toward us e'er is great; His truth and grace for sinners wait, Let all the people shout!_"

MARSTON MOOR

The armies met on Marston Moor, 'Midst lightning's flash and thunder's roar; As murky clouds sweep o'er the sky, God's cannonade with man's will vie. The Royalists in phalanx strong, By fiery Rupert led along, From Bolton's cruel massacre Towards York, in hope to keep it free From the Roundheads at any cost. "If York be lost, my crown is lost"-- Wrote Charles to this trusted chief, And he must bring it prompt relief. The foe's true strength he did not know, But dazzled much by victory's glow He hoped with ease to overthrow The untrained volunteers; Nor did he for brave Cromwell care, Tho' he had asked "is Cromwell there?" Would not his grenadiers Scatter those yeomen to their fields, To hold their ploughs instead of shields? Thus confident of great success He asked his chaplain now to bless From God's own word their going out, And seemed to hear the victor's shout, While from the ranks of Roundheads rose Triumphant hymns, ere came the blows. Now Rupert madly dashes out, "_God and the King!_" his battle shout; Charges the parliamentary ranks In centre, heedless of the flanks, Defeats Lord Fairfax and Leven, Scatters like leaves their untrained men. Remorselessly he hewed them down, And chased their leaders far from town. But Cromwell kept his men restrained Till Rupert thought the victory gained. His eye was all ablaze with fire, And burned his soul with righteous ire; Then sharp and passionate came the cry, "_Charge, in the name of the Most High!_" His features now most clearly show A strange, enthusiastic glow. With zeal he wraps himself about, And fires men's hearts with glance and shout. "For God and king," is Rupert's cry. "_For truth and peace we dare to die!_" Shouts Cromwell, all the lines along, Which holds as with a mighty thong Th' immortal hosts of Puritans, While on them fall the Royal bans. As Roundheads, Rupert them derides; Not Roundheads now, but _Ironsides_. The heavens were black, the storm still raged, As tho' with earth a war it waged, But raged a fiercer war just then, Not forces blind, but men with men; For two score thousand men were there; And booming cannon rent the air.

The Cavaliers were scattered wide, Brought to the dust their haughty pride; Across the beanfield Rupert fled, His standard gone, his garments red; His men by many hundreds turned To ask for mercy, nor were spurned; While he left all and to York sped, Heedless of stores, or Royal dead. To Cromwell's swords as stubble they, And _Truth and Peace_ had gained the day.

OIL THE CRICKET

"Mamma, what noises do I hear? They keep me wide awake." "The chirping crickets, little dear; What funny noise they make!"

"Yes, ma, but touch their tongues with oil, To take the squeak away; For soon it will their voices spoil, To squeak thus night and day."

Well done, my little girl of three; 'Twould tune our speaking gear To utter sweeter melody For your attentive ear,

If it were oiled a little, too, For harsh too oft its tones; Though formed to thrill with pleasure true, It gives forth shrieks and groans,

Which fall discordant on the ear, And budding pleasures spoil, And speaking gear, likewise I fear; So bring along the oil.

THE REAL

The leaf is faded, and decayed the flower, The birds have ceased to sing in wayside bower, The babbling brook is silenced by the cold, And hill and vale the frost and snow enfold. The life we see seems hasting to the tomb Nor sun, nor star, relieves the dismal gloom; The good man suffers with the base and vile, And honesty and truth give place to guile.

Things are not always as they seem to be; The outer surface only man may see. The summer sleeps beneath the quilt of snow, Behind the clouds is hid the solar glow, The babbling brook will burst its icy bands, And birds will sing, and trees will clap their hands. The fallen leaf has left a bud behind, And flowers will bloom of brightest hue and kind; For when we look beneath the outward crust With vision clear, and free from worldly lust, We will behold a brighter world than this, With less of curse and much of noble bliss; For God's kind hand in all our conflicts here Is clearly seen and doubts must disappear; The end He has in view is most benign; The fire will dross consume and gold refine.

VICTORY GAINED AND LIFE LOST

As fought the Paladins of old, With gleaming swords and spirit bold, To thwart the schemes of base Lothar, Give France to Karl in holy war, So would we battle for the right, Tho' we may perish in the fight.

Our trusty blade, not made of steel, While wounding deep, doth also heal; With this, and clad in Christian mail, The hosts of sin we would assail, To gain the world for Christ, tho' we Should fall while shouting victory!

THE BAPTISM OF CLOVIS

Five hundred years have nearly passed away Since that glad morn, when o'er fair Bethl'hem's plain A light resplendent as the glow of day, Shone down from heaven, and holy angels deign To sing the sweetest song e'er heard by mortal ear, Which fills sad hearts with joy and drives away their fear.

Clovis, of the brave Franks, the king, and sheen, Heard from Aurelian of a maid to wed, Matchless in feature, and of graceful mein-- "Zenobia, of the Alps," Aurelian said, "The daughter of Chilperic, the Burgundian king, Clotilda is her name; fair maids her praises sing.

"She dwells among the Alps, in forest glade, And by the shore of its most famous lake; But fairer than that land is this fair maid; And brighter than its peaks at morn's awake; A Christian girl is she, whose heart God has renewed, And her fine, comely mind with grace and truth embued."

Then Clovis, by Aurelian, sent a ring To this fair damsel, whom he hoped to wed; She took the ring; and soon fair songsters sing The marriage hymn, as he to altar led This lovely Christian maid. They plight their nuptial vows; And the old priest invoked a blessing on their brows.

Then on her head a coronet was placed, And she sat down by Clovis on his throne; And never was a throne so highly graced, Nor ever monarch felt less sad and lone; He found in her a bride, and counsellor, as well, And happy are the men who in her palace dwell.

In tones of eloquence and words of power, The wond'rous story of the cross she told; Christ's lowly birth, pure life, and of the hour When He, to bring us to the heavenly fold, Bore on the cross our sins, and opened mercy's door, Then from the dead arose to reign for evermore.

Soon on Tolbiac's bloody field the king Led on his troops against a mighty foe; A foe too strong; for soon, though no weakling, Clovis retreats--his men returned no blow; But fled as timid sheep before a beast of prey; The conquering Alemanni will surely win the day.

"O king! cry on Clotilda's Christ for aid!" Shouted Aurelian, as the monarch fled; Then, on his helmet, Clovis his hand laid, And lifting it, these words the monarch said: "My gods have failed to help: O Christ, Clotilda's God, Grant me Thy mighty aid, and I will kiss Thy rod."

On the French pennons triumph perches now; The foe is routed by Clotilda's God; And Clovis wished to have upon his brow The symbol of her faith; for 'neath the rod Of the eternal King he bows his regal will, And waits, with heart devout, Christ's purpose to fulfil.

On Rheims now dawns a cloudless Christmas morn; And flags of silk and satin grace each tower; This is the day Clotilda's Christ was born, And to His cause a great triumphal hour, For see, on carpet stretched from church to palace door, A grand procession march, of two-score priests or more!

Remigius had led the way, and then, Assisted by his priests, on monarch's brow, And on the brows of full six thousand men, As they before the holy altar bow; The water from the font he sprinkled down like rain, Thankful that his blest Lord so many hearts should gain.

THE WATER LILY

This lovely lily, so pure and white, Seems covered o'er with celestial light; As if it grew on the "Tree of Life," And not down here, in this world of strife; Too pure for earth it now seems to be; My queenly wife, it was meant for thee.

Its wax-like petals with graceful bend, Drink in the sunbeams as they descend; And lade with fragrance the heated air As it floats around us everywhere; And the world grows better by its advent, This lovely lily, so kindly sent.