Part 4
You cannot put one little star in motion, You cannot shape one single forest leaf, Nor fling a mountain up, nor sink an ocean, Presumptuous pigmy, large with unbelief. You cannot bring one dawn of regal splendor Nor bid the day to shadowy twilight fall, Nor send the pale moon forth with radiance tender, And dare you doubt the One who has done all?
"So much is wrong, there is such pain--such sinning." Yet look again--behold how much is right! And He who formed the world from its beginning Knows how to guide it upward to the light. Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavil At God's achievements, but with purpose strong To cling to good, and turn away from evil-- That is the way to help the world along.
TWILIGHT THOUGHTS
The God of the day has vanished, The light from the hills has fled, And the hand of an unseen artist, Is painting the West all red. All threaded with gold and crimson, And burnished with amber dye, And tipped with purple shadows, The glory flameth high.
Fair, beautiful world of ours! Fair, beautiful world, but oh, How darkened by pain and sorrow, How blackened by sin and woe. The splendor pales in the heavens And dies in a golden gleam, And alone in the hush of twilight, I sit, in a checkered dream.
I think of the souls that are straying, In shadows as black as night, Of hands that are groping blindly In search of the shining light; Of hearts that are mutely crying, And praying for just one ray, To lead them out of the shadows, Into the better way.
I think of the Father's children Who are trying to walk alone, Who have dropped the hand of the Parent, And wander in ways unknown. Oh, the paths are rough and thorny, And I know they cannot stand. They will faint and fall by the wayside, Unguided by God's right hand.
And I think of the souls that are yearning To follow the good and true; That are striving to live unsullied, Yet know not what to do. And I wonder when God, the Master, Shall end this weary strife, And lead us out of the shadows Into the deathless life.
LISTEN!
Whoever you are as you read this, Whatever your trouble or grief, I want you to know and to heed this: The day draweth near with relief.
No sorrow, no woe is unending, Though heaven seems voiceless and dumb; So sure as your cry is ascending, So surely an answer will come.
Whatever temptation is near you, Whose eyes on this simple verse fall; Remember good angels will hear you And help you to stand, if you call.
Though stunned with despair I beseech you, Whatever your losses, your need, Believe, when these printed words reach you Believe you were born to succeed.
You are stronger, I tell you, this minute, Than any unfortunate fate! And the coveted prize--you can win it; While life lasts 'tis never too late!
SONG OF THE SPIRIT.
Too sweet and too subtle for pen or for tongue In phrases unwritten and measures unsung, As deep and as strange as the sounds of the sea, Is the song that my spirit is singing to me.
In the midnight and tempest when forest trees shiver, In the roar of the surf, and the rush of the river, In the rustle of leaves and the fall of the rain, And on the low breezes I catch the refrain.
From the vapors that frame and envelope the earth, And beyond, from the realms where my spirit had birth, From the mists of the land and the fogs of the sea, Forever and ever the song comes to me.
I know not its wording--its import I know-- For the rhythm is broken, the measure runs low, When vexed or allured by the things of this life My soul is merged into its pleasures or strife.
When up to the hill tops of beauty and light My soul like a lark in the ether takes flight, And the white gates of heaven shine brighter and nearer, The song of the spirit grows sweeter and clearer.
Up, up to the realms where no mortal has trod-- Into space and infinity near to my God-- With whiteness, and silence, and beautiful things, I am borne when the voice of eternity sings.
When once in the winds or the drop of the rain Thy spirit shall listen and hear the refrain, Thy soul shall soar up like a bird on the breeze, And the things that have pleased thee will never more please.
THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
And now when poets are singing Their song of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet Centennial lays, My muse goes wandering backward To the groundwork of all these, To the time when our Pilgrim Fathers Came over the winter seas.
The sons of a mighty kingdom, Of a cultured folk were they, Born amidst pomp and splendor, Bred in it, day by day. Children of bloom and beauty, Reared under skies serene, Where the daisy and hawthorne blossomed And the ivy was always green.
