Poems of home and country :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou precious pledge of love,
Of ties that bind two kindred hearts in one,
Dear infant Mary; 't is with joy we hail
Thy coming; and with joy we both shall strive
To make thee happy, useful, thro' the scenes
Of mortal life. Heaven watch o'er thee, my child,
Thro' all thy infant slumbers; guard thee well
In youth's most tempting perils; spare thy life,
To us as precious as our own, and give,
When life shall end, a crown of joy.

But know,
My child, this is a world of grief and change;
And 't is a high behest, beyond the lot
Of changeful earthliness and worldly pride,
Which thou art sent to finish. When the day
That brings the power of knowing right and wrong
Shall be to thee, whate'er thou art, and where,
Know this, and 'grave it on thy memory,
Thy father and thy mother, fearing God,
Did, on this day which gave thee life and light,
To Him that life and light devote. Know, then,
Thou must not think thyself thine own on earth,
For thou art wholly consecrate to God,
Born for His service, given for His praise.
So live that thou mayst honor Him, and then
Sit down in heaven with all the glorified.

Waterville, Aug. 5, 1835.

CRADLE SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Our cottage vale is deep;
The little lamb is on the green,
His snowy fleece is soft and clean,
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
I would not, would not weep;
The little lamb—he never cries—
How bright and happy are his eyes,
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy rest shall angels keep;
The lamb before the doors shall feed,
And suffer neither want nor need.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Near where the woodbines creep;
Be like the lamb so meek and mild,
A sweet and kind and gentle child.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

SALLIE.

Thus comes another; may she stand
Among the saints in light,
Blest Saviour, at thy own right hand,
And walk with thee in white.

And should her pilgrimage be long,
And sharp affliction's rod,
Or short her pathway to the skies,
Oh, may it end in God!

October 18, 1838.

TO MY BLESSED WIFE.

ON THE BIRTH OF OUR “FIRST-BORN.”

'T was an eventful day that made thee feel
The breath of thy first-born. There are on earth
A thousand pleasant sounds, but none like that
In which the little babe, by slender cries,
Its earliest wants, else all unknown, reveals.
There is no sight to the young mother's eye
So full of sweet attractiveness, in all the scenes,
Tho' grand or beautiful in every part,
Of the Creator's works, as in the form
Of infant feebleness, and the first ray
In which its opening eye, unknowingly,
Looks up.

Well, 't is a holy gift. To us
The God we worship hath entrusted now
One of His jewels, to be trained on earth
For heaven's bright treasure-house. Oh, may He spare
The life so sweet and young, and ours, so full
Of weal or woe to her condition. And may He,
Who heard the prayer of Hannah, list to ours,
And take this dedicated child, to serve
And glorify Him here—then shine above,
A star of matchless radiance, in the crown
Of our Redeemer.

August 6, 1835.

OUR FRANK.

At first, a sickly babe, with angel face
And gentle heart, and meek, fond, clinging ways,
O'er whom the tearful eye and careful hand
Watched long and faithful, half in hope, and half
Too near despair, dreaming that thy young life,
Like flickering taper, would ere long go out,
And early blight assail thy slight weak frame.
Now thou art grown a strong and noble boy;
Health flushes thy young cheek, and from thy mouth
Pour shouts of childish joy. What hopes in thee
Lie treasured, child of our prayers, our eldest son!

God keep thee, Frank, firm in temptation's hour!
'T will come on thee; it has on all the earth.
God be thy shield, and God thy comforter;
We yield thee up to Him. Be thou His child,
Prompt to obey His will; His messenger,
To bear to darkened men the light of life;
His loving, loved disciple. May thy head
Rest on the Saviour's bosom, fitting place
For one whom earthly rest can never fill;
For gentle souls, for spirits born to be
Immortal as their author.

Live, fair boy,
A pillar of the truth on earth, and then
A gem, to shine with living, glowing light
Bright in the Saviour's coronet.

September 5, 1836.

TO LITTLE ANN.

Our babe, escaping from life's woes
Ere one brief day was given,
Just gleamed on earth, a fitful ray,
Then shone, a star in heaven.

At sunset's mild and chastened hour
We laid her 'neath the sod,—
Our earliest representative
Before the throne of God.

September 15, 1837.

DANIEL APPLETON WHITE.

Another bantling! lo, he comes,
Not Miss, but Mr., Fudge;
A master-spirit, born to be
Surnamed “the little judge”!

A portly personage, and fair,
In wit and knowledge big;
Fat as an alderman, and decked,
Judge-like, in his white wig.

Off! Puss and Frank and Sallie, off!
The Master bids you trudge!
For I, in all these parts, am made
His Majesty, the Judge!

“Tin plate and mug are mine,—who dares
My rank of power to grudge?
I'll have my way; I know I'm right,
Left-handed, but a judge!

“Off from the staircase! children, off!”
(Why don't the babies budge?)
“I'm coming down at one broad leap!”
There sprawling lies the judge.

Whatever mighty man has done,
Another, doubtless, can;
Now don't you think this wondrous judge
Will make a wondrous man?

June 18, 1840.

It was understood from the beginning that he was to be a lawyer, like his great-uncle whose name he bore; but he became a minister and a Doctor of Divinity.

II. ANNIVERSARIES.

TO MY DAUGHTER MARY, ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTH-DAY.

So! leap the limit now that parts
The woman from the child:
Enter life's great career at last,—
No more with toys beguiled.

Earth spreads its pageant at thy feet,
The bright world opens wide,—
Go, be a woman, glad assume
The toils which thee abide!

Or joy, or woe,—no tongue can tell
What fate thy lot may be;
But meet it bravely, strong in faith,
God rules thy destiny.

Like breezes o'er the bending grain,
Like sunlight on the wave,
Earth's rapid joys and trials pass;
Jehovah lives to save.

Go, be a woman; round thy path
Make love and gladness spring;
Reap in all fields; from every task
Some sheaves of goodness bring.

So shall life's current cheerful flow;
So bright shall be thy days;
No flattering words shall make thy fame;
Thy works shall be thy praise.

TO MY DAUGHTER MARY, ON HER WEDDING DAY.

Forth from the sheltering wing of home,
Forth from its sunlit bowers,
Fly like the bird, intent to roam,
And try her new fledged powers.

Peace spread its gentle pinions o'er
The nest so warm and fair;
And nature's glories round her pour,
When free in upper air.

O'er broad, sweet fields, on joyous wings,
With warbling throat, she flies;
She sings and soars, and soars and sings,
Plumed for the distant skies.

So from thy dear, delightful home,
With trusting faith aspire;
Life's beckoning labors bid thee come;
The high behest desire.

Like evening sunlight on the hill,
Like verdure on the sod,
Love, pure and ardent, lingers still
Where'er thy steps have trod.

April 27, 1858.

TO MY DAUGHTER, MARY W. JONES,

ON HER TWENTY-FIFTH MARRIAGE ANNIVERSARY.

APRIL 27, 1883.

Backward, to-day, my sunny thoughts are turning,
Speeding through happy years, loving and learning,
So gently led through flowery paths of blessing,
Life's truest joys in all their wealth possessing.

What was my wish,—my young heart's early craving,
What forms of bliss, before my fancy waving,
Still lured me on,—life's pathway scarcely broken,
And love's first lisping utterance scarcely spoken?

I hoped, I sang, so happy in my dreaming,—
Would the reality be like the seeming?
Have I life's choicest pleasures overstated?
Have I its Paradises antedated?

Or will the birds of bliss be ever winging
Their joyous flight around, soaring and singing;
Day feel no chill of twilight's damp descending,
Nor sunshine, risen in glow, find darkened ending?

Thank God, thank God, the bright path grows but brighter!
Thank God, pain's light yoke grows forever lighter!
The sunny course, which seemed at first so winning,
Confirms, a thousand fold, its fair beginning.

And thus the years, full five times five, so fleeting,
Told the sweet tale of strength and weakness meeting,
In summertide alike, and stormy weather,
Drawing the weak and strong closer together.

And one who came, full welcome, in life's entry,
Stands at our age's door, a loving sentry;
Fitly, with filial clasp in clasp maternal,
Binding the love-knot of our season vernal.

