Chapter 4

The hills are clad in purple and in gold, The ripened maize is gathered in the shock, The frost has kissed the nuts, their shells unfold, And fallen leaves are floating on the lock.

The flowers their many-colored petals drop; But seed-pods full and ripe they leave behind, A prophecy of more abundant crop, And proof that nature in decay is kind.

But still the dahlia blooms, and pansies, too; The golden-rod still rears its yellow crest. The sumach bobs are now of crimson hue, The luscious grape has donned its purple vest.

The forest trees, so long arrayed in green, Wear now a robe like Joseph's coat of old, Brighter than that on eastern satrap seen, Tho' clad was he in purple and fine gold.

The woodbine twined about the giant oak Blends with its purple-red a brighter shade. Co-mingled thus our praises they evoke, Tho' we know well this glory soon must fade.

The fields are green with grass and new-sown wheat, Tho' here and there a brown stalk may appear, A dying rag-weed, ripened by the heat, To reproduce an hundred-fold next year.

The melon yellows in the kindly sun, The peach puts on its blush like virtuous maid, The gourd its snow-white band like brow of nun, While flower and gum the air with fragrance lade.

The swallows gather on the fence and wire, Chatter a loud farewell to barn and nest, And then on wings which never seem to tire They fly away in southern bowers to rest.

The thrush no longer sings its tender song In osage thicket, or in locust hedge, But pipes its notes the negro boys among, On cotton plant, or Alabama sedge.

The blackbird lingers by the flowing brook, Or perches proudly on the shock of corn; The lark still hovers round its meadow nook, And soars and sings as on a vernal morn.

The robin, too, is loth to quit the lawn And visits yet his nest beneath the eaves; I hear his cheering notes at early dawn-- To part with these old friends my spirit grieves.

But soon these feathered songsters must away, Ere winter's frosts shall chill them thro' and thro'; In other lands they find the summer day, The opening flower, and the refreshing dew.

The air, tho' chill, is not surcharged with death, But health-inspiring germs it bears along. We drink in vigor with our every breath, And life appears like spring, each day a song.

God spreads a carpet for our weary feet, Richer than those which grace the palace floor; The rainbow hues are in it all complete, And tints, I think, of full a thousand more.

God with His hands of wind for woof collects The forest leaves, and weaves them with the grass, With nap of richest hues the fabric decks, And spreads it out for feet of every class.

A haze at times may veil the smiling sky, The sun his golden locks exchange for gray; But soon a western blast comes sweeping by-- The mists depart, and glory crowns the day.

The lowing cattle roam from field to field; No more content in narrow bounds to stay; The ozone in the autumn air has healed Their every ill, and lo, the dull beasts play.

This season has its lesson each should learn-- The fading leaf reminds us of our doom; But whether like the stately tree, or fern, In hope we travel onward to the tomb.

We look not for the Winter, but the Spring, When we shall glow in beauty from the skies; Each now his tribute sheaf of praise should bring, Then hear his Lord's "Well done!" O glorious prize.

THE FLOWERS

Some flowers are brighter far in hue Than others by their side, But God baptizes all with dew, And spreads His mantle wide To cover all for half the day, From rays of scorching sun, Though some may shine in colors gay, And some in sober dun.

And I account each one my friend, The stately and the plain. Diverse their hue, but not their end; For me none bloom in vain; For all proclaim their Maker's skill, And point to bloom above; In God's great plan their part fulfil, And whisper "God is _love_."

The fragrance lades the summer air With health-inspiring germs, Ascend on high as nature's prayer, Suggesting well the terms Of God-accepted prayer from man, Odors of grateful praise; For though in penitence began, It ends in joyful lays.

THE BUD

The winter through I lay asleep, Unconscious and unseen; The howling winds disturbed me not, Nor felt the frost tho' keen. Thick blankets covered me about, And kept me dry and warm, And weeks and months passed quickly by And I received no harm. At last I felt uneasy in My cosy little cot, Tho' it was lined with softest down. The cause I knew not what. I struggled hard to free myself, But struggled all in vain; My blankets felt the strain, 'tis true, And opened to the rain, But just enough for me to see The frowning sky o'erhead; I closed my eyes, in sad affright, And wished that I was dead.

