Chapter I: Will Not Despair (1)

I will not despair while thou rulest the storm,
Though the red lightning stream o'er the cloud's sable-breast,
For I catch through the darkness bright gleams of thy form,
And I know 'tis thy voice lulls the tempest to rest--
The wild tempest to rest:
Nor yet, though the shadows of deepening night,
Hang over my path like the pall of despair;
For one star through the gloom sends its hallowed light,
And I know 'tis thy love smiling tenderly there,
--Ah! tenderly there.

I will not despair, though the fountain that burst
For me in life's desert be wasted and dry;
For thy love was the fountain that cheered me at first,
And again to its life-giving waters I fly--
O Holiest, fly!
No; I will not despair while thy hand points me on,
Though flowerless and thorny the path where I roam.
For a calm sunlight rests on the far hills beyond,
And I know 'tis the radiance that streams from my home,
--Home, beautiful home!

GOD'S WITNESSES.

A PEN PICTURE FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT.

Upon the plain of Dura stood an image great and high,
With golden forehead broad and bright beneath the morning sky;
All regal in its majesty and kingly in its mien,
The grandest and most glorious thing the world had ever seen!

Full sixty cubits high in air the lordly head was reared,
And robed in gold from head to foot the stately form appeared;
Adown the breast six cubits broad, a flood of yellow gold,
All deftly wrought with matchless skill, its shining tresses rolled.

And, fronting thus the rising sun, it sent back ray for ray--
A golden flood of arrowy light--into the face of day;
While round its feet, in awe and dread, all Shinar stood amazed,
And up into that radiant face with reverent wonder gazed.

Woke sackbut, psaltery, and harp, woke dulcimer and flute,--
Then prone in dust fell prince and peer, in lowly worship mute!
The wise, the gifted, and the great, the lordly and the base
Before the image bent the knee, and bowed in dust the face.

_Not all!_--for lo, three princely men, with calm, unaltered mien,
With unbowed heads and folded arms, gaze on the unhallowed scene!
The golden image awes them not, nor yet the king's decree,
They bow not at the idol's shrine, nor bend the servile knee.

"Wake, sackbut, psaltery, and harp--wake yet again!"--but nay,
With calm, pale faces, sad and stern, they slowly turn away;
The monarch's wrath, the furnace-flame, death, _death,_--they know it
all--
Yet all these horrors powerless are those high hearts to appal!

Haste, haste, obsequious minions, bear the tidings to your lord!
Go, tell him there are some who dare to disobey his word;
Men of the captive, Hebrew race, men high in place and power,
Who scorn to bow their haughty necks at his command this hour!

"Go, bring them nigh!" the monarch cries, with fury in his face,
"And set them here before my throne, these men of Hebrew race!
Now, Shadrach, Meshach, answer me, and thou, Abednego,
They tell me ye refuse to bow and worship!--is it so?

"But hearken: if, what time ye hear once more the pealing swell
Of sackbut, psaltery, and harp, ye bend in homage--well;
If not, the fiery furnace shall your quivering flesh devour!
Then where's the God can rescue you from my avenging power?"

Then answered they, the captive three, in calm, respectful tone,
While over each young, fearless brow faith's hallowed radiance shone,
"Behold, our God is for us now--our God, O King! and He
Is able to deliver us from the fierce flames and thee!

_"Yea, and He will deliver us!_--yet be it known to thee,
O King, that could we truly know, that so it would not be,
E'en then, we would not bow us down, or worship at the shrine
Of this vain image thou hast reared, or any god of thine!"

"Now lead ye forth these haughty men!" the wrathful monarch cried,
The while his face grew dark with rage and fury, so defied;
"Yea, heat the furnace seven fold, and in the fiercest flame
Blot out forever from the day each impious scorner's name!

"Ay, bind them well, ye mighty men, ye warriors stern and bold,
And let your cords be very strong, your fetters manifold!
For neither they nor He they trust shall foil my kingly ire,
Or save them from the wrathful flame of this devouring fire!

"Now cast them in!--but, oh!--my men!--they fade like morning mist!
Slain by the fierce, out-leaping flame no mortal may resist!
My warriors bold!--alas, alas!--I did not will it so!
Scathed by the fiery blast of death meant only for my foe!"

The king has risen to his feet!--what sight has fixed his gaze?
What mean the wonder in his face, the look of blank amaze?
And what the changed and falt'ring voice, as doubtfully he cries,
"Tell me, ye counsellors of mine, ye ancient men and wise,

"Did we not cast, each firmly bound, into the fiercest flame,
Three mortal men, for death designed, of Hebrew race and name?
Three?--_only three?_--or do I dream? What sight is this I view?"
And all his counsellors replied, "O monarch, it is true!"

"Yet now, amid the blinding flames, unbound, and calm, and free,
Walking, with firm and steady step, the fiery waves, I see
Not three, but four, and lo, the form of Him, the fourth I ween,
Is like the Son of God, so calm, so gracious is His mien!"

Then to the furnace mouth drew near the monarch with his train--
The baffled monarch, bowed and quelled, feeling how poor and vain
Were all his boasted pomp and power, how impotent and Weak
The arm so void of strength that hour his mad revenge to wreak.

"Ho, Shadrach, Meshach, hasten ye! and thou, Abednego,
Servants of God Most High, come forth!" the monarch cried; and lo,
Without a touch or tinge of fire, or smell of scorching flame,
Forth, from the glowing heat intense, God's faithful servants came!

O, servants of a heathen king! all vainly would ye trace
Or hue, or stain, or smell of fire, on any form or face!
Those comely locks of raven hair, smooth and unscorched, behold;
Nor may ye find one trace of flame on any garment's fold!

Then cried the heathen king again--and, oh, how altered now
The tone and utterance!--how changed the haughty lip and brow!--
"Now blessed be the God who hath His angel sent to free
His servants who have trusted Him, and changed the King's decree;

"Who gave their bodies to the flame, rather than once to swerve
From their allegiance to the God whom they delight to serve!
Therefore, let no one speak against this Glorious One and Just,
Who saves, as none but He can save, the souls that in Him trust!"

