Author: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Date: 2024-08-29T18:16:49+00:00
Keywords: African Americans -- Poetry; Southern States -- Poetry
Description: A collection of poems by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper.
Publisher: Standard Ebooks

Poetry

By Frances Ellen Watkins Harper.

Imprint

This ebook is the product of many hours of hard work by volunteers for Standard Ebooks, and builds on the hard work of other literature lovers made possible by the public domain.

This particular ebook is based on transcriptions from various sources and on digital scans from various sources.

The source text and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. They may still be copyrighted in other countries, so users located outside of the United States must check their local laws before using this ebook. The creators of, and contributors to, this ebook dedicate their contributions to the worldwide public domain via the terms in the CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication. For full license information, see the Uncopyright at the end of this ebook.

Standard Ebooks is a volunteer-driven project that produces ebook editions of public domain literature using modern typography, technology, and editorial standards, and distributes them free of cost. You can download this and other ebooks carefully produced for true book lovers at standardebooks.org.

Eliza Harris

Like a fawn from the arrow, startled and wild,
A woman swept by us, bearing a child;
In her eye was the night of a settled despair,
And her brow was o’ershaded with anguish and care.

She was nearing the river—in reaching the brink,
She heeded no danger, she paused not to think;
For she is a mother—her child is a slave—
And she’ll give him his freedom, or find him a grave!

It was a vision to haunt us, that innocent face—
So pale in its aspect, so fair in its grace;
As the tramp of the horse and the bay of the hound,
With the fetters that gall, were trailing the ground!

She was nerv’d by despair, and strengthened by woe,
As she leap’d o’er the chasms that yawn’d from below;
Death howl’d in the tempest, and rav’d in the blast,
But she heard not the sound till the danger was past.

Oh! how shall I speak of my proud country’s shame?
Of the stains on her glory, how give them their name?
How say that her banner in mockery waves—
Her “star-spangled banner”—o’er millions of slaves?

How say that the lawless may torture and chase
A woman whose crime is the hue of her face?
How the depths of the forest may echo around
With the shrieks of despair, and the bay of the hound?

With her step on the ice, and her arm on her child,
The danger was fearful, the pathway was wild;
But, aided by Heaven, she gained a free shore,
Where the friends of humanity open’d their door.

So fragile and lovely, so fearfully pale,
Like a lily that bends to the breath of the gale,
Save the heave of her breast, and the sway of her hair,
You’d have thought her a statue of fear and despair.

In agony close to her bosom she press’d
The life of her heart, the child of her breast:—
Oh! love from its tenderness gathering might,
Had strengthen’d her soul for the dangers of flight.

But she’s free!—yes, free from the land where the slave
From the hand of oppression must rest in the grave;
Where bondage and torture, where scourges and chains
Have plac’d on our banner indelible stains.

The bloodhounds have miss’d the scent of her way;
The hunter is rifled and foil’d of his prey;
Fierce jargon and cursing, with clanking of chains,
Make sounds of strange discord on Liberty’s plains.

With the rapture of love and fullness of bliss,
She plac’d on his brow a mother’s fond kiss:—
Oh! poverty, danger and death she can brave,
For the child of her love is no longer a slave!

The Soul

Bring forth the balance, let the weight be gold!
We’d know the worth of a deathless soul;
Bring rubies and gems from every mine,
With the wealth of ocean, land and clime.

Bring the joys of the green, green earth,
Its playful smiles and careless mirth;
The dews of youth and flushes of health—
Bring! Oh, bring! the wide world’s wealth.

Bring the rich, rare pearls of thought
From the depths of knowledge brought,
All that human ken may know,
Searching earth and heaven o’er.

Bring the fairest rolls of fame—
Rolls unwritten with a deed of shame;
Honor’s guerdon, victory’s crown,
Robes of pride, wreaths of renown.

We’ve brought the wealth of ev’ry mine,
We’ve ransacked ocean, land and clime,
And caught the joyous smiles away,
From the prattling babe to the sire gray.

We’ve wrought the names of the noble dead,
With those who in their footsteps tread,
Here are wreaths of pride and gems of thought,
From the battle-field and study brought.

Heap high the gems, pile up the gold,
For heavy’s the weight of a deathless soul—
Make room for all the wealth of earth,
Its honors, joys, and careless mirth.

Leave me a niche for the rolls of fame—
Oh, precious, indeed, is a spotless name,
For the robes, the wreaths, and gems of thought,
Let an empty space in the seales be sought.

With care we’ve adjusted balance and scale,
Futile our efforts we’ve seen them fail;
Lighter than dust is the wealth of earth,
Weighed in the scales with immortal worth.

Could we drag the sun from his golden car,
To lay in this balance with ev’ry star,
’Twould darken the day and obscure the night—
But the weight of the balance would still be light.

The Syrophenician Woman

Joy to my bosom! rest to my fear!
Judea’s prophet draweth near!
Joy to my bosom! peace to my heart!
Sickness and sorrow before him depart!

Rack’d with agony and pain,
Writhing, long my child has lain;
Now the prophet draweth near,
All our griefs shall disappear.

“Lord!” she cried with mournful breath,
“Save! Oh, save my child from death!”
But as though she was unheard,
Jesus answered not a word.

With a purpose nought could move,
And the zeal of woman’s love,
Down she knelt in anguish wild—
“Master! save, Oh! save my child!”

“ ’Tis not meet,” the Saviour said,
“Thus to waste the children’s bread;
I am only sent to seek
Israel’s lost and scattered sheep.”

“True,” she said, “Oh gracious Lord!
True and faithful is thy word:
But the humblest, meanest, may
Eat the crumbs they cast away.”

“Woman,” said th’ astonish’d Lord,
“Be it even as thy word!
By thy faith that knows no fail,
Thou hast ask’d, and shalt prevail.”

The Slave Mother

Heard you that shriek? It rose
So wildly on the air,
It seemed as if a burden’d heart
Was breaking in despair.

Saw you those hands so sadly clasped—
The bowed and feeble head—
The shuddering of that fragile form—
That look of grief and dread?

Saw you the sad, imploring eye?
Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony
Were sweeping through the brain.

She is a mother, pale with fear,
Her boy clings to her side,
And in her kirtle vainly tries
His trembling form to hide.

He is not hers, although she bore
For him a mother’s pains;
He is not hers, although her blood
Is coursing through his veins!

He is not hers, for cruel hands
May rudely tear apart
The only wreath of household love
That binds her breaking heart.

His love has been a joyous light
That o’er her pathway smiled,
A fountain gushing ever new,
Amid life’s desert wild.

His lightest word has been a tone
Of music round her heart,
Their lives a streamlet blent in one—
Oh, Father! must they part?

They tear him from her circling arms,
Her last and fond embrace:
Oh! never more may her sad eyes
Gaze on his mournful face.

No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks
Disturb the listening air:
She is a mother, and her heart
Is breaking in despair.

Bible Defence of Slavery

Take sackcloth of the darkest dye,
And shroud the pulpits round!
Servants of Him that cannot lie,
Sit mourning on the ground.

Let holy horror blanch each cheek,
Pale every brow with fears:
And rocks and stones, if ye could speak,
Ye well might melt to tears!

Let sorrow breathe in every tone,
In every strain ye raise;
Insult not God’s majestic throne
With th’ mockery of praise.

A “reverend” man, whose light should be
The guide of age and youth,
Brings to the shrine of Slavery
The sacrifice of truth!

For the direst wrong by man imposed,
Since Sodom’s fearful cry,
The word of life has been unclosed,
To give your God the lie.

Oh! when ye pray for heathen lands,
And plead for their dark shores,
Remember Slavery’s cruel hands
Make heathens at your doors!

Ethiopia

Yes! Ethiopia yet shall stretch
Her bleeding hands abroad;
Her cry of agony shall reach
The burning throne of God,

The tyrant’s yoke from off her neck,
His fetters from her soul,
The mighty hand of God shall break,
And spurn the base control.

Redeemed from dust and freed from chains,
Her sons shall lift their eyes;
From cloud-capt hills and verdant plains
Shall shouts of triumph rise.

Upon her dark, despairing brow,
Shall play a smile of peace;
For God shall bend unto her woe,
And bid her sorrows cease.

’Neath sheltering vines and stately palms
Shall laughing children play,
And aged sires with joyous psalms
Shall gladden every day.

Secure by night, and blest by day.
Shall pass her happy hours;
Nor human tigers hunt for prey
Within her peaceful bowers.

Then, Ethiopia! stretch, oh! stretch
Thy bleeding hands abroad;
Thy cry of agony shall reach
And find redress from God.

The Drunkard’s Child

He stood beside his dying child,
With a dim and bloodshot eye;
They’d won him from the haunts of vice
To see his first-born die.
He came with a slow and staggering tread,
A vague, unmeaning stare,
And, reeling, clasped the clammy hand,
So deathly pale and fair.

In a dark and gloomy chamber,
Life ebbing fast away,
On a coarse and wretched pallet,
The dying sufferer lay:
A smile of recognition
Lit up the glazing eye;
“I’m very glad,” it seemed to say,
“You’ve come to see me die.”

That smile reached to his callous heart,
Its sealèd fountains stirred;
He tried to speak, but on his lips
Faltered and died each word.
And burning tears like rain
Poured down his bloated face.
Where guilt, remorse and shame
Had scathed, and left their trace.

“My father!” said the dying child,
(His voice was faint and low,)
“Oh! clasp me closely to your heart,
And kiss me ere I go.
Bright angels beckon me away,
To the holy city fair—
Oh! tell me, father, ere I go,
Say, will you meet me there?”

He clasped him to his throbbing heart,
“I will! I will!” he said;
His pleading ceased—the father held
His first-born and his dead!
The marble brow, with golden curls.
Lay lifeless on his breast;
Like sunbeams on the distant clouds
Which line the gorgeous west.

The Slave Auction

The sale began—young girls were there,
Defenceless in their wretchedness.
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair
Revealed their anguish and distress.

And mothers stood with streaming eyes,
And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
While tyrants bartered them for gold.

And woman, with her love and truth—
For these in sable forms may dwell—
Gaz’d on the husband of her youth,
With anguish none may paint or tell.

And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
The impress of their Maker’s hand,
And frail and shrinking children, too,
Were gathered in that mournful band.

Ye who have laid your love to rest,
And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
Whose lov’d are rudely torn away.

Ye may not know how desolate
Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
Will press the life-drops from the heart.

The Revel

“He knoweth not that the dead are there.”

In yonder halls reclining
Are forms surpassing fair,
And brilliant lights are shining,
But, oh! the dead are there!

There’s music, song and dance,
There’s banishment of care,
And mirth in every glance,
But, oh! the dead are there!

The wine cup’s sparkling glow
Blends with the viands rare.
There’s revelry and show,
But still, the dead are there!

’Neath that flow of song and mirth
Runs the current of despair,
But the simple sons of earth
Know not the dead are there!

They’ll shudder start and tremble,
They’ll weep in wild despair
When the solemn truth breaks on them,
That the dead, the dead are there!

That Blessed Hope

Oh! crush it not, that hope so blest,
Which cheers the fainting heart,
And points it to the coming rest,
Where sorrow has no part.

Tear from my heart each worldly prop,
Unbind each earthly string,
But to this blest and glorious hope,
Oh! let my spirit cling.

It cheer’d amid the days of old
Each holy patriarch’s breast;
It was an anchor to their souls,
Upon it let me rest.

When wandering in dens and caves,
In sheep and goat skins dress’d,
A peel’d and scatter’d people learned
To know this hope was blest.

Help me, amidst this world of strife,
To long for Christ to reign,
That when He brings the crown of life,
I may that crown obtain!

The Dying Christian

The light was faintly streaming
Within a darkened room,
Where a woman, faint and feeble,
Was sinking to the tomb.

The silver cord was loosened,
We knew that she must die;
We read the mournful token
In the dimness of her eye.

We read it in the radiance
That lit her pallid cheek,
And the quivering of the feeble lip,
Too faint its joys to speak.

Like a child oppressed with slumber,
She calmly sank to rest,
With her trust in her Redeemer,
And her head upon His breast.

She faded from our vision,
Like a thing of love and light;
But we feel she lives for ever,
A spirit pure and bright.

Report

I heard, my young friend
You were seeking a wife,
A woman to make
Your companion for life.

Now, if you are seeking
A wife for your youth,
Let this be your aim, then—
Seek a woman of truth.

She may not have talents,
With greatness combined,
Her gifts may be humble,
Of person and mind:

But if she be constant,
And gentle, and true,
Believe me my friend,
She’s the woman for you!

Oh! wed not for beauty,
Though fair is the prize;
It may pall when you grasp it,
And fade in your eyes.

Let gold not allure you,
Let wealth not attract;
With a house full of treasure,
A woman may lack.

Let her habits be frugal,
Her hands not afraid
To work in her household
Or follow her trade.

Let her language be modest,
Her actions discreet;
Her manners refined,
And free from deceit.

Now if such you should find,
In your journey through life,
Just open your mind,
And make her your wife.

Advice to the Girls

Nay, do not blush! I only heard
You had a mind to marry;
I thought I’d speak a friendly word,
So just one moment tarry.

Wed not a man whose merit lies
In things of outward show,
In raven hair or flashing eyes.
That please your fancy so.

But marry one who’s good and kind,
And free from all pretence;
Who, if without a gifted mind,
At least has common sense.

Saved by Faith

“She said, if I may but touch his clothes, I shall be whole.”

Life to her no brightness brought,
Pale and stricken was her brow,
Till a bright and joyous thought
Lit the darkness of her woe.

Long had sickness on her preyed,
Strength from every nerve had gone;
Skill and art could give no aid:
Thus her weary life passed on.

Like a sad and mournful dream,
Daily felt she life depart,
Hourly knew the vital stream
Left the fountain of her heart.

He who lull’d the storm to rest,
Cleans’d the lepers, raised the dead,
Whilst a crowd around him press’d,
Near that suffering one did tread.

Nerv’d by blended hope and fear,
Reasoned thus her anxious heart;
“If to touch him I draw near,
All my suffering shall depart.

“While the crowd around him stand,
I will touch,” the sufferer said;
Forth she reached her timid hand—
As she touched her sickness fled.

“Who hath touched me?” Jesus cried;
“Virtue from my body’s gone.”
From the crowd a voice replied,
“Why inquire in such a throng?”

Faint with fear through every limb,
Yet too grateful to deny,
Tremblingly she knelt to him,
“Lord!” she answered, “it was I!”

Kindly, gently, Jesus said—
Words like balm unto her soul—
“Peace upon thy life be shed!
Child! thy faith has made thee whole!”

Died of Starvation

They forced him into prison,
Because he begged for bread;
“My wife is starving—dying!”
In vain the poor man plead.1

They forced him into prison,
Strong bars enclosed the walls,
While the rich and proud were feasting
Within their sumptuous halls.

He’d striven long with anguish.
Had wrestled with despair;
But his weary heart was breaking
’Neath its crushing load of care.

And he prayed them in that prison,
“Oh, let me seek my wife!”
For he knew that want was feeding
On the remnant of her life.

That night his wife lay moaning
Upon her bed in pain;
Hunger gnawing at her vitals,
Fever scorching through her brain.

She wondered at his tarrying,
He was not wont to stay;
’Mid hunger, pain and watching,
The moments waned away.

Sadly crouching by the embers,
Her famished children lay;
And she longed to gaze upon them,
As her spirit passed away.

But the embers were too feeble.
She could not see each face,
So she clasped her arms around them—
’Twas their mother’s last embrace.

They loosed him from his prison,
As a felon from his chain;
Though his strength was hunger bitten,
He sought his home again.

Just as her spirit linger’d
On Time’s receding shore,
She heard his welcome footstep
On the threshold of the door.

He was faint and spirit-broken,
But, rousing from despair,
He clasped her icy fingers,
As she breathed her dying prayer.

With a gentle smile and blessing,
Her spirit winged its flight,
As the morn, in all its glory.
Bathed the world in dazzling light.

There was weeping, bitter weeping,
In the chamber of the dead.
For well the stricken husband knew
She had died for want of bread.

A Mother’s Heroism

When the noble mother of Lovejoy heard of her son’s death, she said, “It is well! I had rather he should die so than desert his principles.”

The murmurs of a distant strife
Fell on a mother’s ear;
Her son had yielded up his life,
Mid scenes of wrath and fear.

They told her how he’d spent his breath
In pleading for the dumb,
And how the glorious martyr wreath
Her child had nobly won.

They told her of his courage high,
Mid brutal force and might;
How he had nerved himself to die
In battling for the right.

It seemed as if a fearful storm
Swept wildly round her soul;
A moment, and her fragile form
Bent ’neath its fierce control.

From lip and brow the color fled—
But light flashed to her eye:
“ ’Tis well! ’tis well!” the mother said,
“That thus my child should die.

“ ’Tis well that, to his latest breath,
He plead for liberty;
Truth nerved him for the hour of death,
And taught him how to die.

“It taught him how to cast aside
Earth’s honors and renown;
To trample on her fame and pride,
And win a martyr’s crown.”

The Fugitive’s Wife

It was my sad and weary lot
To toil in slavery;
But one thing cheered my lowly cot—
My husband was with me.

One evening, as our children played
Around our cabin door,
I noticed on his brow a shade
I’d never seen before;

And in his eyes a gloomy night
Of anguish and despair;—
I gazed upon their troubled light,
To read the meaning there.

He strained me to his heaving heart—
My own beat wild with fear;
I knew not, but I sadly felt
There must be evil near.

He vainly strove to cast aside
The tears that fell like rain:—
Too frail, indeed, is manly pride,
To strive with grief and pain.

Again he clasped me to his breast,
And said that we must part:
I tried to speak—but, oh! it seemed
An arrow reached my heart.

“Bear not!” I cried, “unto your grave,
The yoke you’ve borne from birth;
No longer live a helpless slave,
The meanest thing on earth!”

The Contrast

They scorned her for her sinning,
Spoke harshly of her fall,
Nor lent the hand of mercy
To break her hated thrall.

The dews of meek repentance
Stood in her downcast eye:
Would no one heed her anguish?
All pass her coldly by?

From the cold, averted glances
Of each reproachful eye,
She turned aside, heart-broken,
And laid her down to die.

And where was he, who sullied
Her once unspotted name;
Who lured her from life’s brightness
To agony and shame?

Who left her on life’s billows,
A wrecked and ruined thing;
Who brought the winter of despair
Upon Hope’s blooming spring?

Through the halls of wealth and fashion
In gaiety and pride,
He was leading to the altar
A fair and lovely bride!

None scorned him for his sinning,
Few saw it through his gold;
His crimes were only foibles,
And these were gently told.

Before him rose a vision,
A maid of beauty rare;
Then a pale, heart-broken woman,
The image of despair.

Next came a sad procession,
With many a sob and tear;
A widow’d, childless mother
Totter’d by an humble bier.

The vision quickly faded,
The sad, unwelcome sight;
But his lip forgot its laughter.
And his eye its careless light.

A moment, and the flood-gates
Of memory opened wide;
And remorseful recollection
Flowed like a lava tide.

That widow’s wail of anguish
Seemed strangely blending there,
And mid the soft lights floated
That image of despair.

The Prodigal’s Return

He came—a wanderer; years of sin
Had blanched his blooming cheek,
Telling a tale of strife within,
That words might vainly speak.

His feet were bare, his garments torn,
His brow was deathly white;
His heart was bleeding, crushed and worn,
His soul had felt a blight.

His father saw him; pity swept
And yearn’d through every vein;
He ran and clasp’d his child, and wept,
Murm’ring, “He lives again!”

“Father, I’ve come, but not to claim
Aught from thy love or grace;
I come, a child of guilt and shame,
To beg a servant’s place.”

“Enough! enough!” the father said,
“Bring robes of princely cost!”—
The past with all its shadows fled,
For now was found the lost.

“Put shoes upon my poor child’s feet,
With rings his hand adorn,
And bid my house his coming greet
With music, dance and song.”

Oh! Saviour, mid this world of strife,
When wayward here we roam,
Conduct us to the paths of life,
And guide us safely home.

Then in thy holy courts above,
Thy praise our lips shall sound,
While angels join our song of love,
That we, the lost are found!

Eva’s Farewell

Farewell, father! I am a dying,
Going to the “glory land,”
Where the sun is ever shining,
And the zephyr’s ever bland.

Where the living fountains flowing,
Quench the pining spirit’s thirst;
Where the tree of life is growing,
Where the crystal fountains burst.

Father! hear that music holy
Floating from the spirit land!
At the pearly gates of glory,
Radiant angels waiting stand.

Father! kiss your dearest Eva,
Press her cold and clammy hand,
Ere the glittering hosts receive her,
Welcome to their cherub band.

Be Active

Onward, onward, sons of freedom,
In the great and glorious strife;
You’ve a high and holy mission
On the battle field of life.

See oppression’s feet of iron
Grind a brother to the ground,
And from bleeding heart and bosom,
Gapeth many a fearful wound.

Sit not down with idle pity,
Gazing on his mighty wrong;
Hurl the bloated tyrant from him—
Say my brother, oh, be strong!

See that sad, despairing mother
Clasp her burning brow in pain;
Lay your hand upon her fetters—
Rend, oh! rend her galling chain!

Here’s a pale and trembling maiden,
Brutal arms around her thrown;
Christian father, save, oh! save her,
By the love you bear your own!

Yearly lay a hundred thousand
New-born babes on Moloch’s shrine;
Crush these gory, reeking altars—
Christians, let this work be thine.

Where the Southern roses blossom,
Weary lives go out in pain,
Dragging to death’s shadowy portals,
Slavery’s heavy galling chain.

Men of every clime and nation,
Every faith, and sect, and creed,
Lay aside your idle jangling,
Come and staunch the wounds that bleed.

On my people’s blighted bosom,
Mountain weights of sorrow lay;
Stop not now to ask the question,
Who shall roll the stone away?

Set to work the moral forces,
That are yours of church and state;
Teach them how to war and battle
’Gainst oppression, wrong, and hate.

Oh! be faithful! Oh! be valiant,
Trusting not in human might;
Know that in the darkest conflict,
God is on the side of right!

Lessons of the Street

Walking through life’s dusty highways,
Mid the tramp of hurrying feet,
We may gather much instruction
From the “lessons of the street.”

Now a beggar sues for succor—
Nay, repress that look of pride!
’Neath that wrecked and shattered body
Doth a human soul reside.

Here’s a brow that seems to tell you,
“I am prematurely old;
I have spent my youthful vigor
In an eager search for gold.”

On the cheek of yon pale student
Is a divorcement most unkind—
’Tis the cruel separation
Of his body from his mind.

Here a painted child of shame
Flaunts in costly robes of sin,
With a reckless mirth that cannot
Hide the smouldering fires within.

And here’s a face, so calm and mild,
Mid the restless din and strife;
It seems to say, in every line,
“I’m aiming for a higher life.”

Just then I caught a mournful glance,
As on the human river rushed,
A harrowing look, which plainly said,
“The music of my life is hushed.”

Look on that face, so deathly pale,
Its bloom and flush forever fled:
I started, for it seemed to bear
A message to the silent dead.

Thus hurries on the stream of life,
To empty where Death’s waters meet;
We pass along, we pass away—
Thus end the lessons of the street.

“Gone to God”

Finished now the weary throbbing,
Of a bosom calmed to rest;
Laid aside the heavy sorrows,
That for years upon it prest.

All the thirst for pure affection,
All the hunger of the heart;
All the vain and tearful cryings,
All forever now depart.

Clasp the pale and faded fingers,
O’er the cold and lifeless form;
They shall never abrink and shiver,
Homeless in the dark and storm.

Press the death-weights calmly, gently,
O’er the eyelids in their sleep;
Tears shall never tremble from them,
They shall never wake to weep.

Close the silent lips together,
Lips once parted with a sigh;
Through their sealed, moveless portals,
Ne’er shall float a bitter cry.

Bring no bright and blooming flowers,
Let no mournful tears be shed,
Funeral flowers, tears of sorrow,
They are for the cherished dead.

She has been a lonely wanderer,
Drifting on the world’s highway;
Grasping with her woman’s nature,
Feeble reeds to be her stay.

God is witness to the anguish,
Of a heart that’s all alone;
Floating blindly on life’s current,
Only bound unto His throne.

But o’er such, Death’s solemn angel,
Broodeth with a sheltering wing;
Till the hopeless hand ’s grown weary,
Cease around earth’s toys to cling.

Then kind hands will clasp them gently,
On the still, unaching breast;
Softly treading by, they’ll whisper,
Of the lone one gone to rest.

To the Union Savers of Cleveland

Men of Cleveland, had a vulture
Sought a timid dove for prey,
Would you not, with human pity,
Drive the gory bird away?

Had you seen a feeble lambkin,
Shrinking from a wolf so bold,
Would ye not to shield the trembler,
In your arms have made its fold?

But when she, a hunted sister,
Stretched her hands that ye might save,
Colder far than Zembla’s regions
Was the answer that ye gave.

On the Union’s bloody altar,
Was your hapless victim laid;
Mercy, truth and justice shuddered,
But your hands would give no aid.

And ye sent her back to torture,
Robbed of freedom and of right.
Thrust the wretched, captive stranger.
Back to slavery’s gloomy night.

Back where brutal men may trample,
On her honor and her fame;
And unto her lips so dusky,
Press the cup of woe and shame.

There is blood upon your city,
Dark and dismal is the stain;
And your hands would fail to cleanse it,
Though Lake Erie ye should drain.

There’s a curse upon your Union,
Fearful sounds are in the air;
As if thunderbolts were framing,
Answers to the bondsman’s prayer.

Ye may offer human victims,
Like the heathen priests of old;
And may barter manly honor
For the Union and for gold.