And yet, for the sake of freedom, For a free religious faith, They turned from home and people, And stood face to face with death. They turned from a tyrant ruler And stood on the new world's shore, With a waste of waters behind them, And a waste of land before.
Oh, men of a great Republic; Of a land of untold worth; Of a nation that has no equal Upon God's round green earth; I hear you sighing and crying Of the hard, close times at hand; What think you of those old heroes, On the rock 'twixt sea and land.
The bells of a million churches Go ringing out to-night, And the glitter of palace windows Fills all the land with light; And there is the home and college, And here is the feast and ball, And the angels of peace and freedom Are hovering over all.
They had no church, no college, No banks, no mining stock; They had but the waste before them, The sea and Plymouth Rock. But there in the night and tempest, With gloom on every hand, They laid the first foundation Of a nation great and grand.
There were no weak repinings, No shrinking from what might he, But with their brows to the tempest, And with their backs to the sea, They planned out a noble future, And planted the corner-stone Of the grandest, greatest republic The world has ever known.
Oh, women in homes of splendor, Oh lily-buds frail and fair, With fortunes upon your fingers, And milk-white pearls in your hair, I hear you longing and sighing For some new fresh delight; But what of those Pilgrim mothers On that December night?
I hear you talking of hardships, I hear you moaning of loss, Each has her fancied sorrow, Each bears her self-made cross. But they, they had only their husbands, The rain, the rock, and the sea; Yet, they looked up to God and blessed Him, And were glad because they were free.
Oh, grand old Pilgrim heroes, Oh, souls that were tried and true, With all of our proud possessions We are humbled at thought of you. Men of such might and muscle, Women so brave and strong, Whose faith was fixed as the mountains, Through a night so dark and long.
We know of your grim, grave errors, As husbands and as wives; Of the rigid bleak ideas That starved your daily lives; Of pent-up, curbed emotions, Of feelings crushed, suppressed, That God with the heart created In every human breast.
We know of the little remnant Of British tyranny, When you hunted Quakers and witches, And swung them from a tree; Yet back to a holy motive, To live in the fear of God, To a purpose light, exalted, To walk where martyrs trod.
We can trace your gravest errors. Your aim was fixed and sure; And e'en if your acts were fanatic, We know your hearts were pure. You lived so near to heaven, You overreached your trust, And deemed yourselves creators, Forgetting you were but dust
But we with our broader visions, With our wider realms of thought, I often think would be better If we lived as our fathers taught. Their lives seemed bleak and rigid, Narrow and void of bloom; Our minds have too much freedom, And conscience too much room.
They overreached in duty, They starved their hearts for the right; We live too much in the senses, We bask too long in the light. They proved by their clinging to Him The image of God in man; And we, by our love of license, Strengthen a Darwin's plan.
But bigotry reached its limit, And license must have its sway, And both shall result in profit To those of a later day. With the fetters of slavery broken, And freedom's flag unfurled, Our nation strides onward and upward, And stands the peer of the world.
Spires and domes and steeples Glitter from shore to shore; The waters are white with commerce, The earth is studded with ore; Peace is sitting above us, And Plenty, with laden hand, Wedded to sturdy Labor, Goes singing through the land.
Then let each child of the nation Who glories in being free, Remember the Pilgrim Fathers Who stood on the rock by the sea; For there in the rain and tempest Of a night long passed away, They sowed the seeds of a harvest We gather in sheaves to-day.
LINES WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES BUELL.
Something is missing from the balmy spring; There is no perfume in its gentle breath; And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing, And all the bees chant of the grave and death-- Something is missing from the earth. One morn The angels called a new name on the roll; A spirit soldier to their ranks was borne, And all Christ's army welcomed the pure young soul.
He died. Two little words, but only God Can understand the awful depths of woe They hold for those who pass beneath the rod, Praying for strength, from Him who aimed the blow. He died. The soldier who fought long and well, Who walked with Death upon the battle-field, Among the bellowing guns--the shrieking shell-- In poison prison dens--and would not yield.
