Chapter III: Part 3

I will try to do my best, Though my ideal be not gained; On the Master's scrip shall rest Eager eyes, till is attained Some resemblance to His hand; If no more I can command.

Like my life, this written sheet, So unlike the pattern given; Crooked strokes, I oft repeat; Oh, that from it could be riven All the blurs and blots of sin; All the self that's found within.

_I_ can not the past erase. _Christ_ shall blot the crooked out, Leaving not the slightest trace Of my sin, the lines about; And will give me grace to write Pages pleasing in His sight.

I will try to do my best, As He gives me strength and light, Leaving with Him all the rest; He will keep life's pages white; And the copy shall be shown Perfected, before His throne.

PERFECT WORK

An artist skilled beyond the sons of men With pleasure scanned the pictures on the wall, Rare works of art, each one pronounced a gem, The product of his hand, both great and small; Each filled its place in the designer's plan; Conceived in full before the work began.

Pleased was the artist with results as shown; But his ideal was not as yet attained; It needed this, as palace needs a throne, But _throne_ a _king_--then is perfection gained, When his great masterpiece hangs in its place, And the great artist looks in his own face.

THE JOHNSTOWN DISASTER, 1889

Look down, ye Alleghenies, into the Conemaugh vale, And see the rising waters, and hear the bitter wail; The swollen streams now empty their contents in the lake, The waters rise to kiss the skies and walls of granite shake.

Oh, hear that awful booming; the dam has given way! An avalanche of water God's hand alone can stay! Oh, leap, ye hills, before it and keep this torrent back, Or devastated towns and homes will mark its onward track!

Look down, ye Alleghenies, upon this vale of woe; Ten thousand corpses at your base their soulless faces show; Some hid beneath the debris, some covered o'er with slime, Their spirits fled to meet their God, beyond the shores of time. The aged sire and lassie; the careworn mother, too, With her strong son, whom she had hoped would guard life's journey thro', Are lying there together, the old and young alike; Their plans and purposes cut off, no power to love or strike.

Bow down, ye Alleghenies, and weep o'er thousands slain, Who yesterday were all intent this present world to gain. Their active brain is sleeping, their busy hands are still, Bright hopes are blasted in an hour, ambitions cease to thrill; Their mansions, with their bodies, the flood has borne away-- The rich and poor together rest till resurrection day.

Now leap for joy, ye mountains, for all is not in vain! For as it was in Noah's flood, it ever will remain! God cares for those who love Him; He holds them in His hand, And wind and wave obey His will, and rest at His command; Some sank beneath the freshet, and now with others lie, But God prepared another ark to bear their souls on high.

See, floating with the wreckage, borne onward by the tide, A loving mother with her babe close sheltered at her side; One hand has grasped a rafter, the other guards her child; Oh, how she pleads with God and man in accents loud and wild! Men hear but give no answer, no human hand can save; Her voice, alas, is hushed in death by the relentless wave;

But God has heard her pleading, and now His angel bears Their deathless souls to dwell with Him, where free from toils and cares, Her voice rings out in gladness the notes of that blest psalm The prophet heard the elders sing, of "Moses and the Lamb."

And see this lovely maiden, a mother's hope and pride, The sunbeam of a Christian home, and the affianced bride Of one who loved her dearly, and loved her not in vain, For he had won a loyal heart, and hand without a stain; But he lies 'neath the billows, and she will join him soon. Hark! hark! she sings in accents sweet, to old familiar tune! "_Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly_," etc.

Her prayer, also, is answered, for see, the roof is bare! The current swept the slippery raft, the maiden is not there! An angel band descended, her lover led the way, And now she joins her loved and lost in realms of endless day!

Look down, ye Alleghenies, from your colossal heights, And witness an heroic deed, bright gleam 'midst horrid sights. See, _Periton_ has mounted his famous large bay steed, And flies, not to the mountains, but at his greatest speed He gallops down the valley, to warn of pending fate, And cries aloud, "Flee for your lives! flee, ere it be too late! The Conemaugh dam is broken, destruction comes apace! Leave all and to the mountains flee; leave all and win the race!"

Each creek becomes a river, each pool a little sea, The tidal wave comes rushing on, men know not where to flee, But on he rides, still shouting, as angels did of old, "Flee! Flee ye to the mountain! Flee! forsake your homes and gold!"

His horse now shares his spirit, and leaps each swollen stream. With panting flanks and nostrils wide, and breath like scalding steam, He dashes down the roadway, and fairly seems to fly, Obedient to his rider's rein, resolved to do or die.

Some heed our hero's warning. See, toward the hills they fly! Will _Periton_ now turn aside, or like a hero die? Straight on he goes, brave fellow; to turn aside he scorned, His life he deems of little worth if other men be warned.