Hail, wedded pair, be yours no day of sorrows,
But only brilliant morns and glad to-morrows,
Till life at last, from earthly, grows supernal,
And joy, from earthly joy, becomes eternal.

TO SALLIE, ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY.

Spring, with its bright and cheerful hours,
Flies like the mist away;
But weaves around our fragrant bowers
The light of summer's ray.

And summer, with its brilliant beams,
Gives way to autumn's reign;
And every swelling garner teems
With heaps of golden grain.

So childhood, like the spring, retires,
That nobler youth may rise;
And youth to riper age aspires
And yearns for Paradise.

So life rolls on; each precious hour
Swells with the life to be,
And ripening years prepare the dower
Of immortality.

Leave the glad memories of the past,
To holier calls respond;
Upward with joyful vigor haste,
The goal is still beyond.

Passed is the limit that divides
Childhood from ripening life;
Go, see what work thy hand abides,
And dare the noble strife.

God be thy guide,—His sheltering hand
Direct and guard thy way;
So shall life's promises expand
In fair, immortal day.

October 18, 1856.

TO FRANK, ON HIS TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

SEPTEMBER 5, 1857.

So! be a man and gird thy soul
To life's exalted aims!
The world awaits thee; go and meet
Its just and lofty claims.

Temptation round thy bark will roar;
Stem its o'erwhelming tide,
Breast all its waves with manly force,
And in God's strength abide.

God calls the workman to his toil;
Go with strong arm and free,
To do His bidding, and await
Life's opening destiny.

As springs the oak, with budding hope,
From the small acorn riven,
Spreads far and wide its sheltering boughs,
And lifts its head to heaven,—

So from this starting point of life
Pursue thy widening way,
Blessing and blest, till time shall bring
The light of endless day.

EWING AT TWENTY-ONE.

Launched safely on life's sunny main,
With morn's bright promise round thee spread,
Live nobly, that earth's waiting train
May pour their blessings on thy head.

What e'er the voice of duty claims,
Go forth, thy destiny to meet;
Let tireless hope and lofty aims
Make darkness light and labor sweet.

Sow goodly seed in every field,
From every field rich harvests bring;
None is too poor some fruit to yield,
Let ripening glory crown life's spring.

So o'er thee—for love cannot tire—
God's covenant grace shall still abide,
Like Israel's pillared cloud and fire,—
By day, thy light; by night, thy guide.

And when, like autumn's withered leaves,
The proud, the base, unnoticed, fall,
Thy deeds shall be like garnered sheaves,
And God shall bind and keep them all.

TO MY WIFE AT FIFTY.

'T is fifty years,—God bless her,—
A little more, perhaps;
When the heart is good and loving,
How fast the years elapse.
We count time, not by pulse-beats,
Or wrinkles on the brow,
But by love's broad, lighted circle,—
An ever-lingering Now.

I spoke of wrinkles—did I?
Oh, no, the loving lines
Drawn round the earth, like girdles,
Have here impressed their signs;
And if white rose leaves sprinkle
Their sheen upon her hair,
The once bright auburn tresses
A silvery beauty wear.

I wrote it fifty,—did I?
It might be thirty less,—
Her young heart has such power
To care for and to bless;
As sunshine near the evening
Smiles with a fairer ray,
And makes the hour of setting
The sweetest in the day.

I might have written twenty,—
But one that filled her nest
Boasts of her thirty summers,
And a rosebud on her breast;
And one, grave years creep o'er him
And graver scenes employ,—
Now, a young, doting father,
But her once fair-haired boy;

And one, her babe caressing,
With fond, maternal look;
And one, his life consuming
O'er legal brief and book;
And two, intently watching
The shadows cast before,—
I might have written twenty,
But yet it must be more.

Yes, fifty years,—God bless her,—
Perhaps a little more;
No matter what the number,
'T is all a shining store,—
As summer wakes new blessings
With every day that springs;
And every breeze comes wafting
Fresh fragrance on its wings.

The days, in love and blessing,
Like glancing sunbeams sped,
Since angels sang, responsive,
Around her cradle-bed;
They chanted love and promise,
Not time, or years, to be;
No matter what the number,
Perhaps 't is fifty-three.

February 8, 1866.

OUR GOLDEN WEDDING.

1834–1884.

Behold, dear wife, how things have changed,
Through sunshine and through showers;
The spring has ripened into fall,
The buds have turned to flowers.

What long, wide paths our feet have trod,
Since the far days of old!
But love has changed each woe to good,
The silver moon to gold.

These fifty years of wedded love,
How brief and few they seem!
Swift as a summer-day of joy,
Eventful as a dream!

The babes we fostered long ago,
And called them “children” then;
The girls are into mothers grown,
The boys to stalwart men.

We launched our bark in sunny youth,—
The date seems far away;
But years have shortened into months,
Months into fleeting days.

Once, like new ships, that ride in port,
With canvas all unfurled,
Successful voyagers, our keel
Has sailed half round the world.

By day God's loving cloud has moved,
A shelter o'er our head;
And still by night our winding course
The pillared fire has led.

Sail on, fair craft, so bravely kept
Unharmed by wind or wave;
The hand so skilful to direct,
Is mighty, too, to save.

Sail on, sail on, till golden light
Shines o'er the distant sea,
And guides the vessel to its port,
Blest immortality.

September 16, 1884.

TO CARRIE ON HER FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY.

Child of my warm affection,
Hast thou so stately grown?
And can thy years be fifty,—
My little one, my own?
Thy love, thy sunny temper,
Thy sweet and blessed ways
Made thee a child of promise
In all thy early days.

The years have passed so swiftly,
I took no note of time;
Art thou a wife,—a mother?
While babes around thee climb?
Art thou, in light and power,
One of the world's bright rays?
Do thy companions bless thee;
And are thy works thy praise?

Ah, yes, the years advancing
Have brought thee joy and grief,
As thou to many a weak one
Hast ministered relief.
A blessing to the living,
A watcher o'er the dead,
Heaven weaves its crown of honor,
A halo round thy head.

And if thy darling left thee
To find his home above,
Heaven has its many mansions,
Heaven is the land of love;
Trial may prove a blessing
O heart, be still and brave,
Wait for the great revealing,—
God takes but what He gave.

As from the eastern glory
The morning sun ascends,
And in a fairer radiance
His western journey ends,—
So from the sweet beginnings,
A brighter noon shall grow,
And Heaven shall crown thy fifties
With its immortal glow.

August 19, 1893.

MY WIFE, TO A FRIEND WHO WOULD GUESS HER AGE.

Oh, no, my friend, you blunder there,
Your guess is far from true;
She has grown dearer many a year,
But not yet “sixty-two.”

Time's careless fingers o'er her head
Have dropped the crystal dew,—
The pearls flow down in silver gloss;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”

You think she 'd seen so much of life,
Alike the old and new,
She must be quite advanced, perhaps,—
Well, far from “sixty-two.”

You might have guessed more wisely, friend,
Had you a better clew;
You judge her by her wisdom?—Well,
She is not “sixty-two.”

Her cheerful face, her bonny curls,
Her heart so warm and true,—
Tell tales of years of joy and love;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”

For years, home's sunny bowers more bright
With clustering offshoots grew,
And other bowers have reared their young;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”

Diminish it by four, I pray;
Her sky, still bright and blue,
Bends, loving, round her youthful head;
Yet she 's not “sixty-two.”

The silvery brown that crowns her brow
Suggests “Serenely wait,
And sometime, on some pleasant morn,
She'll wake, just fifty-eight.”

February, 1871.

OUR FIFTY-NINTH MARRIAGE ANNIVERSARY.

Not gifts of gold or costly gems,
But that which is all price above,
The festal marriage-day provides,—
Mercies to cheer and hearts to love.

How many sunny years have passed!
And each has left its radiant line;
The fifty long ago were told,
And now, behold, 't is fifty-nine.

God of the loving, God of love,
Whose favor blessed the earlier days,
Shine on the years that yet remain,
While silver hairs proclaim thy praise.

September 16, 1893.

SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING.

TO MY WIFE, SEPTEMBER 16, 1834–1894.

