Chapter 7

No thought, or word, or action To lead to better life; No balm to heal deep anguish; No anodyne for strife;

Then shall I hear the sentence, "You did it not to me," Come from the sacred Teacher Who taught in Gallilee.

If I have wronged my brother, In action or in thought; Have forced him into sorrow, Or counted him as naught,

Have borne false witness of him Or robbed him of his peace; Unjustly taken from him Or hindered his increase,

The words of condemnation, "You did it unto me," Will fill my soul with terror, Distress, and misery.

My soul has wronged no being Of just and honest part; But on this sole reliance It would not dare depart.

Not in its own weak merit, Not in itself alone, But in the great redemption Of Him who did atone

For man, and bid him enter, The gates of joy and rest, Through faith, and prayer, and penitence, Upon a Savior's breast.

I shrink not at the future Whatever it may be, But joy in full assurance Of faith's expectancy.

* * * * *

Let me pass away when my work is done, Like a cloudless day whose setting sun Leaves a smile on the evening sky; Let this transient clay when deprived of breath, With the earth yet stay, it alone knows death, Myself must live on and cannot die.

ERE AND AT MY CALL.

Ere I lay me down the burden That my soul on earth hath worn, Let me feel before departing, That my tree of life hath borne Fruitage that shall ever onward Move mankind along the road, Toward the haven of the blessed Toward the city of my God.

Let some word that I have spoken Or some act performed by me, Sound aloud thro' coming ages Making captive souls more free; Not to bring me earthly glory Nor to win me empty fame, But to prove the mighty power In a risen Savior's name.

Let my work be all completed When the summons comes to go; Let there be no cause for weeping, Let there be no sound of woe, When the spirit from my Father Beckons me from duty done, To appear at His tribunal, And receive the crown that's won.

Let there be a joyous sunset, Lighting all the realm above With the radiance and the glory Of a Savior's dying love; Let my faith be firm, unshaken, Let His hand be clasped in mine, Let me cross the mystic river, Leaning on His breast divine.

BODING SNOW.

The sky that was blue and sunny, Has changed to a granite gray, The sun that was soft and cheery, Refuses it mellow ray; On the distant tree-top, cawing, Sits a solitary crow; These and the shivering children Betoken the coming snow.

Soon the flakes will be falling, Like down from an angel's wing, That is sent from the starry regions For Nature's covering; The trees, the plants, the grasses, With rev'rence bow their heads, For the pure and fleecy mantle That God above them spreads.

AN OPEN BOOK.

How strange are the stories we sometimes read In faces we meet by the way, They unconsciously tell of motive or deed That the tongue would refuse to betray.

Each lineament is a page set apart To be studied and understood By the shade that reflects the mind and heart, In their varied forms and mood.

The eye oft reflects the secrets of soul That are occult to all beside, And form of the mouth defying control Betrays what the heart fain would hide.

The quivering chin and tear-bedewed eye That respond to a kindred word That unconsciously fell from a tongue passing by, Oft betrays how th' heart has been stirred.

There are fountains so deep in some human lives That from them no draught can be drawn, Save the perfect mirage the face ever gives Of the soul when reflections dawn.

How varied the pages we daily read-- Some are joyous and full of glee, While others may tell of brave hearts that bleed, And then break in deep misery.

The facial page to me hath a charm That no printed book can impart, 'Tis no fancied tale, 'tis no false alarm, But stern truths from the human heart.

Pencils write plainly each act, on the face, Each motive indulged is seen there, No after decision can fully erase The masks faces ever must wear.

If the face would be fair and bright and young, Wear a charming, a joyous hue, To truth and to right heart-strings must be strung, Every thought, every act must be true.

Let the pencil of truth inscribe on the face, Let honor illumine the eye, Let generous thoughts and acts ever grace The face-page the world shall descry.

SOME CHARACTERS I MUCH ADORE.

An honest man with noble mind, With heart sincere, true, and refined, Who lives for God and all mankind, Who cares for rich and poor, And opens wide his soul to see The sweet designs of Deity, Yet from all prejudice is free, Is character I much adore.

The man who all his rights will claim, But gives another just the same, And shares with equity the blame Of faults done long before, Who will not shrink when sorely tried. But firmly by the truth abide, E'en when his own faults are allied, Is character I much adore.

A man who will not plead a cause That violates the nation's laws, Or seek to give Justice a pause, For gold or worldly store, But Pallas-like will e'er defend, Alike for foe, or trusted friend, The rights on which morals depend, Is character I much adore.

