Chapter 2
Why paused he in his onward course?-- Why held his shuddering breath?-- Why gazed he with bewildered eye, As on the face of death? Before him sat in stern array, All hushed as if in dread, Yet still, and passionless, and calm, A concourse of the dead!
Across the burning waste they stared With glazed and stony eye, As if strange fear had fixed erewhile Their gaze on vacancy; And woe and dread on every brow In changeless lines were wrought,-- Sad traces of the anguish deep That filled their latest thought!
They seemed a race of other time, O'er whom the desert's blast, For many a long and weary age, In fiery wrath had passed; Till, scathed and dry, each wasted form Its rigid aspect wore, Unchanged, though centuries had passed The lonely desert o'er.
Was it the clash of foreign arms-- Was it the invader's tread,-- From which this simple-minded race In wildest terror fled,-- Choosing, amid the desert-sands, Scorched by the desert's breath, Rather than by the invaders' steel, To meet the stroke of death?
And there they died--a free-born race-- From their proud hills away, While round them in its lonely pride The far, free desert lay And there, unburied, still they sit, All statue like and cold, Free, e'en in death, though o'er their homes Oppression's tide has rolled!
BE STILL.
O throbbing heart, be still! Canst thou not bear The heavy dash of Memory's troubled tide, Long sternly pent, but broken forth again, Sweeping all barriers ruthlessly aside, And leaving desolation in its train Where all was fair?
Fair, did I say?--Oh yes!-- I'd reared sweet flowers Of steadfast hope, and quiet, patient trust, Above the wreck and ruin of my years;-- Had won a plant of beauty from the dust, Fanned it with breath of prayer, and wet with tears Of loneliest hours!
O throbbing heart, be still! That cherished flower-- Faith in thy God--last grown, yet first in worth, Will spring anew ere long--it is not dead, 'Tis only beaten to the breast of earth! Let the storm rage--be calm--'twill lift its head Some stiller hour!
LITTLEWIT AND LOFTUS.
John Littlewit, friends, was a _credulous_ man. In the good time long ago, Ere men had gone wild o'er the latter-day dream Of turning the world upside down with steam, Or of chaining the lightning down to a wire, And making it talk with its tongue of fire.
He was perfectly sure that the world stood still, And the sun and moon went round;-- He believed in fairies, and goblins ill, And witches that rode over vale and hill On wicked broom-sticks, studying still Mischief and craft profound.
"What a fool was John Littlewit!" somebody cries;-- Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please! A humble man was John Littlewit-- A gentle, loving man; He clothed the needy, the hungry fed, Pitied the erring, the faltering led, Joyed with the joyous, wept with the sad, Made the heart of the widow and orphan glad, And never left for the lowliest one An act of kindness and love undone;-- And when he died, we may well believe God's blessed angels bore John Littlewit's peaceful soul away To the beautiful Heaven for which we pray, Where the tree of knowledge blooms for aye, And ignorance plagues no more.
Squire Loftus, friends, was a _cultured_ man, You knew him-so did I: He had studied the "Sciences" through and through, Had forgotten far more than the ancients knew, Yet still retained enough To demonstrate clearly that all the old, Good, practical Bible-truths we hold Are delusion, nonsense, stuff!
He could show that the earth had begun to grow Millions and millions of ages ago; That man had developed up and out From something Moses knew nothing about,-- Held with Pope that all are but parts of a whole Whose body is Nature, and God its Soul;-- And, since _he_ was a part of that same great whole, Then the soul of all Nature was also his soul;-- Or, more plainly--to be not obscure or dim-- That God had _developed Himself_ in him:-- That what is called _Sin_ in mankind, is not so, But is just _misdirection_, all owing, you know, To defectiveness either of body or brain, Or both, which the soul is not thought to retain,-- In the body it acts as it _must_, but that dead All stain from the innocent soul will have fled!
"How wise was Squire Loftus!" there's somebody cries;-- Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please; His wisdom was that of the self-deceived fool Who quits the clear fount for the foul, stagnant pool, Who puts out his eyes lest the light he descry, Then shouts 'mid the gloom "how clear-sighted am I!" Who turns from the glorious fountain of Day, To follow the wild _ignis fatuus_' ray Through quagmire and swamp, ever farther astray, With every step that he takes.