But soon a change came o'er my frame, Much like electric shock; Oh, how I longed for some rare key With which I might unlock My prison door, for I now felt The breath of coming Spring, And heard, likewise, her merry laugh, Like silver bells its ring. My lips were close to blanket rent, I ceased my useless strife, And she bent over me in love, And kissed me into life.

BEAUTIFUL SKY

O beautiful sky of every hue; Golden and purple, crimson and blue, With some sombre lines thrown in between, And some bright spots of emerald green. The earth is wed to the sun it seems, And to grace the robe of his royal bride No pains are spared, nor a tint untried, And thus complete it with glory gleams.

He wields his brush as an artist now; Lo beauty glows on the earth's fair brow! And the lovely flowers at once arise To match the glow of the radiant skies, The sparkling dewdrops at morn are seen, Close nestling among the petals rare, Like crystal studs in a maiden's hair, Brighter then gems which adorn a queen.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES

Buttercups and daisies growing everywhere, In the field of clover, on the hillside fair, And in lovely valley, tilled with greatest care.

Naught but weeds and rubbish, in the farmer's eyes, Drawing off the nurture from the grain they prize, And their great luxuriance sore their patience tries.

But the dews of heaven give them richest bloom, And their smiling beauty drives away our gloom; For such little beauties surely there is room.

In this world of sorrow flowers ne'er bloom in vain, Though they in their blooming sap the golden grain, And drink in the moisture of the latter rain;

For our Heavenly Father deemed it wise and good To diffuse this beauty with the grain for food. And this wise arrangement He has never rued.

Teaching us this lesson we are slow to learn; Man lives not for eating, nor for duties stern, But to serve God's pleasure, then to Him return.

Room for joy is given and for purest bliss, And we may all find them in a world like this, If our aims are sordid all this gold we miss;

But if we are faithful and to God inclined, Seeing Him in nature, and of heavenly mind, Aiming to be like Him, and by grace refined,

We shall live forever where there is no gloom; Though the path to glory leadeth through the tomb; But a moment's darkness--flowers that ever bloom.

THE MOSS ROSE

'Tis said, long since an angel came to earth, Sent by his Lord, to help with loving hand A suffering one, afflicted from his birth. The limb was healed as by divine command, But He felt weak, for strength from Him had gone, A sacrifice which love could not withhold; So he sought shelter till the morning dawn, But none received--they prized not love, but gold.

Then 'neath a rose bush did the angel lie, And rested well until the break of day, When much refreshed he sought his home on high, But ere he started on his upward way, He said to sheltering rose, in loving voice, "What man refused thou hast afforded me. What is thy wish? Make known to me thy choice; The God of love and power will grant it thee!"

"I ask no brighter hue," the rose replied, "Both old and young smile on me as they pass, My buds adorn the bosom of the bride, And hide among the locks of lovely lass; With fragrance, too, I own myself content, For naught on earth surpasses me in this; But if, indeed, my Maker thee has sent I ask but this, to consummate my bliss:

"I feel the cold, both in my bark and bud, When Autumn winds sweep o'er the western hill, And frozen dewdrops oft my branches stud, Which mar my beauty and my juices chill. Give me an extra garb, 'tis all I lack." "Thou hast thy wish, I shelter found in thee, I take delight in kind to pay thee back. Let softest moss thy extra garment be."

Then touched the angel bark, and bud, and leaf, And soft green moss suffused it o'er and o'er. He lingered near it for a moment brief, Plucked off a bud, which he to heaven bore; And now the rose smiles at the raging storm, Defies the wind and nipping frost as well; Its fragrance still retains, and lovely form, While nestling budlets this old story tell.

GOD'S CARE

I fear not, my Father, the tempest's loud roar, Nor dread the huge breakers on the rock-girded shore; Thy presence is with me, my refuge is near, With help all-sufficient; oh, why should I fear? Tho' billows of sorrow should roll o'er my head, My sun sink in darkness, and joys be all dead, Thy presence will cheer me, and spectres will flee, For who can molest me while trusting in thee?