A man who rises by his worth And not through fortune-favored birth, Who owns himself, though all the earth May bribes around him pour, Who wears distinction's jeweled crown, But not from trampling others down, Or acts that cause Justice to frown, Is character I much adore.

The teacher who sees soul and mind In pleasing harmony combined Within the clay to be refined, And scans it o'er and o'er, That through instruction, skill, and love, It may expand and so improve, To honor earth and heaven above, Is character I much adore.

The man of God who feels no loss To bear the burden of the cross Though waves of fury round him toss, That sometimes hide the shore; Who guides alike the rich and poor Toward Him who said, "I am the Door," And bids them come though sick and sore, Is character I much adore.

The man who fills a humble lot As best he can, and murmurs not At what he has, or has not got, But uses all his power To elevate his work and life, And knows no mean ignoble strife, With which the world is too much rife, Is character I much adore.

A faithful wife bent low in prayer O'er suffering one in wild despair, While tender hands relief prepare Upon th' uncovered floor Of him who cursed her life by drink And caused her trusting heart to sink Upon Despair's cold, cheerless brink, Is character I much adore.

* * * * *

Nature has printed the largest book That eye has ever seen, And filled it with colored pictures fair, In white and gray and green. She offers it free to all mankind-- Noble, generous deed-- But few there are in its pages rare, Have ever learned to read.

SOME CHARACTERS I CAN'T ADMIRE.

The seeming saint with long drawn face, Who thinks that he has so much grace He should be throned on highest place To which saints may aspire, And yet, when dealing with a man, Will use some vicious, subtle plan By which a vantage he may gain, Is character I can't admire.

The zealot who thinks God has given A delegated power from heaven To him, to see that men are driven To escape a burning fire, Yet draws no souls by filial love, But deems the world can never move By holy influence from above, Is character I can't admire.

The man whose prayer is long and loud, Whose knee is bent, whose head is bowed-- With worldly goods richly endowed With all man can desire, Yet sees a _worthy_ brother fall, Without responding to his call For aid to soothe starvation's gall, Is character I can't admire.

The teacher who devoid of heart, Unskilled in pedagogic art, With looks and acts severely tart Would loathesome tasks require, Of pupils dulled by daily grind, Or stirred by words unjust, unkind, Which leave a canker in the mind, Is character I can't admire.

The mother who aspires to be A beacon light of charity, Regardless of the nursery Whereof she seems to tire, Who thinks her husband needs no care, But drives him wildly toward despair By meagre love, and frigid fare, Is character I can't admire.

The husband who spends days and nights In low resorts, mid brawls and fights, In which his heart greatly delights, But stops not to inquire, If wife and child have needed care, Or from his draughts he may not spare The pittance they should justly share, Is character I can't admire,

The millionaire who doth obtain His wealth by brawn and muscle strain Of those he poorly doth maintain Through scanty meed and hire, Who will not justly, freely give A recompense whereby may live In health, the man who makes him thrive Is character I can't admire.

The man who feels no poignant ruth At the dethronement of a truth, That to old age from tender youth Has felt no fervid ire When hate and envy swayed the tongue, And took no pride in checking wrong, No matter where it may belong, Is character I can't admire.

The man who lives for self alone, The man whose truth and honor 've flown, The man who hears a fellow groan Or sees a soul expire, And lifts no friendly hand to aid, No sympathy of soul betrayed, No fevered brow with balm allayed, Are characters I can't admire.

ON BROOKLYN BRIDGE.

I stood upon the slender link That joins two cities into one, And saw from thence the storm-clouds drink Their moisture from the sun.

I watched their lowering, frowning edge, Girt round with silver band, Saw castles tall and towering ledge Assume their forms so grand.

I saw the marshalled hosts of heaven Join for the mighty fray, Their ranks by tempest-winds were driven Along their dark highway.

High in the heavens the giant forms Of chariots, horsemen, towers stand, Whose home is ever 'mid the storms-- When chaos reigns, most grand.

I saw the fragments of the cloud Join with the nucleus form, Cirrus to Nimbus quickly bowed-- Sure harbinger of storm.

These were but outward signs I saw, Portending danger, strife, and fear, Yet still I knew by Nature's law, Beyond the clouds, 'twas clear.

In spite of cloud and storm and strife, Of tempests wild, severe, There's sunshine in our daily life, If one true heart is near.

No battle vanquishes the _true_, E'en thought of death is sweet To him whose soul would e'er subdue The scorpion-sting--deceit.

One trusting, true, and tender heart Can cure a thousand ills, Extract the poison from the dart Of malice e'er it kills.

Oh, marshalled hosts of warring clouds! Teach me this truth to know, There's light beyond, though trouble shrouds The valley here below.