Sixty benignant years,
With all their joys and tears,
Have rolled by,
Since we, made one for life,
Were wedded, man and wife,
You and I.

The blest days we have seen,
The lands where we have been,
You and I,
Will linger on the brain,
Like some sweet song's refrain,
Till we die.

The friends our hearts have loved,
Whose love our hearts have proved,
Yours and mine,—
Some are our solace yet;
Some, like bright suns, now set,
Still they shine.

The years and ages pass,
Like shadows o'er the grass,—
Love endures;
Plants of immortal root
Cluster immortal fruit,
Ours-and-yours.

TO MARY REED (FRANK'S WIFE), AT FIFTY.

FEBRUARY 9, 1843–1893.

So swiftly the years on their axles have rolled,
The scenes they have brought us seem only a dream,—
Like shooting stars, crossing the ocean of blue,
Or bubbles of air floating down on the stream.

When roused from our dreaming, we find 't is all real,
The months, in their flight, have rolled up into years,
With shadows and brightness, with sorrows and joys,
The glow of their hopes, and their faith, and their tears.

Our birthdays, like milestones, are stationed to tell
How rapid the pace, and how far off the start;
We note them, we count them; but what are the years,
If only young love lingers warm in the heart?

Methinks Father Time, in his hurry, forgot,
And marked on his tally more years than have sped;
No blush of the red rose has paled from your cheek,
No petal of white fluttered down on your head.

By sickness and weakness, bereavement and pain,
Like flowers by the tempest your heart has been bowed;
But Love has provided more gladness than gloom,
More mercy than judgment, more sunshine than cloud.

What mercy and goodness have gleamed through your years!
How lovely, how swiftly the fifty have passed!
With glow of the sunset, and glory, and peace,
May fifty be added,—the crown of the last.

TO MY BELOVED WIFE, AT SEVENTY.

Threescore and ten! the blushing spring
Has changed to autumn's brown;
The glossy head, for auburn curls,
Now wears a silver crown.

Fair day of life, so rich in good!
So seldom tempest-tossed!
How joy and love have filled the space
Between the bloom and frost!

And thou half round the globe hast trod;
Hast traced, from distant seas,
The northern crown and southern cross,
And felt the tropic breeze.

Thy children, held in honor, stand,
Known in the world's highways;
Thy husband, too,—and he, with theirs,
This loving tribute pays.

And all thy steps, divinely planned,
God's loving care has led;
And countless blessings has His hand,
Like spring-flowers, round thee shed.

Threescore and ten! the limit reached
That human years may fill,—
God's covenant love, God's promised grace
Will shield and guide thee still.

And life's long path, through sun and storm,—
Blest boon to mortals given,—
Or smooth, or rough, at last shall prove
One long, sweet path to heaven.

Davenport, Iowa.

TO MY WIFE ON HER SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.

RETROSPECTIVE PICTURES.

A fairy girl, with wavy curls;
Her trade in books and pen,
Like one who scatters lovely pearls;
Her sunny years,—just ten.

Another figure, stately grown,—
What changes time has wrought!
How swift the sobering years have flown,
With noblest purpose fraught!

Twice ten,—the scene is changed; I hear
His, “Wilt thou?” her “I will;”
She pledged her faith without a fear,
Risking, or good,—or ill.

Again, thrice ten,—and clinging buds
In sweet affection twine,
Successive, with their tendrils fair
Around the clustering vine.

Four tens,—the happy summit reached,
Life's harder conflicts done,
Her sunny curls with silver streaked,
Life's golden prizes won.

Revered and loved, with honor crowned,
Now with her five times ten,
In peace and hope she walks and lives,
Lives, in her babes, again.

Sweet eminence, too fair to leave,
And so she lingers still;
Her cup of good, at six times ten,
What constant blessings fill!

The world is wide; like Israel's hosts,
Sheltered and led of God,
At seven times ten her favored steps
Remotest empires trod.

Five more are added,—years of joy;
Walk on, with trusting feet,
Till years full twenty-five shall make
Thy century complete.

February 8, 1888.

TO MY WIFE ON HER EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.

[_]

This poem divides fourscore years of life into four parts, of one score each. It proceeds on the idea that the first score of a life of eighty years is mainly a period of labor and promise, like spring; the second, of vigorous toil, activity, and growth, like summer; the third, harvest and fruit from the preceding period, like autumn; the fourth, rest and beauty, like winter, which is marked by the rest and crystalline beauty incident to that season.

First Score.—Spring.

A score of years!—as spring matures
Its tender bud, and leaf, and bloom,
While Time's swift shuttle flies and weaves
The loveliest tints in nature's loom,
Day after day the picture grows
Beneath the weaver's skilful hand,
Till the sweet beauty stands complete,
Which love conceived and wisdom planned,—
So light and shade, and night and day,
Blessed the fair flower of human mould,
While frame and form, and heart and mind,
Hasted like petals to unfold;
What tint and tone of grace they bore,
What richest fruits! 't was just a score.

Second Score.—Summer.

A second score!—as summer calls
The fervent heart and toiling hand
To wield the scythe, to bind the sheaf,
To answer labor's high demand,

No hour is left for aimless play;
All the long day, till evening lowers,
Life bids to work, its stern behest
Demands the workman's grandest powers,—
So in the summer tide of hope
With ceaseless pains the matron wrought,
By noble deeds and nobler aims
Enriching life, inspiring thought.
What summer growth those labors bore!
What ripening fruits!—life's second score.

Third Score.—Autumn.

Threescore!—how richly autumn bends
Beneath her weight of fruit and flowers!
Beauty and plenty glow and meet,
Like garlands twined around her bowers;
The heat and drought, the dew and rain,
And wearing toil which months record.
God notes them all,—no work is lost,
And each at last brings large reward.
So harvests from thy heart and hand
Are heaped along the world's highways;
Children and children's children blend
Their voices in thy worthy praise.
Thy works, the third, the fruitful score,
Are like the autumn's garnered store.

Fourth Score.—Winter.

Fourscore!—how sweet, how fair the scene,
When winter spreads, o'er all the earth,
Her bridal robe of purest white,
Her crystal gems, of heavenly birth!
Peace reigns where all was life and care;
Nature keeps jubilee of rest;

Of all the seasons, each admired,
This is the loveliest, the best.
So when the vessel nears its port,
Its anchor in smooth water cast,
With its rich cargo safe at home,
It rides the gentle wave at last;
Yet sail along this peaceful shore,
I pray, dear wife, another score.

TO MY WIFE, AT EIGHTY-ONE.

I've known and loved her many a year
Since first I called her mine.
“How many years?” I'll tell you, friend,—
Why, fifty years and nine;
So many years we talked of “ours,”
And never “mine” and “thine.”

She must be quite advanced, I think,—
A queen with silver hair.
Oh, never mind the months and days;
The things that people wear
Are all outside; there 's something else,
That 's ever young and fair.

'T is love that makes the joy of life,—
Love, the best gift of heaven;
A clasp that holds when meaner ties
Grow feeble, or are riven;
It keeps its circle perfect, like
The Hebrew number “seven.”

And so the years have trundled on,
Alike in calm and storm;
Our birdies, in bright plumage dressed,
Of comely growth and form,
Have fled the nest,—the dear old nest,—
And still the nest is warm.

The world is better for the songs
Thy fairy lips have sung;
And sweeter for the fragrant flowers
Around thy pathway flung,—
God's gift, as true in silvery age
As when they called thee “young.”

Queen of my heart, queen of my house,
Its gladness and its sun,
Dear for the thousand things thou art,
For thousands thou hast done,
Blest are the years thy life has spanned,
Thy fourscore years and one.

February 8, 1894.

TO MY WIFE ON HER EIGHTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY.

'T is well to celebrate the days
That mark the flight of years,
And, thoughtful, take account of stock,—
The joys, the hopes, the fears,
That crowd the life, or broad or brief,
Along the curious maze,
A precious tribute, each, in turn,
On Memory's altar lays.

Thou canst not e'er forget the eve,
In thy young brilliant life,
When, without change of soul or name,
Thou wast a wedded wife.
Forget? Oh, no; nor, nobler still,
The blessings of that other,
When infant beauty on thee smiled,
Saluting thee as mother.

