Chapter 3

It rested once on its crystal bed; Neither wind, nor wave, occasioned dread; Admired by all as they passed it by, Though the contrast oft produced a sigh; In purer soil than affords this earth This lovely lily must have had its birth.

Dive down in search, where the root is found; In vain you look for the purer ground; The root is fixed in the foulest mud; And from it grows this pure lily bud; While speckled frogs, and the slimy eels, Around its roots find their daily meals.

As lilies fair from the foul mud grow, So oft it is with good men below; In daily life they absorb the pure, And the adverse elements endure; And rise, through grace, to a higher sphere, Their hearts in heaven, and their root down here.

Though foul the world where they have their growth, Unfit the soil, and the climate both, The blood of Christ does their stains remove; His power to keep they all daily prove; As lilies pure are these plants of grace, Though growing now in so foul a place.

"HE SHALL WIPE AWAY EVERY TEAR"

Every tear that dims the eye, Or bedews the careworn cheek, Will our God, who reigns on high, With a hand so kind and meek, Wipe away, nor leave a trace Of its stain on eye or face.

He alone life's ills can right. Each His tender pity needs; None are hidden from His sight; "_Every tear_," the promise reads-- Every tear shall cease to flow, Cease, likewise, the cause of woe.

O may I in Him confide While I tread this vale of tears! Walking closely by His side He will dissipate my fears, And when ends the weary strife, May I share the tearless life!

THE TAJ OF AGRA

The Shah Jehan sat with his much-loved wife, The Empress Mahal, one hot summer day, In a cool arbor far from courtly strife, Close by the Jumna, winding on its way.

In silence played they long their game of chess, But Jehan's eyes rose oft to Mahal's brow, His ardent love he could not well repress, Nor tried--she was his own rich jewel now.

He stayed the game to breathe some words of love And press her lips with lips that knew no guile, And felt the thrill, and peace like white-winged dove Flew down, and she repaid with loving smile.

Then said, "What would you do if I should die?" He paused a moment, some bright thought to woo, And then, in solemn tone, made this reply: "This thing, by Allah's help, I'll surely do:

"I'll build upon the spot where we now sit The grandest tomb a woman ever had; All sombre tints I deem would be unfit; For never have such tints thy bosom clad.

"Of pure white marble shall its walls be built, Adorned with gold, and earth's most costly gems; Each minaret shall glow like jewelled hilt, Sarcophagus surpass kings' diadems.

"Then to the world it shall the truth proclaim That Moomtaza surpassed all woman kind, And I esteemed her more than gold or fame: Thus cycles vast will find our names combined."

The summer breeze now sighed among the flowers As they play on with solemn thoughts; and sweet As running brook passed by the pleasant hours, And likewise passed the burning summer heat.

And like the fading day, the Empress, too, For scarce a year had passed ere set her sun, But Shah Jehan, to promise ever true, Thought of the tomb his loving wife had won.

No common architect would he engage; From far and near he sought with eager heart. At last there came one Issa, gifted sage, Whose plan pleased the great shah in whole and part.

On the same spot where they that day had played The game of chess, and he the promise gave, The massive stone foundation strong was laid, On which would rest a palace o'er her grave.

Then Issa disappeared, but where, none knew; Cast in the Jumna stream, by foes, some thought. They dragged the stream, nor came the slightest clue, And on his fate the oracles were dumb.

The years rolled by, yet Jehan rested not, Tho' hope, so long delayed, engendered gloom, Content to live himself in any cot; But no inferior hand must touch her tomb.

Seven years had gone, when Issa came again, And offered this excuse for his delay, "The soil is spongy all along this glen-- To have it settle I have stayed away.

"I now can build on base that will not sink, Though pierced the clouds which bend so kindly down, 'Twere fit this long delay, dost thou not think? So chide me not nor on thy servant frown."

Then on this base as firm as granite rock, He built its walls as fair as falling snow, And built them well, nor storm, nor earthquake shock Has moved, tho' built two hundred years ago.

For ten long years wrought twenty thousand men, While many thousand carts the marble drew; And proud Jehan told o'er his love again; To love so Jacob-like the years seemed few.

