Part 4

THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

High o’er the black-backed Skerries, and far To the westward hills and the eastward sea, I shift my light like a twinkling star, With ever a star’s sweet constancy. They wait for me when the night comes down, And the slow sun falls in his death divine, Then braving the black night’s gathering frown, With ruby and diamond blaze—I shine!

There is war at my feet where the black rocks break, The thunderous snows of the rising sea; There is peace above when the stars are awake, Keeping their night-long watch with me. I care not a jot for the roar of the surge, The wrath is the sea’s—the victory mine! As over its breadth to the furthest verge, Unwavering and untired—I shine!

First on my brow comes the pearly light, Dimming my lamp in the new-born day, One long, last look to left and right, And I rest from my toil—for the broad sea-way Grows bright with the smile and blush of the sky, All incandescent and opaline. I rest—but the loveliest day will die— Again in its last wan shadows—I shine!

When the night is black, and the wind is loud, And danger is hidden, and peril abroad, The seaman leaps on the swaying shroud; His eye is on me, and his hope in God! Alone, in the darkness, my blood-red eye Meets his, and he hauls his groping line. “A point to nor’ard!” I hear him cry; He goes with a blessing, and still—I shine!

While standing alone in the summer sun Sometimes I have visions and dreams of my own, Of long-life voyages just begun, And rocks unnoticed, and shoals unknown; And I would that men and women would mark The duty done by this lamp of mine; For many a life is lost in the dark, And few on earth are the lights that shine!

_Good Words._

A SWEDISH POEM.

It matters little where I was born, If my parents were rich or poor; Whether they shrank at the cold world’s scorn, Or walked in the pride of wealth secure; But whether I live an honest man, And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, I tell you, my brother, as plain as I am, It matters much!

It matters little how long I stay In a world of sorrow and care; Whether in youth I’m called away, Or live till my bones and pate are bare; But whether I do the best I can To soften the weight of adversity’s touch On the faded cheek of my fellow-man, It matters much!

It matters little where is my grave, On the land or on the sea; By purling brook or ’neath stormy wave, It matters little or naught to me; But whether the angel Death comes down, And marks my brow with his loving touch As one that shall wear the victor’s crown, It matters much!

THE DEMON ON THE ROOF.

JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

’Twas an ancient legend they used to tell Within the glow of the kitchen hearth, When a sudden silence upon them fell, And quenched the laughter and noisy mirth: That whenever a dwelling was building new, There were demons ready to curse or bless The noble structure, that daily grew Perfect in shape and comeliness.

And when the sound of the tools had ceased, Hammer and nails, and plane and saw, Ere yet the dwelling could be released From the evil spirits,—there was a law No master-mechanic could be found Able or willing to disobey— That a ladder be left upon the ground For their enjoyment, a night and a day.

And when the chimneys begin to roar, And voices harsh as the wintry wind Howl and mock at the outer door, The ancient legend is brought to mind, And we think, perhaps, that a careless loon, Not fearing the master’s stern reproof, Has taken the ladder away too soon And left a demon upon the roof.

And in every dwelling where joy comes not, And the buds of promise forget to bloom, Be it a palace or be it a cot, Amply splendid or scant of room, We may be sure that a demon elf, Fiendishly cruel and full of spite, Is sitting and grinning away to himself Up on the ridge-pole, out of sight.

But let it ever be borne in mind By those who often this legend quote, That with every evil some good we find, For every ill there’s an antidote. And if we use but the magic spell, And hearts draw near that were kept aloof, Good angels then in our homes will dwell, Despite the demon upon the roof.

ONLY A LITTLE.

DORA GOODALE.

A bird has little—only a feather Plucked, it may be, from a tender breast, Only a thread to bind together The delicate fabric of his nest; Yet he sings, “The wide, free air is mine, The dews of earth, the clouds of heaven!” He sits and swings with the swinging vine, And all he looks on to him is given.

A child has little—only a blossom Caught at random from fields of bloom. Only the love in a tender bosom, Freed from the shadow of care and gloom; Yet he laughs all day from the deeps of lightness, And feels his joy in the joy of heaven, He loses himself in a world of brightness, And all he asks for to him is given.

A man has little—only a longing Higher than labors of sword or pen, Only a vision whose lights are thronging Over the tumult and toil of men. Yet wealth is his from the wealth of being, His are the glories of Earth and Heaven, He feels a beauty too deep for seeing, And all he dreams of to him is given.

MY PORTION.

CARLOTTA PERRY.

Very little good have I, Wealth and station have passed me by; But something sweet in my life I hold That I would not exchange for place or gold. Beneath my feet the green earth lies, Above my head are the tender skies; I look between two heavens; my eyes Look out to where, serene and sweet, At the worlds fair rim the two heavens meet.