Refreshing as, in summer's heat,
Comes to the rose the dew,
And gladdening as the perfumed breeze.
Thy heart so warm and true;
Knitting fresh links of love and bliss,
An ever-lengthening chain,
Thine is the honored sum, to-day,
Of fourscore years and twain.

February 8, 1895.

III. TENDER PARTINGS.

ELIZABETH, THE INFANT ANGEL.

Ascended, dearly loved, in life's young bud;
Too fair, too sweet, 'mid earth's rude blasts to stay,
Safe in the bosom of thy Father, God,
Bright, beauteous infant, from thy cumbering clay
So soon escaped, its happy heavenward way
Thy soul hath taken. Like the light of morn,
Thou didst shed on us one fair passing ray,
Then to thy glorious Source, thou, babe, wast borne.

Dear infant angel, safe in joy and God!
Babe of fair promise, child of fondest prayer!
Hail, rescued spirit! painful is the rod;
But never will we mourn that thou art there.
Bright gem, we would not tear thee from thy crown,
Nor bid thy harp, sweet seraph, silent lie;
Stay in thy mansion, infant, still our own,
Never to grieve again, or fear, or die.

Short was thy pilgrim path, a sunny hour;
Life was to thee too sweet a boon to last.
What joy it gave thee, gentle morning flower!
How soon the glorious pageant o'er thee passed!
Passed! Yes, from earth,—but fairer life is thine;
The vale of death thy little foot hath trod;
And now in life immortal thou dost shine,
Dear infant, in the paradise of God.

March 24, 1842.

THE JEWEL AND ITS SETTING.

I had a jewel passing rich,
Set in its lovely frame;
How on the prize my heart was fixed
From the bright day it came!

The setting was of choicest skill,
As fair as fair could be;
And art divine had done its best
To make it sweet to me.
The purple haze of distant hills,
The evening's golden light,
The bending rainbow's painted arch,
Were, to my eye, less bright.

The gleaming of the silver sheen
Across the summer sea;
The grace that winds the clinging vine
Around the greenwood tree;
The weeping elm, the stately pine;
The breath of fragrant flowers;
The broad, blue sky, the landscape green,
The leafy, sheltering bowers;
The dark line of the circling hills
Around the horizon's verge;
The blue rim of the far-off sea,
Where billows toss and surge,—
All have their glory; all, their worth;
On each the dazzled eye
Loves to look lingeringly, and gaze
Raptured and dreamily;

From each the mantle of such grace
Seems round its charms to fall,—
The setting of my beauteous gem
To me surpassed them all.

So fair the setting; fairer yet
The priceless, sparkling gem,
Fit honor for a princely hand,
Or regal diadem.
The jewel made the setting bright,
Within whose clasp it shone;
'T was for its sake the frame was carved;
The chief charm was its own.

And happy seasons onward passed,
And mornings went and came;
And still the precious jewel there
Flashed in its precious frame.
At last, some sad, sad chance befell,
Which dashed it to the ground:
The precious setting, ruined, fell;
The gem was safe and sound.

My babe was like the jewel rare;
The frame, his cherished form;
I pressed it to my throbbing heart,
Dreading some wasting storm.
The storm has spoiled the setting fair,
But for a season given;
The gem I prized, unharmed, still shines
Forever safe in heaven.

Chicago, 1885.

IN MEMORY OF MARY WHITE SMITH.

RANGOON, BURMAH, FEBRUARY 5, 1888.

I see the blessed angels there;
They beckon me away
From night and pain, from sin and death,
To gladness, light, and day.

I see them on the shining stairs;
What pure white robes they wear
'T will be a heaven of untold bliss
To dwell forever there.

I see, I see their shining wings!
I hear, I hear them raise,
In sweetest tone, in words unknown,
Their songs of joy and praise!

Come, little pilgrim, come away,
To you such grace is given;
Come, for of children such as thou
The kingdom is of heaven!

She listened; up the shining stairs
With happy feet she trod,
And found, so young, that blessed home,
The paradise of God.

February 6, 1878.

TWO GARDENS,

THE HEAVENLY AND THE EARTHLY.

Two gardens, flourishing and bright,
Kept by one gardener's care,
Smiled in the sweet and sunny light,
And breathed with perfumed air.

One stood, all bathed in heavenly joy,
As if in early spring
An angel, clad in rainbow dyes,
Shook beauty from his wing.

No frost the unfolding petals knew,
No blight on bud or bloom;
No lowering cloud, no chilling dew,
No emblem of the tomb.

And one, o'er every fragrant bed
A chastened sadness lay,
As when the evening shadows close
Around a summer's day.

Lily and rose and violet smiled,
Fair as a glorious gem;
But rose and lily, doomed to fade,
Sat on a fragile stem.

In one, a plant of beauty blessed
A sweet sequestered bower,
Breathed fragrance where its bloom was nursed,
And grew, a matchless flower.

The gardener saw its peerless charms,
And chose a flower so rare
To grace his other garden-bed
And so removed it there.

And now where angels walk in white,
A land of cloudless skies,
The gathered lily fitly blooms,—
A flower of Paradise.

IV. REUNIONS.

SALLIE'S HOME.

This is my home,—my fair, bright home,
The home of peace, and hope and love;
The green fields wide expand below,
And heaven's blue arch bends sweet above.

Light sifts among the quivering leaves,
Like angels floating from the sky;
And twittering birds around the eaves
Whisper of unseen homes on high.

Mine are the windows where the sun
Pours his fair light in golden streams,
And morn and eve and glowing noon
Are gladdened by his healing beams.

Mine are the rooms, for rest and love,
For patience, work, and worldly care;
For books, and friends, and widening thought,
For tranquil joy, and holy prayer.

Mine is the landscape, rich and rare,—
Beyond the wealth of Sheba's queen;
The pleasant homes, the clustering vines,
The long cathedral aisles of green.

Mine, through His love whose reverend head
Is pillowed on the Saviour's breast;
Mine, through His grace whose promise bids
The widowed heart on Him to rest.

Mine,—yet not mine; for all is God's,
Myself and all I call my own.
I bow, submissive to His will;
I kneel, a supplicant, at His throne.

Mine,—yet not mine; and He is mine,
On Him I lean, on Him I call,
Rejoiced, were all my comforts fled,
To find in Him my all in all.

Bridgeport, Conn., May 24, 1891.

AT THE OLD HEARTHSTONE AGAIN.

SEPTEMBER 16, 1876.

Once, on a bright and happy night,
At the full moon in September,
A fair young girl, in brilliant curls,—
Long ago, but we remember,—
She pledged her loving heart and hand,
In the joy of opening life,
Thenceforth to be, or weal or woe,
A fond and faithful wife.

And so two souls, like mingling drops,
Began their course together,
Making one life,—like rainbow hues
Blended in showery weather.
A day, a happy moon, a year,
The tide of time rolled on;
Days, weeks and moons,—oh, who can tell
Where the glad year has gone?

One day within the happy nest
Another life was breathing:
Three souls—not two—in union new,
Young buds of joy were wreathing;
Two Marys made the mansion bright,—
Two Marys, great and small;
And one high shadowing arm of love
Embraced and gladdened all.

Yet more, as sped the rolling years,
Like dewdrops of the morning,
The unwarlike infantry advanced,—
Married life's best adorning;
And joy and promise, hope and love,
Illumed with shining ray,
As sunbeams glittering on the sea,
Life's varied, cheerful day.

At last, when the young curling locks
White rose-leaves came to sprinkle,
And near the corner of the eyes
Appeared just one small wrinkle,
Six youths and maidens stood within
Those loving arms, caressing,
These prizing what those joyed to give,
The sire's and mother's blessing.

And who are these? How swift old Time
Works the most wondrous changes!
How the arithmetic of youth
That slippery elf deranges!
The six are twelve; the twelve,—ah me!—
Eleven more, sweet mother.
To these add HIM and HER; and, please,
The NINETY makes one other.

'T was only two, in earliest years;
Then Mary made it three;
One wore, long since, the shining robes
Of immortality.
My head is puzzled o'er the count;
My brain is in a fix!
'T was two, 't was three, 't was four—and now
They say it 's twenty-six.