Then calmly to their wonted toil, their worldly cares again,
Unconscious of their deathless fame, went forth those dauntless men;
Thrice blessed men! with whom, that day, their gracious Lord had
walked,
And lovingly, as friend with friend, of hallowed mysteries talked.

He walked with _them_ amid the flames! Oh, to the paths _we_ tread,
The brighter, smoother, greener paths, with summer-flowers o'erspread,
If but our weak hearts welcome Him, the same dear Lord will come,
And walk with us through countless snares, till we arrive at home!

THE ASSEMBLY OF THE DEAD.

["Dr. Reid, a traveller through the highlands of Peru, is said to have
found in the desert of Alcoama the dried remains of an assemblage of
human beings, five or six hundred in number, men, women, and children,
seated in a semicircle as when alive, staring into the burning waste
before them. It would seem that, knowing the Spanish invaders were at
hand, they had come hither with a fixed intention to die. They sat
immoveable in that dreary desert, dried like mummies by the hot air,
still sitting as if in solemn council, while over that Areopagus
silence broods everlastingly."]

With dull and lurid skies above,
And burning wastes around,
A lonely traveller journeyed on
Through solitudes profound;
No wandering bird's adventurous wing
Paused o'er that cheerless waste,
No tree across those dreary sands
A welcome shadow cast.

With scorching, pestilential breath
The desert-blast swept by,
And with a fierce, relentless glare
The sun looked from on high;
Yet onward still, though worn with toil,
The eager wand'rer pressed,
While hope lit up his dauntless eye,
And nerved his fainting breast.

Why paused he in his onward course?--
Why held his shuddering breath?--
Why gazed he with bewildered eye,
As on the face of death?
Before him sat in stern array,
All hushed as if in dread,
Yet still, and passionless, and calm,
A concourse of the dead!

Across the burning waste they stared
With glazed and stony eye,
As if strange fear had fixed erewhile
Their gaze on vacancy;
And woe and dread on every brow
In changeless lines were wrought,--
Sad traces of the anguish deep
That filled their latest thought!

They seemed a race of other time,
O'er whom the desert's blast,
For many a long and weary age,
In fiery wrath had passed;
Till, scathed and dry, each wasted form
Its rigid aspect wore,
Unchanged, though centuries had passed
The lonely desert o'er.

Was it the clash of foreign arms--
Was it the invader's tread,--
From which this simple-minded race
In wildest terror fled,--
Choosing, amid the desert-sands,
Scorched by the desert's breath,
Rather than by the invaders' steel,
To meet the stroke of death?

And there they died--a free-born race--
From their proud hills away,
While round them in its lonely pride
The far, free desert lay
And there, unburied, still they sit,
All statue like and cold,
Free, e'en in death, though o'er their homes
Oppression's tide has rolled!

BE STILL.

O throbbing heart, be still!
Canst thou not bear
The heavy dash of Memory's troubled tide,
Long sternly pent, but broken forth again,
Sweeping all barriers ruthlessly aside,
And leaving desolation in its train
Where all was fair?

Fair, did I say?--Oh yes!--
I'd reared sweet flowers
Of steadfast hope, and quiet, patient trust,
Above the wreck and ruin of my years;--
Had won a plant of beauty from the dust,
Fanned it with breath of prayer, and wet with tears
Of loneliest hours!

O throbbing heart, be still!
That cherished flower--
Faith in thy God--last grown, yet first in worth,
Will spring anew ere long--it is not dead,
'Tis only beaten to the breast of earth!
Let the storm rage--be calm--'twill lift its head
Some stiller hour!

LITTLEWIT AND LOFTUS.

John Littlewit, friends, was a _credulous_ man.
In the good time long ago,
Ere men had gone wild o'er the latter-day dream
Of turning the world upside down with steam,
Or of chaining the lightning down to a wire,
And making it talk with its tongue of fire.

He was perfectly sure that the world stood still,
And the sun and moon went round;--
He believed in fairies, and goblins ill,
And witches that rode over vale and hill
On wicked broom-sticks, studying still
Mischief and craft profound.

"What a fool was John Littlewit!" somebody cries;--
Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please!
A humble man was John Littlewit--
A gentle, loving man;
He clothed the needy, the hungry fed,
Pitied the erring, the faltering led,
Joyed with the joyous, wept with the sad,
Made the heart of the widow and orphan glad,
And never left for the lowliest one
An act of kindness and love undone;--
And when he died, we may well believe
God's blessed angels bore
John Littlewit's peaceful soul away
To the beautiful Heaven for which we pray,
Where the tree of knowledge blooms for aye,
And ignorance plagues no more.

Squire Loftus, friends, was a _cultured_ man,
You knew him-so did I:
He had studied the "Sciences" through and through,
Had forgotten far more than the ancients knew,
Yet still retained enough
To demonstrate clearly that all the old,
Good, practical Bible-truths we hold
Are delusion, nonsense, stuff!

He could show that the earth had begun to grow
Millions and millions of ages ago;
That man had developed up and out
From something Moses knew nothing about,--
Held with Pope that all are but parts of a whole
Whose body is Nature, and God its Soul;--
And, since _he_ was a part of that same great whole,
Then the soul of all Nature was also his soul;--
Or, more plainly--to be not obscure or dim--
That God had _developed Himself_ in him:--
That what is called _Sin_ in mankind, is not so,
But is just _misdirection_, all owing, you know,
To defectiveness either of body or brain,
Or both, which the soul is not thought to retain,--
In the body it acts as it _must_, but that dead
All stain from the innocent soul will have fled!

"How wise was Squire Loftus!" there's somebody cries;--
Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please;
His wisdom was that of the self-deceived fool
Who quits the clear fount for the foul, stagnant pool,
Who puts out his eyes lest the light he descry,
Then shouts 'mid the gloom "how clear-sighted am I!"
Who turns from the glorious fountain of Day,
To follow the wild _ignis fatuus_' ray
Through quagmire and swamp, ever farther astray,
With every step that he takes.

