Morning Glories : :: :: University of Virginia Library

Through the long night and weary day,
A lover sat and thus did meditate,
His burdened soul poured forth a plaintive lay,
With tearful eyes he wept o'er his unhappy state,

To God he lifts his trembling voice and cries,
Had'st thou seen fit upon me to bestow,
The poet's gift of verse, or thought it wise,
That I to others might make known my woe.

Dear God, methinks I'd have the power to wake
The immortal Shakespeare who would seize his pen,
And Cullen Bryant a defence would make,
To more securely hold his place with men.

The silent air is ladened with my grief,
It seems to wait in pity on my prayer;
O God, Thou who alone can'st send relief,
Desert me not to vain hope and despair.

Ah, is the idol gone which I adore,
Forced from my side by a relentless fate;
Her bright smile gone, fled from me evermore,
Which e'er was wont my grief to disipate?

As like a cruel wolf would snatch away
The tender lamb from bleating mother's side,
Disconsolate and lone I wait to-day,
And mourn my life's sole star, my love, my pride.

Strong hope and love doth yet contend,
Though crushed and bleeding still upon the field,
Dost heaven bear witness, yet no mercy lend?
To cruel fate must hope and love then yield?

And will the future in its bright beyond,
For recompense no nuptial bonds bestow,
Nor grant my dearest wish so true, so fond,
For this extreme of woe?

Ah, sweet day of the past that made us one,
That passed so like a pleasant dream;
My joys are fled as vessels that have gone
A wreck on time's tempestuous stream.

I only ask this little question why,
When fate his cruel, cruel work begun;
Did not let death's ne'er-failing arrow fly
And smite me then his work were done.

THE WEDDING ANNIVERSARY.

Swift the years have sped away
Since that bright mid-winter day,
Tremblingly in woman's pride,
I became thy happy bride.
Sped until they number nine,
Since my hand lay calm in thine;
Plighted there our mutual vow,
That together “I and thou.”

In God's sight “till death should part,”
Hand in hand and heart to heart,
While He granted to us life,
Thence should live as “man and wife.”

Orange blossoms crisp and fair,
Deftly crowned my raven hair;
Through the veil I could not see
What the future held for me.
Confident thy love was mine,
Cast my future lot with thine,
Judging thee of men the best,
Choose thee, yielding all the rest.

In the rapid flight of years,
Mingled both with joy and tears,
Thus the years have passed away,
Like a fleeting April day.
Sometime sunshine, sometime rain,
Sometime joy and sometime pain,
No grave shadow or regret,
Hath our skies beclouded yet.

Could we lift the veil and see
What our future lives shall be;
Whether life be short or long,
Sorrow's wail, or pleasure's song,
Nay, while years shall onward sweep,
God his watch shall o'er us keep,
He our “Mizpah” e'er shall be,
Watching close 'twixt thee and me.

So together thou and I,
As the years go sweeping by,
Calmly drifting with the tide,
Down life's stream will smoothly glide,
May the bliss of sweet content,
Rest with us till life is spent;
If I leave thee I will wait
For thee at the golden gate.

If my days outnumber thine,
By the will of power Divine,
Keep thou watch till I have come,
Safely to our heavenly home,
Where united we shall be,
Happy through Eternity.

WOULD YOU REGRET?

Would you regret
If I within my shroud
With calm closed eyes lay dead.
My voice forever still
In death's embrace so chill,
The words you've said
Would you regret
That we had met?

Would you regret,
As with the busy throng,
You pressed your way along,
You never more should see,
Or win a smile from me,
Would you regret
That we had met?

Would you regret,
As o'er my form you bent,
And sought one more embrace,
Ere yet the coffin lid,
Forever more had hid
From you my face;
Would you regret
That we had met?

Would you regret
If I no more should stand,
Thy clasped hand in mine,
The while your sheltering arm,
Safe shielded me from harm;
Would you regret
That we had met?

Would you regret,
If to the silent tomb,
Strong arms should bear me hence;
Ah, would you ever miss
My warm impassioned kiss?
Would you regret
That we had met?

Would you regret
That you had weary been,
With my short-comings often tried,
Because forsooth one day
I claimed to have my way;
Your will defied,
Would you regret
That we had met?

Would calm regret
Persuade you to the spot
Where I be lowly laid;
Would you bend low and shed a tear,
Above me calmly sleeping there;
The words you've said,
Would you regret,
Alas, that we had met?

TRUSTING THEE.

My Trust is in God.

Lord, on thy promise I rely,
That thou wilt hear a sinner's cry,
In every trying time of need,
And show thyself a friend indeed.

Lo, at thy feet I humbly fall,
And for thy mercy great I call;
O turn to me thy smiling face,
Send me abundance of thy grace.

Condemned by thy most sacred law,
Which broken is each breath I draw;
Lord only on thy grace I lean,
Which can the guilty soul make clean.

To count thy mercies I begin,
When lo, a voice comes from within,
Where shall the countless blessings end,
Which Thou to me doth daily send.

When I would closely follow thee,
Evil doth present walk with me,
And trials sore my way beset,
And doubtings in my heart beget.

Still I will fully trust in Thee,
Who sacrificed thy Son for me,
Who paid the debt on Calvary,
Atoning Lamb to set me free.

WHERE HAST THOU GLEANED?

The day now draweth to its close,
How has the time been spent?
The weary laborer homeward goes,
With a heart of love that overflows
For loved ones around his hearth that glows,
And he is well content.

Ask of thyself, what thou hast done
Since the morning's sun arose?
Hast thou answered the cry of a soul in need,
Bound up a heart whose wounds did bleed,
To the bed of affliction gone with speed?
Then welcome sweet repose.

Thrice blest are those who can truly say,
As a backward glance they take,
That throughout the day which now is spent,
Their lips, and hand, and feet were lent,
To the bed of affliction gone with speed?
All for the Master's sake.

And may no shade thy presence hide
While I pass Jordan's vale.

Be thou my shining light through life,
When skies are overcast,
Then I shall triumph in the strife,
And rest with Thee at last.

THE STRICKEN DEER.

Where grew the tangled brush,
And where the grey moss hung,
In long festoons upon the sturdy oak,
Where sweetly sang the happy birds,
The verdant leaves among,
And where the meadow flower-strewn,
Its fragrance heavenward sent,
There grazed in blissful solitude
A herd in sweet content.

Where nature's emerald carpet spread
Unto the margin of the silvery brook,
Whose tranquil flow o'er shining stones,
Made music as its tortuous course it took,
And sought the heaving bosom of the deep
Blue sea, and in and out the timid
Dormouse crept. And from the topmost bough,
The cunning squirrel chased its happy mate,
The stately leader here his unsuspecting
Comrades led.

The gentle doe with graceful poised head,
Besported gay and fearless by his side,
Their nimble feet above the green turf sped,
They gamboled freely o'er the meadow wide,
But in the very zenith of their bliss,
A sound disturbs the calmness of the scene,
'Tis not the venomed serpent's warning hiss,
The huntsman's aim with crimson dies the green.