One Mary once,—now Mary 's five;
One Anna,—now two more;
One S. F. S.,—now three; two Sa.'s,
And babies, half a score.
Of lawyers, two; of preachers, four;
Of presidents, a pair.
What wonders, in the land of dreams!
On earth, what wonders rare!

So here, to-day, in grateful love,
One precious band, we mingle;
Each for the others bound to live,
No heart, no interest, single.
Some keep and bless the early home;
Some watch where day beams wake;
And some where gorgeous evening dies,—
All for each other's sake.

God keep the little circle whole
For years, the jewels brightening:
Each joy, through Him, made richer joy,
Each grief, He, for all, lightening;
Till, in some happy clime rejoined,—
Rejoined, no more to sever,
We meet, and weep, and sing, and praise,
And love,—love on, forever.

SOCIAL AMENITIES.

KIND GREETINGS.

THE FRIENDSHIPS WE FORMED.

HARVARD CLASS OF '29.

The friendships we formed when life was still young;
The sports that we joined in, the songs we then sung,—
How oft from the chambers of memory they well,
Like the echo of waves in the beautiful shell.
The griefs we have met on the pathway of life,
The conquests won bravely amid the stern strife,
The light and the shadow, the joy and the woe,—
Form, like sunshine and raindrop, the radiant bow
That rests on the brow of the storms that are o'er,
That lights up the wave where it breaks on the shore,
That fades like the fair hues of hopes that are riven,
But sails, as it fades, thro' the blue arch of heaven.
The garlands we wove on the foretop of Time,
Tho' robbed of the freshness they wore in our prime;
The castles we built, so lofty and fair,
Tho' crumbled to dust, or vanished in air;
The barks we once freighted, with hearts beating high,
And launched on the sea without tremor or sigh,

Tho' sunk in the ocean or dashed on the reef,
The more grand their career, the more sad and more brief;
Tho' the plants we have loved to angels are given,
Having climbed o'er the wall, and are blooming in heaven,—
Still this chain of our love does not weaken with years,
Nor wear with the friction of toil and of tears;
Nor crumble in dust, nor vanish like breath;
Nor chill with the darkness, and shadow of death;
Nor perish in shipwreck, nor waste in the tomb,—
A thing to be lost in earth's gathering gloom.
Tho' Time's jealous fingers make all things decay,
We brighten its links as the years pass away;
We fastened the lock in our youth and our glee,
Then wandered abroad and have lost the sole key.
But the heart-clasp unites so firmly the chain
That 't is welded by time, and must ever remain.

January 6, 1859.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND AT TWENTY-ONE.

Like a swift racer, clear the lines
That cross thy life's unfolding plan,
And leave the plays that please the child,
For toils that dignify the man.

The world before thee waits thy choice;
The coming years to thee belong.
With stern ambition climb the heights;
Let hardships only make thee strong.

Cleave to the good, the pure, the just;
Be thy whole life a life of love;
By noble thoughts and lofty aims,
Thyself to men and God approve.

Love the dear land that gave thee birth,—
The land thy fathers died to save;
They, the real nobles of the earth,
The true, the loyal, and the brave.

Walk in the footsteps of the wise;
Frown on the wrong, the right defend;
Spurn from thy soul all selfish aims;
Do thy whole duty till the end.

So shalt thou leave a fragrant fame;
Thy deeds thy monument shall raise;
The world shall bless thy honored name,
And men unborn shall speak thy praise.

Charles Foster Roby, of Chicago. 1893.

TO A YOUNG MAIDEN.

As blushing tints still mantle o'er the shell
Whose tiny owner dwells in it no more;
As fragrant rose-leaves to the traveller tell
Where nodded in its pride the beauteous flower,—
So may thy path through this fair world be strewn
With sweet remembrances, to rouse and cheer
The weary wanderer, gladly forced to own
Where thou hast trod, a joy still lingers there.

September 12, 1872.

REV. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE'S 70TH BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION.

Threescore and ten!—the crimson sunlight, waning,
Lights up the landscape with intenser glow;
The arch of days—some, bright; some, dull with raining—
Is spanned and clasped with heaven's fair, radiant bow.

Threescore and ten!—the years consumed in toiling,—
Honored and happy, how they fled away!
Earth of its woes, and time of stings despoiling,
Day ever brightening into fairer day!

Threescore and ten!—how has the infant's prattle
Changed to the eloquence of active men!
How many, fallen in life's stern storm and battle,
Passed on, and crowned, will come no more again!

Threescore and ten!—how fondly memory lingers
With friends and voices known and loved so well!
And deft with inspiration, Fancy's fingers
Weave the old histories with their magic spell.

Threescore and ten!—yet marked by no decaying,
The juicy vine festoons the sunny hill,—
Its summer foliage, fresh and full, displaying,
And clusters ripening on the trellis still.

Threescore and ten!—Oh, is it fact, or dreaming?
How strangely wrong our judgment is, of men;
In form and feature, strong and youthful seeming,
We lose the date, and think age young again.

Threescore and ten!—the evening shadows lengthen,
And whispering winds their fragrant incense breathe;
Faith, hope, and love the pilgrim spirit strengthen,
And hands unseen their benedictions wreathe.

O Life mysterious, whose slow unfolding
Evades the prying of our human ken!
We trust the future to His wise upholding
Whose love has watched the threescore years and ten!

DEACON GEORGE W. CHIPMAN, AT SEVENTY.

'T is fitting thus to honor the man of threescore years and ten,
Who has fulfilled his mission nobly among the sons of men,—
Like a warrior, safe returning from a hundred well-fought fields,
Like a reaper, with his arms full of the sheaves good tillage yields.

Some silver hairs are creeping, one by one, among the brown;
'T is always so when the angels set to weaving glory's crown,

Like the great sun in heaven, when it nears the horizon's rim;
Nor is his natural force abridged, nor his peerless sight grown dim.

So a tall cathedral pillar, planted firm by ancient hands,
So a tree amid the forest, braving storm and tempest, stands;
So the lighthouse, sending forth its rays across the billowy foam,
Unmoved while the generations pass, guides many a pilgrim home.

Where are the children he once knew? Methinks the birds are flown,—
The lisping girls are matrons; the boys, gray-beard men are grown;
The old nests, or others like them, on the old branches hang,
And the younger broods still warble as the birds of old time sang;
And the eye that saw, the voice that led, the heart that loved their trill,
Though fifty springs have vanished, sees them, leads them, loves them, still.
How the many earlier reapers from the field of toil have passed,
And memory round their absent forms has its mantle of glory cast!
They passed as the twilight passes into the noontide ray,
As the morning star is melted in the light of glowing day.

The pastors whom he loved and helped,—some still reap earth's harvests white;
Some, glorified, walk with the Lamb on high, in raiment of dazzling light.
Thank God, as suns at setting shed their glow on each purple hill,
One orb, that shone at morn and noon, in its brightness lingers still.
A Nestor, in the field he tilled, we cannot think him old!
No ice has chilled his tropic heart, no rust forms on the gold.

His step is yet firm; his hand is strong; his mellow voice still rings.
He speaks,—men listen to his word; he moves, as if with wings.
Erect his form, and on his face not a channel left to show
How the glaciers of olden time slid down into the valleys below.
His bright meridian sun, perchance, down towards the horizon dips,
But sinks behind no shadowing cloud, is hid by no eclipse;
As new year follows new year, and day wakens after day,
Onward, and upward, upward still, it holds its shining way;
And setting, like the orbs of night behind the darkening west,
When the hours of noble toil have earned the fitting hours of rest,
It will set, alone to this lower sphere, but, by a law sublime,
Set only to rise in glorious light in a far brighter clime.

LYMAN JEWETT, D.D., ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.

Honored by all, where'er thy name is heard,
Beloved apostle of thy loving Lord,
We greet thee gladly on thy festal day,
And gladly at thy feet our tribute lay.