But he died as he lived; and the desolate night
He had courted and loved better far than the light,
Grew more and more dark, till he passed from our sight,
And what shall I say of him more?--
Give me rather John Littlewit's questionless faith,
To illume my lone path through the valley of death--
The arm that he leaned on, the mansion of light
That burst through the gloom on his kindling sight,
And I'll leave the poor sceptic his lore!--
Let me know only this--_I was lost and undone,
But am saved by the blood of the Crucified One_,
And I'm _wise_ although knowing no more!

TO A MOTHERLESS BABE.

Why art thou here, little, motherless one,--
Why art thou here in this bleak world alone?
With that innocent smile on thy beautiful brow,
What hath this stern world for such as thou?

Why art thou here in this world of unrest,
Thou that of angels shouldst be the guest?--
Oh, wild are the storms of this wintry clime,
Dire are the ills that will meet thee in time!
Lamb, with no shelter when tempests are near,
Dove, with no resting place, why art thou here?

THE CAGED BIRD'S SONG.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO HIS PATRONESS AND FRIEND,
BY THE LITTLE, BROWN SINGER HIMSELF.

Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
What can the meaning of these things be?
Tiniest buds and leaflets green--
Who shall tell me what these things mean?
Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Much I guess they were meant for me!

Tsu-ert!
Tsu-ert!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
So I shall eat them up you see
Somebody, somewhere, is kindly stirred
To think of me, a poor, brown bird!--
Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Somebody, somewhere, thinks of me!

Tsu-ert!
Tsu-ert!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
"A gentle lady?"--and can it be?--
Say it again, 'tis a pleasant word,
_Thinking of me_, your poor, brown bird!--
Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Bless the lady that thinks of me

Tsu-ert!
Tsu-ert!
Tschee: tschee! tschee!
So I shall eat them up, you see!
Hi, a nip here! and ho, a nip there!
Bless me, mistress, how sweet they are!
Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Bless the lady who thinks of me!

Tsu-ert!
Tsu-ert!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Merrily, merrily, let it be!--
Hi, a nip here! and ho, a nip there!
Over, under, everywhere!
Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Somebody, somewhere, thinks of me!

CROSSING THE RED SEA

Before them lay the heaving deep
Behind, the foemen pressed;
And every face grew dark with fear,
And anguish filled each breast
Save one, the Leader's, he, serene,
Beheld, with dauntless mind,
The restless floods before them seen.
The foe that pressed behind.
"Why hast thou brought us forth for this?"
The people loudly cry;--
"Were there no graves in Egypt's land,
That here we come to die?"
But calm and clear above the din
Arose the prophet's word,--
"Stand still! stand still!--and ye shall see
The salvation of the Lord!"

"Fear not!--the foes whom now you see,
Your eyes no more shall view!--
Peace to your fears!--your fathers' God
This day shall fight for you;
For Egypt, in her haughty pride
And stubbornness abhorred,
This day, in bitterness shall learn,
Jehovah is the Lord!"

He spake; and o'er the Red Sea's flood
He stretched his awful wand,
And lo! the startled waves retired,
Abashed, on either hand;
And like a mighty rampart rose
To guard the narrow way
Mysterious, that before the hosts
Of ransomed Israel lay!

Oh! strange and solemn was the road
Which they were called to tread,
With myst'ries of the ancient deep
Around their footsteps spread,--
With ocean's unknown floor laid bare
Before their wondering eyes,
And the strange, watery wall that there
On either hand did rise!

Yet fearlessly, with steadfast faith,
Their Leader led them on;
While, from behind, a heavenly light
Through the dread passage shone;--
Light for that lone and trembling band
Gleamed out with radiance clear,
While Egypt's host came groping on
Through darkness dense and drear!

'Tis past; and on Arabia's coast
The tribes of Israel stand,
While fierce and fast Egyptia's host
Approach that quiet strand;--
Though darkness, like a funeral pall,
Hangs o'er that dreary path,
Still on they desperately press
In bitterness and wrath.

Then slowly, once again, arose
The Hebrew prophet's hand,
And o'er the waiting deep outstretched
Once more that awful wand;--
The rushing waters closed in might
Above that pathway lone,
And Pharaoh, in his haughty pride,
And all his hosts were gone!

Wail, Egypt, wail!--thy kingly crown
Is humbled in the dust!
And thou, though late, art forced to own
That Israel's God is just!
And thou, O Israel, lift thy voice
In one triumphant song
Of praise to Him in whom alone
Thy feeble arm is strong!

THE WAY-SIDE ELM

Standing alone by the highway side,
Stately, and stalwart, and tempest-tried,
Staunch of body and strong of bough,
Fronting the sky with an honest brow,
King of the forest and field is he--
Yon way side watcher--the old Elm tree.

When kindly Summer, with smile serene,
Drapes branch and bough in her robe of green,
Ever the joyous, wild birds come
And sing 'mid the clustering leaves at home;
Ever the soft winds, to and fro,
Steal through the branches with music low,
And golden sunbeams sparkle and play,
And dance with shadows the livelong day.

Up to his forehead undimmed by time,
The morning sun-ray is first to climb,
With the tender touch of its earliest beam
To break the spell of his dewy dream;
And there the longest, when daylight dies,
The rosy lustre of sunset lies,
As loath to fade on the distant sea,
Without an adieu to the old Elm tree.

And grand it is, when the wintry blast
With shout and clamor is sweeping past,
To watch the stately and stern old tree
As he battles alone on the wintry lea,
With leafy crown to the four winds cast,
And stout arms bared to the ruffian blast;
Or fiercely wrestles with wind and storm,
Unbowed of forehead, unbent of form.

O proud old tree! O loneliest tree!
Thy strong-limbed brothers have passed from thee;--
One by one they've been swept away,
And thou alone--of the centuries grey
That have come and gone since thy hour of birth,
And left their scars on the patient earth--
Remainest to speak to the world and me
Of hoarded secrets that dwell with thee.

What of thy birth-hour? what of thy prime?
Who trod the wastes in that olden time?
Who gathered flowers where thy shadows lay?
Who sought thy coolness at noon of day?
What warrior chieftains, what woodland maids,
Looked up to thee from the dusky glades?
Who warred and conquered, who lived and died
In those far off years of the forest's pride?

