'S 1999 
 ,H56 
 'Opy 1 
 
 Egyptian Melodies 
 
 ALFRED J. HOUGH 
 
Class _5S_iMl 
 Book ^l__ 
 
 Copyright 1^^. 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 
 
 \ 
 
EGYPTIAN MELODIES 
 
 And other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED J. HOUGH 
 
 Member Vermont Conference 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 1911 
 
Copyright, 19", by Alfred J. Hough 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A. 
 
 ©C1.A289581 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Moses in Egypt 7 
 
 The Great Surrender 9 
 
 Lifers Supreme Test 12 
 
 The Bush on Fire 15 
 
 Only a Rod, and — God 17 
 
 Compensation for Sacrifice 19 
 
 The Raising of Dorcas 20 
 
 The Spare Room Bed 25 
 
 Plod 26 
 
 That Charley McCabe 29 
 
 The Ark of God on a New Cart 34 
 
 ''All Hair 38 
 
 Taking the Collection 40 
 
 Mother s Old Hymn 43 
 
 The Maste/s Way 44 
 
 Toil and Toll 45 
 
 The Illumined Home 46 
 
 Self 46 
 
 Self Sacrifice 47 
 
 A Labor Song 47 
 
 The Day is at Hand 48 
 
 Sun and Rain 48 
 
 3 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 The Devil 49 
 
 The Singing Prophet 50 
 
 A Green Mountain Song 51 
 
 The Flight of the Eagle 56 
 
 Uncle Ben 58 
 
 Obedience 63 
 
 Reading the Appointments 63 
 
 The Painters 69 
 
 The Wooing, Warning Christ 69 
 
 The God of Another Chance 70 
 
 Easter Hymns of Hope 71 
 
 The Good Samaritan 74 
 
 Only the Beautiful Abides 80 
 
 Our Bethlehems 80 
 
 Indian Summer 81 
 
 The One Clear Note of Life 82 
 
 Manhood 84 
 
 The Rainbow Around the Throne 85 
 
 Reward 85 
 
 A Song of Trust 86 
 
 How Will it be? 86 
 
 The Winding Stairway 87 
 
 ''As We Are Known" 88 
 
 When Night Comes On 89 
 
 Finished Work 90 
 
 4 
 
EGYPTIAN MELODIES 
 
MOSES IN EGYPT 
 
 The Cradle on the Nile 
 
 I 
 
 Just a baby in a cradle on the waters of the Nile — 
 Then a leader moves a nation, like an army, rank 
 
 and file. 
 This is how God works His wonders, without 
 
 trumpet or display. 
 And we know not what is rocking in the cradle of 
 
 to-day. 
 
 Who will solve the nation's problems, level moun- 
 tains, tame the seas, 
 
 Crystalize in splendid action visions of the cen- 
 turies ! 
 
 Who will lead the world to-morrow in its upward, 
 onward way? 
 
 Hush! we know not what is rocking in the cradle 
 of to-day. 
 
 Lips are moulding now in silence the illuminating 
 
 word — 
 Hearts are beating splendid measures that we never 
 
 yet have heard. 
 Comes a face with light upon it, — God, behind a 
 
 face of clay — 
 Oh, we know not what is rocking in the cradle of 
 
 to-day. 
 
 On some Nile, amidst the rushes, dreaming, hidden 
 
 from our view. 
 There may be a master-workman who shall make 
 
 this old world new. 
 
Scorn the fear of craven spirits, heed no word the 
 
 doubters say, 
 For they know not what Is rocking In the cradle 
 
 of to-day. 
 
 When the night Is at Its deepest, and the dark- 
 ness heaven fills, 
 
 There Is morning somewhere moulding back be- 
 hind the eastern hills. 
 
 Never yet has lived a Pharoah but some Moses 
 broke his sway, 
 
 And we know not what Is rocking In the cradle 
 of to-day. 
 
 Earth Is full of strange surprises, In her near, 
 
 and distant Isles, 
 For the hand of God Is moving through the rushes, 
 
 on the NUes, 
 Working out new movements, slowly, as the older 
 
 forms decay. 
 And we know not what Is rocking In the cradle 
 
 of to-day. 
 
 God, a boy, one woman moving In a path to her 
 unknown, 
 
 May emancipate a nation, and strike down an an- 
 cient throne. 
 
 Purposes divine are shaping, without haste, with- 
 out delay, 
 
 And we know not what Is rocking In the cradle 
 of to-day. 
 
 See! a Princess from the rushes, takes one of an 
 
 alien race. 
 Clothes him with the royal purple, sets him In a 
 
 lofty place. 
 