And now the startled herd with head erect,
Do swiftly fly, as like a rushing wind,
Their footsteps rendered fleeter by their fear,
In eagerness to escape the danger near,
Have fled and left the wounded one behind,
Beneath the scorching sun's relentless ray,
With parched protruding tongue he wounded lay,
With gentle eyes upturned that mutely plead,
For succor, but the multitude had fled.

I LOVE THEE YET.

Though change has passed upon thy heart for me
And all thy love for me is gone,
Believe me, I will love thee still,
As fond as I have ever done.

Though weeks and months have passed away
Since I thy look of coldness met,
And though we parted coldly then,
I love and prize thee fondly yet.

I never thought, I never dreamed
That time could change such love as thine,
How weak was I to weigh another's
Vows and truth and love with mine.

I look upon the sunny hours
I spent with thee, and no regret
Comes o'er my spirit, for my heart
Still loves thee deeply, fondly yet.

INDIFFERENCE.

He comes and goes with quiet step and injured mein,
His smile is throttled by that inner thought of wrong conceived,
Which, like an iron wedge, has forced itself our lives between,
And feigning virtue he is in himself deceived.

I meet him with a kiss both true and warm.
As never woman granted to her lover;
He claims it a disguise of truth and thin,
That he can well discover
My great mistrust of him.

Why is it thus? since I am his my body and the current through it flowing,
The breath I breathe, my very thoughts desirous of his welfare knowing,
The holy duty of a wife, Ah! this is more
Than mere suggestion, am I a wife?
'Tis hereon hangs the all-important question.

He careful is that I am amply fed,
And warmly clad and have a cozy bed,
But recks not many lonely hours I keep
Sad watch and vainly summons sleep
To weary eyelids fringed with silent tears,
Spring forth amid an aching heart's recess,
That seeks within his own its happiness.

Why should we grow apart? instead of entertwining,
Our very lives, our aims, our days, so rapidly declining,
We wedded are, nay, I may only say
That we were married such and such a day.
For wedded only they whose lives and loves are joined,
Whose hopes and fears, whose joys and sorrows one,
Whose aims like many tributaries run.
To make life's river a complete and tranquil whole.

Should wifely sphere be sternly circumscribed,
And frigid mien calmly institute domestic monarchy,
Should lordly husband say, like King Canute,
Back! I command, no nearer dare approach,
And like a forbidden pasture hedge himself around,
With threatened penalties, “tread not upon this ground.”

Man's sphere is limitless, the world is his domain,
Accept what he can spare,
And think not to complain,
But what to me the trophies of the world laid at my feet,
If I am fainting for affection's favor sweet?

THE LADDER OF LIFE.

Some rise by easy stages,
And some by a harder way,
Some lose to-morrow two to one,
The progress made to-day.

Some reach fame's giddy summit,
And gladly around they gaze
On the beautiful sight, forgetting
The mass at the mountain's base.

Some view the heights above them,
And though they no courage lack,
Their efforts are retarded
By their constantly looking back.

Some aim to reach the apex
By one spasmodic bound,
But sadder and wiser the pitiful wrecks,
When their great mistake they have found.

Some aim to ascend by another's deeds,
And will pilfer another's plan,
But the method miscarries, he finds that he needs
The ambition and heart of a man.

MASTER, STILL THE TEMPEST.

Master, still the tempest
On life's troubled sea,
Lest the raging billows
Shall overwhelm me.

I, a storm-tossed mariner,
No safe port can find,
From the wild waves beating,
And the howling wind.

Master, still the tempest,
Hear my earnest cry,
Fierce the storm clouds gather,
And o'erspreads the sky.

Lest thou still the tempest,
Wrecked my bark shall be,
Master, still the tempest,
Quiet it, Lord, for me.

RESIGNATION.

I leave all in thy hands, my God,
This last great tidal wave,
From life's high rolling sea,
If thou be with thy child
I need not fear,
The billows' fearful wrath
Shall not overwhelm that threaten me,
'Tis not that thou forsakest,
And doth leave me to an awful destiny,
But 'tis thine own wise way of chastening me.

LORD I WOULD LOVE THEE.

Lord, I would love Thee,
Love and obey,
Lord, I would serve Thee
Day after day.

Lord, I would praise Thee
With heart and voice,
And in thy presence
Would I rejoice.

Lord, I extol Thee
Thou mighty one,
For thy great mercies,
And for thy son.

Lord, draw me nearer,
Nearer to Thee,
Make my way clearer,
That I may see.

TEARS.

Tears, salt tears, fit emblem of my grief,
Tears, crystal tears, that bring me sweet relief;
I will not question why my life with sorrow great is swept,
Or dare I raise a plea, when Jesus wept.

GONE.

Amid the surging throng one face I sought,
But found it not.
So dear to me its smile had seemed,
So strong the arm on which I'd leaned,
The pure warm heart, the tender kiss,
The low sweet voice I sadly miss,
My eager search but fed my pain,
I sought, but sought in vain.

THE BLACK ELM.

Beneath the black Elm's verdant shade,
That girds the hill and dell and glade,
In sweet September days we strayed,
A country lass and I.

Where golden rod and bird and bee,
Were in their rustic beauty free,
We cut our names upon a tree,
My country love and I.

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The crystal brooklet glides along.
With gentle flow and mirthful song,
And silver pebbled sands among,
It's waters sparkling glow.

The daisies nod their pretty heads,
The oak leaves amber are and red,
The blue bells spent, lie prone and dead,
Upon the dying grass.

Sweet September's golden day,
Feign would departing summer stay,
But fleeting moments haste away,
And thou must follow on.

TO BISHOP H. TURNER, D. D., LL. D.

On his return from his first visit to Africa, 1892.

Hail, wanderer; but late returned from Africa's arid sand.
A hearty welcome home to this, thine own and native land,
Tell us, who dwell within the Gospel's radiant light,
Of hapless Africa. What of the distant night?

Didst see along the dark horizon, feintest streaks of gray?
Then, faithful sage, take courage, 'tis a sign of coming day,
Of freedom and of knowledge with an effulgent light.
What tidings bringest thou, oh, watchman, tell us of the night.

Did Neptune's waves more fiercly beat upon that distant shore?
Didst find a race of being than the Saxons any lower,
'Tis proud America's demand, is there a ray of hope,
What mayest Columbia expect from the heathen Ethiope?

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The future queen of earth didst thou not see in Afric's land,
With gem bestudded crown and golden sceptre in her hand?
Though sable-hued the brow it bore, yet full of royal grace,
Bespeaking a direct descent from a proud ancestral race?

Did righteous pride thy great heart swell when thou at length did stand,
With wonder-opening eyes and viewed thy great ancestors' land,
Though naught but vanished glory met thine astonished gaze,
The domes of crumbling palaces, their spires still skyward raise.

No selfish thought was that which bade thee from thy home away,
A mandate from the heavenly King, thy duty was to obey,
And to the fiery blasts that over Africa's desert sweep,
Thou baredst thy bosom, and didst brave the terrors of the deep.