No voice, no answer! So I, too, speak,
Yet mine, as the insect's call, is weak
To break thy silence, thou lonely tree,
Or win a whispered reply from thee.
Yet, teacher mine, thou hast taught my heart
What soon from its records will not depart--
A lesson of patience, a lesson of power,
Of courage that fails not in danger's hour,
Of calm endurance through winter's gloom,
Of patient waiting for summer's bloom,
And, heavenward gazing, through storm and night,
Like thee to watch for the dawning light.

DROWNED

[Footnote: In the Grand River, at Brantford, July 30th, 1875, Miss
Jessie Hamilton, adopted daughter of C.H. Waterous, Esq., Brantford,
aged 14 years and 3 months, and Miss Ella E. Murton, only daughter of
John W. Murton, Esq., Hamilton, aged 14 years.]

The morning dawned without a cloud,
But evening came with pall and shroud,--
With muffled step, and bated breath,
And mournful whisperings of--_death!_

* * *

Young lips, that in the morning sung
The summer's opening flowers among,
Were hushed and cold;--young, laughing eyes,
That met the dawn with sweet surprise,
Were darkly sealed;--young feet, that pressed
The dewy turf with glad unrest,
Were cold and stirless, never more
To tread the paths they trod before;--
And they, who in the morning strayed
In fawn-like freedom down the glade,
In solemn, dreamless slumber lay,
To wake no more, at fall of day!

O stern, remorseless, sullen Tide!
O dark Flood, never satisfied!
Couldst thou not pity, when, to thee
Those young lambs sped so trustingly?
Nay, nay;--the tempest's stormy wrath
Spares not the lily in its path!--
The tameless river will not rest,
To heed the rose-leaf on its breast!--
A moment, and the quiet shore
Heard a low wail, and heard no more;--
And then, with calm, unaltered mien,
The river glided on serene--
With what a weight of anguish fraught!--
Unconscious of the woe it wrought.

"Dust unto dust!" O God, thy way
Strange and mysterious seems to-day,
As, in the darkness of the tomb,
What but an hour ago was bloom
And beauty, now we hide away,
And leave to silence and decay!
Aid us in lowliness to bow,
And own how just and good art thou,
And, though thou hidest still thy face,
Trust the great love we may not trace!

MY BROTHER JAMES AND I

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A BEREAVED BROTHER.

We were playmates long together,
By the brook and on the hill,
In the golden, summer weather,
When the days were long and still;
We were playmates in the firelight
While the winter eyes went by,
And we shared one couch at midnight--
My brother James and I!

We were schoolmates, too, together,
In the after years that came,
And in toil, or task, or pleasure,
Ours was still one heart, one aim;
Hand in hand we struggled sunward
Toward fair Science' temple high
Aiding each the other onward--
My brother James and I!

We were men at last together--
Oh, the well remembered time,
When we left the dear, old homestead
In our early manhood's prime!
Even then not disunited,
Went we forth with courage high
To one aim and effort plighted--
My brother James and I!

But at length there came a shadow
Dark with signs of change and blight
Deep'ning silently but surely
To a long and tearful night,
And beside a lonely river
That went darkly rushing by
Parted we--but not forever--
My brother James and I!

Not forever! not forever!
Though the stream is dark and wide
He is beck'ning to me ever
From the sun lit, summer side,
There the glory fadeth never,
And I know that by and by
We shall tread that shore together--
My brother James and I!

IDLE

"Work to-day in my vineyard!"

Hast thou, then, been called to labor
In the vineyard of thy Lord,
With the promise that, if faithful,
Thou shall win a sure reward?--
Look! the tireless sun is hasting
Toward the zenith, and the day,
Which in vanity thou'rt wasting,
Speedeth rapidly away!

Lo! the field is white for harvest,
And the laborers are few;
Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant!
Find no work that thou canst do?
Sitting idle in the vineyard!
Sleeping, while the noon-day flies!
Dreaming, while with every pulse-beat
Some unsaved one droops and dies!

Waken! overburdened lab'rers,
Fainting in the sultry ray,
Cry against thee to the Master
As thou dream'st the hours away
Waken! patient angels bearing
Home Earth's harvest, grieving see
One by one the bright hours waning,
And no sheaf secured by thee!

And at last, when toil is ended,
And the blessed "Harvest home,"
By exulting angels chanted,
Cheers the lab'rers as they come,
What wilt _thou_ do, slothful servant,
With no gathered sheaf to bring?
How canst thou stand, empty-handed,
In the presence of thy King?

Lo! the field is white for harvest,
And the laborers are few;
Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant.
Find no work that thou canst do?
Angels wait to bear the tidings
Of some good that thou hast done;
Then, to patient, earnest labor,
Waken, ere the set of sun!

THE WORLD'S DAY.

Dark was the world when from the bowers
Of forfeit Eden man went forth,
With aching heart and blighted powers,
To till the sterile soil of earth;
Yet, even then, a glimmering light
Faintly illumed the eastern skies,
And, struggling through the mists of night,
Beamed soft on Abel's sacrifice.

It shone on Abram's eager eyes
Upon Moriah's lonely height,
And Jacob, 'neath the midnight skies,
In hallowed dreams beheld its light;
And o'er Arabia's desert sand
Where weary Israel wandered on,
In doubt and fear toward Canaan's land,
The hallowed dawning brighter shone.

Ages roll on 'mid deep'ning day,
And prophet-bard and holy seer
Watch eagerly the kindling ray,
To see the blessed sun appear--
Watch, till along the mountain-heights
The long-expected radiance streams,
_And lo! a bloody Cross it lights,
And o'er a blood-stained victim gleams!_

And higher climbed the rising sun,
And brighter glowed the joyous day,
And Earth the bowed and weary one
Kindled beneath the blessed ray
A little while--then, dense and drear,
Back rolled the heavy clouds of night,
Till through the murky atmosphere
Scarce stole a single gleam of light

Then Superstition piled her fires
With slaughtered saints,--and dungeons lone
Echoed the tortured victims' prayers,
The stifled shriek, the smothered groan:
Yet ever, Truth, through blood and tears,
Pursued her dark, tempestuous way,
And Faith illumed those stormy years,
With promises of brighter day.