From every part of his domain they brought Rare gems and precious stones of every hue; Skilled hands, in form of birds and flowers inwrought In snow-white walls, these gems the building through,

The name of God, one hundred times save one, On the sarcophagus, by cunning hand, Then lined with gold ere they pronounced it done; But then the grandest tomb in any land.

By Titans built, it seems, as mountain high Of pure white marble, based on pink sandstone; In length it is a thousand feet well nigh, Its width three hundred feet by measure shown.

It seems a temple of the living _One_, Though tomb to hide the dust of Jehan's queen. It serves each purpose well--her course was run, Returned to God, love must the dust ensheen.

To many hearts it speaks of God and rest, And lifts our thoughts above the things of earth; It teaches us that love will give its best, And then regard its gifts of little worth.

ENGLAND'S BRAVE SONS

The yeoman lays aside his soil-stained smock, And from his herd selects a trusty steed, And sallies forth to help in hour of need; Nor dreads the battle's shock.

The artisan from mine, or shop, or store, Responds at duty's call without delay, Nor stops to ask, "What will my nation pay?" It calls--what needs he more?

The man of law--the herald of the cross-- The painter, skilled--he of the healing art-- The man of trade--come each with loyal heart, Nor calculates his loss.

But brave as these are those of noble birth; Genteel in manner, but with athlete frames, They do full honor to their ancient names, And prove by deeds their worth.

Palatial homes have they and wealth untold; Nor need to labor, and no cause for fret, But deeds of noble sires they ne'er forget; Deem honor more than gold.

Brave lads are these on whom we may rely. They go uncalled, content the gaps to fill, And in their places fall, if God so will, For they fear not to die.

The whole Empire is loyal to the core. From far-off East, brave Indians seek the fray, And on French soil have clearly shown that they Were true to flag they bore.

Their old-time leader greets his men once more, Bestows his parting blessing ere his death, And praised their valor with his final breath, Then crossed to _other_ shore.

Our own brave youth by thousands answer call, And in our common cause enroll their names; With cultured minds and well-developed frames They stand like granite wall.

For _truth_ and _brotherhood_ all face the foe; Themselves they cannot save, but others may. But, live or die, they hope to win the day. To sacrifice they go!

QUEEN VICTORIA

A Prize Birthday Poem, 1885.

We do not sing of vast domain-- Empires as vast as ours are seen, And o'er their millions despots reign; We sing the virtues of our Queen.

We think of her when but a maid The message came, "_the King is dead!_" And at her feet a crown was laid; In deep distress of mind, she said:

"_In my behalf I ask your prayers._" Then falling on her knees to pray, She told the Lord her fears and cares, And sought from Him strength for her day.

He seemed to say, "_Child, do not fear; I will uphold thee with my hand, And I will make thy pathway clear, Thy throne establish in the land._"

'Twas thus began Victoria's reign, And God has made her throne secure; Her enemies will plot in vain, For it is destined to endure.

But while she sits on regal throne, And acts full well a regal part, She reigns not on the throne alone, She reigns to-day in England's heart.

Her queenly heart with pity throbs For every suffering subject's woes; In lowly cot, 'midst groans and sobs, She like a ray of sunshine goes.

As sweet perfume by outward gale Is carried far o'er sea and land, So queenly virtues never fail To touch true hearts on every strand.

In every land, her name is blest; She is beloved by old and young; From pole to pole, from east to west, The song, "God save the Queen," is sung.

Through sorrows deep her path has led, And tender ties have sundered been; Bright hopes were buried with her dead, And love has kept their memory green.

By grief secluded from the world, Her path through lonely years she trod, And oft her life has been imperilled; But she has leaned upon her God.

And as she wept a nation's tears In heartfelt sympathy were shed; Forgetting their own griefs and biers, They wept beside the royal dead.

With grateful hearts her natal day We loyal Britons hail again, And join with millions as they pray "_God bless our Queen! Long may she reign!_"

And when at last life's glories fade, And robes of state are laid aside, When nature's debt to dust is paid And charms no more earth's pomp and pride,

May angel bands her spirit bear Up to the palace of her King, Where she a fadeless crown shall wear, And the new song with rapture sing.