The rank and tangled jungle-weeds and deadly serpent's breath,
No terror had for thee, thou hadst no thought or fear of death,
But filled with impulse holy, with one absorbing thought,
That God's almighty works should in that heathen land be wrought.

FRIENDSHIP.

I count not him my friend
Who ever deigns to praise
My face's fairness and the witching
Sweetness of my ways.

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But him who dares to tell
In honest voice and strong,
That often times my way is right,
Oftimes that “I am wrong.”

That looks upon my error with a human eye,
And if I fail, success's goal to win,
Can sympathize with my defeat,
And share my sorrow keen.
Who, though I feign would be all truth,
I human am, and prone to error,
Observes my weakness, still hath hope,
And flees me not in terror.
Whose honest heart and manly purpose towers,
Above his fellow men content with small attain,
Who bids me skyward to direct my powers,
My object and my aim.

VIRTUE.

There's no return to virtue's state,
Save through contrition's open gate.

LOVE.

Drink deep of love's concoction,
It is a draught divine.

IMPOSSIBILITIES.

Canst teach the heart purity
When it has learned deceit?
Canst thou restore the faded flower,
It's vanished odor sweet?
Canst yoke the fleeting moments,
Or make them to return?
Canst thou renew the fire
With the fuel which was burned?

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TRUISMS.

Beware of the man who listens much and talks little: he is getting your thunder and saving his lightning.

Anon.

Truth can travel to the end of the earth alone, but a lie must have company to keep up its courage.

Anon.

TO MRS. BISHOP LEE.

Prior to the birth of her little daughter.

O, Mary, bearing blessed virgin's name.
Who gave the world its Christ through whom salvation came;
Hast aught of fear or doubt awoke in thee
A dread? Fear not, God guards thee tenderly.

Dost thou regard the promise of his word,
With which his love so perfectly doth blend,
Fear not the crisis, all thy prayers are heard;
He'll not forsake, so trust him to the end.

Thou dwellest in the sunshine of his smile,
And of the many women thou art blest.
His goodness dwelleth with thee all the while,
So confident abide and be at rest.

Blessed is she who bears the mother's pain
In the fulfillment of the first command.
Though thou art frail, His arm will thee sustain,
And safe support thee to the blessed end.

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GRAYSTONE CREST, LOGAN STATION, PHILADELPHIA, PA.

'Tis Sabbath, and a lovely calm
O'erspreads the fields of many tints of green,
The falling blossoms from the budding trees
Lie white upon the tender blades of grass,
The air is freighted with their odor sweet,
And fans our heated faces as we pass.

And naught disturbs the quiet of the hour,
Except the distant echo of the train,
That through the valley swept with din and roar,
And darted into view, then out again.

Across the track and in the near beyond,
The browsing cattle graze upon the hill,
While goslings glide upon the bosom of a pond,
Whose waters ripple by the sporting wind at will.

The mating birds with music fill the wood,
With glad anticipations sweetly sing,
An anxious mother hen collects her brood
Contentedly beneath her open wing.

And yonder is the “City of the dead,”
O'er which the weeping willow gently waves,
Beneath the sod there loved ones low are laid,
And gentle hands plant flowers on their graves.

O, happy here might I forever dwell,
Surrounded by this calm and sweet repose,
No ache or sorrow should my bosom swell,
Until my day of life had reached its close.

What if the world in blindness me should chide,
For all my failings in this blest retreat,
With one sincere who would in me confide,
This realm enough, my joy would be complete.

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WE DO NOT KNOW WHAT DAY WILL BE OUR LAST.

Let us treasure our friends,
For our wrongs make amends,
And sincerely repent of the past,
Through the world as we move,
Let our deeds be full of love,
For we never know what day will be our last.

There are faces filled with woe,
That we meet as we go,
With their heart's inmost sorrow o'ercast.
For to-morrow do not wait,
Lest our aid should be too late,
And we never know what day will be our last.

Do what'er we find to do,
With a heart sincere and true,
For we'll not return the way to-day we pass;
We are pilgrims on life's road,
Let us share each other's load,
For we never know what day will be our last.

If you do not roll in wealth,
Still possess a share of health,
Let no shadow o'er your countenance be cast.
Do not idly sit and fret,
Banish worry and regret,
For the day we call to-day may be our last.

TIME'S FLIGHT.

Time moves on leaden wings,
When we would have it swift,
To reach our heart's desires,
And music dolorously sings,
While still our hopes aspire.

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Time walks with tardy feet,
When all our yearnings crave,
Once more a sight of faces sweet,
Within the silent grave.

Time drags its length along,
Each slowly passing day,
When hushed and still the song,
Which once made glad our way.

Time never seemed to fly,
Until on painful couch,
Our loved ones prostrate lie,
Unconscious of our touch.

MOVING.

Old Home, I'm leaving thee to-day, our sweet relations end;
'Tis not without a pang I grant, I part with thee, old friend,
Thou hast been very dear to me, a friend for many years;
Companion mute wert thou who shared my happiness and fears,
I cherish every blade that bent beneath my slippered feet,
Each flowret fair that blossomed here diffusing odors sweet;
I learned within thy friendly walls how true to love a mate,
I learned, alas, I learned also true love can turn to hate.
How closely round the heart could love its clinging tendrills weave,
How cruelly a selfish heart could flatter and deceive.
But thou hast been, dear home, a friend that ever shared with me
An equal portion of my lot, whate'er that lot might be;

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Thou saw'st me happy, when a tiny babe lay on my breast,
Thou wepst with me when mother passed unto her final rest,
Or when my friends with merry hearts to share my pleasure came,
Thy walls with gladness did resound and echo back the same,
So I must leave you, dear old friend, although I love you so;
'Tis said “the best of friends must part,” though loath I yet must go;
Though we may never meet again, as in the happy past,
I'll cherish happy thoughts of you, old home, while life shall last.

TO MY FRIEND.

He said he was my friend, both faithful, tried and true;
If I could not believe, he would submit to any test;
That my exacting will might choose to put him to,
And yet, while all the air is rife with critics' tongue,
He seeks me not, although my weary heart with pain is wrung,
But must I yield to gathering doubts that rise,
And chide him for his coming, long delayed?
No, I can see the flash that lit his honest eyes,
When, with his swelling heart, he my poor friendship prayed.
The silver moon in cloudless sky shone clear
Above the leafless tree tops gray and bare,
A tiny brooklet rippled on its pebbly way,
It's music strange fell swiftly on my ear;
My hand with arduous grasp he took and swore
That evermore my cause he would defend,
And I in confidence might dwell secure.
In him I had a staunch and faithful friend;
What beauty did surround the quiet scene?

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There crumbling into dust the old gray mill,
It's service done, it stands with tranquil mien,
A picture of the past, upon the little hill,
Its massive cogwheels running to decay,
O'er which the struggling water dashed along,
And hastened rushing forward on its way,
To join the greater current of the creek beyond.
The oaks are stiff and gnarled and gray and bare,
They skyward stretch their knotted waving boughs,
Through which the winds sing a discordant air,
As those bereft sing of their heart-felt woes;
But beauty gilds the scene and 'tis not drear,
For friend is plighting friendship unto friend,
O, grateful tryst, none in this world more dear,
Love oft begins where friendship finds its end.