It came at last--through parted clouds
The blessed sunlight burst once more,
And a broad flood of glory swept
O'er vale and plain, o'er sea and shore;
Earth, from her wildering dream of tears,
And blood and anguish, guilt and wrong--
The long, dark, troubled dream of years--
Awoke, and once again was strong.

Then crumbled thrones--then empires fell,
As Science, Freedom, Truth, arose,
And, shaking off their numbing spell,
Closed in stern conflict with their foes:
And onward still, with unbowed head,
Faith's dauntless legions held their way,
Marking with heaps of martyred dead
The pathway that behind them lay.

And still that steady march is on,
Through storm and gloom, through strife and tears.
Still Faith points upward to the sun
Whose glories brighten with the years--
Whose steady light and heat at length
Shall scatter every cloud away,
And Truth, majestic in her strength,
Shall stand complete in perfect day.

BRETHREN, GO!

A VALEDICTION.

Brethren, go! the day is bright'ning
As the sultry noon steals on,
And the fields, already whit'ning,
Tell of labor to be done.

There are toilsome days before you,
Burdens that you may not shun,
Clouds will gather darkly o'er you,
Reeds will fail you one by one.

Yet go forth to strong endeavor,
'Neath the shadow of the cross;
He who calls will leave you never,--
Never let you suffer loss!

Go; the voices of the dying
Float on every passing breeze;
Tones of wild, imploring crying
Come from lands beyond the seas!

Go where pain and sorrow languish,
Go where Sin works strife and woe,
Cleanse Earth's stain, and heal her anguish,
Jesus calls you--brethren, go!

OUR NATION'S BIRTHDAY.

JULY 1ST, 1867.

Ring out your glad peals of rejoicing!
Wake Music's enlivening strain!
Let the sound float abroad o'er your waters,
And echo through valley and plain;
From the shores of the far-distant Fundy,
To the lakes of the limitless West,
Let the sound of a People's exulting
Go forth in its joyous unrest!

For a great Christian Nation, this morning,
From fragments disjointed made one,
With the laws and the speech of old England,
Looks up to the new-risen sun;
And, scarce conscious as yet of her mission--
Of the wealth of her young, earnest life--
Starts out in the march of the nations,
To a future with perils how rife!

Yet who shall not hope for that future--
God's wide-open Book in her hand,
With her sturdy and truth-loving yeomen,
Her broad-spreading acres of land?--
And who does not welcome the rising
Of a new star of promise this morn,
Whose beams shall illumine the darkness
Of millions that yet are unborn?

Then hail we, in songs of rejoicing,
Our father-land over the sea,
Britannia, pride of the ocean,
The home of the gallant and free!--
Hail, Queen of dominions that girdle
The world like an emerald zone,
VICTORIA, Head of three Empires,
Meek Sovereign of Earth's proudest throne!

And hail to our new-born Dominion!
Hail, Canada, happy and blest!
May thy flag ever wave o'er the freest,
Most glorious clime of the West;
Be freedom thy watchword, and Onward,
Thy motto, still cherished and true,
And ever abroad on the breezes
Float thy time-honored "RED, WHITE AND BLUE."

OUR FIELD IS THE WORLD.

Our field is the world!--let us forth to the sowing,
O'er valley and mountain, o'er desert and plain,
Beside the still waters through cool meadows flowing,
O'er regions unblest by the dew and the rain;--
Let us scatter the seed, though in sorrow and weeping,
Though fields should be verdureless, wintry, and bare,
The Lord of the harvest hath still in His keeping
Each seed as it falls, and will guard it with care.

Our field is the world!--let us forth to the reaping;
The long day is waning, the eve draweth nigh;
Faint omens of storm up the heavens are creeping,
And the sigh of the tempest is heard in the sky;--
The work-hour is brief, but the rest is forever,
Then stay not for weariness, languor, or pain,
But forth to the harvest with earnest endeavor,
And gather with gladness the sheaves that remain.

Our field is the world!--let us forth to the gleaning,
The stores may be small that our labors reward,
Yet One from the height of His glory is leaning,
Attent to behold what we do for the Lord;--
Where, haply, some reaper has passed on with singing,
O'erladen with sheaves for the garner above,
May yet be some handfuls that wait for our bringing,
To crown with completeness the stores of His love.

Our field is the world!--whether sowing or reaping,
Or gleaning the handfuls that others have passed,
Or waiting the growth of the seed that, with weeping,
On rocky and desolate plains we have cast,
Yet each for his toiling, and each for his mourning,
Shall sometime rejoice when the harvest is done,
And know, in the flush of Eternity's morning,
That the toil, the reward, and the glory are one.

SAULT STE. MARIE

Laughing and singing
With rhythmical flow,
Leaping and springing,
O light-hearted Sault!--
Tossing up snowy hands
In thy glad play,
Shaking out dewy locks
Bright with the spray,--
Joyously ever
Thy bright waters go,
Yet wearying never,
O beautiful Sault!

Kingly Superior
Leaps to thy arms,
And all his broad waters
Are bright with thy charms;
They sparkle, and glitter,
And flash in their play,
Chasing ripple and rainbow
Away and away!
Weary, I ween,
Of his solemn repose,
Gaily the mighty Flood
Flashes and glows;
And, buoyantly, brightly,
Fleet-footed or slow,
Doth dance with thee lightly,
Unwearying Sault!

If I were a fairy
I'd dance with thee too,
Daily and nightly,
Unfalt'ring and true;--
In sunlight and starlight,
In darkness and day,
As free as the breezes,
As glad in our play!
We'd sing in the darkness,
We'd laugh in the light,
We'd whirl in the eddies
At noonday and night,--
We'd toss up the waters
In sunshine, to see
How they'd fling us back di'monds
And gold in their glee;--
Such amethysts, topazes,
Rubies and pearls,
As we'd strew o'er the tide
In our innocent whirls,
And never be lonely,
Or weariness know--
Ourselves, and us only--
O light-hearted Sault!

Yet the dance is thine own,
And the song and the glee,
Thou dwellest alone,
Untrammelled and free
Our ships may not glide
O'er thy bosom,--our feet
May not trace out one path,
Or explore one retreat!
We may hollow our channels
To left or to right,
And glide on our way
With thy gambols in sight,
Yet this, and this only,
Of thee we may know,
Thou lone, but not lonely,
Free, fetterless Sault!