We honor those brave soldiers, who scaled the rampart height, To plant the standard of their queen in the defence of right, The fire was hot before them, and bursting shells o'erhead, Yet on they pressed, till bullet-pierced they fell--our honored dead; But he, I hold, was braver, who ran his race alone, No comrade's cheer to urge him on, no bugle blast was blown, Nor grand review to follow if he should win the day; But thoughts of self were all too weak his onward course to stay.

Spur up your steed, brave fellow--the flood is at his heels! Too late! the waves now gird him round; the gallant rider reels; Entombed beneath the debris his warning voice is stilled, But he, I trust, ran not in vain; his mission is fulfilled.

Like Jesus, he saved others, yet _would_ not save himself; The plaudits of the world sought not, but scorned its praise and pelf. He still sat in the saddle, and held the guiding rein, Yet wind and wave awoke him not, and thunders roared in vain. His spirit had ascended, death set the hero free, And God shall say in His great day, "_Thou didst it unto Me!_"

Look down, ye Alleghenies, with ever-darkening frown, Upon the selfishness which caused the ruin of Johnstown. A reservoir was fashioned, of full three miles in length, An inland lake, kept back by dam of insufficient strength; No mills were driven by it; no water-works supplied; A few rich men, for selfish sport, claimed all these waters wide.

They rode upon its surface in skiff, and bark canoe, Shot grouse and duck, caught fish and eel, and held their title true; For other people's safety took not a single thought-- Ten thousand lives were less to them than fish thus daily caught. The dam revealed its weakness by frequent leaks, but they Turned not aside to strengthen it till came the fateful day; But God, who rules the nations, to whom all bow the knee, Will say to them on judgment day, "_Ye did it not to Me._"

EYE HATH NOT SEEN

Somewhere in the realms supernal
Is a home prepared for me,
Where my joys shall be eternal,
And my spirit ever free;
Mortal vision helps not here,
God conceals it from my sight,
By effulgent beams of light;
Oh that He would bring it near!

But I hear a voice say, softly,
"Be content to leave it so,
For God's thoughts are far too lofty
For a man like thee to know;
Human spirits must be free
From their tenements of clay,
Ere they bear that full-orbed day,
Bide thy time and thou shalt see."

I cannot draw back the curtain
That conceals the glory land,
Yet my hope is sure and certain,
For the tracings of God's hand
On the outside do appear,
Like the cherubim of old,
Wrought in needle-work and gold,
Bringing all the glory near.

He who made the lovely flowers
Which adorn both shrub and tree,
Climbing vine, and shady bowers,
In this beauty speaks to me:
'Tis the curtain of His tent,
Hiding much, yet much reveals,
Type of the Elysian fields;
Glory streams thro' woof and rent.

WHAT LASTS?

The words we speak on the empty air, Are never lost, but recorded there; The process we may not comprehend, Nor how the words with the air may blend, But science shows what results may be; Accept the fact, is enough for me.

The waves of sound may have died away As ripples faint on a sheltered bay; But though now faint will be heard again, By God, ourselves, and the sons of men. As sound e'en now may be multiplied; The faintest moan like the roaring tide; The housefly's tread with its tiny feet Like tramp of horse on the stone-paved street.

So, though now faint, will those voices be, When Christ shall come in His majesty; Our quicken'd sense will the echo hear, Like blast of horn to the timid deer.

In pleasant tones will the echoes be, Of words of love and of happy glee, Which we address to the friends we love, Or offer up to our Lord above.

But, unlike those, all the echoes heard, Of angry tones, and each sword-like word; As we here mete to our fellow men, The Judge shall mete in full measure then.

The thoughts we think may be lasting, too, Though not inscribed on the azure blue; On the tissued walls of the soul's great dome, May be found those thoughts ne'er more to roam. And like our thoughts, may we not become The thought we think, be ourselves the sum? May thoughts of God on my heart be graved, And I be known as a _sinner saved_.

IS THERE A BRIGHTER WORLD?

Beneath the surface of a shallow lake,
Where grasses rank and mammoth rushes grow,
And playful fish their bright fins nimbly shake,
Or madly chase each other to and fro,
The larva of the dragon-fly submerged,
In family large, had taken their abode,
And tho' the waves around them daily surged,
Upon the bending grass they safely rode.

Content were they with life as there enjoyed;
To brighter world they never had aspired,
Had they not felt unfilled an aching void,
And heard a whisper of a life attired
In sapphire robes, 'midst gleams of golden light,
Above their present world, so dank and chill,
Where all day long they wing their happy flight
From roses sweet to lovely daffodil.