THY WILL, O LORD, NOT MINE.

I do not like the leaden skies,
Through which no sun doth shine,
Nor the rough way my pathway lies,
But, Lord, Thy will, not mine.

I do not like the forest dark,
Where whistling winds doth blow;
But I will bravely walk therein,
Because God wills it so.

I do not like life's ocean rough,
Its tempests and its gale;
But till God sayest 'tis enough,
My efforts shall not fail.

I do not like the desert sands,
That scorch and weary me;
But on I plod, though faint and weak,
If, Lord, it pleaseth Thee.

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Contented though with failing strength,
To follow day by day;
Assured that I shall rest at length,
If, Lord, Thou lead the way.

THE SPAN OF LIFE.

How brittle is the thread of life,
Its moments all how fleeting;
'Tis but an hour of pain and strife,
Then still the heart's wild beating.

'Tis but a crimson carnage field,
Where fast the bullets rattle;
Death conquering comes, we vanquished yield,
So endeth life's great battle.

With earnest effort we but strive,
The cord of life to lengthen;
We may to man's allotment live,
If God our weakness strengthen.

'Tis but a vapor failing fast,
With might we are pursuing;
And lest to-day should be our last,
Let us be up and doing.

WHEN, LOVE, I NEED THEE MOST.

At morn when gentle breezes play,
When sunshine lightens up the day,
When ripples shake the ocean's coast,
Or when the wind its powers boast,
At night, when all is drear and dark,
When skies forbid a single spark;
In winter, when the low winds whine,
Or summer, with its mellow chime;
When flowers nod their dainty head,
Or yet, when leaves lie prone and dead;

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When I delight thy face to see,
Or would that love should come to me,
I cannot say when best the time,
For, love, I need thee all the time.

If breezes soft sweep o'er my brow,
My heart cries, love, I need thee now;
If storms of sorrow darkly come,
I weep for love, and feel alone.
If skies are blue, and bright and fair,
Or when the white down floats in air,
In mirthful song, or mournful rhyme,
Come, love, I need thee all the time.

To help me sorrows great to bear,
Or in my love's Elysium share;
I shall not note the season's change,
And trouble will be ever strange,
If brightly still love's flame doth shine,
I need thee, love, yes, all the time.

O, light my path with thy fond voice,
And make my happy heart rejoice;
Be constant, true, until the end,
Thy radiance on my dark way spend;
My life is woven into thine,
So, love, I need thee all the time.

TO BISHOP ALLEN'S MEMORY.

Shall we forget with each returning year
To turn aside from life's exacting claims,
Beside thy sacred mound to stop and shed a tear,
And reverently speak thy sacred name?

Thou wert among the soldiers, strong and brave,
With ardent heart of love for liberty;
Thou fillest well a sainted hero's grave,
And leavest us a hero's legacy.

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The freedom thou didst purchase with thy prayer,
“To worship God untrammelled on thy knees,
The slave's petition rent the hallowed air,
And floated heavenward on the Sabbath breeze.”

And heaven itself was stirred by thy sad plea,
And God looked pitying down on thee and smiled,
Ask what thou wilt, and I will grant it thee,
Abundant grace is toward the undefiled.

Whoever doth my little ones offend,
Had best a millstone tied about his neck;
The raging sea shall be their sudden end,
And heaven shall pass, ere yet my word shall break.

Thou askedst, “We might serve him where we wilt,
From the oppressor's ruthless hand be free;
Our peans to raise for him who bore our guilt,
On dark Golgotha's height on Calvary's rugged tree.”

The answer came, that thenceforth thee and thine
Should unmolested bow, beneath thine own tree's shade,
Should eat the fruit borne by thy fig tree's vine,
No voice to startle, none make thee afraid.

A century past, and millions chant God's praise,
Who through the ages doth his promise keep;
The echoing isles, and mountains silence break,
The breezes heavenward waft our grateful lays.

Rest, sainted sire; peace guard thy well-won sleep—
We, too, shall enter soon the shadowy vale;
As years roll on in their majestic sweep,
Our gratitude to thee shall never fail.

THE WANDERER RECLAIMED.

A desert and a weary way I trod,
By gloomy night shut in on every side;

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My heavy eyes scarce upward turned to God,
I wandered on the waste so wild and wide.

Footsore and faint, no voice at my command—
A thirst I felt, that I must surely die;
If no one quickly lent a helping hand,
No ear should hear my feebler growing cry.

The darkness of the night to that within,
Compared, was whiteness—all was as the grave;
With wasting sores, corruption, worms and sin,
As are the banks the Styx's waters lave.

Unto my knees I lifted me and crept,
With bended head and face o'erspread with shame;
Unto the Saviour's feet I crawled and wept,
In weakness I could only gasp His name.

He stood above me with his pitying gaze,
Then stooped and touched me, vilest of the vile;
New strength was mine, was hymns of joy I raise,
I shout, the Master owns me for His child.

No more I wander in a sinful path—
I follow in the way the Saviour trod:
Upward my way, I will not fear the wrath
And judgment of my great forgiving God.

THE RETURNED LETTERS.

Over and over I read the dear letters—
Letters so freighted with hope and with joy;
Breathings of hope from a heart in love's fetters,
Whisperings such only as love could employ.
Pleas for sustenance through life's changing phazes,
Brought from the deepest recess of the soul;
Hopings of happiness in love's embrace,
When from our love's sky the clouds should all roll.

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Bright were the moments those words had been uttered—
Happy the hearts in each other's entwine;
Holy vows plighted, the while our hearts fluttered,
Plighted devotion till life should decline.
Ah! but the tempter has entered my Eden,
Plucking the flowers 'twas dearest to me;
Out of my life all the joy has receded,
Lost like a ship on the restless blue sea.

Changed is the heart that I trusted and cherished—
Gone is the anchor of hope from my heart;
Wrecked on life's rocks all my sweet joy has perished;
Henceforth forever our lives lie apart.
False is the eye at whose glance my heart bounded,
False are the lips that were pressed to my own;
False were the echoing notes that had sounded,
Like richest music in his voice's tone.

HYPOCRISY.

O, Hypocrisy, thou evil-minded, forked tongued and hydra-headed monster. Thou hast assumed the guise of truth, and spread the veil of honor o'er thy wicked face, and shod by feet with sandals of uprightness, but from thy polluted lips spring the odors of the putre— faction within thy sin-coated heart.

Thou stalkest abroad, trailing thine assumed habiliments with a feigned, saint-like pride, but thy unsteady steps betray thy falsity.

In thy hand thou bearest a bludgeon wrapped about with gilded lies, and those who trust thee fall victims to thy deadly blows.