MY LOT

My lot on earth is not all mirth, Nor is it constant gloom; Some joys decay and fall away, But leave much lasting bloom. My wishes are not always met, And cares press hard at times; Yet joyous strains ne'er sink to fret, Tho' dollars shrink to dimes.

My earthly lot boasts not a cot, No foot of land I own, No bank account nor phosphate mount, Nor credit for a loan; But I can read my title clear To mansion, robe, and crown; I couple these with lot down here, And sing, tho' foes may frown.

GOD'S FOOT ON THE CRADLE

The air is chill with the frost of doubt, And men's hearts are sadly failing; They do not hear the great Victor's shout; But indulge in bitter wailing. "The old gives place to the new," they say, "And fond hopes are daily buried; Our cherished views are oft borne away, As if by the tempest hurried.

"The world is stirred to its very heart, And the Church shares the commotion; With systems old, we are loathe to part, To sail on an unknown ocean. The world now heaves like the great sea's breast, And rocks like an infant's cradle; And looking up, by sore grief oppressed, We find the sky draped in sable."

I will not fear, though the earth should rock, If God's foot be on the cradle; But rest in peace midst the tempest's shock, Rejoicing that God is able To still the world with His mighty hand, If His timid child should waken; Or, if it rock, He will by me stand; And my heart shall not be shaken.

GOD'S GIFTS TO BE ENJOYED

From God's all bounteous hand descend Rare gifts in rich effusion, And with those gifts no poisons blend, Nor is their end delusion; So do not spurn if He bestow Those forms arrayed in beauty; If thus His gifts with radiance glow, Enjoyment is a duty.

Come, deck your brows with leaves and flowers, Ye fair ones, nothing fearing; Adorn your homes and train your bowers Nor deem this sin's appearing; We do not fit ourselves for bliss By scorning all adorning; We may enjoy the good of this And share heaven's brighter morning.

A garment plain may have its stain, And saintly brows lack sweetness; But he who would heaven's glory gain Must here acquire a meetness; So eat and drink, rejoice and sing, But don't forget the ending; The bells of earth more sweetly ring If we are heavenward tending.

The world we use, but not abuse, If we enjoy its beauty; And they who all its joys refuse Miss privilege and duty. Then prize earth's joys, but prize much more The bloom beyond the river; God's gifts enjoy, but e'er adore The ever blessed Giver.

THE HIGHEST GOAL

The highest goal is not success, If that be made the aim; But faithfulness, tho' counted less, Is what God promises to bless: These goals are not the same.

And if I am to do my best In every line of life, My effort will be surely blest, And I will find in toil sweet rest, Tho' in a world of strife.

And when before the throne I stand To answer for the use Of gifts received from God's own hand, He will not then, in wrath, demand From me some strong excuse,

To show why I had not attained The goal of grand success, Such as some noted men have gained, For if my work is not sin-stained God will my failures bless.

And I will hear Him say, "My son, A throne thou hast attained; Without applause thy race was run, 'Midst failures oft thy work was done, _Life's highest goal is gained_."

JOY IN THE MORNING

The night of affliction, with its long hours of sadness, Will soon pass away to be remembered no more; And the weeping will end in a morning of gladness; For no sorrow is known on the evergreen shore.

In this world we shall have tribulation and sorrow; 'Tis enough for the subject to be as his king; But if we are faithful, joy will come with the morrow, And with the blood-washed a new song shall we sing.

"HE SHALL DWELL ON HIGH"

(Isaiah 33:16)

Tossed about in strange commotion Like the surface of the ocean When the wind, its waters lashing, Sends great billows, roaring, dashing O'er the breakers, which for ages Have withstood the storms it wages, See those clouds, so like this ocean, How they whirl in strange commotion.

Dust and vapor now are meeting, Each the other wildly greeting; As one hand another grasping, So are these each other clasping; Now they whirl in form fantastic And great trees with boughs elastic With loud moans are lowly bending, Leaves and fruit to earth descending.

Eyes 'most blinded, nerves all shaken, By this fearful storm o'ertaken, As it swept on toward the sunrise; Yet, I chanced to lift my dim eyes Upward, when, O sight entrancing, I beheld, to west advancing, Other clouds, in higher current, Unlike earth's, so wild and errant.