But ye can not stay the whirlwind,
When the storm begins to break;
And our God doth rise in judgment,
For the poor and needy’s sake.

And, your sin-cursed, guilty Union,
Shall be shaken to its base,
Till ye learn that simple justice,
Is the right of every race.

Bury Me in a Free Land

Make me a grave where’er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill,
Make it among earth’s humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.

I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave:
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.

I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mother’s shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.

I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.

I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.

If I saw young girls from their mothers’ arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.

I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might
Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother slave.

I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.

Moses

A Story of the Nile

I

The Parting

Moses

Kind and gracious princess, more than friend,
I’ve come to thank thee for thy goodness,
And to breathe into thy generous ears
My last and sad farewell. I go to join
The fortunes of my race, and to put aside
All other bright advantages, save
The approval of my conscience and the meed
Of rightly doing.

Princess

What means, my son, this strange election?
What wild chimera floats across thy mind?
What sudden impulse moves thy soul? Thou who
Hast only trod the court of kings, why seek
Instead the paths of labor? Thou, whose limbs
Have known no other garb than that which well
Befits our kingly state, why rather choose
The badge of servitude and toil?

Moses

Let me tell thee, gracious princess; ’tis no
Sudden freak nor impulse wild that moves my mind.
I feel an earnest purpose binding all
My soul unto a strong resolve, which bids
Me put aside all other ends and aims,
Until the hour shall come when God—the God
Our fathers loved and worshipped—shall break our chains,
And lead our willing feet to freedom.

Princess

Listen to me, Moses: thou art young,
And the warm blood of youth flushes thy veins
Like generous wine; thou wearest thy manhood
Like a crown; but what king e’er cast
His diadem in the dust, to be trampled
Down by every careless foot? Thou hast
Bright dreams and glowing hopes; could’st thou not live
Them out as well beneath the radiance
Of our throne as in the shadow of those
Bondage-darkened huts?

Moses

Within those darkened huts my mother plies her tasks,
My father bends to unrequited toil;
And bitter tears moisten the bread my brethren eat.
And when I gaze upon their cruel wrongs
The very purple on my limbs seems drenched
With blood, the warm blood of my own kindred race;
And then thy richest viands pall upon my taste,
And discord jars in every tone of song.
I cannot live in pleasure while they faint
In pain.

Princess

How like a dream the past floats back: it seems
But yesterday when I lay tossing upon
My couch of pain, a torpor creeping through
Each nerve, a fever coursing through my veins.
And there I lay, dreaming of lilies fair,
Of lotus flowers and past delights, and all
The bright, glad hopes, that give to early life
Its glow and flush; and thus day after day
Dragged its slow length along, until, one morn,
The breath of lilies, fainting on the air,
Floated into my room, and then I longed once more
To gaze upon the Nile, as on the face
Of a familiar friend, whose absence long
Had made a mournful void within the heart.
I summoned to my side my maids, and bade
Them place my sandals on my feet, and lead
Me to the Nile, where I might bathe my weary
Limbs within the cooling flood, and gather
Healing from the sacred stream.
I sought my favorite haunt, and, bathing, found
New tides of vigor coursing through my veins.
Refreshed, I sat me down to weave a crown of lotus leaves
And lilies fair, and while I sat in a sweet
Revery, dreaming of life and hope, I saw
A little wicker-basket hidden among
The flags and lilies of the Nile, and I called
My maidens and said, “Nillias and Osiria
Bring me that little ark which floats beside
The stream.” They ran and brought me a precious burden.
’Twas an ark woven with rushes and daubed
With slime, and in it lay a sleeping child;
His little hand amid his clustering curls,
And a bright flush upon his glowing cheek.
He wakened with a smile, and reached out his hand
To meet the welcome of the mother’s kiss,
When strange faces met his gaze, and he drew back
With a grieved, wondering look, while disappointment
Shook the quivering lip that missed the mother’s
Wonted kiss, and the babe lifted his voice and wept.
Then my heart yearned towards him, and I resolved
That I would brave my father’s wrath and save
The child; but while I stood gazing upon
His wondrous beauty, I saw beside
A Hebrew girl, her eyes bent on me
With an eager, questioning look, and drawing
Near, she timidly said, “shall I call a nurse?”
I bade her go; she soon returned, and with her
Came a woman of the Hebrew race, whose
Sad, sweet, serious eyes seemed overflowing
With a strange and sudden joy. I placed the babe
Within her arms and said, “Nurse this child for me;”
And the babe nestled there like one at home,
While o’er the dimples of his face rippled
The brightest, sweetest smiles, and I was well
Content to leave him in her care; and well
Did she perform her part. When many days had
Passed she brought the child unto the palace;
And one morning, while I sat toying with
His curls and listening to the prattle of his
Untrained lips, my father, proud and stately,
Saw me bending o’er the child and said,
“Charmian, whose child is this? who of my lords
Calls himself father to this goodly child?
He surely must be a happy man.”
Then I said, “Father, he is mine. He is a
Hebrew child that I have saved from death.” He
Suddenly recoiled, as if an adder
Had stung him, and said, “Charmian, take that
Child hence. How darest thou bring a member
Of that mean and servile race within my doors?
Nay, rather let me send for Nechos, whose
Ready sword shall rid me of his hateful presence.”
Then kneeling at his feet, and catching
Hold of his royal robes, I said, “Not so,
Oh! honored father, he is mine; I snatched
Him from the hungry jaws of death, and foiled
The greedy crocodile of his prey; he has
Eaten bread within thy palace walls, and thy
Salt lies upon his fresh young lips; he has
A claim upon thy mercy.”
“Charmian,” he said,
“I have decreed that every man child of that
Hated race shall die. The oracles have said
The pyramids shall wane before their shadow,
And from them a star shall rise whose light shall
Spread over earth a baleful glow; and this is why
I root them from the land; their strength is weakness
To my throne. I shut them from the light lest they
Bring darkness to my kingdom. Now, Charmian,
Give me up the child, and let him die.”
Then clasping the child closer to my heart,
I said, “the pathway to his life is through my own;
Around that life I throw my heart, a wall
Of living, loving clay.” Dark as the thunder
Clouds of distant lands became my father’s brow,
And his eyes flashed with the fierce lightnings
Of his wrath; but while I plead, with eager
Eyes upturned, I saw a sudden change come
Over him; his eyes beamed with unwonted
Tenderness, and he said, “Charmian, arise,
Thy prayer is granted; just then thy dead mother
Came to thine eyes, and the light of Asenath
Broke over thy face. Asenath was the light
Of my home; the star that faded out too
Suddenly from my dwelling, and left my life
To darkness, grief and pain, and for her sake,
Not thine, I’ll spare the child.” And thus I saved
Thee twice—once from the angry sword and once
From the devouring flood. Moses, thou art
Doubly mine; as such I claimed thee then, as such
I claim thee now. I’ve nursed no other child
Upon my knee, and pressed upon no other
Lips the sweetest kisses of my love, and now,
With rash and careless hand, thou dost thrust aside that love.
There was a painful silence, a silence
So hushed and still that you might have almost
Heard the hurried breathing of one and the quick.
Throbbing of the other’s heart: for Moses,
He was slow of speech, but she was eloquent
With words of tenderness and love, and had breathed
Her full heart into her lips; but there was
Firmness in the young man’s choice, and he beat back
The opposition of her lips with the calm
Grandeur of his will, and again he essayed to speak.

Moses

Gracious lady, thou remembrest well
The Hebrew nurse to whom thou gavest thy foundling.
That woman was my mother; from her lips I
Learned the grand traditions of our race that float,
With all their weird and solemn beauty, around
Our wrecked and blighted fortunes. How oft!
With kindling eye and glowing cheek, forgetful
Of the present pain, she would lead us through
The distant past: the past, hallowed by deeds
Of holy faith and lofty sacrifice.
How she would tell us of Abraham,
The father of our race, that he dwelt in Ur;
Of the Chaldees, and when the Chaldean king
Had called him to his sacrifice, that he
Had turned from his dumb idols to the living
God, and wandered out from kindred, home and race,
Led by his faith in God alone; and she would
Tell us—(we were three,) my brother Aaron,
The Hebrew girl thou sentest to call a nurse,
And I, her last, her loved and precious child;
She would tell us that one day our father
Abraham heard a voice, bidding him offer
Up in sacrifice the only son of his
Beautiful and beloved Sarah; that the father’s
Heart shrank not before the bitter test of faith,
But he resolved to give his son to God
As a burnt offering upon Moriah’s mount;
That the uplifted knife glittered in the morning
Sun, when, sweeter than the music of a thousand
Harps, he heard a voice bidding him stay his hand,
And spare the child; and how his faith, like gold
Tried in the fiercest fire, shone brighter through
Its fearful test. And then she would tell us
Of a promise, handed down from sire to son,
That God, the God our fathers loved and worshiped,
Would break our chains, and bring to us a great
Deliverance; that we should dwell in peace
Beneath our vines and palms, our flocks and herds
Increase, and joyful children crowd our streets;
And then she would lift her eyes unto the far
Off hills and tell us of the patriarchs
Of our line, who sleep in distant graves within
That promised land; and now I feel the hour
Draws near which brings deliverance to our race.

Princess

These are but the dreams of thy young fancy;
I cannot comprehend thy choice. I have heard
Of men who have waded through slaughter
To a throne; of proud ambitions, struggles
Fierce and wild for some imagined good; of men
Who have even cut in twain the crimson threads
That lay between them and a throne; but I
Never heard of men resigning ease for toil,
The splendor of a palace for the squalor
Of a hut, and casting down a diadem
To wear a servile badge.
Sadly she gazed
Upon the fair young face lit with its lofty
Faith and high resolves—the dark prophetic eyes
Which seemed to look beyond the present pain
Unto the future greatness of his race.
As she stood before him in the warm
Loveliness of her ripened womanhood,
Her languid eyes glowed with unwonted fire,
And the bright tropical blood sent its quick
Flushes o’er the olive of her cheek, on which
Still lay the lingering roses of her girlhood.
Grief, wonder, and surprise flickered like shadows
O’er her face as she stood slowly crushing
With unconscious hand the golden tassels
Of her crimson robe. She had known life only
By its brightness, and could not comprehend
The grandeur of the young man’s choice; but she
Felt her admiration glow before the earnest
Faith that tore their lives apart and led him
To another destiny. She had hoped to see
The crown of Egypt on his brow, the sacred
Leopard skin adorn his shoulders, and his seat
The throne of the proud Pharaoh’s; but now her
Dream had faded out and left a bitter pang
Of anguish in its stead. And thus they parted,
She to brood in silence o’er her pain, and he
To take his mission from the hands of God
And lead his captive race to freedom.
With silent lips but aching heart she bowed
Her queenly head and let him pass, and he
Went forth to share the fortune of his race,
Esteeming that as better far than pleasures
Bought by sin and gilded o’er with vice.
And he had chosen well, for on his brow
God poured the chrism of a holy work.
And thus anointed he has stood a bright
Ensample through the changing centuries of time.

II

It was a great change from the splendor, light
And pleasure of a palace to the lowly huts
Of those who sighed because of cruel bondage.
As he passed
Into the outer courts of that proud palace,
He paused a moment just to gaze upon
The scenes ’mid which his early life had passed—
The pleasant haunts amid the fairest flowers,
The fountains tossing on the air their silver spray—
The statues breathing music soft and low
To greet the first faint flushes of the morn—
The obelisks that rose in lofty grandeur
From their stony beds—the sphinxes gaunt and grim,
With unsolved riddles on their lips—and all
The bright creation’s painters art and sculptors
Skill had gathered in those regal halls, where mirth,
And dance, and revelry, and song had chased
With careless feet the bright and fleeting hours.
He was leaving all; but no regrets came
Like a shadow o’er his mind, for he had felt
The quickening of a higher life, as if his
Soul had wings and he were conscious of their growth;
And yet there was a tender light in those
Dark eyes which looked their parting on the scenes
Of beauty, where his life had been a joyous
Dream enchanted with delight; but he trampled
On each vain regret as on a vanquished foe,
And went forth a strong man, girded with lofty
Purposes and earnest faith. He journeyed on
Till palaces and domes and lofty fanes,
And gorgeous temples faded from his sight,
And the lowly homes of Goshen came in view.
There he saw the women of his race kneading
Their tale of bricks; the sons of Abraham
Crouching beneath their heavy burdens. He saw
The increasing pallor on his sister’s cheek,
The deepening shadows on his mother’s brow,
The restless light that glowed in Aaron’s eye,
As if a hidden fire were smouldering
In his brain; and bending o’er his mother
In a tender, loving way, he said, “Mother,
I’ve come to share the fortunes of my race—
To dwell within these lowly huts—to wear
The badge of servitude and toil, and eat
The bitter bread of penury and pain.”
A sudden light beamed from his mother’s eye,
And she said, “How’s this, my son? but yesterday
Two Hebrews, journeying from On to Goshen,
Told us they had passed the temple of the Sun
But dared not enter, only they had heard
That it was a great day in On; that thou hadst
Forsworn thy kindred, tribe and race; hadst bowed
Thy knee to Egypt’s vain and heathen worship;
Hadst denied the God of Abraham, of Isaac,
And of Jacob, and from henceforth wouldst
Be engrafted in Pharaoh’s regal line,
And be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter.
When thy father Amram heard the cruel news
He bowed his head upon his staff and wept.
But I had stronger faith than that. By faith
I hid thee when the bloody hands of Pharaoh
Were searching ’mid our quivering heart strings,
Dooming our sons to death; by faith I wove
The rushes of thine ark and laid thee ’mid
The flags and lilies of the Nile, and saw
The answer to that faith when Pharaoh’s daughter
Placed thee in my arms, and bade me nurse the child
For her; and by that faith sustained, I heard
As idle words the cruel news that stabbed
Thy father like a sword.”
“The Hebrews did not hear aright; last week
There was a great day in On, from Esoan’s gate
Unto the mighty sea; the princes, lords
And chamberlains of Egypt were assembled;
The temple of the sun was opened. Isis
And Osiris were unveiled before the people;
Apis and Orus were crowned with flowers;
Golden censers breathed their fragrance on the air;
The sacrifice was smoking on the altar;
The first fruits of the Nile lay on the tables
Of the sun: the music rose in lofty swells,
Then sank in cadences so soft and low
Till all the air grew tremulous with rapture.
The priests of On were there, with sacred palms
Within their hands and lotus leaves upon their
Brows; Pharaoh and his daughter sat waiting
In their regal chairs; all were ready to hear
Me bind my soul to Egypt, and to swear
Allegiance to her gods. The priests of On
Drew near to lay their hands upon my head
And bid me swear, ‘Now, by Osiris, judge
Of all the dead, and Isis, mother of us
All,’ that henceforth I’d forswear my kindred,
Tribe and race; would have no other gods
Than those of Egypt; would be engrafted
Into Pharaoh’s royal line, and be called
The son of Pharaoh’s daughter. Then, mother
Dear, I lived the past again. Again I sat
Beside thee, my lips apart with childish
Wonder, my eager eyes uplifted to thy
Glowing face, and my young soul gathering
Inspiration from thy words. Again I heard
Thee tell the grand traditions of our race,
The blessed hopes and glorious promises
That weave their golden threads among the sombre
Tissues of our lives, and shimmer still amid
The gloom and shadows of our lot. Again
I heard thee tell of Abraham, with his constant
Faith and earnest trust in God, unto whom
The promise came that in his seed should all
The nations of the earth be blessed. Of Isaac,
Blessing with disappointed lips his first born son,
From whom the birthright had departed. Of Jacob,
With his warm affections and his devious ways,
Flying berore the wrath of Esau; how he
Slumbered in the wild, and saw amid his dreams
A ladder reaching to the sky, on which God’s
Angels did descend, and waking, with a solemn
Awe o’ershadowing all, his soul exclaimed, ‘How
Dreadful is this place. Lo! God is here, and I
Knew it not.’ Of Joseph, once a mighty prince
Within this land, who shrank in holy horror
From the soft white hand that beckoned him to sin;
Whose heart, amid the pleasures, pomp and pride
Of Egypt, was ever faithful to his race,
And when his life was trembling on its frailest chord
He turned his dying eyes to Canaan, and made
His brethren swear that they would make his grave
Among the patriarchs of his line, because
Machpelah’s cave, where Abraham bowed before
The sons of Heth, and bought a place to lay
His loved and cherished dead, was dearer to his
Dying heart than the proudest tomb amid
The princely dead of Egypt.
Then, like the angels, mother dear, who met
Our father Jacob on his way, thy words
Came back as messengers of light to guide
My steps, and I refused to be called the son
Of Pharaoh’s daughter. I saw the priests of On
Grow pale with fear, an ashen terror creeping
O’er the princess’ face, while Pharaoh’s brow grew
Darker than the purple of his cloak. But I
Endured, as seeing him who hides his face
Behind the brightness of his glory.
And thus I left the pomp and pride of Egypt
To cast my lot among the people of my race.”

III

Flight Into Midian

The love of Moses for his race soon found
A stern expression. Pharaoh was building
A pyramid; ambitious, cold and proud,
He scrupled not at means to gain his ends.
When he feared the growing power of Israel
He stained his hands in children’s blood, and held
A carnival of death in Goshen; but now
He wished to hand his name and memory
Down unto the distant ages, and instead
Of lading that memory with the precious
Fragrance of the kindest deeds and words, he
Essayed to write it out in stone, as cold
And hard, and heartless as himself.
And Israel was
The fated race to whom the cruel tasks
Were given. Day after day a cry of wrong
And anguish, some dark deed of woe and crime,
Came to the ear of Moses, and he said,
“These reports are ever harrowing my soul;
I will go unto the fields where Pharaoh’s
Officers exact their labors, and see
If these things be so—if they smite the feeble
At their tasks, and goad the aged on to toils
Beyond their strength–if neither age nor sex
Is spared the cruel smiting of their rods.”
And Moses went to see his brethren.
’Twas eventide,
And the laborers were wending their way
Unto their lowly huts. ’Twas a sad sight—
The young girls walked without the bounding steps
Of youth, with faces prematurely old,
As if the rosy hopes and sunny promises
Of life had never flushed their cheeks with girlish
Joy; and there were men whose faces seemed to say,
We bear our lot in hopeless pain, we’ve bent unto
Our burdens until our shoulders fit them,
And as slaves we crouch beneath our servitude
And toil. But there were men whose souls were cast
In firmer moulds, men with dark secretive eyes,
Which seemed to say, to-day we bide our time,
And hide our wrath in every nerve, and only
Wait a fitting hour to strike the hands that press
Us down. Then came the officers of Pharaoh;
They trod as lords, their faces flushed with pride
And insolence, watching the laborers
Sadly wending their way from toil to rest.
And Moses’ heart swelled with a mighty pain; sadly
Musing, he sought a path that led him
From the busy haunts of men. But even there
The cruel wrong trod in his footsteps; he heard
A heavy groan, then harsh and bitter words,
And, looking back, he saw an officer
Of Pharaoh smiting with rough and cruel hand
An aged man. Then Moses’ wrath o’erflowed
His lips, and every nerve did tremble
With a sense of wrong, and bounding forth he
Cried unto the smiter, “Stay thy hand; seest thou
That aged man? His head is whiter than our
Desert sands; his limbs refuse to do thy
Bidding because thy cruel tasks have drained
Away their strength.” The Egyptian raised his eyes
With sudden wonder; who was this that dared dispute
His power? Only a Hebrew youth. His
Proud lip curved in scornful anger, and he
Waved a menace with his hand, saying, “back
To thy task base slave, nor dare resist the will
Of Pharaoh.” Then Moses’ wrath o’erleaped the bounds
Of prudence, and with a heavy blow he felled
The smiter to the earth, and Israel had
One tyrant less. Moses saw the mortal paleness
Chase the flushes from the Egyptian’s face,
The whitening lips that breathed no more defiance,
And the relaxing tension of the well knit limbs;
And when he knew that he was dead, he hid
Him in the sand and left him to his rest.
Another day Moses walked
Abroad, and saw two brethren striving
For mastery; and then his heart grew full
Of tender pity. They were brethren, sharers
Of a common wrong: should not their wrongs more
Closely bind their hearts, and union, not division,
Be their strength? And feeling thus, he said, “ye
Are brethren, wherefore do ye strive together?”
But they threw back his words in angry tones
And asked if he had come to judge them, and would
Mete to them the fate of the Egyptian?
Then Moses knew the sand had failed to keep
His secret, that his life no more was safe
In Goshen, and he fled unto the deserts
Of Arabia and became a shepherd
For the priest of Midian.

IV

Men grow strong in action, but in solitude
Their thoughts are ripened. Like one who cuts away
The bridge on which he has walked in safety
To the other side, so Moses cut off all retreat
To Pharaoh’s throne, and did choose the calling
Most hateful to an Egyptian; he became
A shepherd, and led his flocks and herds amid
The solitudes and wilds of Midian, where he
Nursed in silent loneliness his earnest faith
In God and a constant love for kindred, tribe
And race. Years stole o’er him, but they took
No atom from his strength, nor laid one heavy weight
Upon his shoulders. The down upon his face
Had ripened to a heavy beard; the fire
That glowed within his youthful eye had deepened
To a calm and steady light, and yet his heart
Was just as faithful to his race as when he had
Stood in Pharaoh’s courts and bade farewell
Unto his daughter.
There was a look of patient waiting on his face,
A calm, grand patience, like one who had lifted
Up his eyes to God and seen, with meekened face,
The wings of some great destiny o’ershadowing
All his life with strange and solemn glory.
But the hour came when he must pass from thought
To action—when the hope of many years
Must reach its grand fruition, and Israel’s
Great deliverance dawn. It happened thus:
One day, as Moses led his flocks, he saw
A fertile spot skirted by desert sands—
A pleasant place for flocks and herds to nip
The tender grass and rest within its shady nooks;
And as he paused and turned, he saw a bush with fire
Aglow; from root to stem a lambent flame
Sent up its jets and sprays of purest light,
And yet the bush, with leaves uncrisped, uncurled,
Was just as green and fresh as if the breath
Of early spring were kissing every leaf.
Then Moses said I’ll turn aside to see
This sight, and as he turned he heard a voice
Bidding him lay his sandals by, for Lo! he
Stood on holy ground. Then Moses bowed his head
Upon his staff and spread his mantle o’er
His face, lest he should see the dreadful majesty
Of God; and there, upon that lonely spot,
By Horeb’s mount, his shrinking hands received
The burden of his God, which bade him go
To Egypt’s guilty king, and bid him let
The oppressed go free.
Commissioned thus
He gathered up his flocks and herds and sought
The tents of Jethro, and said “I pray thee
Let me go and see if yet my kindred live;”
And Jethro bade him go in peace, nor sought
To throw himself across the purpose of his soul.
Yet there was a tender parting in that home;
There were moistened eyes, and quivering lips,
And lingering claspings of the parting hand, as Jethro
And his daughters stood within the light of that
Clean morn, and gave to Moses and his wife
And sons their holy wishes and their sad farewells.
For he had been a son and brother in that home
Since first with manly courtesy he had filled
The empty pails of Reuel’s daughters, and found
A shelter ’neath his tent when flying from
The wrath of Pharaoh.
They journeyed on,
Moses, Zipporah and sons, she looking back
With tender love upon the home she had left,
With all its precious memories crowding round
Her heart, and he with eager eyes tracking
His path across the desert, longing once more
To see the long-lost faces of his distant home,
The loving eyes so wont to sun him with their
Welcome, and the aged hands that laid upon
His youthful head their parting blessing. They
Journeyed on till morning’s flush and noonday
Splendor glided into the softened, mellowed
Light of eve, and the purple mists were deep’ning
On the cliffs and hills, when Horeb, dual
Crowned, arose before him; and there he met
His brother Aaron, sent by God to be
His spokesman and to bear him company
To Pharaoh. Tender and joyous was their greeting.
They talked of home and friends until the lighter
Ripple of their thoughts in deeper channels flowed:
And then they talked of Israel’s bondage,
And the great deliverance about to dawn
Upon the fortunes of their race; and Moses
Told him of the burning bush, and how the message
Of his God was trembling on his lips. And thus
They talked until the risen moon had veiled
The mount in soft and silvery light; and then
They rested until morn, and rising up, refreshed
From sleep, pursued their way until they reached
The land of Goshen, and gathered up the elders
Of their race, and told them of the message
Of their Father’s God. Then eager lips caught up
The words of hope and passed the joyful news
Around, and all the people bowed their heads
And lifted up their hearts in thankfulness
To God.
That same day
Moses sought an audience with the king. He found
Him on his throne surrounded by the princes
Of his court, who bowed in lowly homage
At his feet. And Pharaoh heard with curving lip
And flushing cheek the message of the Hebrew’s God
Then asked in cold and scornful tones, “Has
Israel a God, and if so where has he dwelt
For ages? As the highest priest of Egypt
I have prayed to Isis, and the Nile has
Overflowed her banks and filled the land
With plenty, but these poor slaves have cried unto
Their God, then crept in want and sorrow
To their graves. Surely Mizraim’s God is strong
And Israel’s is weak; then wherefore should
I heed his voice, or at his bidding break
A single yoke?” Thus reasoned that proud king,
And turned a deafened ear unto the words
Of Moses and bis brother, and yet he felt
Strangely awed before their presence, because
They stood as men who felt the grandeur
Of their mission, and thought not of themselves,
But of their message.

V

On the next day Pharaoh called a council
Of his mighty men, and before them laid
The message of the brethren: then Amorphel,
Keeper of the palace and nearest lord
Unto the king, arose, and bending low
Before the throne, craved leave to speak a word.
Amorphel was a crafty, treacherous man,
With oily lips well versed in flattery
And courtly speech, a supple reed ready
To bend before his royal master’s lightest
Breath—Pharaoh’s willing tool. He said
“Gracious king, thou has been too lenient
With these slaves; light as their burdens are, they
Fret and chafe beneath them. They are idle
And the blood runs riot in their veins. Now
If thou would’st have these people dwell in peace,
Increase, I pray thee, their tasks and add unto
Their burdens; if they faint beneath their added
Tasks, they will have less time to plot sedition
And revolt.”