Thou wouldest be called fidelity, but knowest thou not that truth is naked? In her innocence finding no necessity to enshrould her charms. Her form symmetrical, her face adorned by that pervading light, which borroweth its glory from the angels. Her feet are bare,

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they tread the highway of uprightness. Her breath is sweet as odors borne on zephyrs' wings from Paradise. Thou art a stalking error.

TO MY FATHER.

And wilt thou come no more,
And walk the way so often trod?
No; henceforth on that bright celestial shore
Thou'lt dwell with God.

How long and rudely tossed,
Thy life bark on this troubled sea;
God guided thee, and thou hast safely crossed
To blest Eternity.

IN MEMORIAM OF MOTHER.

In memoriam of Mrs. Annie M. Henderson, who departed this life for the bliss of heaven, one year ago, October, 22d, 1892.

I miss thee, my mother, thy image is still
The deepest impressed on my heart;
And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill,
Ere a line of that image depart.

Thou wert torn from our side when we needed thee most,
When our reason could measure thy worth,
When we knew but too well that the image we'd lost,
Could never be replaced upon earth.

I miss thee, my mother. Oh, when do I not?
Though I know 'twas the wisdom of heaven,
That the deepest shade fell on my sinned spot,
When that tide of devotion was riven.

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For when thou wert with me, my soul was below—
I was chained to the world I then trod;
My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound,
But now they have followed thy spirit to God.

CONSOLATION.

Dear Lord, I oft am bowed in grief,
Then earthly comforts flee;
Naught else affords the sweet relief
Which comes alone from thee.

When sorrows like an angry sea
Sweep inward o'er my soul,
Then helpless, Lord, I fly to Thee,
The waves thou dost control.

Thy tender touch quick banisheth
The pain within my breast;
The trembling tear soon vanisheth
At Thy divine behest.

How vain is life and its delight
When my own path I choose;
As lonely wanderer by night
My way I quickly loose.

But, O, what comfort, Lord, is mine,
What peace it doth afford;
To talk within the light divine,
Shed by thy precious word.

WILL E'ER THERE COME A TIME?

Dear heart, will e'er there come a time
When I shall turn to thee
For love responsive unto mine,
And coldness only see?

When vanished is the fond delight
That once shone in your eyes,

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That day will be as darkest night,
No joy in it could rise.

If I should meet a chilling glance,
Where mine was wont to see,
Delight and joy in thy response,
Love, that were death to me.

As to the sturdy oak tree's cling,
The tender ivy vine,
O, may thy true affection be
A strong support to mine.

EXTRACTS FROM THE AUTHORS.

Ah! to what grief a single deviation from the track of human duty leads.

Byron.

There is no happiness destroyer quite equal to that of a restless, impatient, always dissatisfied mind.

Wadsworth.

Human knowledge is the parent of doubt.

Greville.

Self trust is the essence of heroism.

Emerson.

To believe a business impossible is to make it so.

Collier.

Truth has rough flavors if we bite it through.

George Eliott.

Civility is the charm that attracts the love of all men.

Bishop Horne.

TO BISHOP TURNER.

Stand up, thou mighty monarch, stand,
With flashing eagle eye and flaming tongue,
Till loud and long o'er this accursed land,

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The adamantine truths thou utterest shall be sung.
The angry mutterings of a prejudicial host,
But, like a gentle zephyr, fan thy brow,
With clarion voice speak truth nor count the cost,
Thy purpose shall be seen, though darkly now.
'Tis not that many do not understand
The echo of the ringing of that knell,
Which thou hast sounded, yet like cowards stand,
Preferring sloth to future woe or weal.

Who e'er so blind in thee dost not perceive
A matchless leader for thy stricken race;
Who scents the distant danger would relieve,
And sights to a divine appointed place.

They tremble, cringe and shrink from day to day,
And fear their unknown power and strength to try—
In bold adventure to attempt the way,
Of men free born, to dare and do or die.

But lead thou on, perhaps though now alone,
To these more heavy visioned shall be shown,
A land where men white, or black are one,
And freedom shares the chariot of the sun.

EXTRACTS FROM THE AUTHORS.

Company, villainous company, hath been the ruin of me.

Shakespeare.

The intellect is perfected not by knowledge, but by activity.

Aristotle.

The difficulties with which we are met are the maids of honor which set off virtue.

Bolieve.

What gift has Providence bestowed on man that is so dear to him as his children.

Cicero.

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He is incapable of a truly good action who finds not a pleasure in contemplating the good actions of others.

Lavater.

The wealth of a man is the number of things which he loves and blesses, which he is loved and blessed by.

Carlyle.

A DREAM.

I dreampt of you, sweetheart, last night,
'Twas not a dream of bliss;
I saw another in your arms
Receive a loving kiss.

I saw you raise another's head
Aloft to meet your own,
And gaze with rapture on a face
Which in its pleasure shone.

I saw your long, dark lashes sweep
Your crimson mantled cheek;
Your bosom heave with passion deep,
Your lips about to speak.

And O, what torture, love, was mine,
My heart with anguish burned;
And from the scene my tearful eyes
A painful witness turned.

Had heaven no pity? It did seem
I prayed for some relief;
I woke and wondered that a dream
Could wring my heart with grief.

'Tis morn, and I am glad again,
For in your eyes a gleam
Of love and joy dispels the pain
I witnessed in that dream.

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Sometimes the engines of our anatomy are overheated by the fire of our ambition, and explosion would follow were it not that God touches some little valve in the machinery and allows an escape for our excess of steam.

Danger is imminent wherever there is an excess of zeal.

True heroism consists of a thorough knowledge and control of oneself.

A truly great man chafes not under forced and unjustly imposed circumstances, but applies the balm of patience to the uncomfortable situation, hope enabling him to perceive light ahead.

EXTRACTS AND QUOTATIONS.

“Our seasons have no fixed returns,
Without our will they come and go;
At noon our sudden summer burns,
At sunset all is snow.”

Lowell.

“A vile conceit in pompous words expressed
Is like a clown in royal purple dressed.”

—Anon.

FORSAKEN

I sit in the fading twilight here,
But he comes not my heart to cheer;
And swelling waves of sorrow roll
Across my faint and weary soul.

There's nothing left me now but sighs,
My starved affection's piteous cries
Are answered by a look or tone,
As recent winds from frigid zone.

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AMBITION.

Mine ear was dull, my harp unstrung,
Rich melodies of mirth unsung,
My heart deceived (with woe was wrung),
Lay motionless and dead.
But there came one with mien wise,
With sympathy and tender eyes,
And wooed my sluggish powers to rise,
Hope's wings once more to spread.

Once more my heart ambition stirred,
Aroused to life by one kind word,
Which I had craved, but had not heard,
Dormant my hopes had lain.
For him whose legal interest,
Should first and last made manifest,
A mutual zeal (of love the test),
I sought, alas, in vain.

But heaven sent me on a day,
(When sorrow shadowed all my way),
A friend with earnestness to say:
Bestir thee: To thy post.

THE FIRST FLAKES THAT FELL ON MOTHER'S GRAVE.