A six month three times told, he languished there, And yet he lived; oh, young heart, strong and brave! Thank God, who heard the oft repeated prayer; Thank God, he does not fill a Southern grave; That when he died, the loved ones gathered round, And eased the anguish of those last, sad hours; That gentle hands can keep the precious mound All green with mosses, and abloom with flowers.
He was so young and fair; and life was sweet. Christ give the mourners strength to drain the cup. He went to make the Heavenly ranks complete. God sent the angel Death, to bear him up So young, and fair and brave; so loved by all; The lisping child-life's veteran, bent and gray-- The eyes grew dim, and bitter tear-drops fall Upon the mound where lies the soldier's clay.
Oh! it is sweet to feel that God knows best, Who called in youth this brother, friend and son, And sweet to lean upon the Saviour's breast, And looking upward, say, "Thy will be done." But something is missing from the balmy spring; There is no perfume in its gentle breath, And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing, And all the bees chant of the grave, and death.
SEARCHING.
These quiet autumn days, My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings Goes out, and searches for the hidden things Beyond the hills of haze.
With mournful, pleading cries, Above the waters of the voiceless sea That laps the shores of Eternity, Day after day it flies.
Searching, but all in vain, For some stray leaf that it may light upon And read the future as the days agone-- Its pleasure and its pain.
Listening, patiently, For some voice speaking from the mighty deep, Revealing all the secrets it doth keep In silence, there for me.
Come back and wait, my soul! Day after day thy search has been in vain. Voiceless and silent o'er the future's pain, Its mystic waters roll.
God seeing, knoweth best, And day by day the waters shall subside, And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide; Then wait, my soul, and rest.
FADING.
She sits beside the window. All who pass Turn once again to gaze on her sweet face. She is so fair; but soon, too soon, alas, To lie down in her last low resting place.
No gems are brighter than her sparkling eyes, Her brow like polished marble, white and fair-- Her cheeks as glowing as the sunset skies-- You would not dream that death was lurking there.
But, oh! he lingers closely at her side, And when the forest dons her Autumn dress, We know that he will claim her as his bride, And earth will number one fair spirit less.
She sees the meadow robed in richest green-- The laughing stream--the willows bending o'er. With tear dimmed eyes she views each sylvan scene, And thinks earth never was so fair before.
We do not sigh for Heaven, till we have known, Something of sorrow, something of grief and woe, And as a summer day her life has flown. Then, can we wonder she is loath to go?
She has no friends in Heaven: all are here. No lost one waits her in that unknown land, And life grows doubly, trebly sweet and dear As day by day, she nears the mystic strand.
We love her and we grieve to see her go. But it is Christ who calls her to His breast, And He shall greet her, and she soon shall know The joys of souls that dwell among the blest.
A DREAM.
The shadows of a winter night were falling, The snows were drifting in my cottage door-- And loud the voices of the winds were calling, When there came a stranger, lone, despised, and poor!
Came to my glowing hearth, all humbly pleading For food and shelter till the day should dawn-- But to his every word I stood unheeding, And turned him forth and bade him wander on.
I have six little ones to guard from danger; I have a pillow for each precious head; But nought to waste upon a beggared stranger-- And "charity begins at home," I said.
All fierce and loud the winter wind was groaning, Like some lost spirit, doomed to death it seemed; While at some door it made its ceaseless moaning, I sought my pillow, and I slept and dreamed.
I dreamed I stood at Heaven's gate entreating, Weeping and wailing for the other side; While in the gloom I stood, all wildly beating, Begging the angel guard to open wide.
At length I heard the pearly hinges turning, And saw the glories that no tongue can tell. Before me all the hues of Heaven burning, Behind me all the gloom of death and hell.
I strove to enter, but a voice like thunder, Cried "Come no nearer, oh! thou soul of sin." And I shrank down in awful fear and wonder, For I had thought to enter boldly in.