Then Rhadma, oldest lord in Pharaoh’s court,
Arose. He was an aged man, whose white
And heavy beard hung low upon his breast,
Yet there was a hard cold glitter in his eye,
And on his face a proud and evil look.
He had been a servant to the former king,
And wore his signet ring upon his hand.
He said, “I know this Moses well. Fourscore
Years ago Princess Charmian found him
By the Nile and rescued him from death, and did
Choose him as her son, and had him versed in all
The mysteries and lore of Egypt. But blood
Will tell, and this base slave, with servile blood
Within his veins, would rather be a servant
Than a prince, and so, with rude and reckless hand,
He thrust aside the honors of our dear
Departed king. Pharaoh was justly wroth,
But for his daughter’s sake he let the trespass
Pass. But one day this Moses slew an Egyptian
In his wrath, and then the king did seek his life;
But be fled, it is said, unto the deserts
Of Arabia, and became a shepherd for the priest
Of Midian. But now, instead of leading flocks
And herds, he aspires to lead his captive race
To freedom. These men mean mischief; sedition
And revolt are in their plans. Decree, I pray thee,
That these men shall gather their own straw
And yet their tale of bricks shall be the same.”
And these words pleased Pharaoh well, and all his
Lords chimed in with one accord. And Pharaoh
Wrote the stern decree and sent it unto Goshen—
That the laborers should gather their own straw,
And yet they should not ’minish of their tale of bricks.
’Twas a sad day in Goshen;
The king’s decree hung like a gloomy pall
Around their homes. The people fainted ’neath
Their added tasks, then cried unto the king,
That he would ease their burdens; but he hissed
A taunt into their ears and said, “ye are
Idle, and your minds are filled with vain
And foolish thoughts; get you into your tasks,
And ye shall not ’minish of your tale of bricks.”
And then they turned their eyes
Reproachfully on Moses and his brother,
And laid the cruel blame upon their shoulders.
’Tis an old story now, but then ’twas new
Unto the brethren—how God’s anointed ones
Must walk with bleeding feet the paths that turn
To lines of living light; how hands that bring
Salvation in their palms are pierced with cruel
Nails, and lips that quiver first with some great truth
Are steeped in bitterness and tears, and brows
Now bright beneath the aureola of God,
Have bent beneath the thorny crowns of earth.
There was hope for Israel,
But they did not see the golden fringes
Of their coming morn; they only saw the cold,
Grey sky, and fainted ’neath the cheerless gloom.

Moses sought again the presence of the king:
And Pharaoh’s brow grew dark with wrath,
And rising up in angry haste, he said,
Defiantly, “If thy God be great, show
Us some sign or token of his power.”
Then Moses threw his rod upon the floor,
And it trembled with a sign of life;
The dark wood glowed, then changed into a thing
Of glistening scales and golden rings, and green,
And brown and purple stripes; a hissing, hateful
Thing, that glared its fiery eye, and darting forth
From Moses’ side, lay coiled and panting
At the monarch’s feet. With wonder open-eyed
The king gazed on the changed rod, then called
For his magicians—wily men, well versed
In sinful lore—and bade them do the same.
And they, leagued with the powers of night, did
Also change their rods to serpents; then Moses’
Serpent darted forth, and with a startling hiss
And angry gulp, he swallowed the living things
That coiled along his path. And thus did Moses
Show that Israel’s God had greater power
Than those dark sons of night.
But not by this alone
Did God his mighty power reveal: He changed
Their waters; every fountain, well and pool
Was red with blood, and lips, all parched with thirst,
Shrank back in horror from the crimson draughts.
And then the worshiped Nile grew full of life:
Millions of frogs swarmed from the stream—they clogged
The pathway of the priests and filled the sacred
Fanes, and crowded into Pharaoh’s bed, and hopped
Into his trays of bread, and slumbered in his
Ovens and his pans.

Then came another plague, of loathsome vermin;
They were gray and creeping things, that made
Their very clothes alive with dark and sombre
Spots—things so loathsome in the land they did
Suspend the service of the temple; for no priest
Dared to lift his hand to any god with one
Of these upon him. And then the sky grew
Dark, as if a cloud were passing o’er its
Changeless blue; a buzzing sound broke o’er
The city, and the land was swarmed with flies.
The murrain laid their cattle low; the hail
Cut off the first fruits of the Nile; the locusts,
With their hungry jaws, destroyed the later crops,
And left the ground as brown and bare as if a fire
Had scorched it through.
Then angry blains
And fiery boils did blur the flesh of man
And beast; and then for three long days, nor saffron
Tint, nor crimson flush, nor soft and silvery light
Divided day from morn, nor told the passage
Of the hours; men rose not from their seats, but sat
In silent awe. That lengthened night lay like a burden
On the air—a darkness one might almost gather
In his hand, it was so gross and thick. Then came
The last dread plague—the death of the first born.
’Twas midnight,
And a startling shriek rose from each palace,
Home and hut of Egypt, save the blood-besprinkled homes
Of Goshen; the midnight seemed to shiver with a sense
Of dread, as if the mystic angel’s wing
Had chilled the very air with horror.
Death! Death! was everywhere—in every home
A corpse—in every heart a bitter woe.
There were anxious fingerings for the pulse
That ne’er would throb again, and eager listenings
For some sound of life—a hurrying to and fro—
Then burning kisses on the cold lips
Of the dead, bitter partings, sad farewells,
And mournful sobs and piercing shrieks,
And deep and heavy groans throughout the length
And breadth of Egypt. ’Twas the last dread plague,
But it had snapped in twain the chains on which
The rust of ages lay, and Israel was freed;
Not only freed, but thrust in eager haste
From out the land. Trembling men stood by, and longed
To see them gather up their flocks and herds,
And household goods, and leave the land; because they felt
That death stood at their doors as long as Israel
Lingered there; and they went forth in haste,
To tread the paths of freedom.

VI

But Pharaoh was strangely blind, and turning
From his first-born and his dead, with Egypt’s wail
Scarce still upon his ear, he asked which way had
Israel gone? They told him that they journeyed
Towards the mighty sea, and were encamped
Near Baalzephon.
Then Pharaoh said, “the wilderness will hem them in,
The mighty sea will roll its barriers in front,
And with my chariots and my warlike men
I’ll bring them back, or mete them out their graves.”
Then Pharaoh’s officers arose
And gathered up the armies of the king,
And made his chariots ready for pursuit.
With proud escutcheons blazoned to the sun,
In his chariot of ivory, pearl and gold,
Pharaoh rolled out of Egypt; and with him
Rode his mighty men, their banners floating
On the breeze, their spears and armor glittering
In the morning light; and Israel saw,
With fainting hearts, their old oppressors on their
Track: then women wept in hopeless terror;
Children hid their faces in their mothers’ robes,
And strong men bowed their heads in agony and dread;
And then a bitter, angry murmur rose—
“Were there no graves in Egypt, that thou hast
Brought us here to die?”
Then Moses lifted up his face, aglow
With earnest faith in God, and bade their fainting hearts
Be strong and they should his salvation see.
“Stand still,” said Moses to the fearful throng
Whose hearts were fainting in the wild, “Stand still.”
Ah, that was Moses’ word, but higher and greater
Came God’s watchword for the hour, and not for that
Alone, but all the coming hours of time.
“Speak ye unto the people and bid them
Forward go; stretch thy hand across the waters
And smite them with thy rod.” And Moses smote
The restless sea; the waves stood up in heaps,
Then lay as calm and still as lips that just
Had tasted death. The secret-loving sea
Laid bare her coral caves and iris-tinted
Floor; that wall of flood which lined the people’s
Way was God’s own wondrous masonry;
The signal pillar sent to guide them through the wild
Moved its dark shadow till it fronted Egypt’s
Camp, but hung in fiery splendor, a light
To Israel’s path. Madly rushed the hosts
Of Pharaoh upon the people’s track, when
The solemn truth broke on them—that God
For Israel fought. With cheeks in terror
Blenching, and eyes astart with fear, “let
Us flee,” they cried, “from Israel, for their God
Doth fight against us; he is battling on their side.”
They had trusted in their chariots, but now
That hope was vain; God had loosened every
Axle and unfastened every wheel, and each
Face did gather blackness and each heart stood still
With fear, as the livid lightnings glittered
And the thunder roared and muttered on the air,
And they saw the dreadful ruin that shuddered
O’er their heads, for the waves began to tremble
And the wall of flood to bend. Then arose
A cry of terror, baffled hate and hopeless dread,
A gurgling sound of horror, as the waves
Came madly dashing, wildly crashing, seeking
Out their place again, and the flower and pride
Of Egypt sank as lead within the sea
Till the waves threw back their corpses cold and stark
Upon the shore, and the song of Israel’s
Triumph was the requiem of their foes.
Oh the grandeur of that triumph; up the cliffs
And down the valleys, o’er the dark and restless
Sea, rose the people’s shout of triumph, going
Up in praise to God, and the very air
Seemed joyous, for the choral song of millions
Throbbed upon its viewless wings.
Then another song of triumph rose in accents
Soft and clear; ’twas the voice of Moses’ sister
Rising in the tide of song. The warm blood
Of her childhood seemed dancing in her veins;
The roses of her girlhood were flushing
On her cheek, and her eyes flashed out the splendor
Of long departed days, for time itself seemed
Pausing, and she lived the past again; again
The Nile flowed by her; she was watching by the stream,
A little ark of rushes where her baby brother lay;
The tender tide of rapture swept o’er her soul again
She had felt when Pharaoh’s daughter had claimed
Him as her own, and her mother wept for joy
Above her rescued son. Then again she saw
Him choosing “ ’twixt Israel’s pain and sorrow
And Egypt’s pomp and pride.” But now he stood
Their leader triumphant on that shore, and loud
She struck the cymbals as she led the Hebrew women
In music, dance and song, as they shouted out
Triumphs in sweet and glad refrains.

Miriam’s Song

A wail in the palace, a wail in the hut,
The midnight is shivering with dread,
And Egypt wakes up with a shriek and a sob
To mourn for her first-born and dead.

In the morning glad voices greeted the light,
As the Nile with its splendor was flushed;
At midnight silence had melted their tones,
And their music forever is hushed.

In the morning the princes of palace and court
To the heir of the kingdom bowed down;
’Tis midnight, pallid and stark in his shroud
He dreams not of kingdom or crown.

As a monument blasted and blighted by God,
Through the ages proud Pharaoh shall stand,
All seamed with the vengeance and scarred with the wrath
That leaped from God’s terrible hand.

VII

They journeyed on from Zuphim’s sea until
They reached the sacred mount and heard the solemn
Decalogue. The mount was robed in blackness—
Heavy and deep the shadows lay; the thunder
Crashed and roared upon the air; the lightning
Leaped from crag to crag; God’s fearful splendor
Flowed around, and Sinai quaked and shuddered
To its base, and there did God proclaim
Unto their listening ears, the great, the grand,
The central and the primal truth of all
The universe—the unity of God.
Only one God—
This truth received into the world’s great life,
Not as an idle dream nor speculative thing,
But as a living, vitalizing thought,
Should bind us closer to our God and link us
With our fellow man, the brothers and co-heirs
With Christ, the elder brother of our race.
Before this truth let every blade of war
Grow dull, and slavery, cowering at the light,
Skulk from the homes of men; instead
Of war bring peace and freedom, love and joy,
And light for man, instead of bondage, whips
And chains. Only one God! the strongest hands
Should help the weak who bend before the blasts
Of life, because if God is only one
Then we are the children of his mighty hand,
And when we best serve man, we also serve
Our God. Let haughty rulers learn that men
Of humblest birth and lowliest lot have
Rights as sacred and divine as theirs, and they
Who fence in leagues of earth by bonds and claims
And title deeds, forgetting land and water,
Air and light are God’s own gifts and heritage
For man—who throw their selfish lives between
God’s sunshine and the shivering poor—
Have never learned the wondrous depth, nor scaled
The glorious height of this great central truth,
Around which clusters all the holiest faiths
Of earth. The thunder died upon the air,
The lightning ceased its livid play, the smoke
And darkness died away in clouds, as soft
And fair as summer wreaths that lie around
The setting sun, and Sinai stood a bare
And rugged thing among the sacred scenes
Of earth.

VIII

It was a weary thing to bear the burden
Of that restless and rebellious race. With
Sinai’s thunders almost crashing in their ears,
They made a golden calf, and in the desert
Spread an idol’s feast, and sung the merry songs
They had heard when Mizraim’s songs bowed down before
Their vain and heathen gods; and thus for many years
Did Moses bear the evil manners of his race—
Their angry murmurs, fierce regrets and strange
Forgetfulness of God. Born slaves, they did not love
The freedom of the wild more than their pots of flesh.
And pleasant savory things once gathered
From the gardens of the Nile.
If slavery only laid its weight of chains
Upon the weary, aching limbs, e’en then
It were a curse; but when it frets through nerve
And flesh and eats into the weary soul,
Oh then it is a thing for every human
Heart to loathe, and this was Israel’s fate,
For when the chains were shaken from their limbs,
They failed to strike the impress from their souls.
While he who’d basked beneath the radiance
Of a throne, ne’er turned regretful eyes upon
The past, nor sighed to grasp again the pleasures
Once resigned; but the saddest trial was
To see the light and joy fade from their faces
When the faithless spies spread through their camp
Their ill report; and when the people wept
In hopeless unbelief and turned their faces
Egyptward, and asked a captain from their bands
To lead them back where they might bind anew
Their broken chains, when God arose and shut
The gates of promise on their lives, and left
Their bones to bleach beneath Arabia’s desert sands.
But though they slumbered in the wild, they died
With broader freedom on their lips, and for their
Little ones did God reserve the heritage
So rudely thrust aside.

IX

The Death of Moses

His work was done; his blessing lay
Like precious ointment on his people’s head,
And God’s great peace was resting on his soul.
His life had been a lengthened sacrifice,
A thing of deep devotion to his race,
Since first he turned his eyes on Egypt’s gild
And glow, and clasped their fortunes in his hand
And held them with a firm and constant grasp.
But now his work was done; his charge was laid
In Joshua’s hand, and men of younger blood
Were destined to possess the land and pass
Through Jordan to the other side. He too
Had hoped to enter there—to tread the soil
Made sacred by the memories of his
Kindred dead, and rest till life’s calm close beneath
The sheltering vines and stately palms of that
Fair land; that hope had colored all his life’s
Young dreams and sent its mellowed flushes o’er
His later years; but God’s decree was otherwise.
And so he bowed his meekened soul in calm
Submission to the word, which bade him climb
To Nebo’s highest peak, and view the pleasant land
From Jordan’s swells unto the calmer ripples
Of the tideless sea, then die with all its
Loveliness in sight.
As he passed from Moab’s grassy vale to climb
The rugged mount, the people stood in mournful groups,
Some, with quivering lips and tearful eyes,
Reaching out unconscious hands, as if to stay
His steps and keep him ever at their side, while
Others gazed with reverent awe upon
The calm and solemn beauty on his aged brow,
The look of loving trust and lofty faith
Still beaming from an eye that neither care
Nor time had dimmed. As he passed upward, tender
Blessings, earnest prayers and sad farewells rose
On each wave of air, then died in one sweet
Murmur of regretful love; and Moses stood
Alone on Nebo’s mount.
Alone! not one
Of all that mighty throng who had trod with him
In triumph through the parted flood was there.
Aaron had died in Hor, with son and brother
By his side; and Miriam too was gone.
But kindred hands had made her grave, and Kadesh
Held her dust. But he was all alone; nor wife
Nor child was there to clasp in death his hand,
And bind around their bleeding hearts the precious
Parting words. And yet he was not all alone,
For God’s great presence flowed around his path
And stayed him in that solemn hour.

He stood upon the highest peak of Nebo,
And saw the Jordan chafing through its gorges,
Its banks made bright by scarlet blooms
And purple blossoms. The placid lakes
And emerald meadows, the snowy crest
Of distant mountains, the ancient rocks
That dripped with honey, the hills all bathed
In light and beauty; the shady groves
And peaceful vistas, the vines opprest
With purple riches, the fig trees fruit-crowned
Green and golden, the pomegranates with crimson
Blushes, the olives with their darker clusters,
Rose before him like a vision, full of beauty
And delight. Gazed he on the lovely landscape
Till it faded from his view, and the wing
Of death’s sweet angel hovered o’er the mountain’s
Crest, and he heard his garments rustle through
The watches of the night.
Then another, fairer, vision
Broke upon his longing gaze; ’twas the land
Of crystal fountains, love and beauty, joy
And light, for the pearly gates flew open,
And his ransomed soul went in. And when morning
O’er the mountain fringed each crag and peak with light,
Cold and lifeless lay the leader. God had touched
His eyes with slumber, giving his beloved sleep.

Oh never on that mountain
Was seen a lovelier sight
Than the troupe of fair young angels
That gathered ’round the dead.
With gentle hands they bore bim,
That bright and shining train,
From Nebo’s lonely mountain
To sleep in Moab’s vale.
But they sung no mornful dirges,
No solemn requiems said,
And the soft wave of their pinions
Made music as they trod.
But no one heard them passing,
None saw their chosen grave;
It was the angels’ secret
Where Moses should be laid.
And when the grave was finished,
They trod with golden sandals
Above the sacred spot,
And the brightest, fairest flowers
Sprang up beneath their tread.
Nor broken turf, nor hillock
Did e’er reveal that grave,
And truthful lips have never said
We know where he is laid.

Lines to Hon. Thaddeus Stevens

Have the bright and glowing visions
Faded from thy longing sight,
Like the gorgeous tints of ev’n
Mingling with the shades of night?

Didst thou hope to see thy country
Wearing Justice as a crown,
Standing foremost ’mid the nations
Worthy of the world’s renown?

Didst thou think the grand fruition
Reached the fullness of its time,
When the crater of God’s judgment
Overflowed the nation’s crime?

That thy people, purged by fire,
Would have trod another path,
Careful, lest their feet should stumble
On the cinders of God’s wrath?

And again the injured negro
Grind the dreadful mills of fate,
Pressing out the fearful vintage
Of the nation’s scorn and hate?

Sadder than the crimson shadows
Hung for years around our skies,
Are the hopes so fondly cherished
Fading now before thine eyes.

Not in vain has been thy hoping,
Though thy fair ideals fade,
If, like one of God’s tall aloes,
Thou art rip’ning in the shade.

There is light beyond the darkness,
Joy beyond the present pain;
There is hope in God’s great justice,
And the negro’s rising brain.

Though before the timid counsels
Truth and Right may seem to fail,
God hath bathed his sword in judgment,
And his arm shall yet prevail.

An Appeal to the American People

When a dark and fearful strife
Raged around the nation’s life,
And the traitor plunged his steel
Where your quivering hearts could feel,
When your cause did need a friend,
We were faithful to the end.

When we stood with bated breath,
Facing fiery storms of death,
And the war-cloud, red with wrath,
Fiercely swept around our path,
Did our hearts with terror quail?
Or our courage ever fail?

When the captive, wanting bread,
Sought our poor and lowly shed,
And the bloodhounds missed his way,
Did we e’er his path betray?
Filled we not his heart with trust
As we shared with him our crust?

With your soldiers, side by side,
Helped we turn the battle’s tide,
Till o’er ocean, stream and shore,
Waved the rebel flag no more,
And above the rescued sod
Praises rose to freedom’s God.

But to-day the traitor stands
With the crimson on his hands,
Scowling ’neath his brow of hate,
On our weak and desolate,
With the blood-rust on the knife
Aimèd at the nation’s life.

Asking you to weakly yield
All we won upon the field,
To ignore, on land and flood,
All the offerings of our blood,
And to write above our slain
“They have fought and died in vain.”

To your manhood we appeal,
Lest the traitor’s iron heel
Grind and trample in the dust
All our new-born hope and trust,
And the name of freedom be
Linked with bitter mockery.

Truth

A rock, for ages, stern and high,
Stood frowning ’gainst the earth and sky,
And never bowed his haughty crest
When angry storms around him prest.
Morn springing from the arms of night
Had often bathed his brow with light,
And kissed the shadows from his face
With tender love and gentle grace.

Day, pausing at the gates of rest,
Smiled on him from the distant West,
And from her throne the dark-browed Night
Threw round his path her softest light.
And yet he stood unmoved and proud,
Nor love, nor wrath, his spirit bowed;
He bared his brow to every blast
And scorned the tempest as it passed.

One day a tiny, humble seed—
The keenest eye would hardly heed—
Fell trembling at that stern rock’s base,
And found a lowly hiding place.
A ray of light, and drop of dew,
Came with a message, kind and true;
They told her of the world so bright,
Its love, its joy, and rosy light,
And lured her from her hiding place,
To gaze upon earth’s glorious face.

So, peeping timid from the ground,
She clasped the ancient rock around,
And climbing up with childish grace,
She held him with a close embrace;
Her clinging was a thing of dread;
Where’er she touched a fissure spread,
And he who’d breasted many a storm
Stood frowning there, a mangled form;
So Truth dropped in the silent earth,
May seem a thing of little worth,
Till, spreading round some mighty wrong,
It saps its pillars proud and strong.

Death of the Old Sea King

’Twas a fearful night—the tempest raved
With loud and wrathful pride,
The storm-king harnessed his lightning steeds,
And rode on the raging tide.

The sea-king lay on his bed of death.
Pale mourners around him bent,
They knew the wild and fitful life
Of their chief was almost spent.

His ear was growing dull in death
When the angry storm he heard,
The sluggish blood in the old man’s veins
With sudden vigor stirred.

“I hear them call,” cried the dying man,
His eyes grew full of light,
“Now bring me here my warrior robes,
My sword and armor bright.

“In the tempest’s lull I heard a voice,
I knew ’twas Odin’s call.
The Valkyrs are gathering round my bed
To lead me unto his hall.

“Bear me unto my noblest ship,
Light up a funeral pyre;
I’ll walk to the palace of the braves
Through a path of flame and fire.”

O! wild and bright was the stormy light
That flashed from the old man’s eye,
As they bore him from the couch of death
To his battle-ship to die.

And lit with many a mournful torch
The sea-king’s dying bed,
And like a banner fair and bright
The flames around him spread.

But they heard no cry of anguish
Break through that fiery wall,
With rigid brow and silent lips
He was seeking Odin’s hall.

Through a path of fearful splendor,
While strong men held their breath,
The brave old man went boldly forth
And calmly talked with death.

“Let the Light Enter!”

Dying Words of Goethe

Light! more light! the shadows deepen,
And my life is ebbing low,
Throw the windows widely open!
Light! more light! before I go.

Softly let the balmy sunshine
Play around my dying bed,
E’er the dimly lighted valley
I with lonely feet shall tread.

Light! more light! for death is weaving
Shadows round my waning sight,
And I fain would gaze upon him
Through a stream of earthly light.

Not for greater gifts of genius,
Nor for thoughts more grandly bright,
All the dying poet whispers
Is a prayer for light, more light.

Heeds he not the gathered laurels,
Fading slowly from his sight;
All the poet’s aspirations
Centre in that prayer for light.

Blessed Jesus, when our day dreams
Melt and vanish from the sight,
May our dim and longing vision
Then be blessed with light, more light!

Youth in Heaven

“In heaven the angels are advancing continually to the springtime of their youth, so that the oldest angel appears the youngest.”

Swedenborg

Not for them the length’ning shadows
Falling coldly round our lives,
Nearer, nearer through the ages
Life’s new spring for them arrives.

Not for them the doubt and anguish
Of an old and loveless age,
Dropping sadly tears of sorrow
On life’s faded, blotted page.

Not for them the mournful dimming
Of the weary, tear-stained eye,
That has seen the sad procession
Of its dearest hopes go by.

Not for them the hopeless clinging
To life’s worn and feeble strands,
Till the last has ceased to tremble
In our agèd, withered hands.

Never lines of light and darkness
Thread the brows forever fair,
And the eldest of the angels
Seems the youngest brother there.

There the stream of life doth never
Cross the mournful plains of death,
And the pearly gates are ever
Closed against his icy breath.

Death of Zombi

The Chief of a Negro Kingdom in South America

Cruel in vengeance, reckless in wrath,
The hunters of men bore down on our path;
Inhuman and fierce, the offer they gave
Was freedom in death or the life of a slave.
The cheek of the mother grew pallid with dread,
As the tidings of evil around us were spread,
And closer and closer she strained to her heart
The children she feared they would sever apart.
The brows of our maidens grew gloomy and sad;
Hot tears burst from eyes once sparkling and glad.
Our young men stood ready to join in the fray,
That hung as a pall ’round our people that day.
Our leaders gazed angry and stern on the strife,
For freedom to them was dearer than life.
There was mourning at home and death in the street,
For carnage and famine together did meet.
The pale lips of hunger were asking for bread,
While husbands and fathers lay bleeding and dead.
For days we withstood the tempests of wrath,
That scattered destruction and death in our path,
Till, broken and peeled, we yielded at last,
And the glory and strength of our kingdom were past.
But Zombi, our leader, and warlike old chief,
Gazed down on our woe with anger and grief;
The tyrant for him forged fetters in vain,
His freedom-girt limbs had worn their last chain.
Defiance and daring still flashed from his eye;
A freeman he’d lived and free he would die.
So he climbed to the verge of a dangerous steep,
Resolved from its margin to take a last leap;
For a fearful death and a bloody grave
Were dearer to him than the life of a slave.
Nor went he alone to the mystic land—
There were other warriors in his band,
Who rushed with him to Death’s dark gate,
All wrapped in the shroud of a mournful fate.