But some essayed to doubt if it were so.
Who ever had returned to make it known?
One volunteered that he would upward go,
To bring report; but he was not full grown,
And fainted when he reached the surface air,
And falling, round a reed his form he curled,
Then cried, "Delusion! I have been up there.
And could not find a trace of brighter world."

Yet others could not still the voice within,
Nor disregard tradition's hopeful tale.
They called a council; but it caused some din,
And all their efforts seemed at first to fail,
Till one wise head suggested this compact,
Expressed, no doubt, in dragon larva lore;
That if that brighter life were actual fact,
And all who rose in golden sunshine soar,

Each must return to tell the joyful tale,
And o'er the waters shake his sapphire wings,
So all may see, and their bright comrade hail,
And talk about the tidings which he brings.
Now each returns, clad in his bright array;
Skims o'er the grassy lake with gauze-like wings,
Attracts their notice by his plumage gay,
And they collect to hear the news he brings.

Then, holding fast, he buzzes out his song,
And seeks to woo them to a brighter world.
And he succeeds; for see, the larva strong
Climb up the grass, and soon in light enfurled,
They wait the growth of wings, then burst their shells,
Shake loose the gauzy folds, and soar away;
But soon come back again their joy to tell,
And help their brothers to a brighter day.

Perhaps our loved ones do not always stay
In far-off heaven, and leave their comrades lone;
Tho' yet unseen, may hover round our way,
And see our toil, and hear our daily moan;
And tho' we cannot see their lovely forms,
Nor hear full well the whispers of their voice,
May shield us oft in life's tempestuous storms,
And when we victories gain, with us rejoice.

They whisper _thoughts_, perhaps, if not word sounds,
And help to waken longings for our rest;
And thus allure our hearts beyond earth's bounds
To joy and home, upon our Saviour's breast.

O may I heed the whispers which they bring,
And seek the grace which will my heart prepare
To climb from earth and take on angel wing,
Then soar aloft, to find my home up _there_!

A GLIMPSE OF HEAVEN

As the caged eagle neared the mountain range,
O'er which he oft had soared on pinions strong,
He clapped his wings, moved by some impulse strange,
And then fell dead his prison floor along.

So Moses stood on Pisgah's heights alone,
With sight undimmed, and unabated strength;
He gazed with rapture on the vision shown,
Of the fair land in all its breadth and length;

He saw the vale of Eschol clad with vine,
Mount Libbanus adorned with lordly trees,
Gilead and Achor, with their lowing kine,
And verdant Sharon swept by the sea breeze;

He saw the spot where Jacob's ladder stood,
The oaks at Mamre where their father prayed,
Saw Bashan with its pastures and its wood,
And the rude cave where Abram Sarah laid.

Saw the whole land--its hills and vales and streams,
Its lakes and pools, its vineyards and its groves,
A wealth and glory far beyond his dreams;
Better, it seemed, than all earth's treasure troves.

God then revealed a glimpse of His own face,
Which Moses once desired, but God withheld,
But finished now the God-ordained race,
The battle fought, and every passion quelled.

As he beholds the glory of his Lord,
And looks within the pearly gates ajar,
Snaps, in an instant, life's frail brittle cord,
And he is where the holy angels are.

So is it, likewise, with most dying saints;
They see e'en here the beatific sight;
The spirit then breaks thro' this world's restraints,
And enters into heaven's effulgent light.

Not sorrow snaps the silver cord, but joy;
Not woe, but bliss, expands the golden bowl.
The pitcher breaks when free from earth's alloy,
And fails the wheel when heaven has filled the soul.

THE END WE SOUGHT

The end we sought is not attained, But wisdom has been won, And thus a higher goal is gained. _That_ like the moon has sadly waned, While _this_ shines as the sun.

A shorter route to India's strand Columbus failed to find. That was an object truly grand, But in the wealth of this fair land Grandeur and good combine.

ASPIRATION

I stand to-day on higher ground
Than ever reached before,
Yet from this summit I have found,
Outlined full many more,
Which seem to pierce the vaulted sky,
And prove my effort vain
But God will set my feet on high,
Thro' grace I shall attain.

Yet higher still my ideal stands,
Its peak but dimly seen,
But hope impels, and love commands,
And faith discerns its sheen;
And when I reach its shining height
Heaven's gate will open wide;
I'll see the beatific sight,
And rest at Jesus' side.

MY REST

I would not cherish a wish or thought
Displeasing, Lord, to Thee;
Thy will is good, and with wisdom fraught,
And that suffices me.
I cannot alter a plan of Thine,
And would not if I could;
I acquiesce in the will divine,
And find my highest good.