Again the voice cried, "When in woe and anguish, I sought a shelter at thy glowing hearth, Thou turned me out, unclothed, unfed to languish, And wander wearily upon the earth.
"Depart from here, thou selfish sinful mortal, On heaven's perfect face, a stain and blot; For never can'st thou cross the shining portal, Ye knew not me and now I know ye not."
IDLER'S SONG.
I sit in the twilight dim, At the close of an idle day, And list to the sweet, soft hymn That rises far away And dies on the evening air. Oh, all day long, They sing their song, Who toil in the valley there.
But never a song sing I, Sitting with folded hands, The hours pass me by-- Dropping their golden sands-- And I list from day to day, To the "tick, tick, tock," Of the old brown clock, Ticking my life away.
And I see the twilight fade, And I see the night come on, And then, in the gloom and shade, I weep for the day that's gone-- Weep and wail in pain, For the misspent day That has flown away, And will not come again.
Another morning beams, But I forget the last, And sit in my idle dreams Till the day is over--past. Oh, the toiler's heart is glad! When the day is gone And the night comes on, But mine is sore and sad.
For I dare not look behind! No shining, golden sheaves Can I ever hope to find: Nothing but withered leaves. Ah! dreams are very sweet! But will it please If only these I lay at the Master's feet.
And what will the Master say, To dreams and nothing more? Oh, idler all the day! Think, ere thy life is o'er! And when the day grows late, Oh, soul of sin, Will He let you in There at the pearly gate?
Oh, idle heart beware! On, to the field of strife! On, to the valley there, And live a useful life. Up! do not wait a day! For the old brown clock, With its "tick, tick, tock," Is ticking your life away.
FOR HIM WHO BEST SHALL UNDERSTAND IT.
I know a "righteous Christian," (That is, he thinks he's one,) He goes to church on Sunday And thinks his duty done. And always at prayer-meeting, He sighs, and groans, and prays; And talks about the sinners, And warns them from their ways.
And many of his neighbors, He knows are bound for hell; Although they love their Master, And do their duty well. But they pray within their closet, And do not own a "pew," And he's sure they'll not be numbered Among God's chosen few.
He exhorts men to be careful And keep from worldly strife. And he thinks a race for riches The worst thing in this life. "Do good," he cried, "with money, Ye who have aught to spare," And he preaches quite a sermon, And ends it with a prayer.
Well! he has bonds with coupons, And lots of cash on hand, And when the fierce Fire Demon, Went raging through our land, The neighborhood was canvassed, For money, clothes, and food, To send the starving people, And the man who cries, "Do good,"--
My preaching, praying Christian, Now boasts, in pride and glee, "Those begging, sponging rascals, Didn't get a cent from me! I don't believe their stories, About the suffering poor, The thieves were after money, And I sent them from my door."
Oh, out upon such a pretense! May a curse be upon his gold, And the cries of an hundred people, Hungry, and naked, and cold, Ring in his ears forever; And the words his false lips pray Fall on deaf ears in heaven, From now till the Judgment Day.
Oh "hypocrites, and liars!" Your prayers blaspheme God's name! And if the angels hear them, They blush for you in shame, And, though you deceive your fellows, With the pious cloak you wear; The hosts of heaven look deeper, And they know your true worth there.
DYING.
The great high arch of heaven, like tapestry On ancient walls, was grandly colored--save The quiet, cloudless west, that was a sea Of purest crystal--golden wave on wave. "Oh love," she whispered, "open wide the blind, And let me see the glory of the West; There just across the sea, my soul will find-- What here is never found--find peace and rest."
Deeper, and darklier grand, the bright clouds grew, And red and amber streaks shot through the North. The very light of heaven was shining through The crystal West. She reached her thin hand forth And a strange splendor fell upon her face; And her dark eyes glowed with unearthly light. I knew it came from God's celestial plane, Where there is neither sorrow, death, nor night.