Pharoah smiles upon him kindly, reads no tragic 
 
 line that lies 
 Written on his lips, his forehead, in the deep seas 
 
 of his eyes. 
 He will bide his time in silence, wait to hear what 
 
 God will say — 
 Oh, we know not what is rocking in the cradle 
 
 of to-day. 
 
 To the future step right boldly, hail with hope the 
 
 coming years, 
 There is little room for doubting, there is little 
 
 cause for tears; 
 With the day's need comes the needed, at the need 
 
 hour, on its way, 
 For we know not what is rocking in the cradle 
 
 of to-day. 
 
 THE GREAT SURRENDER 
 
 Pharoah's Daughter 
 
 II 
 
 Amidst the palaces sublime 
 
 The lad soon reached young manhood's prime, 
 
 In all Egyptian knowledge grew, 
 
 Her arts, her sciences he knew, 
 
 Stood near the king, learned how to sway 
 
 The sceptre on a later day; 
 
 But he was Hebrew, and his own 
 
 Were slaves to Egypt's king and throne. 
 
 With life's great service but begun 
 
 Must he refuse to be the son 
 
 Of Pharoah's daughter? 
 
How bright a young man's dreams may be! 
 How fair the world his j^oung eyes see! 
 ''Beauty will come to grace these halls; 
 The brave go forth when battle calls; 
 The wisest here their lore repeat; 
 The highest bow low at my feet; 
 And tribute from all climes and lands, 
 With untold wealth, will fill my hands. 
 This throne Is mine, with rivals none, 
 Can I refuse to be the son 
 
 Of Pharoah's daughter?" 
 
 Ah, who can tell his bitter strife, 
 
 Who strikes In youth the harp of life, 
 
 And knows what lower chords will bring, 
 
 Yet answers to the highest string! 
 
 What wonder If his fateful choice 
 
 Is spoken with uncertain voice, 
 
 He hesitates with clouded brain, 
 
 Beholding loss, beholding gain, 
 
 His thoughts into this question run — 
 
 Shall I refuse to be the son 
 
 Of Pharoah's daughter? 
 
 WTiat wonder, with over vein of dross, 
 We hail the pleasure, shun the cross; 
 Ask for the cloudless summer day, 
 With flowers abloom along the way. 
 Or turn from rough and stormy seas 
 To splendid palaces of ease! 
 What wonder, If, with all the strife, 
 And tumult of aspiring life, 
 The young man says — ''Time soon is done, 
 It's better far to be a son 
 
 Of Pharoah's daughter. 
 
 He reached the parting of the ways, 
 Our life is made of yeas and nays. 
 10 
 
This road leads on to summits fair, 
 And this road — on — he knows not where, 
 Out, over rocks, and sand, and clay — 
 But it was God's road — all the way. 
 To right — to left — which shall it be! 
 This way — and that — mean destiny! 
 He took the right-hand road, and w^on, 
 For he refused to be the son 
 
 Of Pharoah's daughter. 
 
 It heartens us here, late in Time, 
 To see, there, in the world's fresh prime, 
 A young man take his stand, cast down 
 The purple robe, great Egypt's crow^n. 
 Walk forth to serve in fields unknown, 
 And turn his back upon a throne. 
 There is a power that makes man great. 
 That gives man mastery of fate. 
 Helps him to say, coerced by none — 
 **I will refuse to be the son 
 
 Of Pharoah's daughter." 
 
 It cost him something there and then, 
 For he was made like other men. 
 And copper in the hand to-day 
 Seems more than diamonds far away. 
 A palace waiting here, close by. 
 Seems fairer than God's open sky. 
 The balance hung, 'twixt soul and sense. 
 Here, and the after recompense. 
 A braver thing was never done. 
 For he refused to be the son 
 
 Of Pharoah's daughter. 
 
 She is not dead, this daughter fair. 
 She meets us here and everj^where ; 
 Sometimes she comes with Pleasure's face, 
 Her rounded form, her limbs of grace, 
 II 
 
Now she is Wealth, now Honor, Fame, 
 She offers place, and power, a name; 
 Her gifts are rare, they tempt the eye, 
 Her gold is gold — she does not lie; 
 But he some higher life has won, 
 Who owns — I cannot be the son 
 Of Pharoah's daughter. 
 
 LIFE'S SUPREME TEST 
 
 The Power to Wait 
 
 HI 
 
 To see the years go slowly by. 
 And all our early visions die, 
 The flowers by sunny morning made 
 Amidst the heat of noon-tide fade, 
 And not lose heart, but still believe. 
 Though hopes seem only to deceive. 
 That somewhen, somewhere, even yet. 
 Before life's sun has fully set. 
 The faiths we planted, sowed in pain. 
 Will come to fruitage and to grain, 
 And we shall reach the happy goals — 
 This is the test that proves men's souls. 
 