There's a quiet little spot
That is all the world to me,
Where the treasure of my life so calmly sleeps.
'Tis my dear old mother's grave,
Over which the willows wave,
And the heavenly angels nightly vigils keep.

Yes, the dearest face to me,
In this life no more I'll see,
Yet I'll follow in her precepts day by day;
All the birds have lost their song,
All the days seem dark and long,
Since my dearest earthly friend was laid away.

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But the winter's biting blast
Cannot chill thee as they pass,
Can not chill thee as they pass,
And the snow doth softly lay upon the ground;
Here alone I sit and grieve,
While the angel's fingers weave
A snowy covering for thy precious mound.

Rest, my sainted mother, rest,
On the loving Saviour's breast,
Till the day that he shall come to claim his own;
I shall greet the blood-washed throng,
You the shining ones among,
With songs of praises round the great white throne.

Peaceful be thy gentle sleep,
Mother, while I sit and weep,
And the willows gently whisper as they wave;
O, thy memory is dear,
And thy spirit hovers near,
While the first flakes are falling on thy grave.

WHEN WE ARE DEAD.

O, the good things said of us when we are dead,
If only while we live that they were said;
Many a heart were spared a sigh,
Joy would lighten many an eye,
Where sorrow's weight we often bear instead.

We approach the couch of death with quiet dread,
With tender tone and very softest tread;
As if we feared the slumberer to disturb,
We speak with only kindly eyes and word.

The dead are sightless, and the lips are dumb,
And dull the hearing, never more shall come,
The pang by us inspired of weary pain,
Into that pulseless bosom ever again.

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But could we rouse again to life that clay,
Which once we loved, but now so senseless lay;
No act or speech, or look should e'er offend
Our dear departed relative or friend.

And so through life we heavy-hearted go,
Within our heart a chamber filled with woe,
Then let us turn from those who've passed away,
Unto the living whom we meet each day.

The dead are dead, they neither feel nor hear,
Let tender words fall on an ear
Who knows how much of comfort it will impart,
A kind word falling on a troubled heart.

FADED FLOWERS.

I've a little bunch of flowers,
Which were pressed by mother's hand,
Ere we laid her form forever neath the sod,
When her loving eyes had looked their last
Upon this lowly land,
And her spirit winged its upward flight to God.

Old time has changed their gorgeous hue
To that of sombre brown,
The emerald leaves are crumbling to decay.
But in my heart there ever lives
Her image fond and true,
Which I shall cherish to my dying day.
This life seems far less bright to me,
And friendship cold and strange,
The summer skies have lost their gold and blue,
The seasons sadly come and go.
I reckon not their change,
Since mother's face is hidden from my view.
The happy birds in springtime wake
Their joyful notes in vain,
No more I seek the woodland's cool retreat.

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My sad and longing heart can find
No comfort for its pain,
No matter whither tend my weary feet.
But in that far off happy land,
That home of light above,
Where heavenly flowers dispel their odors sweet,
I know that mother patiently awaits with eyes of love
The coming of her children there to greet.

“AND IT SHALL COME TO PASS.”

O, muse away—intrude not on this calm,
My heart and I are weary of life's woes;
I fain would sit alone, my heart and I commune,
While God draws very near and lends a listening ear
To my poor plea. O, muse away—
And leave me but to-day—
Break not the spell so soon.

My room is dark, the curtains close are drawn,
But that might not have been, the room was dark since dawn;
I stole aside to pray, I had a burden hard to bear,
And sought my chamber walls, that on the altar there,
My offering I'd lay, but ere I knelt I found
I was not all alone, for I could hear a sound,
A voice besides my own.

It was no human tongue that raised the song I knew;
It was my soul that sang, inspired, O, muse by you;
With tear-dimmed eyes I raised my burning heart's desire,
Then waited, tremblingly, for God's descending fire.
I waited long, and thought that I had prayed in vain,

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Not as the “rushing wind” or still small voice it came,
Nor as Elijah's flame.

But I could hear God say, “Believe and trust my word.”
(The God that notes the fall of e'en a tiny bird.)
Saith, “Faithless child, the answer is with thee;
Ask what thou wilt in my name, I will grant it thee.
The light stole in, the truth revealed at last,
'Tis as you pray the answer is,
And it shall come to pass.

THE DYING SLAVE'S REQUEST.

Old Massa I am dying now,
Your face I cannot see,
Before I leave this world below,
This promise give to me.
I've done my best to serve you well,
Your barns are filled with store,
Before I bid you now farewell,
Grant this I ask no more.

My wife and babe I now must leave,
They silent weep for me,
'Tis not for parting which I grieve,
I pray that they were free.
Now, Massa, I am growing weak,
This favor grant to me,
Quick while I yet may hear you speak,
Say, Massa, they are free.

I once was foremost in the throng,
That plowed the rich corn field,
I hear the echo of that song,
Which loud to heaven appealed.
From early dawn old Tom would toil,
But now he'll soon be dead,
No longer can he till the soil,
That it may yield you bread.

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The cotton fields fade from my sight,
The meadows golden grain,
The day is darkening into night,
I'll ne'er see dawn again.
But there's a joy within my breast,
And end of misery,
The weary slave at last finds rest,
His soul at last is free.

Before I'm laid beneath the sod,
This promise make to me,
I'll pass in peace to be with God,
My wife and child are free.

IN MEMORY OF THE HON. FREDERICK DOUGLASS, THE SAGE OF ANACOSTIA.

At last, at last the sage of Anacostia is at rest,
And eager throngs have passed beside his bier,
To gaze with sorrow in each throbbing breast,
And to his noble memory drop a tear.

At rest, ah yes, from years of weary toil,
Of restless seeking for a freeman's boon,
The offspring of Columbia's boasted soil,
Yields to that lot which cometh late or soon.

The sunshine of his youth by clouds was dim,
Laid in the lowly cradle of a slave,
The land of Liberty denied to him,
Which bounty to her other sons she gave.

When to the years of manhood he attained,
He gazed in terror on his fettered hands,
And e'en the thought of serfdom he disdained,
And sought for freedom though in foreign lands.

Ambition swelled his bosom with its fire,
A specimen of manhood noble, true,
To lofty heights his zeal did e'er aspire,
He chose the path of honor to pursue.

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In all his native land no single spot,
No mount nor vale to which he might retire,
And claim his breath his own, O, cursed lot,
His love for freedom fed his great desire.

And when at last he found he could endure,
No more the oppressing yoks of slavery's bond,
Resolved on flight to England's welcome shore,
The ocean braved to reach that land beyond.

And liberty aroused the dormant strength,
Pent in the mind and bosom of the slave,
His silvery voice and tongue were free at length,
He now possessed the burthen of his crave.

And to the world the bitter story told,
While millions hung upon his words that burned,
How human flesh by men was bought and sold,
He fled because a bondsman's lot he spurned.

He saw at last his native land engaged
In civil strife and seas of human blood,
Poured out on soil where wild the conflict raged,
And slavery sink beneath the gory flood.