THEIR LIFE IS WHAT THEY MAKE IT.

Let melancholy mortals grieve And tell their tale of sorrow, Their gloomy spirits to relieve, But all returns to-morrow; For all the while they court their grief, Unwilling to forsake it, And in the way they seek relief, Their life is what they make it.

They brood o'er sorrow day by day, With dreams they are affrighted, But never strive to cast away What most their spirits blighted; And if fair fortune chance to smile And give no cause for sorrow, They're not content to rest awhile, But off they go and borrow.

Avoiding all life's pleasant ways Their life is always clouded, They see no happy sunny days, For all in gloom is shrouded; They never see the flowers that bloom As on Life's road they ramble, But in the darkest paths of gloom Are seeking for a bramble.

The pleasures of this life do not Depend on its surrounding, But if the heart's trained as it ought, Content will be abounding; The silent heart's the seat of joy, And by continual training Life's trials scarcely will annoy The soul where peace is reigning.

Then tell me not Fate made them so, And they cannot avoid it, That all their life is doomed to woe, And they have not alloyed it; For all the while they court their grief, Unwilling to forsake it, And in the way they seek relief, Their life is what they make it.

* * * * *

The atmosphere may be redolent With fragrance from some happy soul Whose unconscious influence has sent Attractive power, like magnetic pole, Till laugh of bright eyes is contagious, Infectious, the mirth of a smile, And the ominous brow umbrageous, Casts aside its lowerings vile.

THE LONE BIRD.

A solitary bird was seen by the writer, making its toilsome flight against a strong storm-wind. The peculiar undulating flight, the gathering darkness of the night, and the portentous indications of storm suggested this:

Whither away on such winged undulations, Breasting the winds and the tempests wild glee, Lifting your form in graceful vibrations As onward you move like a billowy sea?

Alone, all alone, on wing wide extended, Nerved for the tempest that sounds not afar, Night her dark mantle o'er earth has suspended, Thro' which may not shine e'en the light of one star.

Stop, lonely wanderer, and tell me why mateless, Tell me the story of your solitude; God, e'en a bird has not left so fateless But somewhere there lives a companion for you.

Tell me if death has robbed you of treasures That sweetened the tone of your vesper song; Tell me if fears have destroyed all the pleasures Which justice and right say to you should belong.

Tell me, yes, tell me, and tell me most truly, Is there just cause why your flight is alone? Is there some stain whereby you are duly Debarred from the pleasures that should be your own?

Still but your wing and confide me the story, Chant it to me in a short plaintive song; Perhaps it may speak of a sweet transient glory That faded and died 'mid disaster and wrong.

Perhaps I may speak some word that has healing For solitude's wounds, e'en sweet tho' they be, For sorrows augment by sacred concealing, And steal from the heart ev'ry wish to be free.

Dear blessed bird! you have stopped at my pleading, My soul aids my ears to catch your sweet tone: "If life is not sweetened by presence and breeding, 'Tis better by far to travel alone.

"I have learned as my wings have borne me thro' groves Where gods their ambrosial nectar sip, That the heart's best experience ever proves, Joy comes not from _presence_, but _companionship_."

A LESSON FROM NATURE.

O who has not felt his gay heart beat with gladness, As forth he has wandered some morning in May? It drives away care and relieves us from sadness, It cheers the lone heart and makes us feel gay.

We see how all Nature rejoices around us, The plants as they spring from the earth seem to smile, The fresh growing leaves of the groves now surround us, And soft sounds of Spring-time unite to beguile.

The earth is now teeming with bright vegetation, The early spring flowers are now in their bloom, And where'er we look there appears animation Just bursting the cells of the last winter's tomb.

The soft breeze of May-day, we welcome it near us, As filled with rich fragrance it comes thro' the trees, And the bright feathered songsters apparently fear us No more than the odors that float on the breeze.

They tune their sweet voices and sing their devotion, Their hearts seem so light, so merry and free, That ideal beauty graces each motion, While they playfully dart from bush and from tree.

Our hearts beat with rapture too great for expression While viewing sweet Nature, so lovely, so gay, And hearing those sweet lulling sounds in succession, We wished in our joy it always were May.

Thus tempted to linger and spend one short hour, In looking around us in bliss most supreme, We found a choice spot in a fine shady bower, Where near it there murmured a bright silver stream.

From this lovely spot we intently were watching The scenes that surround us on this merry May, Every strain of grove-music our ears were now catching, And we saw every movement that came in our way.

A sweet, tiny bird on a twig near the river, Was warbling softly his choice matin lay, While near on a branch we soon did discover A serpent preparing to make him his prey.