But he died as he lived; and the desolate night He had courted and loved better far than the light, Grew more and more dark, till he passed from our sight, And what shall I say of him more?-- Give me rather John Littlewit's questionless faith, To illume my lone path through the valley of death-- The arm that he leaned on, the mansion of light That burst through the gloom on his kindling sight, And I'll leave the poor sceptic his lore!-- Let me know only this--_I was lost and undone, But am saved by the blood of the Crucified One_, And I'm _wise_ although knowing no more!
TO A MOTHERLESS BABE.
Why art thou here, little, motherless one,-- Why art thou here in this bleak world alone? With that innocent smile on thy beautiful brow, What hath this stern world for such as thou?
Why art thou here in this world of unrest, Thou that of angels shouldst be the guest?-- Oh, wild are the storms of this wintry clime, Dire are the ills that will meet thee in time! Lamb, with no shelter when tempests are near, Dove, with no resting place, why art thou here?
THE CAGED BIRD'S SONG.
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO HIS PATRONESS AND FRIEND, BY THE LITTLE, BROWN SINGER HIMSELF.
Merrily! Merrily! Tschee! tschee! tschee! What can the meaning of these things be? Tiniest buds and leaflets green-- Who shall tell me what these things mean? Merrily! Merrily! Tschee! tschee! tschee! Much I guess they were meant for me!
Tsu-ert! Tsu-ert! Tschee! tschee! tschee! So I shall eat them up you see Somebody, somewhere, is kindly stirred To think of me, a poor, brown bird!-- Merrily! Merrily! Tschee! tschee! tschee! Somebody, somewhere, thinks of me!
Tsu-ert! Tsu-ert! Tschee! tschee! tschee! "A gentle lady?"--and can it be?-- Say it again, 'tis a pleasant word, _Thinking of me_, your poor, brown bird!-- Merrily! Merrily! Tschee! tschee! tschee! Bless the lady that thinks of me
Tsu-ert! Tsu-ert! Tschee: tschee! tschee! So I shall eat them up, you see! Hi, a nip here! and ho, a nip there! Bless me, mistress, how sweet they are! Merrily! Merrily! Tschee! tschee! tschee! Bless the lady who thinks of me!
Tsu-ert! Tsu-ert! Tschee! tschee! tschee! Merrily, merrily, let it be!-- Hi, a nip here! and ho, a nip there! Over, under, everywhere! Merrily! Merrily! Tschee! tschee! tschee! Somebody, somewhere, thinks of me!
CROSSING THE RED SEA
Before them lay the heaving deep Behind, the foemen pressed; And every face grew dark with fear, And anguish filled each breast Save one, the Leader's, he, serene, Beheld, with dauntless mind, The restless floods before them seen. The foe that pressed behind. "Why hast thou brought us forth for this?" The people loudly cry;-- "Were there no graves in Egypt's land, That here we come to die?" But calm and clear above the din Arose the prophet's word,-- "Stand still! stand still!--and ye shall see The salvation of the Lord!"
"Fear not!--the foes whom now you see, Your eyes no more shall view!-- Peace to your fears!--your fathers' God This day shall fight for you; For Egypt, in her haughty pride And stubbornness abhorred, This day, in bitterness shall learn, Jehovah is the Lord!"
He spake; and o'er the Red Sea's flood He stretched his awful wand, And lo! the startled waves retired, Abashed, on either hand; And like a mighty rampart rose To guard the narrow way Mysterious, that before the hosts Of ransomed Israel lay!
Oh! strange and solemn was the road Which they were called to tread, With myst'ries of the ancient deep Around their footsteps spread,-- With ocean's unknown floor laid bare Before their wondering eyes, And the strange, watery wall that there On either hand did rise!
Yet fearlessly, with steadfast faith, Their Leader led them on; While, from behind, a heavenly light Through the dread passage shone;-- Light for that lone and trembling band Gleamed out with radiance clear, While Egypt's host came groping on Through darkness dense and drear!