Scarce had been cleared the field of death and smoke,
Ere rang his eloquence both loud and clear,
The shattered manacle and cruel yoke,
Aside were cast for liberty so dear.

So to the lofty apex of renown,
In foreign land or native land of birth,
He wore with dignity the hero's crown,
Deserved emblem of a hero's worth.

A life unselfish now has reached its close,
It's latest effort in defense of right,
Now finds a peaceful and well-won repose,
In realms of bliss and everlasting light.

127

GOOD BYE.

What word is there
That can compare,
In bitterness of tone,
When heart from heart,
Is forced to part,
From loving ones and home?

Tears dim the eye,
How e'er we try,
With courage brave to meet,
The sad ordeal,
We keenly feel,
The words though sad, yet sweet.

Of fortune great,
Or fickle fate,
Children of destiny,
God knows the end,
Our ways portend,
To us a mystery.

If it might be
That we could see
The life that lies between,
Or what the fate
That doth await
Through days that intervene.

God wills it so,
We may not know,
No human power descry,
On sea or land,
Within his hand,
Our destiny must lie.

Hope fills the breast,
And lulls to rest,

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The burdened heart-felt sigh,
The mizpah be,
Twixt thee and me,
When we have said Good-Bye.

DOING.

Doing something, do it well,
Let your efforts ever tell,
Of a purpose firm and true,
Keep the golden rule in view.

Be engaged in doing good,
Motives pure and understood;
In life's struggle take a part,
With a brave, yet tender heart.

Woes of others freely share,
Words of kindness never spare,
Weep with those in sad distress,
Joy in others' happiness.

Do not coldly criticise
Erring ones, nor yet despise,
Speak not with disparity,
Spread the veil of charity.

Of the faults you chance to see,
In another pityingly,
Brush the tear drop from the cheek,
Take his hand and kindly speak.

Words are things of little cost,
Souls for lack of them are lost,
And to others ever do,
As you'd wish it done by you.

129

THE SLAVE MOTHER'S CRIME.

“Yes, I'm guilty,” the woman said,
And tossed with pride her shapely head,
Her flashing eye looked fierce the while,
Her teeth gleamed through a scornful smile,
As up she raised her fettered hands,
Imprisoned with the iron bands.
And wildly heaved her throbbing breast,
Close to the council rail she pressed,
Then turned, the accusing court to face,
No sign of pity could she trace;
Each eye was set with stony stare,
On her, the picture of despair.

“Unbind me, men, there is no need,
These iron chains, I did the deed,
If ye be men, unbind me now,
I did the deed, I'll tell you how.”
The white child lay upon my breast,
As like a birdling in its nest,
An nursed my blood and cooed in glee,
And when I smiled, smiled back at me.

Think you I had no mother love?
That priceless thing all else above,
I fondled it, and ere 'twas long,
The weakling babe grew hale and strong;
And when I held it on my knee,
How strangely would it look at me;
I looked into its deep blue eyes,
And saw contempt for me arise,
For me—its mother—black as night,
Was hateful in the white child's sight.

The master's blood in every vein,
For the black mother held disdain,
His lips would curl in scornful mirth,
Of the black source which gave him birth.
How could I nurse my child with pride,
A mother ere I'd been a bride,

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And in the “great house” over there,
Another babe lay sweet and fair,
The proud white mother's babe for him.
As like my own as any twin.

I toiled all day, neath the fiery skies,
No time to soothe my infant's cries,
And in the field with me close by,
Another toiled, whose manly eye
Looked on in pity not in blame,
With charity upon my shame;
He always helped me do my task,
And for my love one day did ask
The master, who this answer gave,
A laugh of scorn—no, she's my slave.

Jack pined, and to his death soon went,
With pain his anguished heart was rent,
I sorely grieved but could not die,
And as the days passed slowly by,
My life with sorrow shadowed o'er,
'Twas then this fearful vow I swore;
Out in the darkness I could see
Jack's welcome arms awaiting me,
The white child only lay between
Jack's open arms and joy supreme.

It would not die, I wished it so,
That I at length to Jack might go,
I wished it so, it would not die,
To Jack and freedom I might fly;
My hate was strong, I prayed each day
That death would take the child away,
For if the bastard child should live,
What could a poor slave mother give,
For often had the master sold,
His flesh and blood for love of gold.

And as the days went slowly past,
My heart seemed turned to stone at last,

131

Down in the dark and shaded wood,
Beside a stream and old oak stood,
Close by the rocks lay grey and bare,
Black fell the slanting shadows there,
I took the child close to my breast,
A moment, loath with it to part,
A mother's love awoke again,
How could I see the infant slain?

Were it not better it should die,
While yet a babe, than live like I
Had lived to be the white man's slave?
Yes, better far the quiet grave,
How should it die? This I must choose,
I must be quick, no time to loose,
The wind blew keen across the wold,
I shuddered for the night was cold,
And laid the child upon the ground,
Then with two stones I dug around
The roots of that decaying tree,
The moist soil moved easily.

My thread-bare shawl I snatched away,
And took the child from where it lay,
My apron, too, was strong and stout,
I wrapped him tight and close and warm,
That here forever safe from harm,
While white-robed angels watch would keep,
O'er this, the infant's last long sleep.

Into the earthen cradle scooped,
I placed the child who soundly slept,
Then to the meadow soft I crept,
And stole a covering for the child;
Above his little grave I strewed
The hay, what if his bed were rude?
When he should wake it would be light
In heaven with angels pure and bright.

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Now ye know all the dreadful tale,
Ha, ye are cowards poor and pale,
What, do I see a shining tear?
Now do your worst, I have no fear,
I scorn your pity, I a slave,
Can die as bravest of the brave.
Quick, pass the sentence, I would fain
Be happy with my Jack again.
Her breath came quick, and then in gasps,
Around the room one glance she casts,
Low on her bosom dropped her head,
One cry of pain, and she lay dead.

WHERE ARE THE PRAYERS.

Where are the prayers we prayed on yesterday,
Or is it, Lord, the prayers we only said,
That traveled not the length to heaven's highway,
But mist-like rose no higher than our head?

Where are the pleas, from burdened hearts sore rent,
The earnest petition of the penitent,
Were they the hearts profound and earnest pleas,
Such as thou hearest when on bended knees,
We weak and faint, sick, weary, and alone,
Whisper, O Father, in a softened tone.

Were they in substance careless yet and cold,
And not the craving of a spirit bold,
We stand and wonder what the cause can be,
Thou dost not grant the favor asked of thee.

If we pray our prayer to thee,
Thine answer never tarries,
Often we but say our prayer,
The answer then miscarries.

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COULD YOU TELL ME A FALSEHOOD?

Could you tell me a falsehood, darling,
As I look into your eyes,
And there behold the glory
Of the mellow summer skies?
From virtue's crystal fountain,
Which in your bosom lies,
There beauteous truth reflected,
Smiles through your lovely eyes.

What are life's storms and crosses,
The worst that e'er could be,
I'd count among my losses,
Your faithfulness to me.
As doth the clinging ivy,
The sturdy oak entwine,
So doth my heart depend, love,
On faith and truth in thine.