Farewell, ye bright waters,--
We part, and for aye!--
My pathway leads on
O'er the billows away;--
These feet will grow weary
In life's busy mart,
These eyes be oft tear-dim,
And heavy this heart;
But thou wilt sing on
In thy joyous unrest,
Unchanging, unwearying,
Buoyant and blest
While the slow-footed centuries
Glide on their way,
And nations grow hoary,
And sink in decay,--
Thou, tireless and tameless,
Unchecked in thy flow,
Shalt sing on as ever,
O beautiful Sault!

BROTHER, REST.

IN MEMORY OF THE REV. J. E. V.

Rest, brother, rest! Thy eyes no more shall weep
O'er unhealed anguish and unconquered sin;
Thy peaceful slumber, tranquilized and deep,
Is marred no more by Earth's discordant din.
Calm are the skies above thy quiet bed,
And calm is Earth in Summer-glories dressed,
And cool and sweet the fresh mould richly spread
Above thy folded hands and peaceful breast.

Oh, could my voice thy placid slumber break,
And win thee back to mortal scenes again,--
Bid thee, unblamed, thy heavenly paths forsake,
Once more to walk with me 'mid care and pain,
I could not, dare not breathe the word, for thou
Hast long enough toiled where the dark curse lies
On all Earth's fairest fruitage;--brother, now
Thou seest the "goodly land" with unveiled eyes!

Oh no! I would not breathe that word, though life
For me be sadder for the smile I miss;
For thou hast gained a home unreached by strife,
Undimmed by tears--a home of changeless bliss!
There, in sweet fellowship with angels blessed,
And all the crowned and glorified above,
In thy loved Saviour's longed-for presence rest,
And bask forever in the light of LOVE!

LOVED AND LOST,
--OR--
THE SKY-LARK AND THE VIOLET.

VIOLET'S SONG

I.

Come down from thy dazzling sphere,
Bird of the gushing song!
Come down where the young leaves whisper low,
While the breeze steals in with a murmurous flow,
And the tender branches wave to and fro
In the soft air all day long!

I have watched thy daring wing
Cleaving the sun-bright air,
Where the snowy cloud is asleep in light,
Or dreamily floating in robes of white,
While thy soul gushed forth in its song's free might,
Till my spirit is dim with care.

For oh, I have loved thee well,
Thou of the soaring wing!--
And I fear lest the angels that sit on high,
In the calm, still depths of the upper sky,
Will love with a tenderer love than I,
As they stoop to hear thee sing

Come down from the heights, my bird,
And warble thy lays to me!
I shall pine and droop in my grassy nook
For the passionate song that my spirit shook,
And the low, sad voice of the grieving brook
Will murmur all night of thee!

I shall sit alone--_alone_,
While the noontide hour steals by;
And mournful the woodland's music will be,--
Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me,--
Mournful the glory on earth and sea,--
And mournful the sunset sky!

O voice of exulting song!--
O bright, unwavering eye!--
O free wing soaring in fetterless flight
Up to the Fountain of quenchless Light!--
O, Earth that darken'st in sudden night,
I shudder, and faint, and die!

SKY-LARK'S SONG

II.

From the dewy grass upspringing--
From my wing the pearl-drops flinging--
Upward, with exultant singing,
Let me--let me fly!
Sun, with gemmed and flashing banners,
List my rapturous hosannas--
As I mount, on circling wing,
Higher, o'er the fragrant meadow,--
O'er the forest's broken shadow,--
O'er the hill-tops green and golden,--
Where the ivied ruins olden
Echo out with sudden gladness
As I break their brooding sadness
With the lays I sing!

Joy, joy!--I have caught the song
Of the angels that sit above!--
And warble in musical chorus alway
Those notes that oftentimes earthward stray
So tenderly sweet at the fall of day,
What time the rose-bud's trembling spray
Thrills with their lays of love!--
Joy, joy!--I have caught the song
Of bright ones that sit above!--
And the far-off Earth's a forgotten thing,
As I mount on free and fetterless wing,
Up to the sun-fields where they sing,
Drawn on by their soul of love!

Hush! is it a voice of Earth--
Of the far-away Earth, I hear?
Breathing of the fragrant meadow,--
Of the drooping willow's shadow,--
Of the breezes' gentle sighing,--
Of the brooklet's low replying,--
Of the blue, o'er-arching heaven,--
Of the violet-curtained even,--
Of the tender, dreamy starlight,--
Of the hushed, majestic midnight?--
And through all that murmur so sad and low,
Meanings of passionate anguish flow,
Till I feel a weight on my glancing wing
Bearing me earthward while yet I sing,
With its burden of heavy woe.

VIOLET'S SONG

III.

Bird, I am drooping in tears alone,
Pressing my cheek 'gainst the cold, grey stone,
And looking upward with aching eye,
Through the tender depths of the morning sky;--
But thy form fades out in that glorious sea
That lieth so calmly 'twixt thee and me;
A speck--it is lost in the azure deep!
And I droop in the deepening gloom, and weep
My sorrowful life away!

O voice of passionate song!--
O bright, unwavering eye!--
O free wing soaring in limitless flight
Beyond the stretch of my aching sight!
How the cold earth darkens in sudden night!
How I shudder, and faint, and die!

SKY-LARK'S SONG

IV.

Fainter and fainter--'tis heard no more--
That plaintive strain from Earth's lessening shore--
And I fling its weight from my fetterless wing,
Higher and higher in heaven to sing,
Afar from Earth's faded shore!
I shall take my seat in the clouds,
I shall sit beside the Sun,--
I shall gaze with calm, unfaltering eye
On the face of the radiant one!
O glorious, kingly Sun!--
O brightly beautiful one!--
O Monarch, sitting serenely bright,
In thy quenchless glory on heaven's height,
I am upward drawn to thee!--
And thy fiery spirit's ardent flame
Is downward-drawn to me!
Sun, with gemmed and flashing banners,
List my rapturous hosannas,
As I circle nearer,--nearer,--
Where your rays burn brighter, clearer,--
Up, on wings of strong desire,
Higher still, and ever higher!