"Oh love!" she cried, "my struggling spirit yearns To leave this clay and go across the sea, Look! how to molten gold the whole sky turns; And see that white hand beckoning to me. Oh love, my love, this is not death, to go At this sweet hour across the golden tide; To drop my every care, and henceforth know Only the pleasures of that other side."
The angel took the tapestries away, And rolled them up in heaven, out of sight, Leaving the common walls of sombre gray To catch the dews and damp fogs of the night. The west wind played upon his dulcimer. I leaned across her couch with bated breath; "Oh love," I said, as I gazed down on her, "Surely, thy words were true, this is not death!"
THANKSGIVING.
Thank God for men! I hear the shout From east and west go up, and out. Thank God for men whose hearts are true; For men who boldly dare, and do. For men who are not bought and sold, Who value honor more than gold, For men large-hearted, noble-minded, For men whose visions are not blinded With selfish aims: men who will fight With tongue or sword, for what is right; For men whom threats can never cower, For men who dare to use their power To shield the right and punish wrong E'en though his host are bold and strong; For men who work with hearts and hands For what the public good demands. Bless God the thankful people say, Such men have not all passed away.
Bless God, enough are left, at least To put a muzzle on the beast That walks our land from breadth to length And robs the strong man of his strength, Takes bread from babes, steals wise men's brains, And leaves them bound in helpless chains; Makes sin and sorrow, shame and woe, Where e'er his cloven foot may go. This is the mission of the beast Whose bloated keepers sit and feast On seasoned dainties that were bought With blood, and tears, and God knows what. Keepers who laugh when women cry, Who smile when children starve and die, If so they gain one farthing more To add to their ill-gotten store.
From south and north and west and east, The people clamored: "Chain the beast! Fetter the monster Alcohol, Before he robs us of our all."
Thank God, the earnest cry was heard, And hearts of noble men were stirred, And though a weak-kneed host went down Before the keeper's threatening frown, Enough were left--a bold, brave few, Strong-brained, broad-souled men that were true, Men who were men, and did not fear The villain's threat, the coward's sneer; Enough to muzzle with the law The foulest beast the world e'er saw. Thank God, thank God, the people say. True men have not all passed away.
OUR ANGEL.
Upon a couch all robed by careful hands For her repose, the maiden Mable lies Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands-- A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyes
May, wondering, gaze upon a little while; That mortal hands may touch a few times more. Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile; As if the glories of that mystic shore
When first they fell upon her spirit eyes-- All the rare splendors of that unseen way-- Had touched her with a wondering, glad surprise, And left the pleased expression on her clay.
Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast-- Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow. And they have robed her for her peaceful rest. Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe,
But in that garb we loved to see her wear; A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand. I wonder, as I see her lying there, If God will give her spirit in His land
Another shape. She could not be more fair. I think he will not change her form, or face, But with the same long, rippling, golden hair She will kneel down before the throne of grace,
And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will raise Up to Christ's face, and touch Him with her hand, And will with her own sweet voice, sing God's praise And still be fairest in the Angel band.
UNTIL THE NIGHT.
Over the ocean of life's commotion We sail till the night comes on. Sail and sail in a tiny boat, Drifting wherever the billows go. Out on the treacherous sea afloat, Beat by the cruel winds that blow, Hither and thither our boat is drawn, Till the day dies out and the night comes on.
Over a meadow of light and shadow We wander with weary feet, Seeking a bauble men call "Fame," Grasping the dead-sea fruit named "wealth," Finding each but an empty name, And the night--the night steals on by stealth. And we count the season of slumber sweet, When hope lies dead in the arms of defeat.
Over the river a great Forever, Stretches beyond our sight. But I know by the glistening pearly gates Afar from the region of strife and sin, A beautiful angel always waits To welcome the sheep of the shepherd in. And out of the shadows of gloom and night, They enter the mansion of peace and light.
A TRIBUTE.
My heart that otherwise was glad (So much God gives to make it so) This golden afternoon is sad And troubled with another's woe; And stranger that I am, I fain Would send some solace for her pain.