Part 2

“Take me back to your love,” said the robin, “I’ll wander no more from your side, But through winter as well as in summer, I’ll evermore with you abide.”

O, is it not thus that the children Full oft leave the dear old home nest, To find that though skies may be fairer, The old love and home are the best?

And thus do we oft in our blindness, Unheeding the voices within, Stray away from the Infinite kindness To roam in the by-paths of sin.

But at length we grow weary of straying For the pleasures of sin always pall. And a voice to our spirits is saying, “Let the evil no longer enthrall.”

And when like the prodigal son, We turn from our wanderings wild, We find that the Infinite Father, Has never forsaken his child.

MUSINGS.

I sat by my window; watching The flakes of the falling snow, Flitting hither and thither, As though asking, “which way shall I go?” And I likened them in their motion, To the fate of our human lives-- Which are never at rest, but kept tossing, Wherever the tempest drives. Tossed by temptation and trial, By necessity, dire and stern. Jostled, and pushed, and crowded, Till we know not which way to turn. Then I thought, as each tiny snowflake, Drifts at last to the place of its rest, So, sometime, will each of earth’s children, Find the work and the place that is best.

THE SABBATH BELL.

Ding dong! ding dong! Rings the bell from out the steeple. Ding dong! ding dong! see the people, As the bell With its swell Seems to say Come away ’Tis Sabbath day.

Ding dong! ding dong! In answer to the call they go. The rich and poor, the high and low, To praise and pray, They haste away; The numbers swell, As sounds the bell Through vale and dell.

Ding dong! ding dong! What varied feeling it awakes; Of joy and sadness it partakes. O! Sabbath bell, You cannot tell, What tender feeling, And deep revealing, Lies in your pealing.

Ding dong! ding dong! O! Sabbath bells, ring out more clearly, Till everywhere, hearts more sincerely Worship and pray. Ring in the day Toward which we tend, When hearts shall blend, And all our prayers as one ascend.

WORDS.

Words are little things; but then They decide the fate of men; By them, souls are stirred; Ah! how little do we know What a weight of joy or woe May hang on a word!

Could we only stop and think That perhaps a severed link From our words may flow; Would the thoughtless word be spoken, By which tender ties are broken, Causing tears of woe?

Did we know what joy and gladness, We could bring to hearts of sadness By a loving tone; How the weight of care would lighten, And the dreary path would brighten, Of the lives so lone!

Should we not be ever trying While the hours of life are flying, For a loving heart? So that unto souls aweary, Unto those whose lives are dreary, We might joy impart.

Words are little things--yet still How much of our lives they fill With their weal or woe. How much happiness they bring, And how bitterly they sting, Every heart doth know.

THE POSTMAN.

’Tis almost time for the postman’s ring. Ah! how eagerly day by day Do we ask--Will he tidings from loved ones bring? From the loved ones far away?

Will he come with messages of cheer Sent by some loving friend? Or will the tidings be dark and drear, And the lines in sadness penned?

Ah! postman! how often does your ring Prove only a funeral knell! Alas! how oft does your coming bring A sadness we cannot tell!

Though there’s joy in the sound of your well known ring, There’s sadness, as well, we know; For often, too often, the tidings you bring, Cause tears of deep anguish to flow.

Yet we list for the sound of your well known ring Each day as the time comes round. Though we know not what tidings your coming will bring, ’Tis ever a welcome sound.

THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH.

The light is breaking! the world is waking From its long sleep of dark despair, And the glad morning is surely dawning, When truth shall triumph everywhere.

For long, long ages, both seers and sages, Have prophesied of a glad day, When doubt and terror and every error, Before Truth’s light should fade away.

And when the angels with glad evangels Should come to mortals here below, And ope the portals to joys immortal, That thus earth’s sorrowing ones might know,--

That life eternal, and joys supernal, Await them in the coming years. The full fruition of this condition, When smiles shall take the place of tears.

Then do not borrow one care or sorrow; Let not one doubt or fear assail; Press onward ever--forgetting never That Truth and Right will sure prevail.

With joy and gladness, and not in sadness, Look to the life beyond the tomb. O’er all victorious, it shall be glorious As sunlight, after night of gloom.

MEMORIAL DAY.

We have been to the graves of our heroes to-day, And over their loved forms have scattered Our memorial of flowers--sweet blossoms of May; While we wept o’er the fond hopes thus shattered.

We wept as we thought of the blood that was shed, And our hearts thrilled with saddest emotion As we thought of the loved ones now silent and dead, Who, filled with the fire of devotion,

Left all that was dear to engage in the strife, At the call of their country and nation; All honor to each who laid down his life, Whether lowly or high was his station.

All honor to husband, and father, and son, Who fought against wrong and oppression; Let us ever remember, the victory they won, Gave us liberty for our possession.