Lines to Charles Sumner

Thank God that thou hast spoken
Words earnest, true and brave,
The lightning of thy lips did smite
The fetters of the slave.

I thought the shadows deepened,
Round the pathway of the slave,
As one by one his faithful friends
Were dropping in the grave.

When other hands grew feeble,
And loosed their hold on life,
Thy words rang like a clarion
For freedom’s noble strife.

Thy words were not soft echoes,
Thy tones no siren song;
They fell as battle-axes
Upon our giant wrong.

God grant thy words of power
May fall as precious seeds,
That yet shall leaf and blossom
In high and holy deeds.

“Sir, We Would See Jesus”

We would see Jesus; earth is grand,
Flowing out from her Creator’s hand.
Like one who tracks his steps with light,
His footsteps ever greet our sight;
The earth below, the sky above,
Are full of tokens of his love;
But ’mid the fairest scenes we’ve sighed,
Our hearts are still unsatisfied.

We would see Jesus; proud and high
Temples and domes have met our eye.
We’ve gazed upon the glorious thought,
By earnest hands in marble wrought,
And listened where the lying feet
Beat time to music, soft and sweet;
But bow’rs of ease, and halls of pride,
Our yearning hearts ne’er satisfied.

We would see Jesus; we have heard
Tidings our inmost souls have stirred,
How, from their chambers full of night,
The darkened eyes receive the light;
How, at the music of his voice,
The lame do leap, the dumb rejoice.
Anxious we’ll wait until we’ve seen
The good and gracious Nazarene.

The Bride of Death

They robed her for another groom,
For her bridal couch, prepared the tomb;
From the sunny love of her marriage day
A stronger rival had won her away;
His wooing was like a stern command,
And cold was the pressure of his hand.

Through her veins he sent an icy thrill,
With sudden fear her heart stood still;
To his dusty palace the bride he led,
Her guests were the pale and silent dead.
No eye flashed forth a loving light,
To greet the bride as she came in sight,
Not one reached out a joyous hand,
To welcome her home to the mystic land.

Silent she sat in the death still hall,
For her bridal robe she wore a pall;
Instead of orange-blossoms fair,
Willow and cypress wreathed her hair.
Though her mother’s kiss lay on her cheek,
Her lips no answering love could speak,
No air of life stirred in her breath,
That fair young girl was the bride of death.

Thank God for Little Children

Thank God for little children,
Bright flowers by earth’s wayside,
The dancing, joyous lifeboats
Upon life’s stormy tide.

Thank God for little children;
When our skies are cold and gray,
They come as sunshine to our hearts,
And charm our cares away.

I almost think the angels,
Who tend life’s garden fair,
Drop down the sweet wild blossoms
That bloom around us here.

It seems a breath of heaven
Round many a cradle lies,
And every little baby
Brings a message from the skies.

The humblest home with children
Is rich in precious gems,
That shame the wealth of monarchs,
And pale their diadems.

Dear mothers, guard these jewels,
As sacred offerings meet,
A wealth of household treasures
To lay at Jesus’ feet.

The Dying Fugitive

Slowly o’er his darkened features
Stole the warning shades of death,
And we knew the mystic angel
Waited for his parting breath.

He had started for his freedom,
And his heart beat firm and high;
But before he won the guerdon
Came the message—he must die.

He must die when just before him
Lay the longed-for precious prize,
And the hopes that lit him onward
Faded out before his eyes.

For awhile a fearful madness
Rested on his weary brain,
And he thought the hateful tyrant
Had rebound his galling chain.

Then he cried in bitter anguish,
Take me where that good man dwells,
For a name to freedom precious
Lingered ’mid life’s shattered cells.

But as sunshine gently stealing
On the storm-cloud’s gloomy track,
Through the tempests of his bosom
Came the light of reason back.

And, without a sigh or murnur
For the friends he’d left behind,
Calmly yielded he his spirit
To the Father of mankind.

Thankful that so near to freedom
He with eager feet had trod,
Ere his ransom’d spirit rested
On the bosom of his God.

The Freedom Bell

Ring, aye, ring the freedom bell,
And let its tones be loud and clear;
With glad hosannas let it swell
Until it reach the Bondman’s ear.

Through pain that wrings the life apart,
And spasms full of deadly strife,
And throes that shake the nation’s heart,
The fainting land renews her life.

Where shrieks and groans distract the air,
And sods grow red with crimson rain,
The ransom’d slave shall kneel in prayer
And bury deep his rusty chain.

Where cheeks now pale with sickening dread,
And brows grow dark with cruel wrath,
Shall Freedom’s banner wide be spread
And Hope and Peace attend her path.

White-robed and pure her feet shall move
O’er rifts of ruin deep and wide;
Her hands shall span with lasting love
The chasms rent by hate and pride.

Where waters, blush’d with human gore,
Unsullied streams shall purl along;
Where crashed the battle’s awful roar
Shall rise the Freeman’s joyful song.

Then ring, aye, ring the freedom bell,
Proclaiming all the nation free;
Let earth with sweet thanksgiving swell
And heaven catch up the melody.

Mary at the Feet of Christ

She stood at Jesus’ feet,
And bathed them with her tears,
While o’er her spirit surg’d
The guilt and shame of years.

Though Simon saw the grief
Upon the fair young face,
The stern man coldly thought
For her this is no place.

Her feet have turned aside
From paths of truth and right,
If Christ a prophet be
He’ll spurn her from his sight.

And silently he watched
The child of sin and care,
Uncoil upon Christ’s feet
Her wealth of raven hair.

O Life! she sadly thought,
I know thy bane and blight,
And yet I fain would find
The path of peace and right.

I’ve seen the leper cleansed,
I’ve seen the sick made whole,
But mine’s a deeper wound—
It eats into the soul.

And men have trampled down
The beauty once their prize,
While women pass me by
With cold, averted eyes.

But now a hope of peace
Steals o’er my weary breast,
And from these lips of love
There comes a sense of rest.

The tender, loving Christ
Gazed on her tearful eyes,
Then saw on Simon’s face
A look of cold surprise.

“Simon,” the Saviour said,
“Thou wast to me remiss,
I came thy guest, but thou
Didst give no welcome kiss.

“Thou broughtest from thy fount
No water cool and sweet,
But she, with many tears,
Hath bent and kissed my feet.

“Thou pouredst on my head
No oil with kindly care,
But she anoints my feet,
And wipes them with her hair.

“I know her steps have strayed,
Her sins they many be,
But she with love hath bound
Her erring heart to me.”

How sweetly fell his words
Upon her bruised heart,
When, like a ghastly train,
She felt her sins depart.

What music heard on earth,
Or rapture moving heaven
Were like those precious words—
“Thy sins are all forgiven!”

The Mother’s Blessing

Oh, my soul had grown so weary
With its many cares opprest,
All my heart’s high aspirations
Languish’d in a prayer for rest.

I was like a lonely stranger
Pining in a distant land,
Bearing on her lips a language
None around her understand.

Longing for a close communion
With some kindred mind and heart,
But whose language is a jargon
Past her skill, and past her art.

God in mercy looked upon me,
Saw my fainting, pain and strife,
Sent to me a blest evangel,
Through the gates of light and life.

Then my desert leafed and blossom’d,
Beauty decked its deepest wild,
Hope and joy, peace and blessing,
Met me in my first-born child.

When the tiny hands, so feeble,
Brought me smiles and joyful tears,
Lifted from my life the shadows,
That had gathered there for years.

God, I thank thee for the blessing
That at last has crown’d my life,
Soothed its weary, lonely anguish,
Stay’d its fainting, calm’d its strife.

Gracious Parent! guard and shelter
In thine arms my darling child
Till she treads the streets of jasper,
Glorified and undefiled.

Vashti

She leaned her head upon her hand
And heard the king’s decree—
“My lords are feasting in my halls,
Bid Vashti come to me.

“I’ve shown the treasures of my house,
My costly jewels rare,
But with the glory of her eyes
No rubies can compare.

“Adorn’d and crown’d I’d have her come,
With all her queenly grace,
And, ’mid my lords and mighty men,
Unveil her lovely face.

“Each gem that sparkles in my crown,
Or glitters on my throne,
Grows poor and pale when she appears,
My beautiful, my own!”

All waiting stood the chamberlains
To hear the Queen’s reply,
They saw her cheek grow deathly pale,
But light flash’d to her eye:

“Go, tell the King,” she proudly said,
“That I am Persia’s Queen,
And by his crowds of merry men
I never will be seen.

“I’ll take the crown from off my head
And tread it ’neath my feet
Before their rude and careless gaze
My shrinking eyes shall meet.

“A queen unveil’d before the crowd!—
Upon each lip my name!—
Why, Persia’s women all would blush
And weep for Vashti’s shame!

“Go back!” she cried, and waived her hand,
And grief was in her eye:
“Go, tell the King,” she sadly said,
“That I would rather die.”

They brought her message to the King,
Dark flash’d his angry eye;
’Twas as the lightning ere the storm
Hath swept in fury by.

Then bitterly outspoke the King,
Through purple lips of wrath—
“What shall be done to her who dares
To cross your monarch’s path?”

Then spake his wily counsellors—
“O King of this fair land!
From distant Ind to Ethiop,
All bow to thy command.

“But if, before thy servants’ eyes,
This thing they plainly see,
That Vashti doth not heed thy will
Nor yield herself to thee,

“The women, restive ’neath our rule,
Would learn to scorn our name,
And from her deed to us would come
Reproach and burning shame.

“Then, gracious King, sign with thy hand
This stern but just decree,
That Vashti lay aside her crown,
Thy Queen no more to be.”

She heard again the King’s command,
And left her high estate,
Strong in her earnest womanhood,
She calmly met her fate,

And left the palace of the King,
Proud of her spotless name—
A woman who could bend to grief,
But would not bow to shame.

The Change

The blue sky arching overhead,
The green turf ’neath my daily tread,
All glorified by freedom’s light,
Grow fair and lovely to my sight.

The very winds that sweep along
Seemed burdened with a lovely song,
Nor shrieks nor groans of grief or fear,
Float on their wings and pain my ear.

No more with dull and aching breast,
Roused by the horn—I rise from rest
Content and cheerful with my lot,
I greet the sun and leave my cot.

For darling child and loving wife
I toil with newly waken’d life;
The light that lingers round her smile
The shadows from my soul beguile.

The pratile of my darling boy
Fills my old heart with untold joy;
Before his laughter, mirth and song
Fade out long scores of grief and wrong.

Oh, never did the world appear
So lovely to my eye and ear,
’Till Freedom came, with Joy and Peace,
And bade my hateful bondage cease!

The Dying Mother

Come nearer to me, husband,
Now the aching leaves my breast,
But my eyes are dim and weary,
And to-night I fain would rest.

Clasp me closer to your bosom
Ere I calmly sleep in death;
With your arms enfolded round me
I would yield my parting breath.

Bring me now my darling baby,
God’s own precious gift of love,
Tell her she must meet her mother
In the brighter world above.

When her little feet grow stronger
To walk life’s paths untrod,
That earnest, true and hopeful,
She must lay her hands on God.

Tell my other little children
They must early seek His face;
That His love is a strong tower,
And His arms a hiding place.

Tell them—but my voice grows fainter—
Surely, husband, this is death—
Tell them that their dying mother
Bless’d them with her latest breath.

Words for the Hour

Men of the North! it is no time
To quit the battle-field;
When danger fronts your rear and van
It is no time to yield.

No time to bend the battle’s crest
Before the wily foe,
And, ostrich-like, to hide your heads
From the impending blow.

The minions of a baffled wrong
Are marshalling their clan,
Rise up! rise up, enchanted North!
And strike for God and man.

This is no time for careless ease;
No time for idle sleep;
Go light the fires in every camp,
And solemn sentries keep.

The foe ye foiled upon the field
Has only changed his base;
New dangers crowd around you
And stare you in the face.

O Northern men! within your hands
Is held no common trust;
Secure the victories won by blood
When treason bit the dust.

’Tis yours to banish from the land
Oppression’s iron rule;
And o’er the ruin’d auction-block
Erect the common school.

To wipe from labor’s branded brow
The curse that shamed the land;
And teach the Freedman how to wield
The ballot in his hand.

This is the nation’s golden hour,
Nerve every heart and hand,
To build on Justice, as a rock,
The future of the land.

True to your trust, oh, never yield
One citadel of right!
With Truth and Justice clasping hands
Ye yet shall win the fight!

President Lincoln’s Proclamation of Freedom

It shall flash through coming ages;
It shall light the distant years;
And eyes now dim with sorrow
Shall be clearer through their tears.

It shall flush the mountain ranges;
And the valleys shall grow bright;
It shall bathe the hills in radiance,
And crown their brows with light.

It shall flood with golden splendor
All the huts of Caroline,
And the sun-kissed brow of labor
With lustre new shall shine.

It shall gild the gloomy prison,
Darken’d by the nation’s crime,
Where the dumb and patient millions
Wait the better coming time.

By the light that gilds their prison,
They shall seize its mould’ring key,
And the bolts and bars shall vibrate
With the triumphs of the free.

Like the dim and ancient chaos,
Shrinking from the dawn of light.
Oppression, grim and hoary,
Shall cower at the sight.

And her spawn of lies and malice
Shall grovel in the dust,
While joy shall thrill the bosoms
Of the merciful and just.

Though the morning seemed to linger
O’er the hill-tops far away,
Now the shadows bear the promise
Of the quickly coming day.

Soon the mists and murky shadows
Shall be fringed with crimson light,
And the glorious dawn of freedom
Break refulgent on the sight.

To a Babe Smiling in Her Sleep

Tell me, did the angels greet thee?
Greet my darling when she smiled?
Did they whisper, softly, gently,
Pleasant thoughts unto my child?

Did they whisper, ’mid thy dreaming,
Thoughts that made thy spirit glad?
Of the joy-lighted city,
Where the heart is never sad?

Did they tell thee of the fountains,
Clear as crystal, fair as light,
And the glory-brightened country,
Never shaded by a night?

Of life’s pure, pellucid river,
And the tree whose leaves do yield
Healing for the wounded nations—
Nations smitten, bruised and peeled?

Of the city, ruby-founded,
Built on gems of flashing light,
Paling all earth’s lustrous jewels,
And the gates of pearly white?

Darling, when life’s shadows deepen
Round thy prison-house of clay,
May the footsteps of God’s angels
Ever linger round thy way.

The Artist

He stood before his finished work;
His heart beat warm and high;
But they who gazed upon the youth
Knew well that he must die.

For many days a fever fierce
Had burned into his life;
But full of high impassioned art,
He bore the fearful strife.

And wrought in ecstasy and hope
The image of his brain;
He felt the death throes at his heart,
But labored through the pain.

The statue seemed to glow with life—
A costly work of art;
For it he paid the fervent blood
From his own eager heart.

With kindling eye and flushing cheek
But slowly laboring breath,
He gazed upon his finished work,
Then sought his couch of death.

And when the plaudits of the crowd
Came like the south wind’s breath,
The dreamy, gifted child of art
Had closed his eyes in death.

Jesus

Come speak to me of Jesus,
I love that precious name,
Who built a throne of power
Upon a cross of shame.

Unveil to me the beauty
That glorifies his face—
The fullness of the Father—
The image of his grace.

My soul would run to meet Him;
Restrain me not with creeds;
For Christ, the hope of glory,
Is what my spirit needs.

I need the grand attraction,
That centres ’round the cross,
To change the gilded things of earth,
To emptiness and dross.

My feet are prone to wander,
My eyes to turn aside,
And yet I fain would linger,
With Christ the crucified.

I want a faith that’s able
To stand each storm and shock—
A faith forever rooted,
In Christ the living Rock.

Fifteenth Amendment

Beneath the burden of our joy
Tremble, O wires, from East to West!
Fashion with words your tongues of fire,
To tell the nation’s high behest.

Outstrip the winds, and leave behind
The murmur of the restless waves;
Nor tarry with your glorious news,
Amid the ocean’s coral caves.

Ring out! ring out! your sweetest chimes,
Ye bells, that call to prayer and praise;
Let every heart with gladness thrill,
And songs of joyful triumph raise.

Shake off the dust, O rising race!
Crowned as a brother and a man;
Justice to-day asserts her claim,
And from thy brow fades out the ban.

With freedom’s chrism upon thy head,
Her precious ensign in thy hand,
Go place thy once despisèd name
Amid the noblest of the land.

O ransomed race! give God the praise,
Who led thee through a crimson sea,
And ’mid the storm of fire and blood,
Turned out the war-cloud’s light to thee.

Retribution

Judgment slumbered. God in mercy
Stayed his strong avenging hand;
Sent them priests and sent them prophets,
But they would not understand.

Judgment lingered; men, grown bolder,
Gloried in their shame and guilt;
And the blood of God’s poor childrep
Was as water freely spilt.

Then arose a cry to heaven,
Deep and startling, sad and wild,
Sadder than the wail of Egypt,
Mourning for the first-born child.

For the sighing of the needy
God at length did bare his hand,
And the footsteps of his judgments
Echoed through the guilty land.

Oh! the terror, grief and anguish;
Oh! the bitter, fearful strife,
When the judgments of Jehovah
Pressed upon the nation’s life.

And the land did reel and tremble
’Neath the terror of his frown,
For its guilt lay heavy on it,
Pressing like an iron crown.

As a warning to the nations,
Bathed in blood and swathed in fire,
Lay the once oppressing nation,
Smitten by God’s fearful ire.

The Sin of Achan

Night closed o’er the battling army,
But it brought them no success;
Victory perched not on their banners;
Night was full of weariness.

Flushed and hopeful in the morning,
Turned they from their leader’s side:
Routed, smitten and defeated,
Came they back at eventide.

Then in words of bitter mourning
Joshua’s voice soon arose:
“Tell us, O thou God of Jacob,
Why this triumph of our foes?”

To his pleading came the answer
Why the hosts in fear did yield:
“ ’Twas because a fearful trespass
’Mid their tents did lie concealed.”

Clear and plain before His vision,
With whom darkness is as light,
Lay the spoils that guilty Achan
Covered from his brethren’s sight.

From their tents they purged the evil
That had ruin round them spread;
Then they won the field of battle,
Whence they had in terror fled.

Through the track of many ages
Comes this tale of woe and crime;
Let us read it as a lesson
And a warning for our time.

Oh, for some strong-hearted Joshua!
Faithful to his day and time,
Who will wholly rid the nation
Of her clinging curse and crime.

Till she writes on every banner
All beneath these folds are free,
And the oppressed and groaning millions
Shout the nation’s Jubilee.

Lines to Miles O’Reiley

You’ve heard no doubt of Irish bulls,
And how they blunder, thick and fast;
But of all the queer and foolish things,
O’Reiley, you have said the last.

You say we brought the rebs supplies,
And gave them aid amid the fight,
And if you must be ruled by rebs,
Instead of black you want them white.

You blame us that we did not rise,
And pluck war from a fiery brand,
When Little Mac said if we did,
He’d put us down with iron hand.

And when we sought to join your ranks,
And battle with you, side by side,
Did men not curl their lips with scorn,
And thrust us back with hateful pride?

And when at last we gained the field,
Did we not firmly, bravely stand,
And help to turn the tide of death,
That spread its ruin o’er the land?

We hardly think we’re worse than those
Who kindled up this fearful strife,
Because we did not seize the chance
To murder helpless babes and wife,

And had we struck, with vengeful hand,
The rebel where he most could feel,
Were you not ready to impale
Our hearts upon your Northern steel?

O’Reiley, men like you should wear
The gift of song like some bright crown,
Nor worse than ruffians of the ring,
Strike at a man because he’s down.

The Little Builders

Ye are builders, little builders,
Not with mortar, brick and stone,
But your work is far more glorious—
Ye are building freedom’s throne.

Where the ocean never slumbers
Works the coral ’neath the spray,
By and by a reef or island
Rears its head to greet the day.

Then the balmy rains and sunshine
Scatter treasures o’er the soil,
’Till a place for human footprints,
Crown the little builder’s toil.

When the stately ships sweep o’er them,
Cresting all the sea with foam,
Little think these patient toilers,
They are building man a home.

Do you ask me, precious children,
How your little hands can build,
That you love the name of freedom,
But your fingers are unskilled?

Not on thrones or in proud temples,
Does fair freedom seek her rest;
No, her chosen habitations,
Are the hearts that love her best.

Would you gain the highest freedom?
Live for God and man alone,
Then each heart in freedom’s temple,
Will be like a living stone.

Fill your minds with useful knowledge,
Learn to love the true and right;
Thus you’ll build the throne of freedom,
On a pedestal of light.

The Dying Child to Her Blind Father

Dear father, I hear a whisper,
It tells me that I must go,
And my heart returns her answer
In throbbings so faint and low.

I’m sorry to leave you, father,
I know you will miss me so,
And the world for you will gather
A gloomier shade of woe.

You will miss me, dearest father,
When the violets wake from sleep,
And timidly from their hedges
The early snow-drops peep,

I shall not be here to gather
The flowers by stream and dell,
The bright and beautiful flowers,
Dear Father, you love so well.

You will miss my voice, dear father,
From every earthly tone,
All the songs that cheered your darkness,
And you’ll be so sad and lone.

I can scarcely rejoice, dear father,
In hope of the brighter land,
When I know you’ll pine in sadness,
And miss my guiding hand.

You are weeping, dearest father,
Your sobs are shaking my soul,
but we’ll meet again where the shadow
And night from your eyes shall roll.

And then you will see me, father,
With visions undimmed and clear,
Your eyes will sparkle with rapture—
You know there’s no blindness there.

Light in Darkness

We’ve room to build holy altars
Where our crumbling idols lay;
We’ve room for heavenly visions,
When our earth dreams fade away.

Through rifts and rents in our fortune
We gazed with blinding tears,
Till glimpses of light and beauty
Gilded our gloomy fears.

An angel stood at our threshold,
We thought him a child of night,
Till we saw the print of his steps
Made lines of living light.

We had much the world calls precious;
We had heaps of shining dust;
He laid his hand on our treasures,
And wrote on them moth and rust.

But still we had other treasures,
That gold was too poor to buy,
We clasped them closer and closer,
But saw them fade and die.

Our spirit grew faint and heavy,
Deep shadows lay on our years,
Till light from the holy city,
Streamed through our mist of tears.

And we thanked the chastening angel
Who shaded our earthly light,
For the light and beautiful visions
That broke on our clearer sight.

Our first view of the Holy City
Came through our darken’d years,
The songs that lightened our sorrows,
We heard ’mid our night of tears.

Our English Friends

Your land is crowned with regal men,
Whose brows ne’er wore a diadem—
The men who, in our hour of need,
Reached out their hands and bade God speed.

Who watched across the distant strand
The anguish of our fainting land,
And grandly made our cause their own,
Till Slavery tottered on her throne.

When Slavery, full of wrath and strife,
Was clutching at the Nation’s life,
How precious were your words of cheer
That fell upon the listening ear.

And when did Fame, with glowing pen,
Record the deeds of nobler men—
The men who, facing want and pain,
Loved freedom more than paltry gain.

O noble men! ye bravely stood
True to our country’s highest good;
May God, who saw your aims and ends,
Forever bless our English friends!

Aunt Chloe

I remember, well remember,
That dark and dreadful day,
When they whispered to me, “Chloe,
Your children’s sold away!”

It seemed as if a bullet
Had shot me through and through,
And I felt as if my heart-strings
Was breaking right in two.

And I says to cousin Milly,
“There must be some mistake;
Where’s Mistus?” “In the great house crying—
Crying like her heart would break.

“And the lawyer’s there with Mistus;
Says he’s come to ’ministrate,
’Cause when master died he just left
Heap of debt on the estate.

“And I thought ’twould do you good
To bid your boys good-bye—
To kiss them both and shake their hands,
And have a hearty cry.

“Oh! Chloe, I knows how you feel,
’Cause I’se been through it all;
I thought my poor old heart would break,
When master sold my Saul.”

Just then I heard the footsteps
Of my children at the door,
And I rose right up to meet them,
But I fell upon the floor.

And I heard poor Jakey saying,
“Oh, mammy, don’t you cry!”
And I felt my children kiss me
And bid me, both, good-bye.

Then I had a mighty sorrow,
Though I nursed it all alone;
But I wasted to a shadow,
And turned to skin and bone.

But one day dear Uncle Jacob
(In heaven he’s now a saint)
Said, “Your poor heart is in the fire,
But child you must not faint.”

Then I said to Uncle Jacob,
If I was good like you,
When the heavy trouble dashed me
I’d know just what to do.

Then he said to me, “Poor Chloe,
The way is open wide:”
And he told me of the Saviour,
And the fountain in His side.

Then he said “Just take your burden
To the blessed Master’s feet;
I takes all my troubles, Chloe,
Right unto the mercy-seat.”

His words waked up my courage,
And I began to pray,
And I felt my heavy burden
Rolling like a stone away.

And a something seemed to tell me,
You will see your boys again—
And that hope was like a poultice
Spread upon a dreadful pain.

And it often seemed to whisper,
Chloe, trust and never fear;
You’ll get justice in the kingdom,
If you do not get it here.

The Deliverance

Master only left old Mistus
One bright and handsome boy;
But she fairly doted on him,
He was her pride and joy.

We all liked Mister Thomas,
He was so kind at heart;
And when the young folks got in scrapes,
He always took their part.

He kept right on that very way
Till he got big and tall,
And old Mistus used to chide him,
And say he’d spile us all.

But somehow the farm did prosper
When he took things in hand;
And though all the servants liked him,
He made them understand.

One evening Mister Thomas said,
“Just bring my easy shoes:
I am going to sit by mother,
And read her up the news.”