'Tis past; and on Arabia's coast The tribes of Israel stand, While fierce and fast Egyptia's host Approach that quiet strand;-- Though darkness, like a funeral pall, Hangs o'er that dreary path, Still on they desperately press In bitterness and wrath.
Then slowly, once again, arose The Hebrew prophet's hand, And o'er the waiting deep outstretched Once more that awful wand;-- The rushing waters closed in might Above that pathway lone, And Pharaoh, in his haughty pride, And all his hosts were gone!
Wail, Egypt, wail!--thy kingly crown Is humbled in the dust! And thou, though late, art forced to own That Israel's God is just! And thou, O Israel, lift thy voice In one triumphant song Of praise to Him in whom alone Thy feeble arm is strong!
THE WAY-SIDE ELM
Standing alone by the highway side, Stately, and stalwart, and tempest-tried, Staunch of body and strong of bough, Fronting the sky with an honest brow, King of the forest and field is he-- Yon way side watcher--the old Elm tree.
When kindly Summer, with smile serene, Drapes branch and bough in her robe of green, Ever the joyous, wild birds come And sing 'mid the clustering leaves at home; Ever the soft winds, to and fro, Steal through the branches with music low, And golden sunbeams sparkle and play, And dance with shadows the livelong day.
Up to his forehead undimmed by time, The morning sun-ray is first to climb, With the tender touch of its earliest beam To break the spell of his dewy dream; And there the longest, when daylight dies, The rosy lustre of sunset lies, As loath to fade on the distant sea, Without an adieu to the old Elm tree.
And grand it is, when the wintry blast With shout and clamor is sweeping past, To watch the stately and stern old tree As he battles alone on the wintry lea, With leafy crown to the four winds cast, And stout arms bared to the ruffian blast; Or fiercely wrestles with wind and storm, Unbowed of forehead, unbent of form.
O proud old tree! O loneliest tree! Thy strong-limbed brothers have passed from thee;-- One by one they've been swept away, And thou alone--of the centuries grey That have come and gone since thy hour of birth, And left their scars on the patient earth-- Remainest to speak to the world and me Of hoarded secrets that dwell with thee.
What of thy birth-hour? what of thy prime? Who trod the wastes in that olden time? Who gathered flowers where thy shadows lay? Who sought thy coolness at noon of day? What warrior chieftains, what woodland maids, Looked up to thee from the dusky glades? Who warred and conquered, who lived and died In those far off years of the forest's pride?
No voice, no answer! So I, too, speak, Yet mine, as the insect's call, is weak To break thy silence, thou lonely tree, Or win a whispered reply from thee. Yet, teacher mine, thou hast taught my heart What soon from its records will not depart-- A lesson of patience, a lesson of power, Of courage that fails not in danger's hour, Of calm endurance through winter's gloom, Of patient waiting for summer's bloom, And, heavenward gazing, through storm and night, Like thee to watch for the dawning light.
DROWNED
[Footnote: In the Grand River, at Brantford, July 30th, 1875, Miss Jessie Hamilton, adopted daughter of C.H. Waterous, Esq., Brantford, aged 14 years and 3 months, and Miss Ella E. Murton, only daughter of John W. Murton, Esq., Hamilton, aged 14 years.]
The morning dawned without a cloud, But evening came with pall and shroud,-- With muffled step, and bated breath, And mournful whisperings of--_death!_
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Young lips, that in the morning sung The summer's opening flowers among, Were hushed and cold;--young, laughing eyes, That met the dawn with sweet surprise, Were darkly sealed;--young feet, that pressed The dewy turf with glad unrest, Were cold and stirless, never more To tread the paths they trod before;-- And they, who in the morning strayed In fawn-like freedom down the glade, In solemn, dreamless slumber lay, To wake no more, at fall of day!
O stern, remorseless, sullen Tide! O dark Flood, never satisfied! Couldst thou not pity, when, to thee Those young lambs sped so trustingly? Nay, nay;--the tempest's stormy wrath Spares not the lily in its path!-- The tameless river will not rest, To heed the rose-leaf on its breast!-- A moment, and the quiet shore Heard a low wail, and heard no more;-- And then, with calm, unaltered mien, The river glided on serene-- With what a weight of anguish fraught!-- Unconscious of the woe it wrought.