I hear the whispering of the breeze, The sweet, small tumults amid the trees; And many a message comes to me On the wing of bird, in the hum of bee, From the mountain peak and the surging sea. E’en the silence speaks a voice so clear, I lean my very heart to hear, And all above me and all around Light and darkness and sight and sound, To soul and sense such meanings bring, I thrill with a rapturous wondering. And I know by many a subtle sign That the very best of life is mine; And yet, as I spell each message o’er, I look and long for a deeper lore; I long to see and I long to hear, With a clearer vision, a truer ear; And I pray with keenest of all desire For lips that are touched by the altar fire. Patience, O soul! From a little field There cometh often a gracious yield; Who touches His garment’s hem is healed.

SAXON GRIT.

REV. ROBERT COLLYER.

Worn by the battle, by Stamford town, Fighting the Norman by Hastings bay; Harold, the Saxon’s sun, went down When the acorns were falling one autumn day. Then the Norman said: “I am lord of the land, By tenure of conquest here I sit; I will rule you now with the iron hand;” But he had not thought of the Saxon grit.

He took the land, and he took the men, And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne; Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen; Ate up the corn and drank the wine. From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, Our life shall not be by the king’s permit,— We will fight for the right; we want no more. Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit.

For slow and sure as the oaks had grown From the acorns falling that autumn day, So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town To a nobler nature grew alway. Winning by inches, holding by clinches, Standing by law and the human right; Many times failing, never once quailing, So the new day came out of the night.

Then rising afar in the western sea A new world stood in the morn of the day, Ready to welcome the brave and free, Who would wrench out the heart, and march away From the narrow, contracted, dear old land, Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, To ampler spaces for heart and hand; And here was a chance for the Saxon grit.

Steadily steering, eagerly peering, Trusting in God, your fathers came, Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame, Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, And hiding their freedom in holy writ, They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, And made a new Moses of Saxon grit,

They whittled and waded through forest and fen, Fearless as ever of what might befall, Pouring out life for the nurture of men In the faith that by manhood the world views all. Inventing baked beans and no end of machines, Great with the rifle, and great with the ax, Sending their notions over the oceans To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs;

Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, Yet open of hand when the dollar is made; Maintaining the meeting, exalting the scholar, But a little too anxious about a good trade. This is young Jonathan, son of old John, Positive, peaceable, firm in the right. Saxon men all of us, may we be one, Steady for freedom and strong in her might.

Then slow and sure, as the oaks have grown From the acorns that fell on the dim old day, So this new manhood, in city and town, To a nobler stature will grow alway. Winning by inches, holding by clinches, Slow to contention and slower to quit, Now and then failing, but never once quailing, Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.

THE LITTLE LIGHT.

The light shone dim on the headland, For the storm was raging high; I shaded my eyes from the inner glare, And gazed on the wet, gray sky. It was dark and lowering; on the sea The waves were booming loud, And the snow and the piercing winter sleet Wove over all a shroud.

“God pity the men on the sea to-night!” I said to my little ones, And we shuddered as we heard afar The sound of the minute-guns. My good man came in, in his fishing-coat (He was wet and cold that night), And he said, “There’ll lots of ships go down On the headland rocks to-night.”

“Let the lamp burn all night, mother,” Cried little Mary then; “’Tis but a little light, but still It might save drowning men.” “Oh, nonsense!” cried her father (He was tired and cross that night), “The Highland light-house is enough,” And he put out the light.

That night, on the rocks below us, A noble ship went down; But one was saved from the ghastly wreck, The rest were left to drown. “We steered by a little light,” he said, “’Till we saw it sink from view: If they’d only left that light all night, My mates might be here, too!”

Then little Mary sobbed aloud, Her father blushed for shame, “’Twas our light that you saw,” he said, “And I’m the one to blame.” ’Twas a little light—how small a thing! And trifling was its cost; Yet, for want of it a ship went down, And a hundred souls were lost.

WIND AND SEA.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

The sea is a jovial comrade, He laughs wherever he goes; His merriment shines in the dimpling lines That wrinkle his hale repose; He lays himself down at the feet of the sun, And shakes all over with glee; And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore In the mirth of the mighty sea.

But the wind is sad and restless, And cursed with an inward pain; You may hark as you will by valley or hill, But you hear him still complain. He wails on the barren mountains, And shrieks on the watery sea; He sobs in the cedar and moans in the pine, And quakes through the aspen tree.

Welcome are both their voices; And I know not which is best, The laughter that slips from ocean’s lips, Or the comfortless wind’s unrest. There’s a pang in all rejoicing, A joy in the heart of pain; And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the self-same strain.

HAPPINESS.

MAGGIE B. PEEKE.