SILVER TONES

A stately church by pious hands erected long ago, Was found to lack a vesper bell, by which the poor might know The hour of prayer, the hour of mass, and who had lately died, The hour when gent and bonny lass, so timid at his side, Would stand before the surpliced priest, and twain would pledge their troth, The hour in which the priest would vent on heretic his wrath. The faithful then were called upon to bring from home and mine The metal for the holy bell, which must be strong and fine. In smelting pot of massive size they placed the needed ore; A molten mass it soon became, but ere in mould they pour, And thus provide a bell for God to grace His temple fair, In crowds the people came, to see the metal glowing there. Then as they passed, with hearts devout, each took a silver coin And dropped it in the glowing mass--no priest did this enjoin. They wished to show their grateful love to Him who bore their sin; A simple form which love took on, not done God's grace to win. Nor did they hope to win applause from priest and saintly friar; If God were pleased they asked no more, nor more did they desire; Nor did they deem their silver lost, though little dreamed they then The grand result of their small gifts, which now is known to men. Their coins were for a moment seen, like flakes of snow on sward, And then they melted out of sight, yet, seen by their blest Lord, They mingled with the glowing mass, and when in high church tower The bell was hung and daily rung, all people felt its power. Its booming tones were soft and sweet, and echoed o'er their hills In a grand symphony of praise, subduing all their wills, And calling forth from old and young a burst of rapturous praise. Their gifts, though small, were not despised; God turned them into lays. This world is one great smelting pot in which life's ore is cast, And from it God will some day bring a bell, destined to last And ring aloud in thunder tones wherever man is found. Oh, may we, by kind words and deeds, give it a silver sound! Each word though short, each deed though small, if for the Master's sake Are said and done, like silver coin, our blessed Lord will take, And skillfully will blend them with the coarser ore of earth, And grander music none have heard e'er since time had its birth. Then from this bell of silver tone will sound o'er hill and vale: "The work men do in Jesus' name is never known to fail."

GOD'S ORDER

Every flower that decks the way, Whether it be dun or gay, Fills a place in God's great plan, Serving Him, while pleasing man. Every star that gilds the night With its beams of silver light Has its mission to fulfil, As assigned it by God's will.

Feathered songsters all declare As they cleave the ambient air, "He who made us made our lays, Giving each a note of praise; Each one's note, unique and sweet, Helps to make the song complete; Various tones, yet all agree, Forming one grand symphony."

So, also, does God's own hand Fix in place each grain of sand, Tiny though that grain may be Hangs on it the destiny Of a world, yea, systems whole, As they in their orbits roll; Should it from its globe remove, Worlds would clash and chaos prove.

When we reach the world of mind Law and order still we find; In God's purpose is a plan For the life of every man. Free, he may his own course choose, Help divine through pride refuse, But disorder will ensue-- Life a wreck! Yet God is true.

INFLUENCE

In gentle showers the rain descends, And softly falls the dew. The dewdrop with the raindrop blends; The tiny stream they form then wends Its way the grasses through.

And kindred streams with it combine And form a rivulet; Then on it runs like trailing vine, Lays bare the roots of oak and pine, And other brooks are met.

The swelling stream meanders on, Gives power to busy mills, And bears huge ships its breast upon, Gives drink to kine and lovely fawn, And drinks up other rills.

A lady's foot had changed its course, And drank it dry a lamb, Had they but sought it at its source; But now it rushes on with force And leaps the mighty dam.

Thus is it with our influence here; Each look, each word, each deed, Is like the rain, or dewdrop clear-- Though tiny things they now appear, They to the ocean lead.

As grains of sand make up the hill Which towers above the plain, And drops combine to swell the rill Which helps the mighty sea to fill, So does our influence gain.

UNDECAYING FRUIT

Doomed to decay are all things here; Whate'er their form or worth, Color and beauty disappear, Or turn to mother earth.

The luscious fruits which please the taste And please the eye as well, Sometimes reduced to rot and waste, Ere from the tree they fell--

Some gathered with a gentle hand, And stored away with care, To serve a place in banquet grand, Some favorite peach or pear,

Is found diseased in skin and core, And loathsome to the sight, When 'tis too late to gather more, And comes the festal night.