Soon I heard him tell old Mistus
“We’re bound to have a fight;
But we’ll whip the Yankees, mother,
We’ll whip them sure as night!”

Then I saw old Mistus tremble;
She gasped and held her breath;
And she looked on Mister Thomas
With a face as pale as death.

“They are firing on Fort Sumpter;
Oh! I wish that I was there!—
Why, dear mother! what’s the matter?
You’re the picture of despair.”

“I was thinking, dearest Thomas,
’Twould break my very heart
If a fierce and dreadful battle
Should tear our lives apart.”

“None but cowards, dearest mother,
Would skulk unto the rear,
When the tyrant’s hand is shaking,
All the heart is holding dear.”

I felt sorry for old Mistus;
She got too full to speak;
But I saw the great big tear-drops
A running down her cheek.

Mister Thomas too was troubled
With choosing on that night,
Betwixt staying with his mother
And joining in the fight.

Soon down into the village came
A call for volunteers;
Mistus gave up Mister Thomas,
With many sighs and tears.

His uniform was real handsome;
He looked so brave and strong;
But somehow I couldn’t help thinking
His fighting must be wrong.

Though the house was very lonesome,
I thought ’twould all come right,
For I felt somehow or other
We was mixed up in that fight.

And I said to Uncle Jacob,
“Now old Mistus feels the sting,
For this parting with your children
Is a mighty dreadful thing.”

“Never mind,” said Uncle Jacob,
“Just wait and watch and pray,
For I feel right sure and certain,
Slavery’s bound to pass away;

“Because I asked the Spirit,
If God is good and just,
How it happened that the masters
Did grind us to the dust.

“And something reasoned right inside,
Such should not always be;
And you could not beat it out my head,
The Spirit spoke to me.”

And his dear old eyes would brighten,
And his lips put on a smile,
Saying, “Pick up faith and courage,
And just wait a little while.”

Mistus prayed up in the parlor,
That the Secesh all might win;
We were praying in the cabins,
Wanting freedom to begin.

Mister Thomas wrote to Mistus,
Telling ’bout the Bull’s Run fight,
That his troops had whipped the Yankees
And put them all to flight.

Mistus’ eyes did fairly glisten;
She laughed and praised the South,
But I thought some day she’d laugh
On tother side her mouth.

I used to watch old Mistus’ face,
And when it looked quite long
I would say to Cousin Milly,
The battle’s going wrong;

Not for us, but for the Rebels.—
My heart ’would fairly skip,
When Uncle Jacob used to say,
“The North is bound to whip.”

And let the fight go as it would—
Let North or South prevail—
He always kept his courage up,
And never let it fail.

And he often used to tell us,
“Children, don’t forget to pray;
For the darkest time of morning
Is just ’fore the break of day.”

Well, one morning bright and early
We heard the fife and drum,
And the booming of the cannon—
The Yankee troops had come.

When the word ran through the village,
The colored folks are free—
In the kitchens and the cabins
We held a jubilee.

When they told us Mister Lincoln
Said that slavery was dead,
We just poured our prayers and blessings
Upon his precious head.

We just laughed, and danced, and shouted,
And prayed, and sang, and cried,
And we thought dear Uncle Jacob
Would fairly crack his side.

But when old Mistus heard it,
She groaned and hardly spoke;
When she had to lose her servants,
Her heart was almost broke.

’Twas a sight to see our people
Going out, the troops to meet,
Almost dancing to the music,
And marching down the street.

After years of pain and parting,
Our chains was broke in two,
And we was so mighty happy,
We didn’t know what to do.

But we soon got used to freedom,
Though the way at first was rough;
But we weathered through the tempest,
For slavery made us tough.

But we had one awful sorrow,
It almost turned my head,
When a mean and wicked cretur
Shot Mister Lincoln dead.

’Twas a dreadful solemn morning,
I just staggered on my feet;
And the women they were crying
And screaming in the street.

But if many prayers and blessings
Could bear him to the throne,
I should think when Mister Lincoln died,
That heaven just got its own.

Then we had another President—
What do you call his name?
Well, if the colored folks forget him
They wouldn’t be much to blame.

We thought he’d be the Moses
Of all the colored race;
But when the Rebels pressed us hard
He never showed his face.

But something must have happened him,
Right curi’s I’ll be bound,
’Cause I heard ’em talking ’bout a circle
That he was swinging round.

But everything will pass away—
He went like time and tide—
And when the next election came
They let poor Andy slide.

But now we have a President,
And if I was a man
I’d vote for him for breaking up
The wicked Ku Klux Klan.

And if any man should ask me
If I would sell my vote,
I’d tell him I was not the one
To change and turn my coat;

If freedom seem’d a little rough
I’d weather through the gale;
And as to buying up my vote,
I hadn’t it for sale.

I do not think I’d ever be
As slack as Jonas Handy;
Because I heard he sold his vote
For just three sticks of candy.

But when John Thomas Reeder brought
His wife some flour and meat,
And told her he had sold his vote
For something good to eat.

You ought to seen Aunt Kitty raise,
And heard her blaze away;
She gave the meat and flour a toss,
And said they should not stay.

And I should think he felt quite cheap
For voting the wrong side;
And when Aunt Kitty scolded him,
He just stood up and cried.

But the worst fooled man I ever saw,
Was when poor David Rand
Sold out for flour and sugar;
The sugar was mixed with sand.

I’ll tell you how the thing got out;
His wife had company,
And she thought the sand was sugar,
And served it up for tea.

When David sipped and sipped the tea,
Somehow it didn’t taste right;
I guess when he found he was sipping sand,
He was mad enough to fight.

The sugar looked so nice and white—
It was spread some inches deep—
But underneath was a lot of sand;
Such sugar is mighty cheap.

You’d laughed to seen Lucinda Grange
Upon her husband’s track;
When he sold his vote for rations
She made him take ’em back.

Day after day did Milly Green
Just follow after Joe,
And told him if he voted wrong
To take his rags and go.

I think that Curnel Johnson said
His side had won the day,
Had not we women radicals
Just got right in the way.

And yet I would not have you think
That all our men are shabby;
But ’tis said in every flock of sheep
There will be one that’s scabby.

I’ve heard, before election came
They tried to buy John Slade;
But he gave them all to understand
That he wasn’t in that trade.

And we’ve got lots of other men
Who rally round the cause,
And go for holding up the hands
That gave us equal laws.

Who know their freedom cost too much
Of blood and pain and treasure,
For them to fool away their votes
For profit or for pleasure.

Aunt Chloe’s Politics

Of course, I don’t know very much
About these politics,
But I think that some who run ’em,
Do mighty ugly tricks.

I’ve seen ’em honey-fugle round,
And talk so awful sweet,
That you’d think them full of kindness,
As an egg is full of meat.

Now I don’t believe in looking
Honest people in the face,
And saying when you’re doing wrong,
That “I haven’t sold my race.”

When we want to school our children,
If the money isn’t there,
Whether black or white have took it,
The loss we all must share.

And this buying up each other
Is something worse than mean,
Though I thinks a heap of voting,
I go for voting clean.

Learning to Read

Very soon the Yankee teachers
Came down and set up school;
But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it—
It was agin’ their rule.

Our masters always tried to hide
Book learning from our eyes;
Knowledge didn’t agree with slavery—
’Twould make us all too wise.

But some of us would try to steal
A little from the book,
And put the words together,
And learn by hook or crook.

I remember Uncle Caldwell,
Who took pot-liquor fat
And greased the pages of his book,
And hid it in his hat.

And had his master ever seen
The leaves upon his head,
He’d have thought them greasy papers,
But nothing to be read.

And there was Mr. Turner’s Ben,
Who heard the children spell,
And picked the words right up by heart,
And learned to read ’em well.

Well, the Northern folks kept sending
The Yankee teachers down;
And they stood right up and helped us,
Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

And, I longed to read my Bible,
For precious words it said;
But when I begun to learn it,
Folks just shook their heads,

And said there is no use trying,
Oh! Chloe, you’re too late;
But as I was rising sixty,
I had no time to wait.

So I got a pair of glasses,
And straight to work I went,
And never stopped till I could read
The hymns and Testament.

Then I got a little cabin
A place to call my own—
And I felt as independent
As the queen upon her throne.

Church Building

Uncle Jacob often told us,
Since freedom blessed our race
We ought all to come together
And build a meeting place.

So we pinched, and scraped, and spared,
A little here and there:
Though our wages was but scanty,
The church did get a share.

And, when the house was finished,
Uncle Jacob came to pray;
He was looking mighty feeble,
And his head was awful gray.

But his voice rang like a trumpet;
His eyes looked bright and young;
And it seemed a mighty power
Was resting on his tongue.

And he gave us all his blessing—
’Twas parting words he said,
For soon we got the message
The dear old man was dead.

But I believe he’s in the kingdom,
For when we shook his hand
He said, “Children, you must meet me
Right in the promised land;

“For when I’m done a moiling
And toiling here below,
Through the gate into the city
Straightway I hope to go.”

The Reunion

Well, one morning real early
I was going down the street,
And I heard a stranger asking
For Missis Chloe Fleet.

There was a something in his voice
That made me feel quite shaky,
And when I looked right in his face,
Who should it be but Jakey!

I grasped him tight, and took him home—
What gladness filled my cup!
And I laughed, and just rolled over,
And laughed, and just give up.

“Where have you been? O Jakey, dear!
Why didn’t you come before?
Oh! when you children went away
My heart was awful sore.”

“Why, mammy, I’ve been on your hunt
Since ever I’ve been free,
And I have heard from brother Ben—
He’s down in Tennessee.

“He wrote me that he had a wife.”
“And children?” “Yes, he’s three.”
“You married, too?” “Oh no, indeed,
I thought I’d first get free.”

“Then, Jakey, you will stay with me,
And comfort my poor heart;
Old Mistus got no power now
To tear us both apart.

“I’m richer now than Mistus,
Because I have got my son;
And Mister Thomas he is dead,
And she’s got nary one.

“You must write to brother Benny
That he must come this fall,
And we’ll make the cabin bigger,
And that will hold us all.

“Tell him I want to see ’em all
Before my life do cease:
And then, like good old Simeon,
I hope to die in peace.”

“I Thirst”

First Voice

I thirst, but earth cannot allay
The fever coursing through my veins.
The healing stream is far away—
It flows through Salem’s lovely plains.

The murmurs of its crystal flow
Break ever o’er this world of strife;
My heart is weary, let me go,
To bathe it in the stream of life;

For many worn and weary hearts
Have bathed in this pure healing stream,
And felt their griefs and cares depart,
E’en like some sad forgotten dream.

Second Voice

“The Word is nigh thee, even in thy heart.”

Say not, within thy weary heart,
Who shall ascend above,
To bring unto thy fever’d lips
The fount of joy and love.

Nor do thou seek to vainly delve
Where death’s pale angels tread,
To hear the murmur of its flow
Around the silent dead.

Within, in thee is one living fount,
Fed from the springs above;
There quench thy thirst till thou shalt bathe
In God’s own sea of love.

The Dying Queen

“I would meet death awake.”

The strength that bore her on for years
Was ebbing fast away,
And o’er the pale and life-worn face,
Death’s solemn shadows lay.

With tender love and gentle care,
Friends gathered round her bed,
And for her sake each footfall hushed
The echoes of its tread.

They knew the restlessness of death
Through every nerve did creep,
And carefully they tried to lull
The dying Queen to sleep.

In vain she felt Death’s icy hand
Her failing heart-strings shake;
And, rousing up, she firmly said,
“I’d meet my God awake.”

Awake, I’ve met the battle’s shock,
And born the cares of state;
Nor shall I take your lethean cup,
And slumber at death’s gate.

Did I not watch with eyes alert,
The path where foes did tend;
And shall I veil my eyes with sleep,
To meet my God and friend?

Nay, rather from my weary lids,
This heavy slumber shake,
That I may pass the mystic vale,
And meet my God awake.

The Tennessee Hero

“He had heard his comrades plotting to obtain their liberty, and rather than betray them he received 750 lashes and died.”

He stood before the savage throng,
The base and coward crew;
A tameless light flashed from his eye,
His heart beat firm and true.

He was the hero of his band,
The noblest of them all;
Though fetters galled his weary limbs,
His spirit spurned their thrall.

And towered, in its manly might,
Above the murderous crew.
Oh! liberty had nerved his heart,
And every pulse beat true.

“Now tell us,” said the savage troop,
“And life thy gain shall be!
Who are the men that plotting, say—
‘They must and will be free!’ ”

Oh, could you have seen the hero then,
As his lofty soul arose,
And his dauntless eyes defiance flashed
On his mean and craven foes!

“I know the men who would be free;
They are the heroes of your land;
But death and torture I defy,
Ere I betray that band.

And what! oh, what is life to me,
Beneath your base control?
Nay! do your worst. Ye have no chains
To bind my free-born soul.”

They brought the hateful lash and scourge,
With murder in each eye.
But a solemn vow was on his lips—
He had resolved to die.

Yes, rather than betray his trust,
He’d meet a death of pain;
’Twas sweeter far to meet it thus
Than wear a treason stain!

Like storms of wrath, of hate and pain,
The blows rained thick and fast;
But the monarch soul kept true
Till the gates of life were past.

And the martyr spirit fled
To the throne of God on high,
And showed his gaping wounds
Before the unslumbering eye.

Free Labor

I wear an easy garment,
O’er it no toiling slave
Wept tears of hopeless anguish,
In his passage to the grave.

And from its ample folds
Shall rise no cry to God,
Upon its warp and woof shall be
No stain of tears and blood.

Oh, lightly shall it press my form,
Unladened with a sigh,
I shall not ’mid its rustling hear,
Some sad despairing cry.

This fabric is too light to bear
The weight of bondsmen’s tears,
I shall not in its texture trace
The agony of years.

Too light to bear a smother’d sigh,
From some lorn woman’s heart.
Whose only wreath of household love
Is rudely torn apart.

Then lightly shall it press my form,
Unburden’d by a sigh;
And from its seams and folds shall rise,
No voice to pierce the sky,

And witness at the throne of God,
In language deep and strong,
That I have nerv’d Oppression’s hand,
For deeds of guilt and wrong.

Lines

At the Portals of the Future,
Full of madness, guilt and gloom,
Stood the hateful form of Slavery,
Crying, Give, Oh! give me room—

Room to smite the earth with cursing,
Room to scatter, rend and slay,
From the trembling mother’s bosom
Room to tear her child away;

Room to trample on the manhood
Of the country far and wide;
Room to spread o’er every Eden
Slavery’s scorching lava-tide.

Pale and trembling stood the Future,
Quailing ’neath his frown of hate,
As he grasped with bloody clutches
The great keys of Doom and Fate.

In his hand he held a banner
All festooned with blood and tears:
’Twas a fearful ensign, woven
With the grief and wrong of years.

On his brow he wore a helmet
Decked with strange and cruel art;
Every jewel was a life-drop
Wrung from some poor broken heart.

Though her cheek was pale and anxious,
Yet, with look and brow sublime,
By the pale and trembling Future
Stood the Crisis of our time.

And from many a throbbing bosom
Came the words in fear and gloom,
Tell us, Oh! thou coming Crisis,
What shall be our country’s doom?

Shall the wings of dark destruction
Brood and hover o’er our land,
Till we trace the steps of ruin
By their blight, from strand to strand?

With a look and voice prophetic
Spake the solemn Crisis then:
I have only mapped the future
For the erring sons of men.

If ye strive for Truth and Justice,
If ye battle for the Right,
Ye shall lay your hands all strengthened
On God’s robe of love and light;

But if ye trample on His children,
To his ear will float each groan,
Jar the cords that bind them to Him,
And they’ll vibrate at his throne.

And the land that forges fetters,
Binds the weak and poor in chains,
Must in blood or tears of sorrow
Wash away her guilty stains.

The Dismissal of Tyng

“We have but three words to say, ‘served him right.’ ”

Church Journal (Episcopal)

Served him right! How could he dare
To touch the idol of our day?
What if its shrine be red with blood?
Why, let him turn his eyes away.

Who dares dispute our right to bind
With galling chains the weak and poor?
To starve and crush the deathless mind,
Or hunt the slave from door to door?

Who dares dispute our right to sell
The mother from her weeping child?
To hush with ruthless stripes and blows
Her shrieks and sobs of anguish wild?

’Tis right to plead for heathen lands,
To send the Bible to their shores,
And then to make, for power and pelf,
A race of heathens at our doors.

What holy horror filled our hearts—
It shook our church from dome to nave—
Our cheeks grew pale with pious dread,
To hear him breathe the name of slave.

Upon our Zion, fair and strong,
His words fell like a fearful blight;
We turned him from our saintly fold;
And this we did to “serve him right.”

The Slave Mother

A Tale of the Ohio

I have but four, the treasures of my soul,
They lay like doves around my heart;
I tremble lest some cruel hand
Should tear my household wreaths apart.

My baby girl, with childish glance,
Looks curious in my anxious eye,
She little knows that for her sake
Deep shadows round my spirit lie.

My playful boys could I forget,
My home might seem a joyous spot,
But with their sunshine mirth I blend
The darkness of their future lot.

And thou my babe, my darling one,
My last, my loved, my precious child,
Oh! when I think upon thy doom
My heart grows faint and then throbs wild.

The Ohio’s bridged and spanned with ice,
The northern star is shining bright,
I’ll take the nestlings of my heart
And search for freedom by its light.

Winter and night were on the earth,
And feebly moaned the shivering trees,
A sigh of winter seemed to run
Through every murmur of the breeze.

She fled, and with her children all,
She reached the stream and crossed it o’er,
Bright visions of deliverance came
Like dreams of plenty to the poor.

Dreams! vain dreams, heroic mother,
Give all thy hopes and struggles o’er,
The pursuer is on thy track,
And the hunter at thy door.

Judea’s refuge cities had power
To shelter, shield and save,
E’en Rome had altars: ’neath whose shade
Might crouch the wan and weary slave.

But Ohio had no sacred fane,
To human rights so consecrate,
Where thou may’st shield thy hapless ones
From their darkly gathering fate.

Then, said the mournful mother,
If Ohio cannot save,
I will do a deed for freedom.
She shall find each child a grave.

I will save my precious children
From their darkly threatened doom,
I will hew their path to freedom
Through the portals of the tomb.

A moment in the sunlight,
She held a glimmering knife,
The next moment she had bathed it
In the crimson fount of life.

They snatched away the fatal knife,
Her boys shrieked wild with dread;
The baby girl was pale and cold.
They raised it up, the child was dead.

Sends this deed of fearful daring
Through my country’s heart no thrill,
Do the icy hands of slavery
Every pure emotion chill?

Oh! if there is any honor.
Truth or justice in the land,
Will ye not, as men and Christians,
On the side of freedom stand?

Rizpah, the Daughter of Ai

Tidings! sad tidings for the daughter of Ai,
They are bearing her prince and loved away,
Destruction falls like a mournful pall
On the fallen house of ill-fated Saul.

And Rizpah hears that her loved must die,
But she hears it all with a tearless eye;
And clasping her hand with grief and dread
She meekly bows her queenly head.

The blood has left her blanching cheek,
Her quivering lips refuse to speak,
Oh! grief like hers has learned no tone—
A world of grief is all its own.

But the deed is done, and the hand is stay’d
That havoc among the brethren made,
And Rizpah takes her lowly seat
To watch the princely dead at her feet.

The jackal crept out with a stealthy tread,
To batten and feast on the noble dead;
The vulture bore down with a heavy wing
To dip his beak in life’s stagnant spring.

The hyena heard the jackal’s howl,
And he bounded forth with a sullen growl,
When Rizpah’s shriek rose on the air
Like a tone from the caverns of despair.

She sprang from her sad and lowly seat,
For a moment her heart forgot to beat,
And the blood rushed up to her marble cheek
And a flash to her eye so sad and meek.

The vulture paused in his downward flight,
As she raised her form to its queenly height,
The hyena’s eye had a horrid glare
As he turned again to his desert lair.

The jackal slunk back with a quickened tread,
From his cowardly search of Rizpah’s dead;
Unsated he turned from the noble prey,
Subdued by a glance of the daughter of Ai.

Oh grief! that a mother’s heart should know,
Such a weary weight of consuming woe,
For seldom if ever earth has known
Such love as the daughter of Ai hath known.

Ruth and Naomi

Turn my daughters, full of woe,
Is my heart so sad and lone?
Leave me children—I would go
To my loved and distant home.

From my bosom death has torn
Husband, children, all my stay,
Left me not a single one,
For my life’s declining day.

Want and woe surround my way,
Grief and famine where I tread;
In my native land they say
God is giving Jacob bread.

Naomi ceased, her daughters wept,
Their yearning hearts were filled;
Falling upon her withered neck,
Their grief in tears distill’d.

Like rain upon a blighted tree,
The tears of Orpah fell;
Kissing the pale and quivering lip,
She breathed her sad farewell.

But Ruth stood up, on her brow
There lay a heavenly calm;
And from her lips came, soft and low,
Words like a holy charm.

I will not leave thee, on thy brow
Are lines of sorrow, age and care;
Thy form is bent, thy step is slow,
Thy bosom stricken, lone and sear.

Oh! when thy heart and home were glad,
I freely shared thy joyous lot;
And now that heart is lone and sad,
Cease to entreat—I’ll leave thee not.

Oh! if a lofty palace proud
Thy future home shall be;
Where sycophants around thee crowd,
I’ll share that home with thee.

And if on earth the humblest spot,
Thy future home shall prove;
I’ll bring into thy lonely lot
The wealth of woman’s love.

Go where thou wilt, my steps are there,
Our path in life is one;
Thou hast no lot I will not share,
’Till life itself be done.

My country and my home for thee,
I freely, willingly resign,
Thy people shall my people be,
Thy God he shall be mine.

Then, mother dear, entreat me not
To turn from following thee;
My heart is nerved to share thy lot,
Whatever that may be.

The Jewish Grandfather’s Story

Come, gather around me, children,
And a story I will tell.
How we builded the beautiful temple—
The temple we love so well.

I must date my story backward
To a distant age and land,
When God did break our fathers’ chains
By his mighty outstretched hand.

Our fathers were strangers and captives,
Where the ancient Nile doth flow;
Smitten by cruel taskmasters,
And burdened by toil and woe.

As a shepherd, to pastures green
Doth lead with care his sheep,
So God divided the great Red Sea,
And led them through the deep.

You’ve seen me plant a tender vine,
And guard it with patient care,
Till its roots struck in the mellow earth,
And it drank the light and air.

So God did plant our chosen race,
As a vine in this fair land;
And we grew and spread a fruitful tree,
The planting of his right hand.

The time would fail strove I to tell,
All the story of our race—
Of our grand old leader, Moses,
And Joshua in his place,

Of all our rulers and judges,
From Joshua unto Saul,
Over whose doomed and guilty head
Fell ruin and death’s dark pall.

Of valiant Jephthah, whose brave heart
With sudden grief did bow,
When his daughter came with dance and song
Unconscious of his vow.

Of Gideon, lifting up his voice
To him who rules the sky,
And wringing out his well drenched fleece,
When all around was dry.

How Deborah, ’neath her spreading palms,
A judge in Israel rose,
And wrested victory from the hands
Of Jacob’s heathen foes.

Of Samuel, an upright judge.
The last who ruled our tribes,
Whose noble life and cleanly hands,
Were pure and free from bribes.

Of David, with his checkered life
Our tuneful minstrel king,
Who breathed in sadness and delight,
The psalms we love to sing.

Of Solomon, whose wandering heart,
From Jacob’s God did stray,
And cast the richest gifts of life,
In pleasure’s cup away.

How aged men advised his son,
But found him weak and vain,
Until the kingdom from his hands
Was rudely rent in twain.

Oh! sin and strife are fearful things,
They widen as they go,
And leave behind them shades of death,
And open gates of woe.

A trail of guilt, a gloomy line,
Ran through our nation’s life,
And wicked kings provoked our God,
And sin and woe were rife.

At length, there came a day of doom—
A day of grief and dread;
When judgment like a fearful storm
Swept o’er our country’s head.

And we were captives many years,
Where Babel’s stream doth flow;
With harps unstrung, on willows hung,
We wept in silent woe.

We could not sing the old, sweet songs,
Our captors asked to hear;
Our hearts were full, how could we sing
The songs to us so dear?

As one who dreams a mournful dream,
Which fades, as wanes the night,
So God did change our gloomy lot
From darkness into light.

Belshazzar in his regal halls,
A sumptuous feast did hold;
He praised his gods and drank his wine
From sacred cups of gold.

When dance and song and revelry
Had filled with mirth each hall,
Belshazzar raised his eyes and saw
A writing on the wall.

He saw, and horror blanched his cheek,
His lips were white with fear;
To read the words he quickly called
For wise men, far and near.

But baffled seers, with anxious doubt
Stood silent in the room,
When Daniel came, a captive youth,
And read the words of doom.

That night, within his regal hall,
Belshazzar lifeless lay;
The Persians grasped his fallen crown,
And with the Mede held sway.

Darius came, and Daniel rose
A man of high renown;
But wicked courtiers schemed and planned
To drag the prophet down.

They came as men who wished to place
Great honors on their king—
With flattering lips and oily words,
Desired a certain thing.

They knew that Daniel, day by day
Towards Salem turned his face,
And asked the king to sign a law
His hands might not erase.

That till one moon had waned away,
No cherished wish or thing
Should any ask of men or Gods,
Unless it were the king.

But Daniel, full of holy trust,
His windows opened wide,
Regardless of the king’s command,
Unto his God he cried.

They brought him forth that he might be
The hungry lion’s meat,
Awe struck, the lions turned away
And crouched anear his feet.

The God he served was strong to save
His servant in the den;
The fate devised for Daniel’s life
O’er took those scheming men.