Honored, to sow the seed with toil and tears;
Honored, to reap for God the joyful ears;
Honored, to pray the prayer of faith and love;
Honored, to hear the answer from above;
Honored, when wavering faith, advised to yield,
Bravely to fight in front, and hold the field,
With valiant heart and never-flinching eye,
Foreseeing Christ enthroned, and victory,—
Like soldiers, ere the battle's rage is done,
Sending reports of richest trophies won,
Of armies slain, and hostile banners furled,
Prophetic emblems of a conquered world;
Honored, to bring thy own despatches home,
“The battle gained! The hour of triumph come!”
Honored, to see the idol-temples fall,
And ransomed thousands crown the Lord of all;
Honored, in lonely trust, with wearing toils,
To heap, at Jesus' feet, uncounted spoils
Till “the Lone Star,” on heaven's immortal blue,
At last, a brilliant constellation grew.

O meek apostle, what rare bliss is thine!
What toils, what triumphs, in thy lot combine!

Wise, to discern the task thy Lord had given;
Faithful, to point the weeping eye to heaven;
Grand, a whole world in arms of love to embrace;
Patient, to fill, and grace, the humblest place;
Waiting, from youth to age, life's mystery,
And prompt, unquestioning, Lord, to follow Thee.

E'en now the light, that fills the world of bliss,
Shines o'er the battlements to illumine this;
The crowns, the crowns, almost thy eyes can see,
Bought by atoning blood, faith's mystery!
Songs of the ransomed thou canst almost hear,—
Their lofty melodies awake thine ear;
And earth, redeemed, the glorious pæan sings,
In mighty measures, to the King of kings.

Should thy dear life a rounded century see,
Thy feet three-fourths have trod towards immortality.

March 8, 1888.

TO DEACON J. W. CONVERSE, ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.

Hail! friend and brother, on this bright birthday!
Bright in its thoughts, its memories, hopes, and feeling;
The years have scarcely tinged thy locks with gray,
Thy honored age revealing, yet concealing.

O'er what long, winding ways thy steps have trod!
What varied cares and trusts, successive pressing,
Have taught thee, leaning on the arm of God,
The rugged path becomes the path of blessing!

What changes to thy wondering eyes have come!
A scroll of miracles, slowly unfolding,—
Some, grandly understood; mysterious, some,—
But one dear Hand above, thy own hand holding.

And yet, so quick thy step, so lithe thy frame,
The tell-tale years seeming so little weighty,
Thy buoyant, youthful vigor still the same,—
It might be but eighteen, instead of eighty.

Sheltered and guided by that Power above
To reverend age, up from the infant's prattle;
Living for Christ's dear cause a life of love;
Honored to dare and do in life's great battle.

'T is thine to bring forth fruit still, even in age,—
Thou to whom fruitful years have long been granted,
Like trees, still verdant 'mid the winter's rage,
Like the rich palms in God's own garden planted.

The years roll on; so from the mountain-thread
Swells and expands the deepening, widening river;
So life grows onward from its infant seed,
Broadening, prophetic of the grand forever.

Long may thy well-strung bow in strength abide;
And far the day, thou to whom much is given,
Ere the celestial gates shall open wide
To add to all the crown of life in heaven.

January 11, 1888.

A GOLDEN WEDDING SONG.

REV. AND MRS. W. C. RICHARDS, 1841.

Blest are these years of wedded love,—
Gifts which attest God's loving hand,
Bright years in all their varied course,
Like streams that glide o'er golden sand.

These fifty years,—so long, so short,
Ten thousand blessings in their train,
Fraught with unnumbered passing joys,—
Well might we live them o'er again!

The wedding song of love we sung,—
To-day revives the sweet refrain;
Love is undying in its source;
Bridegroom and bride, we live again.

And who are these in stalwart frame;
And these arrayed in sunny curls?
“Our children, and their children fair,—
Pledges of love, our boys and girls.”

How blest the way thy feet have trod,
Brother, to whom the trust was given;
To feed the happy flock of God,
And guide the wanderer's steps to heaven.

Nor this alone; the world to thee,
Has opened all its secret heart,
And taught her wonders to explore,—
A miracle in every part.

Happy the pair whose gracious lives
In long enduring love combine;
His, the firm trellis for support,
And hers, the sweet and clustering vine.

The fire by night, the cloud by day,
Guided and kept the loving twain;
And storms that swept the desert path
Fell round their tent like gentle rain.

Long may the bow abide in strength!
Oh, linger long thy peaceful days;
Let life be one long wedding feast,
And its whole course, a psalm of praise!

Sing on, sweet singer, while the years
Add to thy honors and thy fame;
Till heaven, on some far distant day,
Bids to the wedding of the Lamb.

A GOLDEN WEDDING.

DR. AND MRS. J. W. PARKER.

Fifty full years!—how fair and grand the record!
Fifty full years! with every virtue rife;
Sweetly and sacredly bound to each other,
A faithful husband and a faithful wife!

Bound to each other in devout affection,
Witnessed by loving lives and loving word;
Made nobly one by heaven's divine selection,—
One in each other, one in Christ their Lord!

Bound to each other, whether joy or sorrow,
Sickness or health, prevailed, sunshine or shade;
Skilful from good or ill some boon to borrow,
Each on the other's arm, both on God stayed.

Dear herald of the everlasting gospel!
Filled with the grateful memories of the past,
Thanks that thy other self, like God's fair angel,
Is spared to hover round thee to the last.

The last! Oh, no, earth's last is heaven's beginning!
Earth's ties, dissevered, are but joined above;
Earth's service changed to service without sinning,
And earth's imperfect, to heaven's perfect love.

Ye have walked nobly through these earthly shadows,
As years to years were added, sun by sun,
Weaving the threads of life, or dark or shining,
Still one in heart,—in love and purpose one.

God's choicest blessings o'er your heads will hover,
Till the brave warrior wears the conqueror's crown,
Till the tired reaper in the gathering evening,
Released from toil, shall lay the sickle down.

Then shall earth's fifty years, at heaven's bright portal,
No more a symbol, marred by life's dull fever,
Expanding, change into the joy immortal,
And souls, now one on earth, be one forever.

MRS. JOSEPH W. PARKER, LOS ANGELES, CAL., ON HER EIGHTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

Did I hear you say, “'T is eighty”?
Methinks it cannot be;
I see no frosts nor snowflakes
Gathered on the sunny tree;
There are only white-browed pansies,
Not a snowdrift to be found.
Oh, the snows are all white rose-leaves
Which flutter o'er the ground!

Did you tell me, “Eighty spring-tides,
With their tender buds, have passed,”
And how you watch expectant,
The fading of the last?
I only see the blossoms,
And hear the sweet birds sing,
Prophetic of the beauty
Of the immortal spring.

Do you whisper, “Eighty summers
With their grace and glow have fled”?
Do you mourn the early blossoms,
Now sleeping with the dead?
'T is but a mortal counting,
That dotes on tide and clime;
Your youthful heart is weaving
Summer garlands all the time.

Do you tell me, “Eighty autumns
Have heaped their harvests in,
And the wintry winds come, blowing,
Where the waving crops have been”?
You are reaping, gentle lady,
Richest harvests, day by day;
The fruits of your bright seed-time
Ever press your pilgrim way.

As the glad sun approaches,
And all the stars grow dim,
The fringe of coming glory
Lights up the horizon's rim;
And the dear Hand that guided,
Till the tale became fourscore,
Never weary, never fainting,
Will be sure forevermore.

Yes, 't is eighty,—truly, eighty!
How swiftly the seasons glide!
'T is eighty,—more than eighty,—
And three happy years beside!
Why should we wish them fewer,—
The years that God has given?
The more the finished years of earth,
The nearer, rest and heaven.

January, 1893.

GEORGE C. LORIMER.

Brother and friend, with joy we meet
Thy welcome form at home again;
With joy thy honored face we greet,
Like the glad rainbow after rain.

Not as a stranger in the fold,
Not as a hireling for the flock,
Thy well known call sounds as of old;
The ancient key just fits the lock.

Come as a soldier from the field,
From battles fought and victories won,—
Thy old commission newly sealed,
A fresh and grand campaign begun.

Come 'neath the banner of the Cross;
The Prince of life shall lead the way,
Marshal the troops, or gain or loss,
His Arm, resistless, wins the day.

So, in the tide of ripening life,
The warrior yearns to tread again,
And bless, the fields of mortal strife,—
The peaceful bivouac of the slain.