Ah! ’tis meet that a day of Memorial like this, To these dear martyred ones should be given; Though it cause us to weep for the forms that we miss, And sigh for the fond ties thus riven.

’Tis meet that we gather the choicest of flowers, And twine them with fond loving fingers, To lay on the graves of these heroes of ours Where affection so sacredly lingers.

BE TRUE.

Speak out for the right! stand up for the truth! In whatever light you may view it! Wherever you see there’s a work you can do, Go fearlessly forward and do it.

Don’t stop to inquire what people will say; Your work is your own--not another’s! Let no one’s opinion e’er stand in your way, Even though it should be a loved brother’s.

Wherever your lot in life may be cast, Whether lowly or high be your station, If you’re true to your own convictions of right, You are working for man’s elevation.

You may not have riches, or honor, or power; But there’s something far higher and better For “Riches take wings,” and honor and fame Too often prove only a fetter;

But he who can fearlessly stand by the right, And face every wrong and oppression, Is richer than he who lacks courage, although The wealth of the world’s his possession.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

Call him not dead! there is no death! Although the outward form may perish And from our sight be hid. ’Tis not the form we cherish.

Earth well may spare the casket, If the jewel it contains, In its brilliancy and splendor, unbroken, still remains.

Thoughts, words and deeds outlive the fleeting breath! Transcribed upon life’s page They ever stand! a joyous, or a darksome heritage.

These are the man! the clay Is but the scaffolding, by which we climb Upward, and onward, toward things more sublime.

This grand heroic soul, stands now Without the help of scaffolding of clay; His spirit basking in the sunlight of eternal day.

Unto his fellow men he has bequeathed A legacy of rich and noble thought. Of him, shall no one say “He lived for nought!”

Ah! soul so noble and so strong! From thy new life in realms sublime, Waft us an inspiration, for the work of coming time!

THE HUSKING PARTY.

’Twas on a bright October day, That young and old, with faces gay, From city homes and country farms, Went forth to taste the rustic charms Of an old fashioned husking.

They came from near and far to see What old time harvesting might be. To “Pleasant Hill” they wend their way, Where, in the autumn sunshine, lay The golden corn, for husking.

With hearts brim full of mirth and glee They fall to work, right cheerily; And as they work, some slyly say, “I wonder who will find to-day The red ear, while we’re husking?”

And as the merry laugh goes round, The hills are echoing to the sound. While stories of the by-gone days, Of apple bees, and harvest plays, Make pleasant work of husking.

The signal comes--they pause at last, And hie them to the noon’s repast. And now comes speech and pleasant toast; While many a fair one makes her boast Of doing most at husking.

The hour for dinner being o’er, They hasten to their task once more, With happy laugh and merry jest, While busy fingers do their best To finish up the husking.

At length each golden ear of corn, Is of its outer covering shorn. Thus might life’s duties all be done, Would we but take them one by one Like ears of corn, at husking.

And now the merry “Grangers” sing In joyous strains of harvesting. While sparkling eye, and ruddy cheek And pleasant smile, all plainly speak Of the delights of husking.

The supper o’er, the husking done, They dance and sing till set of sun. Then with farewells they speed away, With happy thoughts of this glad day, This merry day of husking.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

O! beautiful autumn leaves that vie With the gorgeous tints of the sunset sky! I welcome your coming, with pleasure untold; O, beautiful treasures of crimson and gold!

There’s a sadness steals over my spirit ’tis true, At the thought that to summer I’ve bidden adieu; But the autumn hath glories, which well may compare With the beauties of spring--or the soft summer air.

O! beautiful leaves, I’ll not leave you to perish Alone in the forest--with no one to cherish; Where the cold winds of winter shall chill and decay And turn your bright colors all sombre and gray.

But I’ll gather you up; and with berries and mosses, My fingers shall twine you in garlands and crosses, Your beauty shall be, through the dark wintry days, Like an anthem of joy or a tribute of praise.

BIRTHDAY LINES.

Forty-one years with its hopes and fears, Forty-one years of smiles and tears, Have passed--since on my infant brow A mother’s first kiss was placed; and now, Sitting here in the twilight gray, On this my anniversary day, Let me review the past;--and see What these years have done for me.

Forty-one years! why it seems but a day Since I knelt at my mother’s knee, to pray; While her voice was ascending in accents mild, Invoking heaven’s blessings upon her child. That mother was early called away; Yet I feel she is near me day by day; Watching over the child, she left Of a mother’s loving care, bereft.

Time passed; and then there came another To care for her child: a second mother. God bless her to-night in her distant home, And when her last hour of earth shall come, May the mother who bore us take her hand, And welcome her into the “Summer Land.”