“Who broods over the past loses courage for the future. Bury deep your mistakes, your sins if need be, and write on the gravestone: ‘God being my helper I will begin anew and build better.’”

—Sidney Lanier.

“The value of a thought cannot be told: it broadens the horizon, it lifts the heart and inspires the soul to worthy and vital aims. As a man thinks so is he; as a man wills, he may become by cultivating a special habit of thought.”

—Longfellow.

“The neglecting of a duty is next to the commission of a crime.”

GOD IS NEAR THEE.

How near is God to me?
I never seem to know
Until affliction's hand
Has dealt a telling blow.
All human aid I seek,

134

Appeal and power is spent,
Then trembling, faint and weak,
Aloft my cry is sent.

When through the mists so dim,
I peer and feel alone,
He calleth me to Him,
In love's persuasive tone.
Why do I ever stray
From following my guide,
Why tread a dangerous way,
A far from his dear side?

How near is God to me?
'Tis only when I raise
My weary eyes I see
The smile upon his face.
When is God near to me?
Whene'er to Him I go,
He hearkens unto me
In my distress and woe.

JESUS, SAVIOUR, PILOT, SAVE.

When from earth my lonely bark
Shall be launched upon the wave,
O' death's waters deep and dark,
Jesus, Saviour, Pilot, Save.
When my eyes a parting view,
Of my loved ones here shall take,
Jesus, Pilot tried and true,
Grant safe voyage I shall make.
Let me look time's landscape o'er,
Conscience free from sin and care,
On eternity's blest shore,
Grant I may thy glory share.

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HE THAT COMETH TO ME I WILL IN NOWISE CAST OUT.

[_]

(Tune, “Federal Street,” L. M.)

Lord, on thy promise I rely,
That thou wilt hear a sinner's cry
In every trying time of need,
And prove thyself a friend indeed.

Lo, at thy feet I humbly fall,
And on thy mercy great I call,
O! turn to me thy smiling face,
Send me abundance of thy grace.

Condemned by the most sacred law,
Which broken is each breath I draw,
Lord, only on thy grace I lean,
Thy power doth make the foulest clean.

To count thy mercies I begin,
And, hark, a voice comes from within,
When shall the countless blessings end,
Which thou to me doth daily send?

When I would closely follow thee,
Evil doth present walk with me,
And trials sore my way beset,
And doubtings in my heart beget.

Still I will fully trust in Thee,
Who sacrificed thy Son for me,
Whose blood was shed on Calvery.
Atoning Lamb to set me free.

LEND A HAND.

There's a mighty battle raging,
Right and wrong in mortal strife,
Volunteers are now engaging,
Battling for eternal life.

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Can you hear the heathen weeping,
Yet so calm and idly stand;
Or indulge in sloth and sleeping?
Lend a hand, a helping hand.

CHORUS.

Tell me, Christians, worn and weary,
Toiling on life's pathway dim,
Are you shedding light for Jesus,
Are you witnessing for him?

Hark! a voice from o'er the ocean,
From the distant isles and seas,
Hark! and you will hear the echo
Floating on each passing breeze.
Plaintively its tones are pealing,
As a soul bowed low in grief,
For the gospel's light revealing,
Send, oh send the sweet relief.

As a famished infant crying,
That its hunger may be fed,
Many souls in darkness dying,
Plead for life's eternal bread.
Will you be a valiant soldier,
With a purpose firm and true?
Holding high the blood-stained banner,
God the Master needeth you.

When the Master of the vineyard
Comes the laborers to repay,
Shall you be among the faithful,
Or the idlers by the way?
Though you may not be a captain,
Leading on a mighty band,
You can be an armor-bearer,
Following at God's command.

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Though the conflict wildly rages,
Pressing hot to heaven's gate,
Whosoever here engages,
Him a just reward awaits.
You may not possess a palace,
You may wear no title grand,
You can aid in saving lost ones,
Lend a hand, a helping hand.

TIMES AND THINGS HAVE CHANGED.

[_]

(Tune, “Auld Lang Syne.”)

The times are very different now
From what they used to be,
When I was but a little child
Upon my mother's knee.
Abandoned are the good old hymns
At church we used to sing,
And operatic airs are now
Considered quite the thing.

You hear no more of Afton sweet,
Nor Siloam's shady rill,
'Tis Clementi or Chopin now,
The sacred arches fill.
We've lost the substance of our song,
And to the shadow cling,
The god of gold we worship
When we make our offering.

We used to go to church to get
Our stock of faith renewed,
And hungry hearts were feasted there,
On spiritual food.
But many of the preachers now,
Are filled so full of self,
There is no room for Jesus,
Nor for anybody else.

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Our pulpits used to be adorned
By men of unction full,
But now they're filled by men
Who with the Bishop's got a pull.
And preachers are the leaders now
Of local politics,
They wear no more the saintly brow,
But play all sorts of tricks.

Of modern times our language, too,
Has greatly been abused,
I pray I may be pardoned
For some terms I'm forced to use.
For fads and slang are popular,
And to be “up-to-date,”
The language has been modernized
To suit our rapid gait.

When I was young another thing
I'm sure they never did,
In speaking of a little child
Call it “a little kid.”
When men committed theft they got
The natural name of rogue,
But now “they've made a slight mistake,”
Insanity is vogue.

When once a year we got a frock,
We made it plain always,
Our waists would not give you a shock,
We were no slaves to stays.
A man wore shirt, and coat, and hat,
And homespun pantaloons,
But women now wear all of these
And sleeves made like balloons.

A rogue was not a gentleman,
If he were high or low,
And robbed a bank or hen-coop,
He to prison sure would go.

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But now a man who pilfers bread,
Is almost sure to swing,
Or serve a lifetime pennance,
For he was not in “the ring.”

The Bible even has been changed
To suit this rapid age,
Once we believed what'er we read
On every blessed page.
If one committed suicide,
'Twas said he went below,
But now the preacher shakes his head
And says he doesn't know.

It once was thought a camel
Through a needle's eye could go,
As easy as a man to heaven,
Who hoarded wealth below.
But now the richest man can get
A seat in Paradise,
The nearest next the throne if he
But chose to pay the price.

And great men once were reckoned
By upright and moral lives,
But he is greatest now who boasts
His own and neighbor's wives.
Young ladies were the modest girls,
Both gentle and demure,
When crowned with queenly virtue,
And no other jewel wore.

Our national and other laws
Are made on rubber lines.
They stretch or contract easily
To suit them to the times.
The city government is changed,
'Tis managed now by bands
That squander recklessly the means
Entrusted to their hands.

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A tax is placed on everything,
No matter great or small,
The question next I guess they'll spring,
If we shall live at all (?)
One almost wearies of one's life,
Such wickedness to see,
So much of bitterness and strife,
There never used to be.

A hundred other little things,
Of which I might take note,
I must omit, but must remark
That women now can vote.
So in despair I sadly bow,
But you'll agree with me,
That things decidedly have changed
From what they used to be.