We know thee well; our throbbing hearts
In ardent love respond to thine,—
The new love, like the former, starts
From the one Root of Life Divine.

Thy star will suffer no eclipse,
If God thy burning words inspire;
We trust in Him to touch thy lips,
Dear prophet, with His hallowed fire.

March on, march on, triumphant band,
Obedient to your Leader's call!
Wave the red banner o'er the land,
And crown the Saviour Lord of all!

At Reception on his return to Tremont Temple, May 28, 1891.

ADONIRAM JUDSON GORDON.

ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS PASTORATE AT CLARENDON ST., BOSTON, DECEMBER, 26 1894.

Shepherd and Heavenly Friend,
Almighty to defend
Thy little flock,
In verdant pastures fed,
To living waters led,
We cling to Thee our Head.
Our sheltering Rock.

Our shepherd heeds Thy voice,—
The shepherd of our choice,
The proved, the tried;
Strong to obey Thy will,
Thy service to fulfil,
Our loving shepherd still,
Our friend, our guide.

Kept near Thy gracious side,
Long may his arm abide,
Strong in Thy might;
Speak through his lips that word
Which listening chaos heard,
And all its depths were stirred,
“Let there be light.”

Head of the Church, to Thee
Immortal glory be,—
We wait Thy word!
Thy glorious kingdom bring,
Bid heaven's great anthem ring;
Christ, Thou of kings art King,
Of lords art Lord!

December 12, 1894.

Dr. Gordon died on Saturday, February 2, 1895 (after a brief illness), universally esteemed and honored, representatives of other church organizations, and many religious and benevolent associations, joining in a tribute to his memory and character.

IN MEMORY AND CONDOLENCE.

WILLIAM HAGUE, D. D.

We emulate the path thy feet have trod,
Brother, beloved of men, approved of God;
Thou of the brilliant speech and silver tongue,
On thy dear lips have wondering thousands hung.
Preacher and pastor,—faithful, polished, mild,
A man in stature, and in love, a child,
Whose look was eloquence, his words, a power,
His life a magic force, his faith, a tower,
His memory vast, an unexhausted store,
His soul, a volume of historic lore;
Man of the people, whom he swayed at will,
Man of the study and the polished quill,—
All good he praised; he pitied where he scorned,
And wise, as just, whate'er he touched, adorned.
Skilful expounder of the sacred word,
Quick to discern, prompt to reveal his Lord,
Profound in thought, wise to observe the times,
His mind, capacious, could embrace all climes,
Lived in all ages, took in land and sea,
The past, the present, and the yet-to-be;
His fervent heart no years could make grow cold,
And age, advancing, never made him old.
To the old standards of the Gospel true,
Nor spurned the old, nor pined for doctrines new;
Maintained the ancient truth with courage bold,—
That truth, forever new, forever old;
And as he died,—heeding the Master's call,—
Pronounced that truth enough for him, for all.

How nobly fitting was the parting hour:
One pulse, the bud,—the next, the full-blown flower;
One instant, here,—the next, beyond the skies;
Now, earth's high noon,—now, noon in Paradise.
This moment, bound by human woes and bars,
The next, in peerless light, beyond the stars;
From earth's high summer snatched, and blooming bowers,
To heaven's immortal glow and fadeless flowers;
Now, on the threshold of the temple here,
Now, bowed before its inmost altar there;
With what strange joy the conqueror upward rode,
To worship, reverent, at the throne of God!

Ascended brother, may the mantle blest,
That fell from thee, on many a prophet rest;
Thy trumpet voice still sound the loud alarm,
Thy magic notes linger, to rouse and charm,
And, Heaven's high heralds, Heaven's high service done,
Achieve the honors, brother, thou hast won.

September 26, 1887.

GARDNER COLBY.

[_]

The Legislature of Maine changed the title of Waterville College to that of Colby University, January 23d, 1867, in honor of Gardner Colby, of Newton, Massachusetts, who contributed $50,000 towards its endowment, and afterwards increased the amount by a bequest of $120,000.

Passed from our sight, but grandly living still,—
As glows the light behind the western hill
When towering summits hide the vanished sun,
And the long course of weary day is run;
The disk concealed, the brightness backward turns,—
For other lands the same full radiance burns.
A noble life, cut off, still journeys on,—
A trail of light behind it,—when 't is gone,—
And life before,—a faithful life's reward,—
A joy to earth,—and ever with the Lord!

We hail thee, brother, favored now to see,
Unveiled at last, life's doubt and mystery:
What fields thy works have blessed; what conquests, won,
Attest the worthy deeds thy hands have done;
What hungry mouths thy willing love has fed;
What souls enjoyed, through thee, the living Bread;
To what rich seeds thy life has given wings,—
Sheaves for the garner of the King of kings;
What halls of learning, fostered by thy care,
Have nurtured men whose lips are trained to bear
To nations born, and nations yet to be,
Tidings of life and immortality.

Dost thou, from heaven, the honest praise disclaim,
Caring no more for earth or earthly fame?
Not for thyself we weave these honored bays,
Yet for thyself, and for the Saviour's praise.
All that was great in thee, we cherish still,
All that accorded with the Master's will;
Thousands the lessons of thy life shall read,—
The kind in word; the generous in deed;
The ready, helpful hand; the open heart;
The soul to feel; the tender tear to start;
The wealth of hand and brain to yield supply
To every worthy work, or low, or high,
Accounting nothing small which God deems great,
So prompt to act, so patient, too, to wait,
Holding of right with men an honored seat,
But laying all things at the Master's feet.

Long will his memory live in many a land,
Long the foundations which he planted stand;
And grateful thousands shall with glad acclaim
Breathe from full hearts their blessings on his name.

We leave thee, brother, and our way pursue,
Patient to bear, and prompt, like thee, to do;
Be ours, like thine, through grace the victory won,
And ours, like thine, the Master's glad “Well done!”

REV. ISAAC BACKUS,

ON UNVEILING A MONUMENT TO HIS MEMORY.

Sacred the ground we tread,—
Where sleep the pious dead,
Supremely blest;
Their honored course is run,
The crown of victory won,
Bright as the glorious sun,
In Christ they rest.

Blest be the man of God
Who once these pathways trod
In Christ's own way;
His faith as noontide clear,
He sought in holy fear
The Master's voice to hear,
And, glad, obey.

Here in this solemn shade
(Tribute too long delayed),
This shrine we rear;
And carve his reverend name,
Worthy immortal fame;—
His holy labors claim
Such record here.

Mark well each lowly grave
Where rest the true and brave,
Till morn shall break;
Peaceful in Christ they sleep,
Heaven will their memory keep,
Till from their slumbers deep,
Joyful, they wake.

March 10, 1893.

A LOVING BEQUEST.

[_]

On the unveiling of a portrait of a lady who devised funds for building a church at Mattapan, Massachusetts.

Living, she loved the house of prayer;
Loving, she lived to plant it here,
And left what love could well afford,
A noble offering to her Lord.

No better monument could tell
What her heart loved, and loved so well,—
Such holy love breathed in her breath,
Lived in her life, survived her death.

Though marble piles in dust decay,
And human glory melts away,
Her gift abides in sins forgiven,
In souls redeemed, and heirs of heaven.

Blessings be on this favored spot,—
No act of love shall be forgot;
And Christ's approving word shall be,
She, what she could, had done for me.

May 8, 1889.

MARY POND.

[_]

On a tomb at Dresden, I read these words: “Fell asleep, September 18, 1874.”

Yes, “fell asleep,”—but sleep implies two wakings
One in the weary past, one, yet to be;
One in this life of labor and heart-breakings,
One in the bliss of immortality.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—tired watch no longer keeping,
With ever restless hands and busy brain;
All sorrow past,—no grief, no sigh, no weeping,
Like a sweet summer evening, after rain.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—no more with dim surmising,
Questioning what may be the life to come;
She feels, in the freed spirit's glad uprising,
Joy, peace, rest, grandeur, glory, heaven, home.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—we watch for her low breathing,
Like fragrant night-winds floating gently by;
Like noiseless clouds of incense, upward wreathing,
Her spirit, silent, points us to the sky.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—the touch of those dear fingers
Created life and beauty where it fell;
Around her cherished works her spirit lingers,
Like strains of music o'er the quivering shell.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—so early quenched life's fever,
So brilliant promise clouded o'er so soon;
Faith, be thou strong; God's purpose faileth never;
Earth had the radiant morning; heaven, the noon.