Then glancing the eye to a branch that was near them, We saw there a nest that contained a young brood; While this parent bird was singing to cheer them, The other returned to the nest with their food.

The worm which she held in her beak she soon gave them, Then off in the thicket she darted again, To seek for their food, and from hunger relieve them; But on her return how great was her pain!

For while she had wandered, this serpent intruder Had charmed her loved mate, as he sat on the spray, His sweet song had ceased, and his notes became ruder, But his fluttering wings could not bear him away.

We flew to the rescue--struck down the invader Before the sweet songster had yielded his life, Put an end to this cunning and mischievous raider, And quieted all of the songster's great strife.

We learned from the scenes of this morning's ramble That moments of happiness soon may decay; While plucking the flowers to beware of the bramble, Which hid among blossoms may sadly betray.

We learned that the joys of this world are not lasting; That what we call pleasure may be a vain show; While joys seem the sweetest they only are blasting, And happiness frequently ends in great woe.

We learned that when Nature seems most to invite us, To build some fond hope on some loved scheme of ours, That there may be sadness preparing to blight us, Which evades all our watchings, defies all our powers.

MY MOTHER'S LOVE.

Nine months after writing this poem, my mother died, Dec. 21st, 1894.

My vision eye beholds a form, Bent low by years of life's fierce storm, That moves with feeble tread; Though time has worn that weary frame The heart still keeps its sacred flame True, undiminished.

No power but Death can ever quell-- No mortal tongue can ever tell A mother's boundless love; 'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh, Or in the moisture of the eye-- E'en silence, it may prove.

Itself and I had but one birth, It came from heaven to gladden earth-- And brighten man's abode; To feel the magic of its power Is richer boon than any dower The earth has yet bestowed.

Favored in this has been my lot; Relentless Death has robbed me not-- Though fifty years have flown, Of all the ecstasy and joy That came to me when but a boy, Or since to manhood grown,

Of that benign maternal smile, Whose magic influence can beguile My heart from worldly care, And lead me toward that beacon-light Of motive pure and act aright, No matter when or where.

O blessed influence of the past! May all my mother's counsels last Until my heart shall cease To send its crimson current round The tenement wherein 'tis bound, And Death shall bring release.

Still let these visions come to me Of her I would so gladly see Though far from her I roam; They bring sweet memory of the past, Which but a few more years may last, Of happiness and home.

THE EVENING BEFORE MY BROTHER'S FIFTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

Dear Brother, how the time speeds on And leaves its trace upon our forms; The days of sunny youth are gone And age unfits us for the storms That gather oft for you and me-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

It seems but yesterday since youth Was all aglow within our hearts, But still we recognized the truth, Old age has pierced us with his darts Until from pains we are not free-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Long years of toil and anxious care Have left their records all too plain; The failing eye, the snowy hair, The limbs and body racked with pain, Tell tales that all the world can see-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Still on life's battlefield we'll fight And win such victories as we may, Believing still that right is might And faithful hearts shall win the day; Then let us shout and sing with glee-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

And when a few more days are past And we are bowed with years and care, The cheerful sunshine still may last To make declining years more fair; Ah! much I hope that this may be-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

'Tis sweet to think of boyhood's days And all the happiness they gave, To summon back life's earliest plays And call lost childhood from its grave; Thus memory gives us victory-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Since manhood's form was given me Until this hour, our ways have been In different lines of industry, And scarce have we each other seen; Your birthday's held in memory-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

MY BROTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

Fifty-eight to-day, fifty-eight to-day! How years of your life have sped away, And left in the brown of the dying year A quiet content, devoid of fear At the onward march of Time's noiseless feet, Which ever advance, but ne'er retreat, As they bear you on to that silent shore, From which earth's mortals return no more.

With the night of time come the sunset cares, The faltering step, the snowy hairs, The tottering frame, and the stifled breath, Sure harbingers of approaching death, That bring with their train a tranquil repose Unknown to the tears and sighs and woes That belong to scenes of an active life, Whose atmosphere breathes of toil and strife.

As glorious day dies out in the west And sinks in crimson splendor to rest, While the stars of heaven come one by one With reflected light from th' sinking sun, So may life with you in its late decline, Leave a trail of light that yet may shine To illumine the path that others tread, And cheer the way of the vanquished.

TO MY DAUGHTER BLANCHE IN HEAVEN.

Died Jan. 4th, 1893, aged 11 years.

Darling of my bosom, Pride of my loving heart, Hopes were sorely shattered When I saw your life depart; In you I saw my future, Cheered by your smile and voice, Sorrow ceased its frowning, My spirit would rejoice.