I followed a bird to the north and south, I followed it east and west, With the longing to call it at last my own, And hide it within my breast: But the bird flew on, and I sought in vain, Through sunshine and wind, through the storm and rain.

I went to the city, to find it, where The restless crowd surged by; But the bird I sought, with its snowy wings Had flown to the upper sky,— And the crowds surged on, with their ceaseless din, Their waves of sorrow and folly and sin.

I went to the forest, where all day long A hush that was sweet fell down, And I watched for my bird with its magical song, But the shadows gave only a frown; So I knew that I never should find it there, And I gave up the chase in sullen despair.

I entered the lists of the busy world: I took up its burden of care, Its wrongs to be righted, its sorrows to lift, Its mountains of trouble to bear; And wearied, I laid me at last to rest. I awoke,—and the bird was within my breast.

AN ILLUMINED TEXT.

The gray monk, rising, with a loving pride Laid the long task of patient months aside, The simple story of the gospels told In lettering of crimson and of gold; On its rich pages streamed the setting sun, And now his life waned and his work was done.

He pushed away the heavy oaken door, And stood within the sunset calm once more. Above the narrowing round of life he knew A sense of beauty and of wonder grew. The text his art had copied, “God is Love,” Came to him like the home-returning dove.

As the wind whistled in the bearded grain; The tender words made music in his brain; The green leaves whispered of it, everywhere He read it on the blue scroll of the air, As if more clearly and in fairer guise The Lord Himself inscribed it for men’s eyes!

_Christian at Work._

* * * * *

Older than all preached gospels was this unpreached, inarticulate, but ineradicable, for-ever-enduring gospel: work, and therein have well-being. Man, Son of Earth and of Heaven, lies there not, in the innermost heart of thee, a spirit of active method, a force for work;—and burns like a painfully smouldering fire, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it, till thou write it down in beneficent facts around thee? What is immethodic, waste, thou shalt make methodic, regulated, arable, obedient and productive to thee. Wheresoever thou findest disorder, there is thy eternal enemy: attack him swiftly, subdue him; make order of him, the subject not of chaos, but of intelligence, divinity, and thee! The thistle that grows in thy path, dig it out that a blade of useful grass, a drop of nourishing milk, may grow there instead. The waste cotton-shrub, gather its waste white down, spin it, weave it; that, in place of idle litter, there may be folded webs, and the naked skin of man be covered.—THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE KING’S BELL.

EBEN E. REXFORD.

“No perfect day has ever come to me,” An old man said; “A perfect day for us can never be Till we are dead.”

The young king heard him, and he turned away In earnest thought. Did men ne’er find on earth the perfect day For which they sought?

A day all free from care?—so running o’er With life’s delight That there seemed room or wish for nothing more From dawn to night?

“It _must_ be that such days have come to man,” The young king said. “Go search—find one who found them—if you can!” Ah, wise gray head!

“I trust that some time such a day will come To even me,” The king said. But the old man’s lips were dumb— A doubter he.

“That you, and those about you all may know My perfect day, A bell shall ring out when the sun is low, And men shall say—

“‘Behold! this day has been unto the king A day replete With happiness. It lacked not anything— A day most sweet!’”

In a high tower, ere night, the passers saw A mighty bell, The tidings of a day without a flaw Some time to tell.

The bell hung silent in its lofty tower, Days came and went; Each summer brought its sunshine and its flower, Its old content;

But not the happy day he hoped to see. “But soon or late The day of days,” he said, “will come to me. I trust—and wait.”

The years, like leaves upon a restless stream, Were swept away, And in the king’s dark hair began to gleam Bright threads of gray.

Men, passing by, looked upward to the bell, And smiling said, “Delay not of the happy time to tell Till we are dead.”

But they grew old and died. And silent still The great bell hung; And the good king, bowed down with age, fell ill His cares among.

At dusk, one day, with dazed brain, from his room He slowly crept Up rattling tower-steps, in dust and gloom, While watchers slept.

Above the city broke the great bell’s voice, Silent so long. “Behold the king’s most happy day! Rejoice!” It told the throng.

Filled with strange awe, the long night passed away. At morn men said, “At last the king has found his happy day— The king is dead!”

NOBLESSE OBLIGE.

CARLOTTA PERRY.

If I am weak and you are strong, Why then, why then, To you the braver deeds belong; And so, again, If you have gifts and I have none, If I have shade and you have sun, ’Tis yours with freer hand to give, ’Tis yours with truer grace to live, Than I, who giftless, sunless, stand, With barren life and hand.

We do not ask the little brook To turn the wheel; Unto the larger stream we look. The strength of steel We do not ask from silken bands, Nor heart of oak in willow wands; We do not ask the wren to go Up to the heights the eagles know; Nor yet expect the lark’s clear note From out the dove’s dumb throat.