VIOLET'S SONG

V.

I droop by the cold, grey stone!--
I faint in the smitten day!--
I hear not the song of my own free bird
Whose joyous music my glad heart stirred
But yester-morn! I can see no more
The humming-bird's wing as it flutters o'er
The fragrant clover-bloom!
The brook, with a far-off, sorrowful tone,
Seemeth in measureless grief to moan
As it hurrieth on its way--
The breath of my lost perfume
Floats on the wandering breeze,
Over the meadow's perishing bloom,
Over the cold, blue seas!
I would not gather it back,
I would not fill anew
With love's pure incense my broken urn,
For the lost can never more return
From the sky's encompassing blue!

It is well!--I would not hang
A weight on his fetterless wing;
For was he not made for the sun-bright sky?--
To face the glories that burn on high?--
And I, to sit 'mid Earth's fading bloom,
And waste my life in the faint perfume
I fling to the thankless breeze?--
Let him cleave the azure infinite!--
Let him pour his soul out in song's free might!--
Till the white-robed seraphs that dwell in light
Shall stoop to hear him sing!--
Be it mine to fade ere the day-beams die,
And alone in the sighing grass to lie,
With my dull face turned to the tearless sky,
A faded, forgotten thing!

THE GRACIOUS PROVIDER.

_"They need not go away!"_ the Master said,
_"Give ye to them."_ Ah, Lord, behold our store--
These loaves, these fishes,--see, we have no more!
How shall this fainting throng with these be fed?
_"Make them sit down!"_--and the disciples sped
To do His will. He blessed, and brake, and gave
And as they ate, each heart grew strong and brave,
Filled, till they craved no more, with hallowed bread.
Thus, when our hearts grow faint, and stores are small,
And thou demandest all that we possess,
O, help us, Lord, to bring that little all,
Knowing shouldst thou the gift accept and bless,
Our worthless store, so changed and glorified,
Ourselves shall feed, and fainting throngs beside.

REST IN HEAVEN

When tossed on time's tempestuous tide,
By angry storms resistless driven,
One hope can bid our fears subside--
It is the hope of rest in Heaven.

With trusting heart we lift our eyes
Above the dark clouds, tempest-driven,
And view, beyond those troubled skies,
The peaceful, stormless rest of Heaven.

No more to shed the exile's tears,--
No more the heart by anguish riven,--
No longer bent 'neath toilful years,--
How sweet will be the rest of Heaven

GOOD NIGHT

Good night, good night!--the day
Slowly has borne away,
Music and light;
Once more the starry train
Sweeps over vale and plain,
Soft falls the dews again--
Good night-good night!

Day's weary toils are done,
Set is the glorious sun,
Faded the light;--
Now, to the weary breast
Ever a welcome guest,--
Comes the sweet hour of rest--
Good night--good night!

Evening's cool shadows lie
Calmly o'er earth and sky;
And, from the height
Of the far, wooded hill,
Sends the lone whip-poor-will,
Softer and sweeter still,
Plaintive good night.

Gently let slumber lie
On every weary eye
Tired of the light!
E'en as the folded flowers
Sleep in the forest bowers,
Rest, through the silent hours--
Good night--good night!

THE OLD CHURCH CHOIR

I am slowly treading the mazy track
That leadeth, through sunshine and shadows, back--
Through freshest meads where the dews yet cling
As erst they did to each lowly thing,
Where flowers bloom and where streamlets flow
With the tender music of long ago--
To the far-off past that, through mists of tears,
In its spring time loveliness still appears,
And wooes me back to the gleaming shore
Of sunny years that return no more.

And to night, all weary, and sad, and lone,
I return in thought to those bright years flown,
Whose lingering sweetness, e'en yet, I feel
Like the breath of flower-scents over me steal
I am treading o'er mounds where the dead repose,--
I am stirring the dust of life's perished rose,--
I am rustling the withered leaves that lie
Thick in the pathway of Memory,--
And calling out from each lonely hill
Echoes of voices forever still.

And I pause again where I stood of yore
In the Sabbath light at an old church door,
And, ling'ring a moment, I turn to view
The green hills leaning against the blue
As erewhile they stood in the golden calm
Of morning's sunlight and breath of balm,
With clustering verdure, and blossoming trees,
And gush of bird song and hum of bees,
And glancing shadows that came and went
Of soft clouds high in the firmament,
Floating away in their robes of white
On snowy pinions through realms of light.

And I see again through the azure sky
The same white cloudlets still floating by;
And a greener line through the meadow shows
Where a little streamlet still, singing, flows;
And out from a woodland there floats again
Of joyous warblers the old, sweet strain;
While still, with serious, reverent air,
Aged and young seek the house of prayer.

And with them I enter the narrow door
That open stands as it stood of yore;
And look up again at the windows tall,--
At the narrow aisles and the naked wall,--
At the high, straight pulpit with cushion red,
And its worn, old Bible still open spread,--
At the pews where, unhindered, the slant rays fall,--
At the long, plain gallery over all
Where maid and matron, and son and sire,
Together sang in the old church-choir.

And again, as I listen, I seem to hear
The strains of old, half-forgotten Mear,
And solemn China, and grave Dundee,
And stately Rockingham, calm and free,
And rare Old-Hundred's majestic swell,
And tender Hebron we loved so well,
And tuneful Stonefield's melodies sweet,
Bridgewater, Windham, and Silver-street,
And rich St. Martin, and yet again
Old Coronation's exultant strain,
And sweet Devizes' slow, warbled tone,
Resounding Lenox and Arlington,
And gentle Boyleston, and many more
Which Memory holds in her treasured store,
That rise and fall on the tranquil air,
As they did of old, in this house of prayer;
Where, Sabbath by Sabbath, for many a year,
Often and often we sang them here.

For many a year--but they all are flown,
The band is broken, and hushed each tone,
And voices that mingled in tuneful breath,
Are silent now in the hush of death!
Scattered like Autumn-leaves far and near
Are those who clustered together here,--
Gone, like flowers in the swift stream cast,
Like wandering birds when the summer's past,
Like perfume shed in the tempest's track,
Never again to be gathered back!