Man gathers heaps of ore, a grasping miner,
Toiling and burdened through the scorching day,
But sleeps at last; and God, the great Refiner,
Saves all the gold, and melts the dross away.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—just as the curious kernel
Of flower-life hides within the rigid grain;
But, with the warm breath of the season vernal,
It waves luxuriant o'er the fields again.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—resting in God's safe keeping.
So hides the worm within his narrow cell,
But bursts his chrysalis, and, heavenward leaping,
Shining, proclaims that God does all things well.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—O rest divine, immortal!
Knowing nor pain, nor grief, nor death, nor sin;
Rest that conveys the soul to heaven's high portal,
And bids the weary wanderer enter in.

Yes, “fell asleep,”—O mystery past our knowing!
Beyond thick clouds we cannot see the sun;
But patient, trustingly, we wait Heaven's showing,
'T is God's own hand,—thy will, O Lord, be done.

Dresden, October 7, 1875.

“BLIND ANNA.”

We are all like blind men groping in the dark,—we cannot see;
The lives we here are living are full of mystery.
How the plans of God are working, we strive in vain to tell;
But faith can safely trust Him, for He doeth all things well.

His Providence leads wisely, like the pillared cloud and flame;
And so on every milestone we record His blessed name.
All the happy Ebenezers His love and praises tell:
His arm has never failed us; He doeth all things well.

If the keen, sharp eye can see Him, as sees the soaring lark;
If, blinded, through His wisdom, we only trace Him in the dark,
In the glowing, glorious noontide, or in the deepest cell,—
We will trust Him, we will love Him, for He doeth all things well.

If the blessed light is darkened, if the eye is dull and blind,—
'T is ordered by a Father who is ever good and kind.

His purpose is in mercy, though His plan He does not tell,
Wait till the seal is broken; He doeth all things well.

There 's a world where all that tries us shall be made divinely clear,
The eye no more be sightless, no longer deaf the ear;
The day shall rise in glory,—why should the heart rebel?
God sees, and we shall see Him, for He doeth all things well.

Chicago, January, 1893.

BLOSSOMING ON THE OTHER SIDE.

Oh, weep not, ye whose child hath won
A dwelling in yon glorious sphere,
Where sin is past, and labor done;
'T is better than to linger here!

Oh, weep not, ye whose offspring wears
A heavenly crown upon her brow,
Whose hand a harp of worship bears,
Who sings the angelic anthem now!

Oh, weep not, ye whose child hath passed
Thus early from earth's tempting scene;
In heaven, temptation's furious blast
Can never reach the soul again!

Oh, weep not, ye whose child hath soared,
A seraph, to the world above,
Where endless day is round her poured,
And happy spirits dwell in love!

Oh, weep not, ye whom God hath left
To mourn a tie so early riven;
She lives,—while ye are thus bereft,—
First of your household, safe in heaven!

TO A SORROWING MOTHER.

Oh, mourn not, fond mother, the joys that depart;
There is comfort and peace for the stricken in heart!
God has taken the spirit that basked in thy love;
The beautiful angels have borne it above.

The plant thou hast reared to brighten earth's gloom,
Had fastened its roots in the soil of the tomb.
It smiled in thy garden, so gentle and fair;
It has climbed o'er the wall, and is blossoming there.

The jewel once worn with pride on thy breast,
Now flashes its light in the land of the blest;
The rose is still fragrant, though torn from the stem,—
The setting is ruined, but safe is the gem.

Then gird thee to labor, to trial, to love;
The treasure, still thine, awaits thee above.
Be faithful, be earnest, night soon will be riven,
And the lost one of earth, be thy jewel in heaven.

AGATHA E. CLAFLIN.

Is thy final rest more peaceful,—
Is thy sleep more sweet, dear child,
Brought from Rome's gorgeous sepulchres,
Back to thy native wild?
Or breathes the wind more gently,
Where the chestnut and the pine
Above the tomb that holds thy dust
Their clustering branches twine?

What was wanting in the shadows
Of old imperial Rome,
That thou sighedst, midst its grandeur,
For thy dearer western home?
Those fragrant airs and sunny bowers,—
Could they not weave a spell,
With power to win, above the spot
Thy young heart loved so well?

'T was there the proud Jugurtha,
Subdued by famine, died;
But there, with bread immortal,
Was thy spirit satisfied?
He, in his lonely prison chained,
Perished in heathen gloom;
Thou soaredst upward, free of wing,
And angels bade thee come.

And there a mightier warrior
Waited his heavenly crown,

Found a martyr's wreath around his brow,
And laid his armor down.
Brave Christian souls in Roman soil
Repose in holy rest,
As sinks the gorgeous, crimson sun
In glory in the west.

Thy footsteps trod the pathways
Of grand, historic Rome;
Thy gaze, admiring, rested
On picture, church, and dome.
Why, yearning with a tender love,
Did thine eyes look back to see
The landscape round that cherished home,
Where thy young soul longed to be?

Thy weary wanderings ended
In a city grander far
Than home, or Rome,—in heaven,—
As the sun outshines a star;
Earth on thy young eyes faded,
As fades a glittering toy,
Bright opened on thy vision
Heaven's home of love and joy.

Welcome again, fair sleeper!
Peace to thy precious dust!
Rest calmly with thy kindred
Till the rising of the just.
The winds shall sing above thee,
Where the chestnut and the pine,
In thy own dear native forests,
Their clustering branches twine.

Thy life, too early smitten,
Lingers around us still,
As day-beams, after sunset,
Shine, radiant, o'er the hill;
Thy loving voice, still sounding,
Forbids us to rebel,—
God gave, and God hath taken,—
God, who does all things well.

May, 1874.

HARRIET J. WARDWELL.

Brought home, where the dust of her kindred reposes,
To sleep 'mid the dew, and the breath of the roses,
In June,—of all seasons the sweetest and fairest,
Herself, of its blossoms the purest and rarest.

She sleeps her last sleep, while all nature rejoices,
And melody breaks from earth's thousands of voices;
Like distant sweet chimes on evening winds singing,
The music she breathed is in echoes still ringing.

Life's silver cord loosed, and the golden bowl broken,—
We bow to the mandate Jehovah has spoken;
God's promise proclaims, o'er the loved and lamented,
The silver cord, loosed, shall again be cemented.

We lay her in love 'neath the rose and the willow;
Peace sits by her ashes,—Peace breathes round her pillow.

How well that such graces and gifts should be given,
Like precious first fruits, an offering to Heaven!

God gave, and we bless Him; God took, and though parted,
Still trusting, still loving, we yield, broken-hearted.
Again, in the home of the blest, we shall greet her,
And youth bloom immortal, when, joyful, we meet her.

EPITAPHS.

Short was thy pilgrimage, dear child;
Sweet is thy dreamless rest.
God on thy homeward spirit smiled,
And made thee early blest.

Her ardent love, her spotless worth,
Her humble faith were given,
Like buds of promise, plucked on earth,
To bloom, transferred to heaven.

Her life to toil, her gains to God were given;
Sweet is her rest, and bright her crown, in heaven.

IN MEMORY OF A YOUNG MAIDEN.

Sister, thou wast mild and lovely,
Gentle as the summer breeze,
Pleasant as the air of evening,
When it floats among the trees.

Peaceful by thy silent slumber,—
Peaceful in the grave so low.
Thou no more wilt join our number;
Thou no more our songs shalt know.

Dearest sister, thou hast left us;
Here thy loss we deeply feel.
But 't is God that hath bereft us;
He can all our sorrows heal.

Yet again we hope to meet thee,
When the day of life is fled;
Then in heaven with joy to greet thee,
Where no farewell tear is shed.

University of Virginia Library

1. Part I. POEMS OF HOME.

FAMILY PICTURES.

I. DOMESTIC BEGINNINGS.

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES.

Chorus.

TO LITTLE MARY WHITE.

“OUR FIRST-BORN.”