At times my vessel drifts near the shore,
And the beacon lights expire,
The surf-capped waves swell more and more,
And threaten with ruin dire;
But only the surface sea is rough;
The ocean's depths are calm,
And a star affords me light enough,
The Star of Bethlehem.

And by its light I discern the sand
And rocks along the coast,
And turn away toward a fairer land,
And standing at my post,
I guide my bark thro' the tempest wild,
Borne on by wind and tide,
Till God receives His weak, erring child,
And shelters near His side.

"Lo, I come, O Lord, to do Thy will!"
Shines from my star divine,
And my heart cries out, "In me fulfill
Also, Thy wise design."
I would not alter a plan of thine
If I the power possessed;
My will is lost in the will divine,
'Tis here I find my rest.

"PAINT ME AS I AM, WARTS AND ALL"--_Cromwell_.

Brave soul, 'twere well if all the same would say, And artists aim their patron's wish t'obey. What signifies a wart, or e'en a scar? Leave both, skilled hand, and paint us as we are. The crowfeet paint, the wrinkles on the brow, The hollow cheek, the form inclined to bow, The tear-dim'd eye, the hair well streaked with gray, The hardened hand, begrim'd with soot and clay, And if you use the seer's revealing glass, Remember this, "_All flesh is as the grass._"

"I WAS THERE"

When the French soldier from the field returned, Begrimed with smoke and blood, he felt content, As from Napoleon he this fact had learned, That thro' his marshall, medals would be sent, The name of battlefield each one would bear, And, also, in large letters, "_I was there._"

In others' triumphs we may well rejoice, If in their triumphs good to us redounds; But in the glory we can have no choice, And our rejoicings are but empty sounds. If you would in the victor's glory share, Be then prepared to add this, "_I was there!_"

The victor's joy belongs to him alone; He stood his ground 'midst storms of shot and shell; Thro' his brave stand the foe has been o'erthrown, And he alone the victor's tale can tell. He now lies down to die 'neath glory's glare, For he can say to others, "_I was there!_"

Not in some neutral nook must we remain; The battle rages, we must share the strife; The world, once lost, we must for Christ regain, And each lay hold upon eternal life. Who share His conflicts will His glory share; Then looking down to earth say, "_I was there!_"

Those who before the throne are robed in white, Passed thro' the conflict and the foe o'ercame; Boldly they stood as champions for the right, And thus have won thro' grace enduring fame, And when the roll is called, each will declare, "_Here am I, Lord, I fought for Thee down there!_"

TRUE LOVE

He loves not much who loves not honor more;
If men lack this then love must lack as well;
If this possessed no tongue love's depths can tell;
The heart an ocean filled from shore to shore.

Seeing in him the possibility
Of likeness to the great and Blessed One;
It may be even now in him begun.
I love him much for what I hope to be,

And show my love by yielding him his due;
For sentimental love is ever vain,
It cannot peace, much less heaven's favor gain;
But those who love in deed are blessed and true.

A TRUE MAN

With purpose strong to do or die,
The race of life he ran,
With love supreme to God on high,
And equal love to man.

Some flaws the earthen vessel marred,
Which all could clearly see;
Within was found the precious nard;
From guile his heart was free.

In motive e'er is found the sin;
Let that to God be true,
And he the Judge's smile will win,
And man's approval too.

MY OLD SWEETHEART

My old sweetheart is away to-day;
I feel as I did of old,
In my courting days, when far away
I yearned for her more than gold.

I thought of her handsome, smiling face,
Her noble and cultured brow,
Of her gentle ways, and charming grace;
I missed her less then than now.

Through the long years of our wedded life,
Now nearly a full two score,
She has proved herself a loving wife,
And a sweetheart evermore.

Our love has grown with the flight of time,
As the mountain stream may grow;
Or as a tree in a genial clime
When free from the frost and snow.

The tempest may madly rage without,
We have lasting peace within;
And confidence ne'er gives place to doubt,
Nor concord to noisy din.

She will soon return again to me,
From her visit in the West,
And the dear face that I long to see
Will be nestling on my breast.

And I will feel as in olden time,
With a love not dreamed of then;
No happier man in any clime
Is known to the sons of men.

And when we part at the silent tomb,
'Twill be but a passing day
Before we meet where there is no gloom,
And sweethearts forever stay.

Full forty-six years of wedded life, Enjoyed with my sweetheart here; They were happy years, devoid of strife, And full of Christian cheer; Then her Master called her spirit home, And I am left to walk alone.

Ere long my journey, too, will end, And my spirit to God arise; Perhaps he may my sweetheart send To escort me to the skies; And there with our Saviour we shall be, Yet sweethearts still through eternity.