I am thinking now of a young, fair face,
A brow of beauty, a form of grace,
The tender tones of whose sweet voice long
Swelled richly forth in our Sabbath-song;
But she laid her own, in a loved one's hand,
And he led her forth to a distant land,
Where a home, all radiant with love's pure beam,
Fulfilled her girlhood's enraptured dream;--
Yet she only pined 'neath the stranger's sky,
And he brought her back to her own--to die!

The breath of Spring-time was on the plain,
And flowers were bursting to life again,
And birds were carolling full and free
On the leafy boughs of the forest tree,
When the sweetest voice in our tuneful throng
Faltered and failed from our choral song,
And we laid her down at her pure life's close,
Peaceful and pale in her last repose.

The silvery Thames, as it glides along,
Murmurs anear her its old, sweet song;--
The tuneful robin sings still, as when
He warbled for her in the woodland glen;--
The star she loved, through the long, still night
Keeps his old, calm watch 'mid the planets bright;--
Her favorite flowers are still as fair
As when twined 'mid the braids of her raven hair;--
But the voice we missed in that far-off Spring
Is only heard where the angels sing!

And yet another,--I see him now,
With his manly bearing and noble brow--
Who turned away from our old church-choir,
To sing with the angels in worship higher
--As an alien bird 'neath inclement skies
Foldeth its pinions to earth and dies,
So he, o'erwearied with life's unrest,
Folded his mantle around his breast,
And, meekly bowing his weary head,
Went down to rest with the quiet dead,
And long were the hearts that had loved him lone
For the absent form and the missing tone!

There was still another. I yet behold
That form as I saw it in days of old,
As we stood in the calm of those Sabbath days,
And mingled our voices in hymns of praise.
--Ah! little we dreamed as we saw him there
In his proud, young beauty, with brow so fair,
And eye so lustrous, and tones so clear,
That the cruel spoiler was then so near;--
We dreamed it not, till we saw the light
Of his clear eyes growing so strangely bright.
And the flush of health on his cheek give place
To the deadly hectic's burning trace!

There's a tranquil isle amid Southern seas--
A fair isle, swept by no wintry breeze--
Where the wandering zephyr through long, bright hours
Gathers the perfume of orange bowers,
And roses droop in the fragrant bloom
Of their summer life o'er a nameless tomb,
--In that nameless tomb he is laid to rest,
And the dust of the stranger is on his breast,
And the breath of the South sweeps its viewless lyre
O'er another lost from our old church-choir

One dreamt of wealth on a distant shore,
And he wandered far to return no more,
For the deadly pestilence swept his path,
And the strong man drooped 'neath its burning wrath,
And he sleeps alone in the shining dust
Whose golden promises mocked his trust!

By a lonely lake in the boundless West,
Another reposes in dreamless rest,--
And yet another--her pure life done--
Slumbers far off toward the setting sun,
And the youngest voice in our old church-choir
Is to-day attuned to a seraph's lyre

That old church choir--I am standing lone
Where we stood together in days by gone,
But the tranquil air by no voice is stirred
Save the lonely call of a distant bird.
The grey, old church is no longer seen,
But the rank grass over its site grows green,
And, 'mid the tomb-stones, with sighing breath,
The sad wind whispers of change and death

Hush! is it fancy?--or do I hear
A far-off melody, faint yet clear,
Of gentle voices, sweet tones of yore,
Tenderly borne from an unseen shore?
--Ah! loved, long parted, ye're joined once more
In the Sabbath light of a changeless shore!
And there, with never a jarring note,
Your joyous anthems forever float
In sweet accord with the seraph strains
That sweep unchecked o'er celestial plains;
And I long to rejoin you in regions higher,
Loved ones, long lost from our old church-choir!

NO OTHER NAME

"For there is none other name under heaven, given among
men, whereby we must be saved."

Jesus! the only name that's given,
Through which salvation we may claim;
This, this alone, we breathe to Heaven,
For God accepts no other name.

No other name when skies are bright.
And sunshine glows on field and flower;
No other name when, dark as night,
The heavy clouds tempestuous lower.

No other name when, drooping low,
O'erburdened by sin's heavy load,
The contrite spirit pines to know
The way to hope, to Heaven, to God.

No other name when, like a flood,
Temptations beat upon the soul;
Faith, breathing that one name to God,
The raging billows shall control.

In peace or conflict, toil or rest,
In wealth or want, in praise or blame,
Still wear it graven on thy breast,
And, dying, plead _no other name!_

HEART-PICTURES

Two pictures, strangely beautiful, I hold
In Mem'ry's chambers, stored with loving care
Among the precious things I prized of old,
And hid away with tender tear and prayer
The first, an aged woman's placid face
Full of the saintly calm of well spent years,
Yet bearing in its pensive lines the trace
Of weariness, and care, and many tears.

We sat together in our Sabbath-place,
Through the hushed hours of many a holy day,
And sweet it was to watch the gentle grace
Of that bowed form with those who knelt to pray,
And lifted face, when swelled the sacred psalm,
And the rich promise of God's word was shed
Upon her waiting heart like heavenly balm,
And all our souls with angels' meat were fed.

There came a day when missing was that face,--
The form so meekly bent in prayer was gone,--
Those lifted eyes, so radiant with praise,
Beyond the spheres in saintly beauty shone!--
Another crowned one swelling Heaven's high train--
Another loved one missed from our low shrine,--
Hers, the rich wealth of Heaven's eternal gain,--
A tearful trust, a tender memory, mine!

The other picture is a young, fair child--
A gentle boy, with curls of clustered gold,
And calm, dark eyes that seldom more than smiled
As though his life had grown too grave and old--
Too full of earnest thought, and anxious quest,
And silent searchings after things unseen;--
And yet, the quiet child seemed strangely blest,
As one who inly feels Heaven's peace serene.

So close beside me, in his Sabbath-place,
He sat or stood, my hand I might have laid
Upon his rippling curls, or dropped a kiss
Upon his fair, white forehead while he prayed.
Frail, beauteous boy!--upon his little feet--
Though all unheard by love's quick ear attent--
E'en then Death's chilling waters sternly beat,
And with his sweet child-hymns their murmurs blent.