"Dust unto dust!" O God, thy way Strange and mysterious seems to-day, As, in the darkness of the tomb, What but an hour ago was bloom And beauty, now we hide away, And leave to silence and decay! Aid us in lowliness to bow, And own how just and good art thou, And, though thou hidest still thy face, Trust the great love we may not trace!
MY BROTHER JAMES AND I
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A BEREAVED BROTHER.
We were playmates long together, By the brook and on the hill, In the golden, summer weather, When the days were long and still; We were playmates in the firelight While the winter eyes went by, And we shared one couch at midnight-- My brother James and I!
We were schoolmates, too, together, In the after years that came, And in toil, or task, or pleasure, Ours was still one heart, one aim; Hand in hand we struggled sunward Toward fair Science' temple high Aiding each the other onward-- My brother James and I!
We were men at last together-- Oh, the well remembered time, When we left the dear, old homestead In our early manhood's prime! Even then not disunited, Went we forth with courage high To one aim and effort plighted-- My brother James and I!
But at length there came a shadow Dark with signs of change and blight Deep'ning silently but surely To a long and tearful night, And beside a lonely river That went darkly rushing by Parted we--but not forever-- My brother James and I!
Not forever! not forever! Though the stream is dark and wide He is beck'ning to me ever From the sun lit, summer side, There the glory fadeth never, And I know that by and by We shall tread that shore together-- My brother James and I!
IDLE
"Work to-day in my vineyard!"
Hast thou, then, been called to labor In the vineyard of thy Lord, With the promise that, if faithful, Thou shall win a sure reward?-- Look! the tireless sun is hasting Toward the zenith, and the day, Which in vanity thou'rt wasting, Speedeth rapidly away!
Lo! the field is white for harvest, And the laborers are few; Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant! Find no work that thou canst do? Sitting idle in the vineyard! Sleeping, while the noon-day flies! Dreaming, while with every pulse-beat Some unsaved one droops and dies!
Waken! overburdened lab'rers, Fainting in the sultry ray, Cry against thee to the Master As thou dream'st the hours away Waken! patient angels bearing Home Earth's harvest, grieving see One by one the bright hours waning, And no sheaf secured by thee!
And at last, when toil is ended, And the blessed "Harvest home," By exulting angels chanted, Cheers the lab'rers as they come, What wilt _thou_ do, slothful servant, With no gathered sheaf to bring? How canst thou stand, empty-handed, In the presence of thy King?
Lo! the field is white for harvest, And the laborers are few; Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant. Find no work that thou canst do? Angels wait to bear the tidings Of some good that thou hast done; Then, to patient, earnest labor, Waken, ere the set of sun!
THE WORLD'S DAY.
Dark was the world when from the bowers Of forfeit Eden man went forth, With aching heart and blighted powers, To till the sterile soil of earth; Yet, even then, a glimmering light Faintly illumed the eastern skies, And, struggling through the mists of night, Beamed soft on Abel's sacrifice.
It shone on Abram's eager eyes Upon Moriah's lonely height, And Jacob, 'neath the midnight skies, In hallowed dreams beheld its light; And o'er Arabia's desert sand Where weary Israel wandered on, In doubt and fear toward Canaan's land, The hallowed dawning brighter shone.
Ages roll on 'mid deep'ning day, And prophet-bard and holy seer Watch eagerly the kindling ray, To see the blessed sun appear-- Watch, till along the mountain-heights The long-expected radiance streams, _And lo! a bloody Cross it lights, And o'er a blood-stained victim gleams!_
And higher climbed the rising sun, And brighter glowed the joyous day, And Earth the bowed and weary one Kindled beneath the blessed ray A little while--then, dense and drear, Back rolled the heavy clouds of night, Till through the murky atmosphere Scarce stole a single gleam of light
Then Superstition piled her fires With slaughtered saints,--and dungeons lone Echoed the tortured victims' prayers, The stifled shriek, the smothered groan: Yet ever, Truth, through blood and tears, Pursued her dark, tempestuous way, And Faith illumed those stormy years, With promises of brighter day.