Ere I reached the years of maidenhood By a father’s dying bed I stood;-- Bereft again of a parent’s care, I felt it was more than I could bear! Dear father, I know that although unseen, Thou, too, with thy child hast oft-times been. A few years more, and a youthful bride, I pledged my troth at the altar’s side, To one I had chosen from all I knew, By whose side to walk life’s journey through. At length, there came to bless our home, A little life, from the Great Unknown. Over this child so frail and fair, We watched with many an anxious care, From infancy to girlhood’s years, Alternating ’tween hopes and fears. But there came a day when hope was gone;-- And our beautiful singing-bird had flown;-- Leaving our hearts so lone and sad, We thought we could nevermore be glad; The sun seemed blotted from the sky; And I almost prayed that I might die. But from out this cloud, a beautiful light Shone into my heart; and so, to-night, Sitting here in this quiet place, A light from my darling’s angel face Illumines the past--and I know her hand Is beckoning me on to the “Better Land.”

Forty-one years! more than half the span Allotted here to the life of man! Years fraught with many a sorrow and care; Yet from my life record, not one could I spare; Since in later years, I have come to see That what is, is best--or it would not be. True, on my life book, there have been writ, Deeds which have caused me tears of regret. But the past is past, and I put it away; While from my heart I fervently pray, That my future, if future for me there be, May be lived more truly and earnestly.

NO ROOM FOR THE CHILDREN.

No room for the children! alas! it is sad That the dear little children who make life so glad, Whose innocent mirth and tender caressing, Should be to their parents a joy and a blessing, Too often are met with a frown or a sigh, Their rights all ignored or unheeded passed by.

No room for the children! how often we hear So thoughtlessly uttered, the words, “No my dear, You cannot come into the parlor to-day, There is company coming; so run to your play.” The child goes away, feeling troubled and sad; And she says to herself, “Oh! I shall be glad When I am grown big like mamma, and can stay With her and papa in the parlor all day. I wonder if mamma was ever, like me, Too little to stay in the parlor and see The beautiful ladies, with dresses so fine, Who came with her mamma and papa to dine. Oh! I wish God would help me to hurry and grow, And then with papa and mamma, I could go To ride in the carriage, and not hear them say, ‘There, run away darling, run off to your play.’”

“No room for the children!” there may come a day, When the children no longer will be in the way; When the angels shall come from the mansions above, And bear them away to the bright realms of love. Ah! parents; there may come a day when your child May be by the tempter ensnared and beguiled; When the words you now utter, “there, there, run away,” Shall be changed to the pleading ones, “stay at home, stay.”

INSPIRATION.

Inspiration! oh whence comes it? Whence its power? ah! who can tell? As it sweeps the spirits’ harp-strings, with its wondrous magic spell! Wafted to us in the breezes, as they fan our cheek and brow; Speaking to us in the tempest, ’gainst whose might the forests bow! Whispering to us from the dew-drops, and the gentle summer showers, Rushing o’er us, with a mighty overwhelming power, As with awe and adoration, stand we silent by the sea, While the roaring, surging billows, tell us of Infinity. Coming to us from the sand upon the shore, From the proud majestic mountain reaching upward evermore; Till the heavens seem to greet them, with a fond and loving kiss. Oh! the wondrous inspiration, that comes from a scene like this. How we feel the mighty Presence, as upon the mount we stand! Gazing outward in the distance, over sea, and over land; Or beneath, into the valley; where the fleecy cloudlets lie, Until, like a lake of silver, seems the valley, from on high. On these glorious cloud-pictures, how we gaze in silent awe;-- While our spirits, soaring heavenward, from them inspiration draw. Thus, unto us, nature ever, speaks in tones so loud and clear, That, whoever will but listen, her sweet cadences shall hear. But ’tis not alone from nature, that the soul this power derives; The sublimest inspiration, comes to us from human lives. From the heroes who have struggled ’gainst temptation’s mighty power; Battling with the wrong and evil, day by day, and hour by hour; Till at length they stand victorious over each besetting sin; Giving proof in daily living, of the purity within. How such glorious lives inspire us, even though their lips are mute. Just as sometimes o’er the spirit, does the whispering of the lute, Sweep with power, by far more potent than can come from organ’s swell; E’en as from the little brooklet, running through the mossy dell, We have drawn an inspiration, greater, than when on the shore

Of old ocean, we stood listening to its ceaseless surge and roar. Ah! not always will the eloquence of language tell, There’s an eloquence in silence--we are taught to know as well. Inspiration! ’tis around us, and above us, in the very air we breathe, When the Infinite Creator gave us life, he did bequeath Power to gather this rich treasure from the beautiful and pure. Drink, then, ever at this fountain; ’tis unfailing and secure; Fixed as Heaven’s eternal law, From it every one may draw.

OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

In my home I sat aweary, Thinking of the life so dreary That before me lay; Of the life once bright and cheery, That was now so dark and dreary, That had been so sad and lonely, Since my darling one, my only, Passed from earth away; Taking with her all the brightness, All the joy and all the lightness, Leaving me so lone, That my heart could not cease moaning, Could not cease its bitter groaning, For my child--my own.

Thus I sat in deepest sadness Thinking of the joy and gladness, That alas! had flown; Thinking of the joy and pleasure That she gave in such full measure, Thinking of her cheerful smiling, Of her song, the hours beguiling, And her loving tone. Till these memories o’er me thronging Filled me with intensest longing And I cried, “O tell! Where is heaven? and is she there? Did she climb the ‘Golden stair’? With her is it well?”

Though an angel child she seemed, Had she really been redeemed? Was she born of God? Had the blood on Calvary spilt, Made atonement for her guilt? Thus I pondered, sorely grieving, The old dogma still believing, That by Jesus’ blood Only, could the soul secure Life in Heaven; and was I sure That she had believed? Though her life was pure and sweet, And she seemed for Heaven made meet, Had she been received?

“Lord,” I cried in bitter anguish; “For some proof my soul doth languish, That in Heaven above With the blest and pure ‘Immortals’ Who have passed within its portals, With the pure and holy angels, She is chanting glad evangels, Chanting hymns of love. She while here, was ever singing, Her sweet tones were ever ringing, Like a silvery bell. Oh! almost beyond endurance Seems my grief--without assurance That with her, ’tis well.”

While thus, I sat moaning, sobbing, And my burdened heart was throbbing With its bitter grief, Suddenly a voice said near me, Child of earth, I come to cheer thee; Come to bring the words of gladness; Come to drive away the sadness; Come to bring relief Come to tell you that your child With her life so sweet and mild, Had a heaven on earth. And Death could not disinherit Of the pure and loving spirit Given her at birth.

But when she passed o’er the River, When from earth her soul did sever, All that she had gained By fulfilment of each duty, All that gave her life such beauty, All the love and all the pleasure, Every grace your soul doth treasure, All that was attained, By her, in the earth condition, Passed with her to full fruition, When to her ’twas given O’er the Golden stair to climb Upward toward the life sublime, To the life called “Heaven.”

As he spoke the cloud was rifted From my soul, the burden lifted, And a flood of light Filled my soul with radiant gleaming, With a new and heavenly beaming Like a pure seraphic vision Wafted from the realms elysian. Life once more seemed bright. As the flood of light rolled o’er me, Backward turned life’s page before me, Backward like a scroll. And I saw Heaven’s elevation Could be reached, but by gradation; By the growth of soul.

This is what the angel taught me, This the lesson that he brought me, That to me was given As I sat that day aweary, In my home so dark and dreary, In my home so sad and lonely, Where so late, my child, my only, From me had been riven. Now no more in doubt and sorrow Walk I, but sweet hope I borrow From the lesson taught. Now I know that Heaven must ever Come by earnest pure endeavor! It must be inwrought!

LIFE.

Men come and go! Almost before they learn to know That they are here, they disappear.

Ah! sad ’twould be If this were all; this mortal life; These few brief years of pain and strife.

But ’tis not all! For when we leave this earthly clay To higher life we soar away.

THE BABE’S MISSION.

Upon its mother’s breast a babe lay sleeping; While tears of bitter anguish she was weeping; The while her lonely vigil she was keeping.

’Twas but a few brief years, since she a youthful bride, Had pledged her troth to one, who, at the altar side, Promised to love and cherish, till death should divide.

Alas! how had that vow been kept? She asked, then bowed her head and wept Meanwhile upon her breast her infant slept.

Fiercely the storm was raging; and the rain With dismal sound beat ’gainst the window pane, The mother bent her listening ear in vain.

No sound save of the storm greeted her ear; Not one familiar footstep could she hear, To tell her he for whom she wept was near.

From out the tower the solemn midnight bell, Fell on her ear like a deep funeral knell; And at the sound, faster the tear-drops fell.

“O, God,” she cried, while thus her tears did flow, “How can I bear this heavy weight of woe? Shall I no more sweet peace and comfort know?”

While thus the mother prayed in accents wild, The babe upon her breast looked up and smiled; The shadows vanished as she kissed her child.

She raised her tearful eyes above And said, “Father, I thank thee for this little dove; I’ve something yet to live for, and to love.”

SWEEP CLEAN.

We remember well, the lesson Taught us in our early days By the mother, who was seeking To instruct in household ways.

She would say, “sweep clean my child,” As in hand we took the broom; Push aside the chairs and table, Sweep the _corners_ of _the room_.