Far above the wild commotion, Like great ships on peaceful ocean, Floating westward, grand and steady, Were those clouds, as if made ready, As great cars, with grand pavilions, To convey the ransomed millions From this earth where storms are raging To that land of charms engaging.

Life on earth is a probation; Storms fit well in this relation; Yet, above, are peaceful regions, Where ne'er come hell's dreaded legions. Looking toward the things eternal, We may rise to realms supernal, Where earth's dust will not defile us Nor the cunning foe beguile us.

To this higher plain, O lift me, Gracious Lord! ere Satan sift me, Far above this noisy Babel; Far above earth's clouds, all sable; Up so far no darts can reach me, Where the Holy Ghost will teach me; And, in perfect peace abiding, I will sing while heavenward riding!

BAG YOUR GAME

Two men, well versed in use of arms, Set out, 'tis said, in search of game. Each felt that hunting had its charms, Yet widely differed they in aim. Both felt their need of wholesome food For present use and winter's store; But one was of a careless mood-- Than the day's sport he asked no more.

No game he bagged from morn till night, Content to show his master skill In hitting every bird at sight, And shooting down the deer at will. Grand sport he deemed it, day by day, As in the tangled forest brake He brought the bounding stag to bay, Or shot the wood-duck in the lake.

As he each night to home returned He sang the pleasure of the chase; But had not yet the lesson learned That he was loser in the race. Yet, when sat in the winter's cold And game had fled to warmer clime, He had no stock to sell for gold, Nor food: and past his harvest time.

The chase the other prized as well; But bagged his game as best he could, And thus had lots of pelts to sell-- For self and wife the choicest food. In the pursuit of game a thrill Of keenest joy shot through his heart; But joy complete he knew not till He went his way joy to impart.

While he with wife and children shared The roasted duck and venison, He felt he as a king had fared; And though of earth a denizen, Such food would give both strength and cheer To meet lifes daily toil aright, And winter months he did not fear, His larder filled, and prospect bright.

The search for Truth with pleasure thrills; To find it, we our end attain-- Possessed, new joy the spirit fills, And to retain is highest gain. The pleasure of pursuit is lost If truth itself is not secured. O buy the truth at any cost, And from your aim be not allured!

OTHERS' BURDENS

My greatest grief is not my own; That often proves a blessing, For in my grief God's care is shown, And as I am not left alone, It never proves distressing;

But when my brother's grief I bear The weight then seems excessive; His heavy load I inly share, And loaded down by double care, My burden feels oppressive.

Yet I remember Him who bore The world's great load of sorrow, And know that He on me will pour The needed grace to bear the more, To-day and on the morrow.

MEMORY

Remembrance of the past will joy impart If in that past the conscience was supreme; But if the soul be made an auction mart, And thoughts and deeds be sold for what you deem The price of virtue, then the called-up past Will be like hooks of steel to hold thee fast.

Or like the stings those nettles left behind Which I so fondly handled in my play; I deemed the friend who warned me true and kind, And in great haste I threw the weeds away, But soon the burning flesh reminded me 'Twere safer far from all such weeds to flee.

The cloud that flitted o'er the saintly brow Which now a crown of life so well adorns, When you by ways and means you know not now, Did what your soul with holy horror scorns, Will stay with you long as you live on earth, And be like gall to spoil your cup of mirth.

The smiles of those we bless are lasting, too; We feel their cheering glow each cloudy day. As falls on wilted flower the healing dew, So they refresh, and chase our gloom away; We feel though weak we have not lived in vain, And know God smiles tho' we cannot explain.

The footprints on the rock time wears away; The rock itself soon crumbles into dust; But memories of the past have come to stay, Nor flood, nor fire, nor the consuming rust, Can ever from the soul the past erase. Guard thou thy life, O man, with heavenly grace.

THE ROYAL WAY

Perfection ever is the price of toil. Of marchings long, and hardships by the way, Of burdens borne, oft in the heat of day, 'Tis then as right the victor claims the spoil.