And Cyrus came, a gracious king,
And gave the blest command,
That we, the scattered Jews, should build
Anew our fallen land.

The men who hated Judah’s weal
Were filled with bitter rage,
And ’gainst the progress of our work
Did evil men engage.

Sanballat tried to hinder us,
And Gashmu uttered lies,
But like a thing of joy and light,
We saw our temple rise.

And from the tower of Hananeel
Unto the corner gate,
We built the wall and did restore
The places desolate.

Some mocked us as we labored on
And scoffingly did say,
“If but a fox climb on the wall,
Their work will give away.”

But Nehemiah wrought in hope,
Though heathen foes did frown
“My work is great,” he firmly said,
“And I cannot come down.”

And when Shemai counselled him
The temple door to close,
To hide, lest he should fall a prey
Unto his cruel foes.

Strong in his faith, he answered, “No,
He would oppose the tide,
Should such as he from danger flee,
And in the temple hide?”

We wrought in earnest faith and hope
Until we built the wall,
And then, unto a joyful feast
Did priest and people call.

We came to dedicate the wall
With sacrifice and joy—
A happy throng, from aged sire
Unto the fair-haired boy.

Our lips so used to mournful songs,
Did joyous laughter fill,
And strong men wept with sacred joy
To stand on Zion’s hill.

Mid scoffing foes and evil men,
We built our city blest,
And ’neath our sheltering vines and palms
To-day in peace we rest.

Out in the Cold

Out in the cold mid the dreary night,
Under the eaves of homes so bright;
Snowflakes falling o’er mother’s grave
Will no one rescue, no one save?

A child left out in the dark and cold,
A lamb not sheltered in any fold,
Hearing the wolves of hunger bark,
Out in the cold! and out in the dark.

Missing to-night the charming bliss,
That lies in the mother’s good-night kiss;
And hearing no loving father’s prayer,
For blessings his children all may share.

Creeping away to some wretched den,
To sleep mid the curses of drunken men
And women, not as God has made,
Wrecked and ruined, wronged and betrayed.

Church of the Lord reach out thy arm,
And shield the hapless one from harm;
Where the waves of sin are dashing wild
Rescue and save the drifting child.

Wash from her life guilt’s turbid foam,
In the fair haven of a home;
Tenderly lead the motherless girl
Up to the gates of purest pearl.

The wandering feet which else had strayed,
From thorny paths may yet be stayed;
And a crimson track through the cold dark night
May exchange to a line of loving light.

Save the Boys

Like Dives in the deeps of Hell
I cannot break this fearful spell,
Nor quench the fires I’ve madly nursed,
Nor cool this dreadful raging thirst.
Take back your pledge—ye come too late!
Ye cannot save me from my fate,
Nor bring me back departed joys;
But ye can try to save the boys.

Ye bid me break my fiery chain,
Arise and be a man again,
When every street with snares is spread,
And nets of sin where’er I tread.
No; I must reap as I did sow.
The seeds of sin bring crops of woe;
But with my latest breath I’ll crave
That ye will try the boys to save.

These bloodshot eyes were once so bright;
This sin-crushed heart was glad and light;
But by the wine-cup’s ruddy glow
I traced a path to shame and woe.
A captive to my galling chain,
I’ve tried to rise, but tried in vain—
The cup allures and then destroys.
Oh! from its thraldom save the boys.

Take from your streets those traps of hell
Into whose gilded snares I fell.
Oh! freemen, from these foul decoys
Arise, and vote to save the boys.
Oh ye who license men to trade
In draughts that charm and then degrade,
Before ye hear the cry, Too late,
Oh, save the boys from my sad fate.

Nothing and Something

It is nothing to me, the beauty said,
With a careless toss of her pretty head;
The man is weak if he can’t refrain
From the cup you say is fraught with pain.
It was something to her in after years,
When her eyes were drenched with burning tears,
And she watched in lonely grief and dread,
And startled to hear a staggering tread.

It is nothing to me, the mother said;
I have no fear that my boy will tread
In the downward path of sin and shame,
And crush my heart and darken his name.
It was something to her when that only son
From the path of right was early won,
And madly cast in the flowing bowl
A ruined body and sin-wrecked soul.

It is nothing to me, the young man cried:
In his eye was a flash of scorn and pride;
I heed not the dreadful things ye tell:
I can rule myself I know full well.
It was something to him when in prison he lay
The victim of drink, life ebbing away;
And thought of his wretched child and wife,
And the mournful wreck of his wasted life.

It is nothing to me, the merchant said,
As over his ledger he bent his head;
I’m busy to-day with tare and tret,
And I have no time to fume and fret.
It was something to him when over the wire
A message came from a funeral pyre—
A drunken conductor had wrecked a train,
And his wife and child were among the slain.

It is nothing to me, the voter said,
The party’s loss is my greatest dread;
Then gave his vote for the liquor trade,
Though hearts were crushed and drunkards made.
It was something to him in after life,
When his daughter became a drunkard’s wife
And her hungry children cried for bread,
And trembled to hear their father’s tread.

Is it nothing for us to idly sleep
While the cohorts of death their vigils keep?
To gather the young and thoughtless in
And grind in our midst a grist of sin?
It is something, yes, all, for us to stand
Clasping by faith our Saviour’s hand;
To learn to labor, live and fight
On the side of God and changeless light.

Wanderer’s Return

My home is so glad, my heart is so light,
My wandering boy has returned to-night.
He is blighted and bruised, I know, by sin,
But I am so glad to welcome him in.

The child of my tenderest love and care
Has broken away from the tempter’s snare;
To-night my heart is o’erflowing with joy,
I have found again my wandering boy.

My heart has been wrung with a thousand fears,
Mine eyes been drenched with the bitterest tears;
Like shadows that fade are my past alarms,
My boy is enclasped in his mother’s arms.

The streets were not safe for my darling child;
Where sin with its evil attractions smiled.
But his wandering feet have ceased to roam,
And to-night my wayward boy is at home—

At home with the mother that loves him best,
With the hearts that have ached with sad unrest,
With the hearts that are thrilling with untold joy
Because we have found our wandering boy.

In that wretched man so haggard and wild
I only behold my returning child,
And the blissful tears from my eyes that start
Are the overflow of a happy heart.

I have trodden the streets in lonely grief,
I have sought in prayer for my sole relief;
But the depths of my heart to-night are stirred,
I know that the mother’s prayer has been heard.

If the mother-love be so strong and great
For her child, sin-weary and desolate,
Oh what must the love of the Father be
For souls who have wandered like you and me!

“Fishers of Men”

I had a dream, a varied dream:
Before my ravished sight
The city of my Lord arose,
With all its love and light.

The music of a myriad harps
Flowed out with sweet accord;
And saints were casting down their crowns
In homage to our Lord.

My heart leaped up with untold joy;
Life’s toil and pain were o’er;
My weary feet at last had found
The bright and restful shore.

Just as I reached the gates of light,
Ready to enter in,
From earth arose a fearful cry
Of sorrow and of sin.

I turned, and saw behind me surge
A wild and stormy sea;
And drowning men were reaching out
Imploring hands to me.

And ev’ry lip was blanched with dread
And moaning for relief;
The music of the golden harps
Grew fainter for their grief.

Let me return, I quickly said,
Close to the pearly gate;
My work is with these wretched ones,
So wrecked and desolate.

An angel smiled and gently said:
This is the gate of life,
Wilt thou return to earth’s sad scenes
Its weariness and strife,

To comfort hearts that sigh and break,
To dry the falling tear,
Wilt thou forego the music sweet
Entrancing now thy ear?

I must return, I firmly said,
The struggles in that sea
Shall not reach out beseeching hands
In vain for help to me.

I turned to go; but as I turned
The gloomy sea grew bright,
And from my heart there seemed to flow
Ten thousand cords of light.

And sin-wrecked men, with eager hands,
Did grasp each golden cord;
And with my heart I drew them on
To see my gracious Lord.

Again I stood beside the gate.
My heart was glad and free;
For with me stood a rescued throng
The Lord had given me.

Signing the Pledge

Do you see this cup—this tempting cup—
Its sparkle and its glow?
I tell you this cup has brought to me
A world of shame and woe.

Do you see that woman sad and wan?
One day with joy and pride,
With orange blossoms in her hair,
I claimed her as my bride.

And vowed that I would faithful prove
Till death our lives should part;
I’ve drenched her soul with floods of grief,
And almost crushed her heart.

Do you see that gray-haired mother bend
Beneath her weight of years?
I’ve filled that aged mother’s eyes
With many bitter tears.

Year after year for me she prays,
And tries her child to save;
I’ve almost brought her gray hairs down
In sorrow to the grave.

Do you see that boy whose wistful eyes
Are gazing on my face?
I’ve overshadowed his young life
With sorrow and disgrace.

He used to greet me with a smile,
His heart was light and glad;
I’ve seen him tremble at my voice,
I’ve made that heart so sad.

Do you see this pledge I’ve signed to-night?
My mother, wife, and boy
Shall read my purpose on that pledge
And smile through tears of joy.

To know this night, this very night,
I cast the wine-cup down,
And from the dust of a sinful life
Lift up my manhood’s crown.

The faded face of my young wife
With roses yet shall bloom,
And joy shall light my mother’s eyes
On the margin of the tomb.

I have vowed to-night my only boy,
With brow so fair and mild,
Shall not be taunted on the streets,
And called a drunkard’s child.

Never again shall that young face
Whiten with grief and dread,
Because I’ve madly staggered home
And sold for drink his bread.

This strong right arm unnerved by rum
Shall battle with my fate;
And peace and comfort crown the home
By drink made desolate.

Like a drowning man, tempest-tossed,
Clings to a rocky ledge,
With trembling hands I’ve learned to grasp
The gospel and the pledge.

A captive bounding from my chain,
I’ve rent each hateful band,
And by the help of grace divine
A victor hope to stand.

25th Anniversary of the “Old Folks’ Home”

We come, but not to celebrate,
Amid the flight and whirl of years,
The deeds of heroes, on whose brows
Are laurels, drenched with blood and tears.

Nor yet to tell of wondrous deeds,
Performed on fields of bloodless strife;
But of the lovely, precious things,
That bless and beautify our life.

And from the annals of the poor,
We would unfold a shining page;
And tell of kindly hands that smoothed
The rugged path of faltering age.

To shelter those who long have borne
Life’s chilling storms and searching heat,
In restful homes, with love alight,
What charity more pure and sweet?

But not beneath this spacious Home
Was laid the first foundation stone,
But in the hearts that learned to feel
For woman, stricken, old and lone.

To Hall and Truman, Still and Laing,
Was given power to aid and bless;
And, faithful to her sacred charge,
Constant and helping, stood Ann Jess.

May Sarah Pennock, whose kind hand
Has often brought the “Home” relief,
Feel life replete with God’s great peace;
Find light in darkness, joy in grief.

Custodian of the generous purse,
May Israel Johnson long remain;—
And reach at last the happy land,
Where faithful service meets its gain.

And join again departed forms
Of wife and sister passed before;
Who gave their treasure to the Lord,
By generous gifts unto His poor.

And some who met with us erewhile,
Have passed unto the other side;—
Like precious fragrance, may their deeds
Within our heart of hearts abide.

Year after year, within these halls,
Did Dillwyn Parrish faithful stand;—
Till He “who gives his loved ones sleep”
Released, in death, his helpful hand.

Of those who scattered flowers fair
Around the verge of parting life,
We would record with grateful words,
The names of Stephen Smith and wife.

Whose hands, enriched with golden store,
Gave of their wealth to build this “Home,”
And changed a narrow domicile,
Into a grand and stately dome.—

Oh! when our earthly homes shall fail
And vanish from our fading sight,
May friends and patrons meet again
In God’s fair halls of love and light.

Where homeless ones shall never weep,
Nor weary aged wanderers roam;—
But walk amid the golden streets,
Secure within our Father’s home.

A Fairer Hope, a Brighter Morn

From the peaceful heights of a higher life
I heard your maddening cry of strife;
It quivered with anguish, wrath and pain,
Like a demon struggling with his chain.

A chain of evil, heavy and strong,
Rusted with ages of fearful wrong,
Encrusted with blood and burning tears,
The chain I had worn and dragged for years.

It clasped my limbs, but it bound your heart,
And formed of your life a fearful part;
You sowed the wind, but could not control
The tempest wild of a guilty soul.

You saw me stand with my broken chain
Forged in the furnace of fiery pain.
You saw my children around me stand
Lovingly clasping my unbound hand.

But you remembered my blood and tears
’Mid the weary wasting flight of years.
You thought of the rice swamps, lone and dank,
When my heart in hopless anguish sank.

You thought of your fields with harvest white,
Where I toiled in pain from morn till night;
You thought of the days you bought and sold
The children I loved, for paltry gold.

You thought of our shrieks that rent the air—
Our moans of anguish and deep despair;
With chattering teeth and paling face,
You thought of your nation’s deep disgrace.

You wove from your fears a fearful fate
To spring from your seeds of scorn and hate;
You imagined the saddest, wildest thing,
That time, with revenges fierce, could bring.

The cry you thought from a Voodoo breast
Was the echo of your soul’s unrest;
When thoughts too sad for fruitless tears
Loomed like the ghosts of avenging years.

Oh, prophet of evil, could not your voice
In our new hopes and freedom rejoice?
’Mid the light which streams around our way
Was there naught to see but an evil day?

Nothing but vengeance, wrath and hate,
And the serpent coils of an evil fate—
A fate that shall crush and drag you down;
A doom that shall press like an iron crown?

A fate that shall crisp and curl your hair
And darken your faces now so fair,
And send through your veins like a poisoned flood
The hated stream of the Negro’s blood?

A fate to madden the heart and brain
You’ve peopled with phantoms of dread and pain,
And fancies wild of your daughter’s shriek
With Congo kisses upon her cheek?

Beyond the mist of your gloomy fears,
I see the promise of brighter years.
Through the dark I see their golden hem
And my heart gives out its glad amen.

The banner of Christ was your sacred trust,
But you trailed that banner in the dust,
And mockingly told us amid our pain
The hand of your God had forged our chain.

We stumbled and groped through the dreary night
Till our fingers touched God’s robe of light;
And we knew He heard, from his lofty throne,
Our saddest cries and faintest moan.

The cross you have covered with sin and shame
We’ll bear aloft in Christ’s holy name.
Oh, never again may its folds be furled
While sorrow and sin enshroud our world!

God, to whose fingers thrills each heart beat,
Has not sent us to walk with aimless feet,
To cower and crouch, with bated breath
From margins of life to shores of death.

Higher and better than hate for hate,
Like the scorpion fangs that desolate,
Is the hope of a brighter, fairer morn
And a peace and a love that shall yet be born;

When the Negro shall hold an honored place,
The friend and helper of every race;
His mission to build and not destroy,
And gladden the world with love and joy.

The Martyr of Alabama

The following news item appeared in the newspapers throughout the country, issue of December 27th, 1894:

“Tim Thompson, a little negro boy, was asked to dance for the amusement of some white toughs. He refused, saying he was a church member. One of the men knocked him down with a club and then danced upon his prostrate form. He then shot the boy in the hip. The boy is dead: his murderer is still at large.”

He lifted up his pleading eyes,
And scanned each cruel face,
Where cold and brutal cowardice
Had left its evil trace.

It was when tender memories
Round Beth’lem’s manger lay,
And mothers told their little ones
Of Jesu’s natal day.

And of the Magi from the East
Who came their gifts to bring,
And bow in rev’rence at the feet
Of Salem’s new-born King.

And how the herald angels sang
The choral song of peace,
That war should close his wrathful lips,
And strife and carnage cease.

At such an hour men well may hush
Their discord and their strife,
And o’er that manger clasp their hands
With gifts to brighten life.

Alas! that in our favored land,
That cruelty and crime
Should cast their shadows o’er a day,
The fairest pearl of time.

A dark-browed boy had drawn anear
A band of savage men,
Just as a hapless lamb might stray
Into a tiger’s den.

Cruel and dull, they saw in him
For sport an evil chance,
And then demanded of the child
To give to them a dance.

“Come dance for us,” the rough men said;
“I can’t,” the child replied,
“I cannot for the dear Lord’s sake,
Who for my sins once died.”

Though they were strong and he was weak,
He wouldn’t his Lord deny.
His life lay in their cruel hands,
But he for Christ could die.

Heard they aright? Did that brave child
Their mandates dare resist?
Did he against their stern commands
Have courage to resist?

Then recklessly a man (?) arose,
And dealt a fearful blow.
He crushed the portals of that life,
And laid the brave child low.

And trampled on his prostrate form,
As on a broken toy;
Then danced with careless, brutal feet,
Upon the murdered boy.

Christians! behold that martyred child!
His blood cries from the ground;
Before the sleepless eye of God,
He shows each gaping wound.

Oh! Church of Christ arise! arise!
Lest crimson stain thy hand,
When God shall inquisition make
For blood shed in the land.

Take sackcloth of the darkest hue,
And shroud the pulpits round;
Servants of him who cannot lie
Sit mourning on the ground.

Let holy horror blanch each brow,
Pale every cheek with fears,
And rocks and stones, if ye could speak,
Ye well might melt to tears.

Through every fane send forth a cry,
Of sorrow and regret,
Nor in an hour of careless ease
Thy brother’s wrongs forget.

Veil not thine eyes, nor close thy lips,
Nor speak with bated breath;
This evil shall not always last—
The end of it is death.

Avert the doom that crime must bring
Upon a guilty land;
Strong in the strength that God supplies,
For truth and justice stand.

For Christless men, with reckless hands,
Are sowing round thy path
The tempests wild that yet shall break
In whirlwinds of God’s wrath.

The Night of Death

’Twas a night of dreadful horror—
Death was sweeping through the land;
And the wings of dark destruction
Were outstretched from strand to strand.

Strong men’s hearts grew faint with terror,
As the tempest and the waves
Wrecked their homes and swept them downward,
Suddenly to yawning graves.

’Mid the wastes of ruined households,
And the tempest’s wild alarms,
Stood a terror-stricken mother
With a child within her arms.

Other children huddled ’round her,
Each one nestling in her heart;
Swift in thought and swift in action,
She at least from one must part.

Then she said unto her daughter,
“Strive to save one child from death.”
“Which one?” said the anxious daughter,
As she stood with bated breath.

Oh! the anguish of that mother;
What despair was in her eye!
All her little ones were precious;
Which one should she leave to die?

Then outspake the brother Bennie:
“I will take the little one.”
“No,” exclaimed the anxious mother;
“No, my child, it can’t be done.”

“See! my boy, the waves are rising,
Save yourself and leave the child!”
“I will trust in Christ,” he answered;
Grasped the little one and smiled.

Through the roar of wind and waters
Ever and anon she cried;
But throughout the night of terror
Never Bennie’s voice replied.

But above the waves’ wild surging
He had found a safe retreat,
As if God had sent an angel,
Just to guide his wandering feet.

When the storm had spent its fury,
And the sea gave up its dead,
She was mourning for her loved ones,
Lost amid that night of dread.

While her head was bowed in anguish,
On her ear there fell a voice,
Bringing surcease to her sorrow,
Bidding all her heart rejoice.

“Didn’t I tell you true?” said Bennie,
And his eyes were full of light,
“When I told you God would help me
Through the dark and dreadful night?”

And he placed the little darling
Safe within his mother’s arms.
Feeling Christ had been his guardian,
’Mid the dangers and alarms.

Oh! for faith so firm and precious,
In the darkest, saddest night,
Till life’s gloom-encircled shadows
Fade in everlasting light.

And upon the mount of vision
We our loved and lost shall greet,
With earth’s wildest storms behind us,
And its cares beneath our feet.

Mother’s Treasures

Two little children sit by my side,
I call them Lily and Daffodil;
I gaze on them with a mother’s pride,
One is Edna, the other is Will.

Both have eyes of starry light,
And laughing lips o’er teeth of pearl.
I would not change for a diadem
My noble boy and darling girl.

To-night my heart o’erflows with joy;
I hold them as a sacred trust;
I fain would hide them in my heart,
Safe from tarnish of moth and rust.

What should I ask for my dear boy?
The richest gifts of wealth or fame?
What for my girl? A loving heart
And a fair and a spotless name?

What for my boy? That he should stand
A pillar of strength to the state?
What for my girl? That she should be
The friend of the poor and desolate?

I do not ask they shall never tread
With weary feet the paths of pain.
I ask that in the darkest hour
They may faithful and true remain.

I only ask their lives may be
Pure as gems in the gates of pearl,
Lives to brighten and bless the world—
This I ask for my boy and girl.

I ask to clasp their hands again
’Mid the holy hosts of heaven,
Enraptured say: “I am here, oh! God,
And the children Thou hast given.”

The Refiner’s Gold

He stood before my heart’s closed door,
And asked to enter in;
But I had barred the passage o’er
By unbelief and sin.

He came with nail-prints in his hands,
To set my spirit free;
With wounded feet he trod a path
To come and sup with me.

He found me poor and brought me gold,
The fire of love had tried,
And garments whitened by his blood,
My wretchedness to hide.

The glare of life had dimmed my eyes,
Its glamour was too bright.
He came with ointment in his hands
To heal my darkened sight.

He knew my heart was tempest-tossed,
By care and pain oppressed;
He whispered to my burdened heart,
Come unto me and rest.

He found me weary, faint and worn,
On barren mountains cold;
With love’s constraint he drew me on,
To shelter in his fold.

Oh! foolish heart, how slow wert thou
To welcome thy dear guest,
To change thy weariness and care
For comfort, peace and rest.

Close to his side, oh! may I stay,
Just to behold his face,
Till I shall wear within my soul
The image of his grace.

The grace that changes hearts of stone
To tenderness and love,
And bids us run with willing feet
Unto his courts above.

A Story of the Rebellion

The treacherous sands had caught our boat,
And held it with a strong embrace
And death at our imprisoned crew
Was sternly looking face to face.

With anxious hearts, but failing strength,
We strove to push the boat from shore;
But all in vain, for there we lay
With bated breath and useless oar.

Around us in a fearful storm
The fiery hail fell thick and fast;
And we engirded by the sand,
Could not return the dreadful blast.

When one arose upon whose brow
The ardent sun had left his trace;
A noble purpose strong and high
Uplighting all his dusky face.

Perchance within that fateful hour
The wrongs of ages thronged apace;
But with it came the glorious hope
Of swift deliverance to his race.

Of galling chains asunder rent,
Of severed hearts again made one,
Of freedom crowning all the land
Through battles gained and victories won.

“Some one,” our hero firmly said,
“Must die to get us out of this;”
Then leaped upon the strand and bared
His bosom to the bullets’ hiss.

“But ye are soldiers, and can fight,
May win in battles yet unfought;
I have no offering but my life,
And if they kill me it is nought.”

With steady hands he grasped the boat,
And boldly pushed it from the shore;
Then fell by rebel bullets pierced,
His life work grandly, nobly o’er.

Our boat was rescued from the sands
And launched in safety on the tide;
But he our comrade good and grand,
In our defence had bravely died.

Burial of Sarah

He stood before the sons of Heth,
And bowed his sorrowing head;
“I’ve come,” he said, “to buy a place
Where I may lay my dead.

“I am a stranger in your land,
My home has lost its light;
Grant me a place where I may lay
My dead away from sight.”

Then tenderly the sons of Heth
Gazed on the mourner’s face,
And said, “Oh, Prince, amid our dead,
Choose thou her resting-place.

“The sepulchres of those we love,
We place at thy command;
Against the plea thy grief hath made
We close not heart nor hand.”

The patriarch rose and bowed his head,
And said, “One place I crave;
’Tis at the end of Ephron’s field,
And called Machpelah’s cave.

“Entreat him that he sell to me
For her last sleep that cave;
I do not ask for her I loved
The freedom of a grave.”

The son of Zohar answered him,
“Hearken, my lord, to me;
Before our sons, the field and cave
I freely give to thee.”

“I will not take it as a gift,”
The grand old man then said;
“I pray thee let me buy the place
Where I may lay my dead.”

And with the promise in his heart,
His seed should own that land,
He gave the shekels for the field
He took from Ephron’s hand.

And saw afar the glorious day
His chosen seed should tread,
The soil where he in sorrow lay
His loved and cherished dead.

Going East

She came from the East a fair, young bride,
With a light and a bounding heart,
To find in the distant West a home
With her husband to make a start.

He builded his cabin far away,
Where the prairie flower bloomed wild;
Her love made lighter all his toil,
And joy and hope around him smiled.

She plied her hands to life’s homely tasks,
And helped to build his fortunes up;
While joy and grief, like bitter and sweet,
Were mingled and mixed in her cup.

He sowed in his fields of golden grain,
All the strength of his manly prime;
Nor music of birds, nor brooks, nor bees,
Was as sweet as the dollar’s chime.

She toiled and waited through weary years
For the fortune that came at length;
But toil and care and hope deferred,
Had stolen and wasted her strength.

The cabin changed to a stately home,
Rich carpets were hushing her tread;
But light was fading from her eye,
And the bloom from her cheek had fled.

Her husband was adding field to field,
And new wealth to his golden store;
And little thought the shadow of death
Was entering in at his door.

Slower and heavier grew her step,
While his gold and his gains increased;
But his proud domain had not the charm
Of her humble home in the East.

He had no line to sound the depths
Of her tears repressed and unshed;
Nor dreamed ’mid plenty a human heart
Could be starving, but not for bread.

Within her eye was a restless light,
And a yearning that never ceased,
A longing to see the dear old home
She had left in the distant East.

A longing to clasp her mother’s hand,
And nestle close to her heart,
And to feel the heavy cares of life
Like the sun-kissed shadows depart.

The hungry heart was stilled at last;
Its restless, baffled yearning ceased.
A lonely man sat by the bier
Of a corpse that was going East.