It came at last--through parted clouds The blessed sunlight burst once more, And a broad flood of glory swept O'er vale and plain, o'er sea and shore; Earth, from her wildering dream of tears, And blood and anguish, guilt and wrong-- The long, dark, troubled dream of years-- Awoke, and once again was strong.
Then crumbled thrones--then empires fell, As Science, Freedom, Truth, arose, And, shaking off their numbing spell, Closed in stern conflict with their foes: And onward still, with unbowed head, Faith's dauntless legions held their way, Marking with heaps of martyred dead The pathway that behind them lay.
And still that steady march is on, Through storm and gloom, through strife and tears. Still Faith points upward to the sun Whose glories brighten with the years-- Whose steady light and heat at length Shall scatter every cloud away, And Truth, majestic in her strength, Shall stand complete in perfect day.
BRETHREN, GO!
A VALEDICTION.
Brethren, go! the day is bright'ning As the sultry noon steals on, And the fields, already whit'ning, Tell of labor to be done.
There are toilsome days before you, Burdens that you may not shun, Clouds will gather darkly o'er you, Reeds will fail you one by one.
Yet go forth to strong endeavor, 'Neath the shadow of the cross; He who calls will leave you never,-- Never let you suffer loss!
Go; the voices of the dying Float on every passing breeze; Tones of wild, imploring crying Come from lands beyond the seas!
Go where pain and sorrow languish, Go where Sin works strife and woe, Cleanse Earth's stain, and heal her anguish, Jesus calls you--brethren, go!
OUR NATION'S BIRTHDAY.
JULY 1ST, 1867.
Ring out your glad peals of rejoicing! Wake Music's enlivening strain! Let the sound float abroad o'er your waters, And echo through valley and plain; From the shores of the far-distant Fundy, To the lakes of the limitless West, Let the sound of a People's exulting Go forth in its joyous unrest!
For a great Christian Nation, this morning, From fragments disjointed made one, With the laws and the speech of old England, Looks up to the new-risen sun; And, scarce conscious as yet of her mission-- Of the wealth of her young, earnest life-- Starts out in the march of the nations, To a future with perils how rife!
Yet who shall not hope for that future-- God's wide-open Book in her hand, With her sturdy and truth-loving yeomen, Her broad-spreading acres of land?-- And who does not welcome the rising Of a new star of promise this morn, Whose beams shall illumine the darkness Of millions that yet are unborn?
Then hail we, in songs of rejoicing, Our father-land over the sea, Britannia, pride of the ocean, The home of the gallant and free!-- Hail, Queen of dominions that girdle The world like an emerald zone, VICTORIA, Head of three Empires, Meek Sovereign of Earth's proudest throne!
And hail to our new-born Dominion! Hail, Canada, happy and blest! May thy flag ever wave o'er the freest, Most glorious clime of the West; Be freedom thy watchword, and Onward, Thy motto, still cherished and true, And ever abroad on the breezes Float thy time-honored "RED, WHITE AND BLUE."
OUR FIELD IS THE WORLD.
Our field is the world!--let us forth to the sowing, O'er valley and mountain, o'er desert and plain, Beside the still waters through cool meadows flowing, O'er regions unblest by the dew and the rain;-- Let us scatter the seed, though in sorrow and weeping, Though fields should be verdureless, wintry, and bare, The Lord of the harvest hath still in His keeping Each seed as it falls, and will guard it with care.
Our field is the world!--let us forth to the reaping; The long day is waning, the eve draweth nigh; Faint omens of storm up the heavens are creeping, And the sigh of the tempest is heard in the sky;-- The work-hour is brief, but the rest is forever, Then stay not for weariness, languor, or pain, But forth to the harvest with earnest endeavor, And gather with gladness the sheaves that remain.
Our field is the world!--let us forth to the gleaning, The stores may be small that our labors reward, Yet One from the height of His glory is leaning, Attent to behold what we do for the Lord;-- Where, haply, some reaper has passed on with singing, O'erladen with sheaves for the garner above, May yet be some handfuls that wait for our bringing, To crown with completeness the stores of His love.