’Tis wisdom’s law, the perfect code, By love inspired; Of him on whom much is bestowed Is much required. The tuneful throat is bid to sing, The oak must reign the forest’s king; The rushing stream the wheel must move, The beaten steel its strength must prove. ’Tis given unto the eagle’s eyes To face the midday skies.

USES OF ADVERSITY.

If none were sick and none were sad, What service could we render? I think if we were always glad, We scarcely could be tender.

Did our beloved never need Our patient ministration, Earth would grow cold, and miss, indeed, Its sweetest consolation.

If sorrow never claimed our heart, And every wish were granted, Patience would die and hope depart, Life would be disenchanted.

THE VALUE OF LITERATURE.

The literature of the world is in a very deep sense the direct and most beautiful outcome of its life. Men have had but a partial success in shaping their external life, but their ideals, their aspirations, their highest thoughts of themselves are to be found in books. It is only as we unite the actual which we find in its history with the ideal which we find in its literature, that we are able to get any true understanding of an age. The value and vitality of great books lie not so much in their art as in the fidelity and completeness with which they represent human life. Literature is, in a word, the best that has been thought or dreamed in the world, and must therefore remain to the very end of time the most fascinating and the most fruitful study to which men can give themselves.—HAMILTON W. MABIE.

TRUE HEROISM.

Let others write of battles fought On bloody, ghastly fields, Where honors greet the man who wins, And death the man who yields; But I will write of him who fights And vanquishes his sins, Who struggles on through weary years Against himself and wins.

He is a hero, stanch and brave, Who fights an unseen foe, And puts at last beneath his feet His passions base and low; Who stands erect in manhood’s might Undaunted, undismayed— The bravest man that drew a sword In foray or in raid.

It calls for something more than brawn Or muscle, to overcome An enemy who marcheth not With banner, plume, and drum— A foe, forever lurking nigh, With silent, stealthy tread, Forever near your board by day, And night beside your bed.

All honor, then, to that brave heart, Though poor or rich he be, Who struggles with his baser part— Who conquers and is free! He may not wear a hero’s crown, Nor fill a hero’s grave; But truth will place his name among The bravest of the brave.

THE BURIAL OF THE OLD FLAG.

MARY A. BARR.

There is not in all the north countrie, Nor yet on the Humber line, A town with a prouder record than Newcastle-upon-the-Tyne. Roman eagles have kept its walls; Saxon, and Dane, and Scot Have left the glamour of noble deeds, With their names, on this fair spot. From the reign of William Rufus, The monarchs of every line Had a grace for loyal Newcastle, The city upon the Tyne.

By the Nuns’ Gate, and up Pilgrim Street, What pageants have held their way! But in seventeen hundred and sixty-three, One lovely morn in May, There was a sight in bonnie Newcastle! Oh, that I had been there! To hear the call of the trumpeters Thrilling the clear spring air, To hear the roar of the cannon, And the drummer’s gathering beat, And the eager hum of the multitudes Waiting upon the street.

Just at noon was a tender hush, And a funeral march was heard; With arms reversed and colors tied Came the men of the Twenty-third. And Lennox, their noble leader, bore The shreds of a faded flag, The battle-flag of the regiment, Shot to a glorious rag; Shot into shreds upon its staff, Torn in a hundred fights, From the torrid plains of India To the cold Canadian heights.

There was not an inch of bunting left; How could it float again Over the faithful regiment It never had led in vain? And oh, the hands that had carried it! It was not cloth and wood: It stood for a century’s heroes, And was crimson with their blood; It stood for a century’s comrades. They could not cast it away, And so with a soldier’s honors They were burying it that day.

In the famous old North Humber fort, Where the Roman legions trod, With the roar of cannon and roll of drums They laid it under the sod. But it wasn’t a tattered flag alone They buried with tender pride; It was every faithful companion That under the flag had died. It was honor, courage, and loyalty That thrilled that mighty throng Standing bare-headed and silent as The old flag passed along.

So when the grasses had covered it There was a joyful strain; And the soldiers, stirred to a noble thought, Marched proudly home again. The citizens went to their shops once more, The collier went to his mine; The shepherd went to the broomy hills, And the sailor to the Tyne; But men and women and children felt That it had been well to be Just for an hour or two face to face With honor and loyalty.

THE OLD STONE BASIN.

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

In the heart of the busy city, In the scorching noontide heat, A sound of bubbling water Falls on the din of the street.

It falls in a gray stone basin, And over the cool wet brink The heads of thirsty horses Each moment are stretched to drink.

And peeping between the crowding heads As the horses come and go, “The Gift of Three Little Sisters” Is read on the stone below.

Ah, beasts are not taught letters, They know no alphabet; And never a horse in all these years Has read the words; and yet