The Hermit’s Sacrifice

From Rome’s palaces and villas
Gaily issued forth a throng;
From her humbler habitations
Moved a human tide along.

Haughty dames and blooming maidens,
Men who knew not mercy’s sway,
Thronged into the Colosseum
On that Roman holiday.

From the lonely wilds of Asia,
From her jungles far away,
From the distant torrid regions,
Rome had gathered beasts of prey.

Lions restless, roaring, rampant,
Tigers with their stealthy tread,
Leopards bright, and fierce, and fiery,
Met in conflict wild and dread.

Fierce and fearful was the carnage
Of the maddened beasts of prey,
As they fought and rent each other
Urged by men more fierce than they.

Till like muffled thunders breaking
On a vast and distant shore,
Fainter grew the yells of tigers,
And the lions’ dreadful roar.

On the crimson-stained arena
Lay the victims of the fight;
Eyes which once had glared with anguish,
Lost in death their baleful light.

Then uprose the gladiators
Armed for conflict unto death,
Waiting for the prefect’s signal,
Cold and stern with bated breath.

“Ave Caesar, morituri,
Te, salutant,” rose the cry
From the lips of men ill-fated,
Doomed to suffer and to die.

Then began the dreadful contest,
Lives like chaff were thrown away,
Rome with all her pride and power
Butchered for a holiday.

Eagerly the crowd were waiting,
Loud the clashing sabres rang,
When between the gladiators
All unarmed a hermit sprang.

“Cease your bloodshed,” cried the hermit,
“On this carnage place your ban;”
But with flashing swords they answered,
“Back unto your place, old man.”

From their path the gladiators
Thrust the strange intruder back,
Who between their hosts advancing
Calmly parried their attack.

All undaunted by their weapons,
Stood the old heroic man;
While a maddened cry of anger
Through the vast assembly ran.

“Down with him,” cried out the people,
As with thumbs unbent they glared,
Till the prefect gave the signal
That his life should not be spared.

Men grew wild with wrathful passion,
When his fearless words were said.
Cruelly they fiercely showered
Stones on his devoted head.

Bruised and bleeding fell the hermit,
Victor in that hour of strife;
Gaining in his death a triumph
That he could not win in life.

Had he uttered on the forum
Struggling thoughts within him born,
Men had jeered his words as madness,
But his deed they could not scorn.

Not in vain had been his courage,
Nor for naught his daring deed;
From his grave his mangled body
Did for wretched captives plead.

From that hour Rome, grown more thoughtful,
Ceased her sport in human gore;
And into her Colosseum
Gladiators came no more.

Songs for the People

Let me make the songs for the people,
Songs for the old and young;
Songs to stir like a battle-cry
Wherever they are sung.

Not for the clashing of sabres,
For carnage nor for strife;
But songs to thrill the hearts of men
With more abundant life.

Let me make the songs for the weary,
Amid life’s fever and fret,
Till hearts shall relax their tension,
And careworn brows forget.

Let me sing for little children,
Before their footsteps stray,
Sweet anthems of love and duty,
To float o’er life’s highway.

I would sing for the poor and aged,
When shadows dim their sight;
Of the bright and restful mansions,
Where there shall be no night.

Our world, so worn and weary,
Needs music, pure and strong,
To hush the jangle and discords
Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.

Music to soothe all its sorrow,
Till war and crime shall cease;
And the hearts of men grown tender
Girdle the world with peace.

An Appeal to My Countrywomen

You can sigh o’er the sad-eyed Armenian
Who weeps in her desolate home.
You can mourn o’er the exile of Russia
From kindred and friends doomed to roam.

You can pity the men who have woven
From passion and appetite chains
To coil with a terrible tension
Around their heart-strings and brains.

You can sorrow o’er little children
Disinherited from their birth,
The wee waifs and toddlers neglected,
Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.

For beasts you have gentle compassion;
Your mercy and pity they share.
For the wretched, outcast and fallen
You have tenderness, love and care.

But hark! from our Southland are floating
Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain,
And women heart-stricken are weeping
Over their tortured and their slain.

On their brows the sun has left traces;
Shrink not from their sorrow in scorn,
When they entered the threshold of being
The children of a King were born.

Each comes as a guest to the table
The hand of our God has outspread,
To fountains that ever leap upward,
To share in the soil we all tread.

When ye plead for the wrecked and fallen,
The exile from far-distant shores,
Remember that men are still wasting
Life’s crimson around your own doors.

Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters,
Just a plea, a prayer or a tear,
For mothers who dwell ’neath the shadows
Of agony, hatred and fear?

Men may tread down the poor and lowly,
May crush them in anger and hate,
But surely the mills of God’s justice
Will grind out the grist of their fate.

Oh, people sin-laden and guilty,
So lusty and proud in your prime,
The sharp sickles of God’s retribution
Will gather your harvest of crime.

Weep not, oh my well-sheltered sisters,
Weep not for the Negro alone,
But weep for your sons who must gather
The crops which their fathers have sown.

Go read on the tombstones of nations
Of chieftains who masterful trod,
The sentence which time has engraven,
That they had forgotten their God.

’Tis the judgment of God that men reap
The tares which in madness they sow,
Sorrow follows the footsteps of crime,
And Sin is the consort of Woe.

Then and Now

“Build me a nation,” said the Lord.
The distant nations heard the word,
Build me a nation true and strong,
Bar out the old world’s hate and wrong;
For men had traced with blood and tears
The trail of weary wasting years,
And torn and bleeding martyrs trod
Through fire and torture up to God.

While in the hollow of his hand
God hid the secret of our land,
Men warred against their fiercest foes,
And kingdoms fell and empires rose,
Till, weary of the old world strife,
Men sought for broader, freer life,
And plunged into the ocean’s foam
To find another, better home.

And, like a vision fair and bright
The new world broke upon their sight.
Men grasped the prize, grew proud and strong,
And cursed the land with crime and wrong.
The Indian stood despoiled of lands,
The Negro bound with servile bands,
Oppressed through weary years of toil,
His blood and tears bedewed the soil.

Then God arose in dreadful wrath,
And judgment streamed around his path;
His hand the captive’s fetters broke,
His lightnings shattered every yoke.
As Israel through the Red Sea trod,
Led by the mighty hand of God,
They passed to freedom through a flood,
Whose every wave and surge was blood.

And slavery, with its crime and shame,
Went down in wrath and blood and flame
The land was billowed o’er with graves
Where men had lived and died as slaves.
Four and thirty years—what change since then!
Beings once chattles now are men;
Over the gloom of slavery’s night,
Has flashed the dawn of freedom’s light.

To-day no mother with anguish wild
Kneels and implores that her darling child
Shall not be torn from her bleeding heart,
With its quivering tendrils rent apart.
The father may soothe his child to sleep,
And watch his slumbers calm and deep.
No tyrant’s tread will disturb his rest
Where freedom dwells as a welcome guest.

His walls may be bare of pictured grace,
His fireside the lowliest place;
But the wife and children sheltered there
Are his to defend and guard with care.
Where haughty tyrants once bore rule
Are ballot-box and public school.
The old slave-pen of former days
Gives place to fanes of prayer and praise.

To-night we would bring our meed of praise
To noble friends of darker days;
The men and women crowned with light,
The true and tried in our gloomy night.
To Lundy, whose heart was early stirred
To speak for freedom an earnest word;
To Garrison, valiant, true and strong,
Whose face was as flint against our wrong.

And Phillips, the peerless, grand and brave,
A tower of strength to the outcast slave.
Earth has no marble too pure and white
To enrol his name in golden light.
Our Douglass, too, with his massive brain,
Who plead our cause with his broken chain,
And helped to hurl from his bloody seat
The curse that writhed and died at his feet.

And Governor Andrew, who, looking back,
Saw none he despised, though poor and black;
And Harriet Beecher, whose glowing pen
Corroded the chains of fettered men.
To-night with greenest laurels we’ll crown
North Elba’s grave where sleeps John Brown,
Who made the gallows an altar high,
And showed how a brave old man could die.

And Lincoln, our martyred President,
Who returned to his God with chains he had rent.
And Sumner, amid death’s icy chill,
Leaving to Hoar his Civil Rights Bill.
And let us remember old underground,
With all her passengers northward bound,
The train that ran till it ceased to pay,
With all her dividends given away.

Nor let it be said that we have forgot
The women who stood with Lucretia Mott;
Nor her who to the world was known
By the simple name of Lucy Stone.
A tribute unto a host of others
Who knew that men though black were brothers,
Who battled against our nation’s sin,
Whose graves are thick whose ranks are thin.

Oh, people chastened in the fire,
To nobler, grander things aspire;
In the new era of your life,
Bring love for hate, and peace for strife;
Upon your hearts this vow record
That ye will build unto the Lord
A nobler future, true and grand,
To strengthen, crown and bless the land.

A higher freedom ye may gain
Than that which comes from a riven chain;
Freedom your native land to bless
With peace, and love and righteousness,
As dreams that are past, a tale all told,
Are the days when men were bought and sold;
Now God be praised from sea to sea,
Our flag floats o’er a country free.

Maceo

Maceo dead! a thrill of sorrow
Through our hearts in sadness ran
When we felt in one sad hour
That the world had lost a man.

He had clasped unto his bosom
The sad fortunes of his land—
Held the cause for which he perished
With a firm, unfaltering hand.

On his lips the name of freedom
Fainted with his latest breath.
Cuba Libre was his watchword
Passing through the gates of death.

With the light of God around us,
Why this agony and strife?
With the cross of Christ before us,
Why this fearful waste of life?

Must the pathway unto freedom
Ever mark a crimson line,
And the eyes of wayward mortals
Always close to light divine?

Must the hearts of fearless valor
Fail ’mid crime and cruel wrong,
When the world has read of heroes
Brave and earnest, true and strong?

Men to stay the floods of sorrow
Sweeping round each war-crushed heart;
Men to say to strife and carnage—
From our world henceforth depart.

God of peace and God of nations,
Haste! oh, haste the glorious day
When the reign of our Redeemer
O’er the world shall have its sway.

When the swords now blood encrusted,
Spears that reap the battle field,
Shall be changed to higher service,
Helping earth rich harvests yield.

Where the widow weeps in anguish,
And the orphan bows his head,
Grant that peace and joy and gladness
May like holy angels tread.

Pity, oh, our God the sorrow
Of thy world from thee astray,
Lead us from the paths of madness
Unto Christ the living way.

Year by year the world grows weary
’Neath its weight of sin and strife,
Though the hands once pierced and bleeding
Offer more abundant life.

May the choral song of angels
Heard upon Judea’s plain
Sound throughout the earth the tidings
Of that old and sweet refrain.

Till our world, so sad and weary,
Finds the balmy rest of peace—
Peace to silence all her discords—
Peace till war and crime shall cease.

Peace to fall like gentle showers,
Or on parchèd flowers dew,
Till our hearts proclaim with gladness:
Lo, He maketh all things new.

My Mother’s Kiss

My mother’s kiss, my mother’s kiss,
I feel its impress now;
As in the bright and happy days
She pressed it on my brow.

You say it is a fancied thing
Within my memory fraught;
To me it has a sacred place—
The treasure house of thought.

Again, I feel her fingers glide
Amid my clustering hair;
I see the love-light in her eyes,
When all my life was fair.

Again, I hear her gentle voice
In warning or in love.
How precious was the faith that taught
My soul of things above.

The music of her voice is stilled,
Her lips are paled in death.
As precious pearls I’ll clasp her words
Until my latest breath.

The world has scattered round my path
Honor and wealth and fame;
But naught so precious as the thoughts
That gather round her name.

And friends have placed upon my brow
The laurels of renown;
But she first taught me how to wear
My manhood as a crown.

My hair is silvered o’er with age,
I’m longing to depart;
To clasp again my mother’s hand,
And be a child at heart.

To roam with her the glory-land
Where saints and angels greet;
To cast our crowns with songs of love
At our Redeemer’s feet.

A Grain of Sand

Do you see this grain of sand
Lying loosely in my hand?
Do you know to me it brought
Just a simple loving thought?
When one gazes night by night
On the glorious stars of light,
Oh how little seems the span
Measured round the life of man.

Oh! how fleeting are his years
With their smiles and their tears;
Can it be that God does care
For such atoms as we are?
Then outspake this grain of sand
“I was fashioned by His hand
In the star lit realms of space
I was made to have a place.

“Should the ocean flood the world,
Were its mountains ’gainst me hurled,
All the force they could employ
Wouldn’t a single grain destroy;
And if I, a thing so light,
Have a place within His sight;
You are linked unto his throne
Cannot live nor die alone.

“In the everlasting arms
Mid life’s dangers and alarms
Let calm trust your spirit fill;
Know He’s God, and then be still.”
Trustingly I raised my head
Hearing what the atom said;
Knowing man is greater far
Than the brightest sun or star.

The Crocuses

They heard the South wind sighing
A murmur of the rain;
And they knew that Earth was longing
To see them all again.

While the snow-drops still were sleeping
Beneath the silent sod;
They felt their new life pulsing
Within the dark, cold clod.

Not a daffodil nor daisy
Had dared to raise its head;
Not a fair-haired dandelion
Peeped timid from its bed;

Though a tremor of the winter
Did shivering through them run;
Yet they lifted up their foreheads
To greet the vernal sun.

And the sunbeams gave them welcome,
As did the morning air—
And scattered o’er their simple robes
Rich tints of beauty rare.

Soon a host of lovely flowers
From vales and woodland burst;
But in all that fair procession
The crocuses were first.

First to weave for Earth a chaplet
To crown her dear old head;
And to beautify the pathway
Where winter still did tread.

And their loved and white haired mother
Smiled sweetly ’neath the touch,
When she knew her faithful children
Were loving her so much.

The Present Age

Say not the age is hard and cold—
I think it brave and grand;
When men of diverse sects and creeds
Are clasping hand in hand.

The Parsee from his sacred fires
Beside the Christian kneels;
And clearer light to Islam’s eyes
The word of Christ reveals.

The Brahmin from his distant home
Brings thoughts of ancient lore;
The Buddhist breaking bonds of caste
Divides mankind no more.

The meek-eyed sons of far Cathay
Are welcome round the board;
Not greed, nor malice drives away
These children of our Lord.

And Judah from whose trusted hands
Came oracles divine;
Now sits with those around whose hearts
The light of God doth shine.

Japan unbars her long sealed gates
From islands far away;
Her sons are lifting up their eyes
To greet the coming day.

The Indian child from forests wild
Has learned to read and pray;
The tomahawk and scalping knife
From him have passed away.

From centuries of servile toil
The Negro finds release,
And builds the fanes of prayer and praise
Unto the God of Peace.

England and Russia face to face
With Central Asia meet;
And on the far Pacific coast,
Chinese and natives greet.

Crusaders once with sword and shield
The Holy Land to save;
From Muslim hands did strive to clutch
The dear Redeemer’s grave.

A battle greater, grander far
Is for the present age;
A crusade for the rights of man
To brighten history’s page.

Where labor faints and bows her head,
And want consorts with crime;
Or men grown faithless sadly say
That evil is the time.

There is the field, the vantage ground
For every earnest heart;
To side with justice, truth and right
And act a noble part.

To save from ignorance and vice
The poorest, humblest child;
To make our age the fairest one
On which the sun has smiled;

To plant the roots of coming years
In mercy, love and truth;
And bid our weary, saddened earth
Again renew her youth.

Oh! earnest hearts! toil on in hope,
’Till darkness shrinks from light;
To fill the earth with peace and joy,
Let youth and age unite;

To stay the floods of sin and shame
That sweep from shore to shore;
And furl the banners stained with blood,
’Till war shall be no more.

Blame not the age, nor think it full
Of evil and unrest;
But say of every other age,
“This one shall be the best.”

The age to brighten every path
By sin and sorrow trod;
For loving hearts to usher in
The commonwealth of God.

Dedication Poem

Dedication Poem on the reception of the annex to the home for aged colored people, from the bequest of Mr. Edward T. Parker.

Outcast from her home in Syria
In the lonely, dreary wild;
Heavy hearted, sorrow stricken,
Sat a mother and her child.

There was not a voice to cheer her
Not a soul to share her fate;
She was weary, he was fainting—
And life seemed so desolate.

Far away in sunny Egypt
Was lone Hagar’s native land;
Where the Nile in kingly bounty
Scatters bread throughout the land.

In the tents of princely Abram
She for years had found a home;
Till the stern decree of Sarah
Sent her forth the wild to roam.

Hour by hour she journeyed onward
From the shelter of their tent,
Till her footsteps slowly faltered
And the water all was spent;

Then she veiled her face in sorrow,
Feared her child would die of thirst;
Till her eyes with tears so holden
Saw a sparkling fountain burst.

Oh! how happy was that mother,
What a soothing of her pain;
When she saw her child reviving,
Life rejoicing through each vein.

Does not life repeat this story,
Tell it over day by day?
Of the fountains of refreshment
Ever springing by our way.

Here is one by which we gather,
On this bright and happy day,
Just to bask beside a fountain
Making gladder life’s highway.

Bringing unto hearts now aged
Who have borne life’s burdens long,
Such a gift of love and mercy
As deserves our sweetest song.

Such a gift that even heaven
May rejoice with us below,
If the pure and holy angels
Join us in our joy and woe.

May the memory of the giver
In this home where age may rest,
Float like fragrance through the ages,
Ever blessing, ever blest.

When the gates of pearl are opened
May we there this friend behold,
Drink with him from living fountains,
Walk with him the streets of gold.

When life’s shattered cords of music
Shall again be sweetly sung;
Then our hearts with life immortal,
Shall be young, forever young.

A Double Standard

Do you blame me that I loved him?
If when standing all alone
I cried for bread a careless world
Pressed to my lips a stone.

Do you blame me that I loved him,
That my heart beat glad and free,
When he told me in the sweetest tones
He loved but only me?

Can you blame me that I did not see
Beneath his burning kiss
The serpent’s wiles, nor even hear
The deadly adder hiss?

Can you blame me that my heart grew cold
That the tempted, tempter turned;
When he was fêted and caressed
And I was coldly spurned?

Would you blame him, when you draw from me
Your dainty robes aside,
If he with gilded baits should claim
Your fairest as his bride?

Would you blame the world if it should press
On him a civic crown;
And see me struggling in the depth
Then harshly press me down?

Crime has no sex and yet to-day
I wear the brand of shame;
Whilst he amid the gay and proud
Still bears an honored name.

Can you blame me if I’ve learned to think
Your hate of vice a sham,
When you so coldly crushed me down
And then excused the man?

Would you blame me if to-morrow
The coroner should say,
A wretched girl, outcast, forlorn,
Has thrown her life away?

Yes, blame me for my downward course,
But oh! remember well,
Within your homes you press the hand
That led me down to hell.

I’m glad God’s ways are not our ways,
He does not see as man;
Within His love I know there’s room
For those whom others ban.

I think before His great white throne,
His throne of spotless light,
That whited sepulchres shall wear
The hue of endless night.

That I who fell, and he who sinned,
Shall reap as we have sown;
That each the burden of his loss
Must bear and bear alone.

No golden weights can turn the scale
Of justice in His sight;
And what is wrong in woman’s life
In man’s cannot be right.

Our Hero

Onward to her destination,
O’er the stream the Hannah sped,
When a cry of consternation
Smote and chilled our hearts with dread.

Wildly leaping, madly sweeping,
All relentless in their sway,
Like a band of cruel demons
Flames were closing ’round our way.

Oh! the horror of those moments;
Flames above and waves below—
Oh! the agony of ages
Crowded in one hour of woe.

Fainter grew our hearts with anguish
In that hour with peril rife,
When we saw the pilot flying,
Terror-stricken, for his life.

Then a man uprose before us—
We had once despised his race—
But we saw a lofty purpose
Lighting up his darkened face.

While the flames were madly roaring,
With a courage grand and high,
Forth he rushed unto our rescue,
Strong to suffer, brave to die.

Helplessly the boat was drifting,
Death was staring in each face,
When he grasped the fallen rudder,
Took the pilot’s vacant place.

Could he save us? Would he save us?
All his hope of life give o’er?
Could he hold that fated vessel
’Till she reached the nearer shore?

All our hopes and fears were centered
’Round his strong, unfaltering hand;
If he failed us we must perish,
Perish just in sight of land.

Breathlessly we watched and waited
While the flames were raging fast;
When our anguish changed to rapture—
We were saved, yes, saved at last.

Never strains of sweetest music
Brought to us more welcome sound
Than the grating of that steamer
When her keel had touched the ground.

But our faithful martyr hero
Through a fiery pathway trod,
Till he laid his valiant spirit
On the bosom of his God.

Fame has never crowned a hero
On the crimson fields of strife,
Grander, nobler, than that pilot
Yielding up for us his life.

The Dying Bondman

Life was trembling, faintly trembling
On the bondman’s latest breath,
And he felt the chilling pressure
Of the cold, hard hand of Death.

He had been an Afric chieftain,
Worn his manhood as a crown;
But upon the field of battle
Had been fiercely stricken down.

He had longed to gain his freedom,
Waited, watched and hoped in vain,
Till his life was slowly ebbing—
Almost broken was his chain.

By his bedside stood the master,
Gazing on the dying one,
Knowing by the dull grey shadows
That life’s sands were almost run.

“Master,” said the dying bondman,
“Home and friends I soon shall see;
But before I reach my country,
Master write that I am free;

“For the spirits of my fathers
Would shrink back from me in pride,
If I told them at our greeting
I a slave had lived and died;—

“Give to me the precious token,
That my kindred dead may see—
Master! write it, write it quickly!
Master! write that I am free!”

At his earnest plea the master
Wrote for him the glad release,
O’er his wan and wasted features
Flitted one sweet smile of peace.

Eagerly he grasped the writing;
“I am free!” at last he said.
Backward fell upon the pillow,
He was free among the dead.

“A Little Child Shall Lead Them”

Only a little scrap of blue
Preserved with loving care,
But earth has not a brilliant hue
To me more bright and fair.

Strong drink, like a raging demon,
Laid on my heart his hand,
When my darling joined with others
The Loyal Legion2 band.

But mystic angels called away
My loved and precious child,
And o’er life’s dark and stormy way
Swept waves of anguish wild.

This badge of the Loyal Legion
We placed upon her breast,
As she lay in her little coffin
Taking her last sweet rest.

To wear that badge as a token
She earnestly did crave,
So we laid it on her bosom
To wear it in the grave.

Where sorrow would never reach her
Nor harsh words smite her ear;
Nor her eyes in death dimmed slumber
Would ever shed a tear.

“What means this badge?” said her father,
Whom we had tried to save;
Who said, when we told her story,
“Don’t put it in the grave.”

We took the badge from her bosom
And laid it on a chair;
And men by drink deluded
Knelt by that badge in prayer.

And vowed in that hour of sorrow
From drink they would abstain;
And this little badge became the wedge
Which broke their galling chain.

And lifted the gloomy shadows
That overspread my life,
And flooding my home with gladness,
Made me a happy wife.

And this is why this scrap of blue
Is precious in my sight;
It changed my sad and gloomy home
From darkness into light.

The Sparrow’s Fall

Too frail to soar—a feeble thing—
It fell to earth with fluttering wing;
But God, who watches over all,
Beheld that little sparrow’s fall.

’Twas not a bird with plumage gay,
Filling the air with its morning lay;
’Twas not an eagle bold and strong,
Borne on the tempest’s wing along.

Only a brown and weesome thing,
With drooping head and listless wing;
It could not drift beyond His sight
Who marshals the splendid stars of night.

Its dying chirp fell on His ears,
Who tunes the music of the spheres,
Who hears the hungry lion’s call,
And spreads a table for us all.

Its mission of song at last is done,
No more will it greet the rising sun;
That tiny bird has found a rest
More calm than its mother’s downy breast.

Oh, restless heart, learn thou to trust
In God, so tender, strong and just;
In whose love and mercy everywhere
His humblest children have a share.

If in love He numbers ev’ry hair,
Whether the strands be dark or fair,
Shall we not learn to calmly rest,
Like children, on our Father’s breast?

God Bless Our Native Land

God bless our native land,
Land of the newly free,
Oh may she ever stand
For truth and liberty.

God bless our native land,
Where sleep our kindred dead,
Let peace at thy command
Above their graves be shed.

God help our native land,
Bring surcease to her strife,
And shower from thy hand
A more abundant life.

God bless our native land,
Her homes and children bless,
Oh may she ever stand
For truth and righteousness.

Dandelions

Welcome children of the Spring,
In your garbs of green and gold,
Lifting up your sun-crowned heads
On the verdant plain and wold.

As a bright and joyous troop
From the breast of earth ye came
Fair and lovely are your cheeks,
With sun-kisses all aflame.

In the dusty streets and lanes,
Where the lowly children play,
There as gentle friends ye smile,
Making brighter life’s highway.

Dewdrops and the morning sun,
Weave your garments fair and bright,
And we welcome you to-day
As the children of the light.

Children of the earth and sun,
We are slow to understand
All the richness of the gifts
Flowing from our Father’s hand.

Were our vision clearer far,
In this sin-dimmed world of ours,
Would we not more thankful be
For the love that sends us flowers?

Welcome, early visitants,
With your sun-crowned golden hair,
With your message to our hearts
Of our Father’s loving care.

The Building

“Build me a house,” said the Master,
“But not on the shifting sand,
Mid the wreck and roar of tempests,
A house that will firmly stand.

“I will bring thee windows of agates,
And gates of carbuncles bright,
And thy fairest courts and portals
Shall be filled with love and light.

“Thou shalt build with fadeless rubies,
All fashioned around the throne,
A house that shall last forever,
With Christ as the cornerstone.

“It shall be a royal mansion,
A fair and beautiful thing,
It will be the presence-chamber
Of thy Saviour, Lord and King.