The world admires the wreath upon his brow, But he alone can tell how much it cost, And how to gain it he had all things lost. Results men see, but not the _when_, or _how_.

The stately elm which rears its head so high, And spreads abroad so gracefully its boughs, Beneath which may repose a herd of cows, Grows under ground as well as toward the sky.

The bridge which spans the swiftly-flowing stream O'er which the iron horse, by night and day, With heavy tread speeds on its busy way, Rests not on sand, nor slender post and beam.

Below the shifting sand, on solid rock, The mason safely laid the buttress stone, And labored long before his work was shown; But he built well--his work endures each shock.

This work takes time; we chafe at the delay And try to gain the summit at a bound, But find full soon our hopes dashed to the ground; Yet there remains for all the _royal way_.

And he who would true eminence attain Must heed the word of Him who came to serve, Nor from this path a single moment swerve, If he the great reward would surely gain.

This is the royal way--_to serve in love_-- Servant to servants ever aim to be Like Him who gave His life to ransom thee; Then shalt thou sit with Him on throne above.

'STABLISHED

The well-built house with walls of brick, or stone, May tremble some if struck by the cyclone; The most established saint may trials feel, As flint may turn the edge of finest steel. Satanic hosts may rush in like a flood, Allied with foes of our own flesh and blood, The elements of earth and hell combine, Yet tho' he trembles, stands in strength divine; He rests secure on the unyielding rock. The top may sway, but base feels not the shock; His heart is fixed, nor earth nor hell can move; They wrench not loose, but his allegiance prove. Christ wept with Mary at her brother's grave; Laid down His life a rebel world to save; Tried, like ourselves, and like us too, infirm, Yet knew no sin in either root or germ; Let us be like Him while we sojourn here, Then storms and earthquakes we need never fear.

A MEROGNOSTIC

I know in part, but know not all, The part I know is known; What know I not I hope with Paul To know before the throne. Till then where knowledge fails I trust The truth God has revealed, As known by me, forever must Be like the truth concealed.

I know God _is_, tho' hid from sight, And know He cares for me; In blessing me He takes delight, And I by faith can see His skilful hand and loving heart, In all my life's affairs, And feel content to know but part If He knows all my cares.

I know God gave His Son to die A sacrifice for man, And live all who on Him rely, And meet His claims I can, Yet I know not how in Him meet The human and divine; But God He is, and at His feet I fall, and feel Him mine.

Nor do I understand the change The spirit wrought in me; A work so great exceeds my range, But I can feel and see The inward peace, and outward trend, And hear likewise His voice, The outward with the inward blend, And answer to my choice.

I know not how mind touches mind And thoughts spring into life; Nor know the mystic bands which bind, Like husband to the wife, My loving Lord and my poor soul, But this I know full well, If I submit to His control I cannot sink to hell.

I know the world shakes to its base, And man still wars with man, The bane of sin rests on our race, And Satan leads the van; But hope exults within my breast Tho 'darkness shrouds the sky; God is the friend of the oppressed, The good will never die.

I know not why my plans should fail When I have plan'd for God, And on this ground my foes assail, But I still kiss the rod, For tho' I cannot tell the why My heart is filled with peace; I can on my dear Lord rely, And wait for my release.

I know He is both true and kind, And has my good at heart. His discipline will only bind With cords which naught can part, My heart's affections to His throne, And fit me for my rest, Nor do I tread life's path alone; _He knows_, and I am blest.

"SALUT AUX BLESSIS"

A group of mounted officers Ride up and fall in line; Their gleaming swords hang at their sides, Chevrons their arms entwine; They bare their heads as pass along A train of wounded men, Their shattered comrades from the field They ne'er may meet again.

"_Salut aux Blessis!_" loud they cry. The wounded soldiers hear, And for a time forget their pain, And swell the lusty cheer. Thus should it be in other lines; The men who lead the van Should e'er accord a brother's cheer To every wounded man.

The "rank and file" the wounds receive; Sometimes the leader, too; But honest wounds none should despise; The bearer may be true. He stood his ground 'gainst mighty odds, And dared the shot and shell; So bare your heads, ye scarless ones, And say, "_Thou hast done well!_"

SONNET