So is it with all earthly joy-- It pleases for a time, As toy may please a growing boy, Though costing but a dime;

But soon he tires and asks for more, Appropriate to his age; So, though a man may higher soar And greater aims engage

His active mind, he, like the child, Soon looks for something new. Too oft are men by this beguiled And fail to find the true.

But he who goes to Christ for rest, Finds fruit that ne'er decays. He sups with Christ as welcome guest, And glory crowns his days.

THE HEROES OF OUR DAY

Heroic deeds in every age Command the world's esteem; Each finds a place in history's page, 'Midst gloom a glory beam.

And we full oft revert to this, To show man's true descent From Him who is the source of bliss, Tho' now by passions rent.

But we need not consult the past; The present bears this fruit: The hero race will ever last; The tree is sound at root.

And never has the world excelled The present in this line; Our loving Lord has not withheld From us this trait divine.

And we should not from them withhold The praise we feel is due For deeds of love, and actions bold, For spirit kind and true.

Their worth we now should recognize, Not chant it o'er their graves; The hero of the past we prize, No less the man who braves

The dangers of the present hour, The sneers which now are rife, Not for the sake of earthly power, Nor yet to save his life.

But for the good of fellow man, And for his Master's sake, He shuns no cross, and fears no ban; 'Tis these a hero make.

THE BIG BEAR CREEK

The waters of the Big Bear creek Glide slowly on their way; The western lakes they surely seek, Which they will reach some day;

But sluggishly they seek their end-- They scarcely seem to move; Yet through the fields and round each bend Their progress daily prove.

By debris borne upon their breast, And strewn along each shore, They slowly move, but never rest, Yet turbid evermore.

But when they reach the Johnson bend And the Sni Chartna meet, The turbid and the sky-blue blend-- The union is complete.

And soon is lost all trace of mud; Of azure tint the whole; With heaven's own hue the rolling flood Has gained the long-sought goal.

So is it with the soul renewed While on its heaven-bound way, With grace divine it is embued, Yet shows the trace of clay.

And though to rest it never halts, Its progress is so slow; Alas, it has too many faults, Nor much of heavenly glow.

But when God's sanctifying grace Shall meet it from above, You seek in vain for sinful trace-- It now is full of love.

A new impulse it then receives Which speeds it on its way; To it no stain of sin now cleaves-- It seeks its perfect day.

And as the azure stream has found Its home in brimming lake, So shall the soul thus heavenward bound Of God's own joy partake.

THE FROST ON THE WINDOW

Feathery frost on the window-pane, Who placed you there? "I cannot explain," Each little feather at once replied; "But this I know, I'm the children's pride, As they think I fell from an angel's wing, And coming to earth must rich blessings bring.

"I once formed part of a lovely bay; The sun shone out, and I turned to spray, And rose aloft on the ambient air, To the regions high where all is rare; Then I mingled with my old friends again, Who were my neighbors in the haunts of men.

"On the blustering wind, I rode along, Sometimes hard tossed by the tempest strong, And then at rest, as when in the bay, Though much enlarged, the wise savants say; Though I cannot tell you how long my sleep, With a chill I woke and began to weep.

"And my ample form much smaller grew, By the cold compressed to a drop of dew; Then down I fell, swift as bounding deer, And knew no more till I fell right here; But how I became so like a feather Is problem I can unravel never.

"But, oh, how the sun begins to burn! I think I must to the clouds return. Farewell, my boy! but you must not fret; We meet again, as we now have met, If not as a feather, perhaps a tree, Or whatever the Wise One may make of me."

"WILT THOU HARASS A DRIVEN LEAF?"

O harass not a driven leaf, Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue; A life so brief load not with grief, Nor with thine arrow pierce me through.

The fragile leaf, by tempest tost, Is scarcely worth a passing thought; The brook is crossed, and then is lost; There let it lie, a thing of naught.

The stubble dry ne'er grows again; To golden grain it gave its sap. It died, and then 'twas left by men To rot betimes, or some mishap.

Am I not like the stubble dry And fragile leaf by tempest strewed? Must I not die, then tell me why A thing so frail is thus pursued?