“Thy house shall be bound with pinions
To mansions of rest above,
But grace shall forge all the fetters
With the links and cords of love.

“Thou shalt be free in this mansion
From sorrow and pain of heart,
For the peace of God shall enter,
And never again depart.”

Home, Sweet Home

Sharers of a common country,
They had met in deadly strife;
Men who should have been as brothers
Madly sought each other’s life.

In the silence of the even,
When the cannon’s lips were dumb,
Thoughts of home and all its loved ones
To the soldier’s heart would come.

On the margin of a river,
’Mid the evening’s dews and damps,
Could be heard the sounds of music
Rising from two hostile camps.

One was singing of its section
Down in Dixie, Dixie’s land,
And the other of the banner
Waved so long from strand to strand.

In the land where Dixie’s ensign
Floated o’er the hopeful slave,
Rose the song that freedom’s banner,
Starry-lighted, long might wave.

From the fields of strife and carnage,
Gentle thoughts began to roam,
And a tender strain of music
Rose with words of “Home, Sweet Home.”

Then the hearts of strong men melted,
For amid our grief and sin
Still remains that “touch of nature,”
Telling us we all are kin.

In one grand but gentle chorus,
Floating to the starry dome,
Came the words that brought them nearer,
Words that told of “Home, Sweet Home.”

For awhile, all strife forgotten,
They were only brothers then,
Joining in the sweet old chorus,
Not as soldiers, but as men.

Men whose hearts would flow together,
Though apart their feet might roam,
Found a tie they could not sever,
In the mem’ry of each home.

Never may the steps of carnage
Shake our land from shore to shore,
But may mother, home and Heaven,
Be our watchwords evermore.

The Pure in Heart Shall See God

They shall see Him in the crimson flush
Of morning’s early light,
In the drapery of sunset,
Around the couch of night.

When the clouds drop down their fatness,
In late and early rain,
They shall see His glorious footprints
On valley, hill and plain.

They shall see Him when the cyclone
Breathes terror through the land;
They shall see Him ’mid the murmurs
Of zephyrs soft and bland.

They shall see Him when the lips of health,
Breathe vigor through each nerve,
When pestilence clasps hands with death,
His purposes to serve.

They shall see Him when the trembling earth
Is rocking to and fro;
They shall see Him in the order
The seasons come and go.

They shall see Him when the storms of war
Sweep wildly through the land;
When peace descends like gentle dew
They still shall see His hand.

They shall see Him in the city
Of gems and pearls of light,
They shall see Him in his beauty,
And walk with Him in white.

To living founts their feet shall tend,
And Christ shall be their guide,
Beloved of God, their rest shall be
In safety by His side.

He “Had Not Where to Lay His Head”

The conies had their hiding-place,
The wily fox with stealthy tread
A covert found, but Christ, the Lord,
Had not a place to lay his head.

The eagle had an eyrie home,
The blithesome bird its quiet rest,
But not the humblest spot on earth
Was by the Son of God possessed.

Princes and kings had palaces,
With grandeur could adorn each tomb,
For Him who came with love and life,
They had no home, they gave no room.

The hands whose touch sent thrills of joy
Through nerves unstrung and palsied frame,
The feet that travelled for our need,
Were nailed unto the cross of shame.

How dare I murmur at my lot,
Or talk of sorrow, pain and loss,
When Christ was in a manger laid,
And died in anguish on the cross.

That homeless one beheld beyond
His lonely agonizing pain,
A love outflowing from His heart,
That all the wandering world would gain.

Go Work in My Vineyard

Go work in my vineyard, said the Lord,
And gather the bruised grain;
But the reapers had left the stubble bare,
And I trod the soil in pain.

The fields of my Lord are wide and broad,
He has pastures fair and green,
And vineyards that drink the golden light
Which flows from the sun’s bright sheen.

I heard the joy of the reapers’ song,
As they gathered golden grain;
Then wearily turned unto my task,
With a lonely sense of pain.

Sadly I turned from the sun’s fierce glare,
And sought the quiet shade,
And over my dim and weary eyes
Sleep’s peaceful fingers strayed.

I dreamed I joined with a restless throng,
Eager for pleasure and gain;
But ever and anon a stumbler fell,
And uttered a cry of pain.

But the eager crowd still hurried on,
Too busy to pause or heed,
When a voice rang sadly through my soul,
You must staunch these wounds that bleed.

My hands were weak, but I reached them out
To feebler ones than mine,
And over the shadows of my life
Stole the light of a peace divine.

Oh! then my task was a sacred thing,
How precious it grew in my eyes!
’Twas mine to gather the bruised grain
For the “Lord of Paradise.”

And when the reapers shall lay their grain
On the floors of golden light,
I feel that mine with its broken sheaves
Shall be precious in His sight.

Though thorns may often pierce my feet,
And the shadows still abide,
The mists will vanish before His smile,
There will be light at eventide.

Renewal of Strength

The prison-house in which I live
Is falling to decay,
But God renews my spirit’s strength,
Within these walls of clay.

For me a dimness slowly creeps
Around earth’s fairest light,
But heaven grows clearer to my view,
And fairer to my sight.

It may be earth’s sweet harmonies
Are duller to my ear,
But music from my Father’s house
Begins to float more near.

Then let the pillars of my home
Crumble and fall away;
Lo, God’s dear love within my soul
Renews it day by day.

Jamie’s Puzzle

There was grief within our household
Because of a vacant chair.
Our mother, so loved and precious,
No longer was sitting there.

Our hearts grew heavy with sorrow,
Our eyes with tears were blind,
And little Jamie was wondering,
Why we were left behind.

We had told our little darling,
Of the land of love and light,
Of the saints all crowned with glory,
And enrobed in spotless white.

We said that our precious mother,
Had gone to that land so fair,
To dwell with beautiful angels,
And to be forever there.

But the child was sorely puzzled,
Why dear grandmamma should go
To dwell in a stranger city,
When her children loved her so.

But again the mystic angel
Came with swift and silent tread,
And our sister, Jamie’s mother,
Was enrolled among the dead.

To us the mystery deepened,
To Jamie it seemed more clear;
Grandma, he said, must be lonesome,
And mamma has gone to her.

But the question lies unanswered
In our little Jamie’s mind,
Why she should go to our mother,
And leave her children behind;

To dwell in that lovely city,
From all that was dear to part,
From children who loved to nestle
So closely around her heart.

Dear child, like you, we are puzzled,
With problems that still remain;
But think in the great hereafter
Their meaning will all be plain.

The Lost Bells

Year after year the artist wrought
With earnest, loving care,
The music flooding all his soul
To pour upon the air.

For this no metal was too rare,
He counted not the cost;
Nor deemed the years in which he toiled
As labor vainly lost.

When morning flushed with crimson light
The golden gates of day,
He longed to fill the air with chimes
Sweet as a matin’s lay.

And when the sun was sinking low
Within the distant West,
He gladly heard the bells he wrought
Herald the hour of rest.

The music of a thousand harps
Could never be so dear
As when those solemn chants and thrills
Fell on his list’ning ear.

He poured his soul into their chimes,
And felt his toil repaid;
He called them children of his soul,
His home a’near them made.

But evil days came on apace,
War spread his banner wide,
And from his village snatched away
The artist’s love and pride.

At dewy morn and stilly eve
The chimes no more he heard;
With dull and restless agony
His spirit’s depths was stirred.

A weary longing filled his soul,
It bound him like a spell;
He left his home to seek the chimes—
The chimes he loved so well.

Where lofty fanes in grandeur rose,
Upon his ear there fell
No music like the long lost chimes
Of his beloved bell.

And thus he wandered year by year,
Touched by the hand of time,
Seeking to hear with anxious heart
Each well remembered chime.

And to that worn and weary heart
There came a glad surcease:
He heard again the dear old chimes,
And smiled and uttered peace.

“The chimes! the chimes!” the old man cried,
“I hear their tones at last;”
A sudden rapture filled his heart,
And all his cares were past.

Yes, peace had come with death’s sweet calm,
His journeying was o’er,
The weary, restless wanderer
Had reached the restful shore.

It may be that he met again,
Enfolded in the air,
The dear old chimes beside the gates
Where all is bright and fair;

That he who crossed and bowed his head
When Angelus was sung
In clearer light touched golden harps
By angel fingers strung.

“Do Not Cheer, Men Are Dying,” Said Capt. Phillips, in the Spanish-American War

Do not cheer, for men are dying
From their distant homes in pain;
And the restless sea is darkened
By a flood of crimson rain.

Do not cheer, for anxious mothers
Wait and watch in lonely dread;
Vainly waiting for the footsteps
Never more their paths to tread.

Do not cheer, while little children
Gather round the widowed wife,
Wondering why an unknown people
Sought their own dear father’s life.

Do not cheer, for aged fathers
Bend above their staves and weep,
While the ocean sings the requiem
Where their fallen children sleep.

Do not cheer, for lips are paling
On which lay the mother’s kiss;
’Mid the dreadful roar of battle
How that mother’s hand they miss!

Do not cheer: once joyous maidens,
Who the mazy dance did tread,
Bow their heads in bitter anguish,
Mourning o’er their cherished dead.

Do not cheer while maid and matron
In this strife must bear a part;
While the blow that strikes a soldier
Reaches to some woman’s heart.

Do not cheer till arbitration
O’er the nations holds its sway,
And the century now closing
Ushers in a brighter day.

Do not cheer until the nation
Shall more wise and thoughtful grow
Than to staunch a stream of sorrow
By an avalanche of woe.

Do not cheer until each nation
Sheathes the sword and blunts the spear,
And we sing aloud for gladness:
Lo, the reign of Christ is here,

And the banners of destruction
From the battle-field are furled,
And the peace of God descending
Rests upon a restless world.

The Burdens of All

We may sigh o’er the heavy burdens
Of the black, the brown and white;
But if we all clasped hands together
The burdens would be more light.
How to solve life’s saddest problems,
Its weariness, want and woe,
Was answered by One who suffered
In Palestine long ago.

He gave from his heart this precept,
To ease the burdens of men,
“As ye would that others do to you
Do ye even so to them.”
Life’s heavy, wearisome burdens
Will change to a gracious trust
When men shall learn in the light of God
To be merciful and just.

Where war has sharpened his weapons,
And slavery masterful had,
Let white and black and brown unite
To build the kingdom of God.
And never attempt in madness
To build a kingdom or state,
Through greed of gold or lust of power,
On the crumbling stones of hate.

The burdens will always be heavy,
The sunshine fade into night,
Till mercy and justice shall cement
The black, the brown and the white.
And earth shall answer with gladness,
The herald angel’s refrain,
When “Peace on earth, good will to men”
Was the burden of their strain.

Behold the Lilies!

Behold the lilies of the field
How beautiful and fair;
Their fragrance as a breath of heaven
Refreshes all the air.

No sordid labors bow them down,
Nor dull depressing care;
They only tell of God’s great love,
And that is everywhere.

The wings of morning are too slow
To bear us from His sight;
The midnight has no shadows deep
To hide from us His light.

If not a sparrow falls to earth
Unnoticed by His eye,
Will He, our Father and our Friend
Unheeded pass us by?

Shall we not learn from fading flowers—
Frail children of the dust—
To lay our cares before His throne,
And in His mercy trust?

There’s not a care that weighs us down,
Nor blinding tears that fall,
Nor sorrow piercing to the heart
But He beholds them all;

And offers us with tender love,
Mid dangers and alarms,
A refuge for our souls within
His everlasting arms.

The Ragged Stocking

Do you see this ragged stocking,
Here a rent and there a hole?
Each thread of this little stocking
Is woven around my soul.

Do you wish to hear my story?
Excuse me, the tears will start,
For the sight of this ragged stocking
Stirs the fountains of my heart.

You say that my home is happy;
To me ’tis earth’s fairest place,
But its sunshine, peace and gladness
Back to this stocking I trace.

I was once a wretched drunkard;
Ah! you start and say not so;
But the dreadful depths I’ve sounded,
And I speak of what I know.

I was wild and very reckless
When I stood on manhood’s brink,
And, joining with pleasure-seekers
Learned to revel and drink.

Strong drink is a raging demon,
In his hands are shame and woe;
He mocketh the strength of the mighty
And bringeth the strong man low.

The light of my home was darkened
By the shadow of my sin;
And want and woe unbarr’d the door,
And suffering entered in.

The streets were full one Christmas eve,
And alive with girls and boys,
Merrily looking through window-panes
At bright and beautiful toys.

And throngs of parents came to buy
The gifts that children prize,
And homeward trudged with happy hearts,
The love-light in their eyes.

I thought of my little Charley
At home in his lowly bed,
With the shadows around his life,
And in shame I bowed my head.

I entered my home a sober man,
My heart by remorse was wrung,
And there in the chimney corner,
This little stocking was hung.

Faded and worn as you see it;
To me ’tis a precious thing.
And I never gaze upon it
But unbidden tears will spring.

I began to search my pockets,
But scarcely a dime was there;
But scanty as was the pittance,
This stocking received its share.

For a longing seized upon me
To gladden the heart of my boy.
And I bought him some cakes and candy,
And added a simple toy.

Then I knelt by this little stocking
And sobbed out an earnest prayer,
And arose with strength to wrestle
And break from the tempter’s snare.

And this faded, worn-out stocking,
So pitiful once to see,
Became the wedge that broke my chain,
And a blessing brought to me.

Do you marvel then I prize it?
When each darn and seam and hole
Is linked with my soul’s deliverance
From the bondage of the bowl?

And to-night my wife will tell you.
Though I’ve houses, gold and land,
He holds no treasure more precious
Than this stocking in my hand.

The Fatal Pledge

“Pledge me with wine,” the maiden cried,
Her tones were gay and light;
“From others you have turned aside,
I claim your pledge to-night.”

The blood rushed to the young man’s cheek
Then left it deadly pale;
Beneath the witchery of her smile
He felt his courage fail.

For many years he’d been a slave
To the enchanting bowl,
Until he grasped with eager hands
The reins of self-control;

And struggled with his hated thrall,
Until he rent his chain,
And strove to stand erect and free,
And be a man again.

When others came with tempting words
He coldly turned aside.
But she who held the sparkling cup
Was his affianced bride;

And like a vision of delight.
Bright, beautiful and fair,
With thoughtless words she wove for him
The meshes of despair.

From jeweled hands he took the cup,
Nor heard the serpent’s hiss;
Nor saw beneath its ruby glow
The deadly adder’s hiss.

Like waves that madly, wildly dash,
When dykes are overthrown.
The barriers of his soul gave way,
Each life with wrecks was strewn.

And she who might have reached her hand
To succor and to save,
Soon wept in hopeless agony
Above a drunkard’s grave.

And bore through life with bleeding heart
Remembrance of that night,
When she had urged the tempted man
With wine to make his plight.

Christ’s Entry Into Jerusalem

He had plunged into our sorrows,
And our sin had pierced his heart,
As before him loomed death’s shadow,
And he knew he must depart.

But they hailed him as a victor
As he into Salem came,
And the very children shouted
Loud hosannas to his name.

Bat he knew behind that triumph,
Rising gladly to the sky,
Soon would come the cries of malice:
Crucify him! Crucify!

Onward rode the blessed Saviour,
Conscious of the coming strife
Soon to break in storms of hatred
Round his dear, devoted life.

Ghastly in its fearful anguish
Rose the cross before his eyes,
But he saw the joy beyond it,
And did all the shame despise.

Joy to see the cry of scorning
Through the ages ever bright,
And the cross of shame transfigured
To a throne of love and light.

Joy to know his soul’s deep travail
Should not he a thing in vain,
And that joy and peace should blossom
From his agonizing pain.

The Resurrection of Jesus

It was done, the deed of horror;
Christ had died upon the cross,
And within an upper chamber
The disciples mourned their loss.

Peter’s eyes were full of anguish,
Thinking sadly of the trial
When his boasted self-reliance
Ended in his Lord’s denial.

Disappointment, deep and heavy,
Shrouded every heart with gloom,
As the hopes so fondly cherished
Died around the garden tomb.

And they thought with shame and sorrow
How they fled in that dark hour,
When they saw their Lord and Master
In the clutch of Roman power.

We had hoped, they sadly uttered,
He would over Israel reign,
But to-day he lies sepulchred.
And our cherished hopes are vain.

In the humble home of Mary
Slowly waned the hours away,
Till she rose to seek the garden
And the place where Jesus lay.

Not the cross with all its anguish
Could her loving heart restrain,
But the tomb she sought was empty,
And her heart o’erflowed with pain.

To embalm my Lord and Master
To this garden I have strayed.
But, behold, I miss his body.
And I know not where he’s laid.

Then a wave of strange emotion
Swept her soul, as angels said,
“Wherefore do ye seek the living
’Mid the chambers of the dead?”

Unperceived, her Lord stood by her,
Silent witness of her grief,
Bearing on his lips the tidings
Sure to bring a glad relief.

But her tear-dimmed eyes were holden
When she heard the Master speak;
Thought she, only ’tis the gardener
Asking whom her soul did seek.

Then a sudden flush of gladness
O’er her grief-worn features spread;
When she knew the voice of Jesus
All her bitter anguish fled.

Forth she reached hands in rapture.
Touch me not, the Saviour said;
Take the message to my brethren,
I have risen from the dead.

Take them words of joy and comfort,
Which will all their mourning end;
To their Father and my Father,
Tell them that I will ascend.

“Brethren, I have seen the Master:
He is risen from the dead.”
But like words of idle meaning
Seemed the glorious words she said.

Soon they saw the revelation
Which would bid their mourning cease;
Christ, the risen, stood before them
Breathing words of love and peace.

Timid men were changed to heroes,
Weakness turned to wondrous might.
And the cross became their standard,
Luminous with love and light.

From that lonely upper chamber,
Holding up the rugged cross,
With a glad and bold surrender
They encountered shame and loss.

In these days of doubt and error,
In the conflict for the right,
May our hearts be ever strengthened
By the resurrection’s might.

Simon’s Countrymen

They took away his seamless robe,
With thorns they crowned his head,
As harshly, fiercely cried his foes:
“Barabbas in his stead.”

The friends he loved unto the end,
Who shared his daily bread,
Before the storms of wrath and hate
Forsook their Lord and fled.

To rescue men from death and sin
He knew the awful cost.
As wearily he bent beneath
The burden of the cross.

When Pilate had decreed his fate.
And Jews withheld their aid,
Then Simon, the Cyrenean, came:
On him the cross was laid.

Not his to smite with cruel scorn,
Nor mock the dying one,
That helpful man came from the land
Kissed by the ardent sun—

The land within whose sheltering arms
The infant Jesus lay
When Herod vainly bared his sword
And sought the child to slay.

Amid the calendar of saints
We Simon’s name may trace,
On history’s page thro’ every age
He bears an honored place.

He little knew that cross would change
Unto a throne of light;
The crown of thorns upon Christ’s brow
Would be forever bright.

Beneath the shadow of that cross
Brave men wdth outstretched hands
Have told the wondrous tale of love
In distant heathen lands.

And yet within our favored land,
Where Christian churches rise,
The dark-browed sons of Africa
Are hated and despised.

Can they who speak of Christ as King,
And glory in his name,
Forget that Simon’s countiymen
Still bear a cross of shame?

Can they forget the cruel scorn
Men shower on a race
Who treat the hues their Father gives
As emblems of disgrace?

Will they erect to God their fanes
And Christ with honor crown,
And then with cruel weights of pain
The African press down?

Oh, Christians, when we faint and bleed
In this our native land,
Reach out to us when peeled, opprest,
A kindly helping hand,

And bear aloft that sacred cross,
Bright from the distant years,
And say for Christ’s and Simon’s sake,
We’ll wipe away your tears.

For years of sorrow, toil and pain
We’ll bring you love and light,
And in the name of Christ our Lord
We’ll make your pathway bright.

That seamless robe shall yet enfold
The children of the sun,
Till rich and poor and bond and free
In Christ shall all be one.

And for his sake from pride and scorn
Our spirits shall be free,
Till through our souls shall sound the words
He did it unto me.

Deliverance

Rise up! rise up! Oh Israel,
Let a spotless lamb be slain;
The angel of death will o’er you bend
And rend your galling chain.

Sprinkle its blood upon the posts
And lintels of your door;
When the angel sees the crimson spots
Unharmed he will pass you o’er.

Gather your flocks and herds to-night,
Your children by our side:
A leader from Arabia comes
To be your friend and guide.

With girded loins and sandled feet
Await the hour of dread,
When Mizraim shall wildly mourn
Her first-born and her dead.

The sons of Abraham no more
Shall crouch ’neath Pharoah’s hand,
Trembling with agony and dread,
He’ll thrust you from the land.

And ye shall hold in unborn years
A feast to mark this day,
When joyfully the fathers rose
And cast their chains away.

When crimson tints of morning flush
The golden gates of day,
Or gorgeous hue of even melt
In sombre shades away,

Then ye shall to your children teach
The meaning of this feast,
How from the proud oppressor’s hand
Their fathers were released,

And ye shall hold through distant years
This feast with glad accord,
And children’s children yet shall learn
To love and trust the Lord.

Ages have passed since Israel trod
In triumph through the sea,
And yet they hold in memory’s urn
Their first great jubilee.

When Moses led the ransomed hosts,
And Miriam’s song arose,
While ruin closed around the path
Of their pursuing foes.

Shall Israel thro’ long varied years
These memories cherish yet,
And we who lately stood redeemed
Our broken chains forget?

Should we forget the wondrous change
That to our people came,
When justice rose and sternly plead
Our cause with sword and flame?

And led us through the storms of war
To freedom’s fairer shore,
When slavery sank beneath a flood
Whose waves were human gore.

Oh, youth and maidens of the land,
Rise up with one accord,
And in the name of Christ go forth
To battle for the Lord.

Go forth, but not in crimson fields.
With fratricidal strife,
But in the name of Christ go forth
For freedom, love and life.

Go forth to follow in his steps,
Who came not to destroy,
Till wastes shall blossom as the rose,
And deserts sing for joy.

Simon’s Feast

He is coming, she said, to Simon’s feast,
The prophet of Galilee,
Though multitudes around him throng
In longing his face to see.

He enters the home as Simon’s guest,
But he gives no welcome kiss;
He brings no water to bathe his feet—
Why is Simon so remiss?

The prophet’s face is bright with love,
And mercy beams from his eye;
He pities the poor, the lame and blind,
An outcast, I will draw nigh.

If a prophet, he will surely know
The guilt of my darkened years;
With broken heart I’ll seek his face,
And bathe his feet with my tears.

No holy rabbi lays his hand
In blessing on my head;
No loving voice floats o’er the path,
The downward path I tread.

Unto the Master’s side she pressed,
A penitent, frail and fair,
Rained on his feet a flood of tears.
And then wiped them with her hair.

Over the face of Simon swept
An air of puzzled surprise;
Can my guest a holy prophet be,
And not this woman despise?

Christ saw the thoughts that Simon’s heart
Had written upon his face,
Kindly turned to the sinful one
In her sorrow and disgrace.

Where Simon only saw the stains,
Where sin and shame were rife,
Christ looked beneath and saw the germs
Of a fair, outflowering life.

Like one who breaks a galling chain,
And sets a prisoner free,
He rent her fetters with the words,
“Thy sins are forgiven thee.”

God be praised for the gracious words
Which came through that woman’s touch
That souls redeemed thro’ God’s dear Son
May learn to love him so much;

That souls once red with guilt and crime
May their crimson stains outgrow;
The scarlet spots upon their lives
Become whiter than driven snow.

Endnotes

1. See this case, as touchingly related, in Oliver Twist, by Dickens.

2. The Temperance Band.

Colophon

Poetry
was compiled from from poems published between 1853 and 1901 by
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper.

This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
Weijia Cheng,
and is based on transcriptions from
various sources
and on digital scans from
various sources.

The cover page is adapted from
The Way They Live,
a painting completed in 1879 by
Thomas Anshutz.
The cover and title pages feature the
League Spartan and Sorts Mill Goudy
typefaces created in 2014 and 2009 by
The League of Moveable Type.

This edition was released on
January 20, 2026, 5:10 a.m.
and is based on
revision 5e89d2c.
The first edition of this ebook was released on
August 29, 2024, 6:16 p.m.
You can check for updates to this ebook, view its revision history, or download it for different ereading systems at
standardebooks.org/ebooks/frances-ellen-watkins-harper/poetry.

The volunteer-driven Standard Ebooks project relies on readers like you to submit typos, corrections, and other improvements. Anyone can contribute at standardebooks.org.

Uncopyright

May you do good and not evil.
May you find forgiveness for yourself and forgive others.
May you share freely, never taking more than you give.

Copyright pages exist to tell you that you can’t do something. Unlike them, this Uncopyright page exists to tell you that the writing and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. The United States public domain represents our collective cultural heritage, and items in it are free for anyone in the United States to do almost anything at all with, without having to get permission.

Copyright laws are different all over the world, and the source text or artwork in this ebook may still be copyrighted in other countries. If you’re not located in the United States, you must check your local laws before using this ebook. Standard Ebooks makes no representations regarding the copyright status of the source text or artwork in this ebook in any country other than the United States.

Non-authorship activities performed on items that are in the public domain—so-called “sweat of the brow” work—don’t create a new copyright. That means that nobody can claim a new copyright on an item that is in the public domain for, among other things, work like digitization, markup, or typography. Regardless, the contributors to this ebook release their contributions under the terms in the CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication, thus dedicating to the worldwide public domain all of the work they’ve done on this ebook, including but not limited to metadata, the titlepage, imprint, colophon, this Uncopyright, and any changes or enhancements to, or markup on, the original text and artwork. This dedication doesn’t change the copyright status of the source text or artwork. We make this dedication in the interest of enriching our global cultural heritage, to promote free and libre culture around the world, and to give back to the unrestricted culture that has given all of us so much.