A voice replies: "Thy life is frail, Much like the leaf and stubble dry; Thy strength must fail, and as the gale Bears them away, so must thou die;

"But live again, in bliss, or pain; For death to man does not end all; Life is not vain, if thou but gain A _home in heaven_, when I shall call!

"To fit thy soul for endless rest, I harass now the driven leaf, But though sore pressed and grief distressed, The life of sorrow will be brief.

"And when released from suffering clay, Thy blood-bought spirit shall arise To endless day. Then thou shalt say, _The ways of God are good and wise._"

A GEM

The gem is not this ode itself; Hardly can it aspire so high. Earth has its gems; but all its wealth,

Increased by thousands, cannot buy Man's _soul_, the gem of priceless worth, Made in God's image at its birth; Ordained to live for evermore; Redeemed by blood from sin and hell; Transformed by grace, God's love to tell; And at His feet its homage pour. Lordly are its endowments, too;

Superb its destiny, if true; Only below, said one who knew, Unfallen angels round God's throne. Lord, may this gem be Thine alone.

THE CLOUDS

A grand stairway do these clouds appear As they heavenward rise, tier upon tier, With clearly-marked space of blue between, Compared with which human art looks mean.

Do the angels tread this grand staircase, When they come to earth to bless our race, And lend their aid to each struggling soul As he ascends toward the heavenly goal?

Was this the ladder by Jacob seen, That reached from heaven to the mattress green On which he lay all the lonely night Till God afforded the blessed sight,

And made him feel, tho' an exile here, His father's God would be ever near-- The servant's cry would to heaven arise, And blessings fall from the bending skies?

But no staircase do the angels need; They come to earth at a greater speed, Not step by step, nor on eagle's wing, Nor beams of light do their message bring.

Though heaven be far beyond mortal ken, Assisted by all the arts of men, A moment's time and the space is passed, And heaven's best gifts at our feet are cast.

Not a cloud stairway, nor ladder long, Connects this earth with the land of song; The Saviour bends from the opening skies-- He smiles in love, and our souls arise.

As flakes of steel to the magnet fly, And mists ascend to the sun on high, So we are drawn by the cords of love From the earth below to thrones above.

O lift me up from my bed of clay, To dwell with Thee in the realms of day. If 'tis Thy will I should tarry still, Prepare me, Lord, for Thy Holy Hill.

THE MOSSES

Exquisite mosses, so lovely and green, Covering the rocks with emerald sheen; Hiding the scars which convulsions have made; Blessing the mound where our angel was laid; Forming a carpet on which we may tread; Clothing with beauty the rotten and dead; Sheathing from storm-blasts the young forest tree-- Beautiful mosses, examples for me.

Trod under foot by all kinds of men; Gracing the mountain or hid in the fen; Never adorning the brow of the fair; Seldom deemed worthy some corner to share In the bouquets that are cast in the way Princely feet tread on reception's proud day; The glory of roses do not attain; Beautiful mosses, ye grow not in vain.

Answer the end by your Maker designed. Humble your bloom, but your mission is kind. Those will most prize you who knew you the best. Cover me o'er when I lie down to rest; Cover, likewise, in the marble my name, Hiding forever that index of shame; But tell to the world, "as life he passed through, He covered some scars and aimed to be true."

THE GRANDEST THEME

The grandest theme for tongue, or pen, Is not the heavens supernal; Nor mighty deeds of God-like men, Though they may be eternal;

Nor Alpine heights, nor lovely vale, With brooks and grazing cattle; Nor awful roar of rushing gale, Beyond the noise of battle;

Nor clashing arms, nor trembling earth; Nor heaving waves of ocean; Nor record of a nation's birth; Nor heaven's cloud-cars in motion.

The grandest theme, for tongue, or pen, Above all else in glory; Which suits alike, all sinful men, Is the sweet Gospel story,

Which tells me of my Saviour's love And infinite compassion, Which brought Him from His throne above To Calvary's cross and passion.

And now the holy angels sing, With blood-washed souls in glory, A song which makes heaven's arches ring About this Gospel story.

SEPTEMBER