 Amidst the palaces of ease. 
 Before the dim-eyed deities, 
 Through gardens, with their perfumed airs, 
 In Egypt's crowded thoroughfares. 
 Or on the Nile, when moonlight streamed, 
 What dreams that young man's heart had dreamed. 
 If he walked forth before the eyes 
 Of his own race, and said — "Arise ! 
 Come! follow me!" in one short hour 
 The slaves would come to freemen's power! 
 He called, but not an answer came, 
 12 
 
But looks of scorn and words of blame, 
 A slave's contempt, his curse, his ban — 
 This tried the metal of the man. 
 
 Before such unresponsive clay 
 
 Ten thousand men would turn away, 
 
 Chilled to the core, or then and there 
 
 Throw up the weak hands of despair. 
 
 The slave left to his chosen fate — 
 
 But this man had the power to wait. 
 
 He made no moan; he shed no tears; 
 
 But said — "On, in the future years, 
 
 They will arise, if God so wills," 
 
 And went across the Midian hills. 
 
 To tend the flocks, until the gates, 
 
 Closed then, swung back. He wins who waits ! 
 
 Who, dreaming he was born to lead 
 A nation forth by mighty deed. 
 Far from the cruel oppressor's hand, 
 To some divinely promised land, 
 Would still, unchanged, his purpose keep, 
 Through forty years, while tending sheep !— 
 Remembering there, on pastures lone. 
 He might have ruled from Egypt's throne!' 
 There have been souls, born to aspire, 
 Fate could not crush. Time could not tire. 
 And he who in that mould is cast, 
 Though baffled long, shall win at last. 
 
 How long the earth was coming through 
 
 To blossom, song bird, skies of blue! 
 
 She had the promise in the night 
 
 That she was on the way to light. 
 
 Then ice plowed through her, deep and wide. 
 
 The fire flamed over her and died ; 
 
 The countless ages slowly passed, 
 
 With strange upheavals, calm and blast, 
 
 13 
 
But she arrived, her journey done, 
 In beauty clothed before the sun. 
 Worlds, souls abide the Midian test. 
 We wait the longest for the best. 
 
 Man paints a picture in brief hours: 
 God worked for ages painting flowers. 
 The colors on our canvas run, 
 His flowers will bide the rain, the sun, 
 The summer's heat, the winter's blast — 
 He paints with colors that are fast. 
 Our structures sway, and topple o'er, 
 His mountains stand forever more. 
 Through forty years, in that lone place, 
 God shapes a man to lead a race 
 Till he the leader's form assumes — 
 There are no clocks in God's workrooms — 
 Unwearied fly his weaving looms. 
 We fit our tasks to time and date. 
 And do poor work. We cannot wait. 
 
 The rivers will not hurried be 
 
 Along their way to reach the sea; 
 
 They wait to serve the flowers, the grass, 
 
 And bless the world through which they pass. 
 
 The acorn knows at one swift stroke 
 
 It cannot be the giant oak. 
 
 The patient stars that fill the night 
 
 Found their high ministry of light 
 
 Through ages, waiting for the sign 
 
 To sweep into their place — and shine! 
 
 And he who cannot tend the sheep 
 
 On Midian plains, and sacred keep 
 
 Through forty years his early plan. 
 
 Lacks the one gift that makes a man. 
 
 14 
 
THE BUSH ON FIRE 
 
 The New Creation of the New Creature 
 IV 
 
 One more day of common brightness, nothing new 
 in earth or sky, 
 
 Same old valleys, same old mountains, common to 
 the common eye. 
 
 But, as Moses looked that morning, things were not 
 the same to him, 
 
 Earth was rich in sound and glory, full, and run- 
 ning o'er the rim; 
 
 Trees rose up aflame before him, voices echoed 
 through the skies — 
 
 On that day his spirit listened, and his soul looked 
 through his eyes. 
 
 This was why he stayed in Midian, to and fro its 
 
 pastures trod, 
 Through long years of weary waiting, waiting for 
 
 himself, not God. 
 What avails that He should meet us, if our eyes are 
 
 closed, or bound ; 
 What avails His calling, calling, if we hear no voice, 
 
 nor sound? 
 All the universe is silent, blank and dead the old 
 
 world lies. 
 Till we listen with our spirits and our souls see 
 
 through our eyes. 
 
 Moses found himself in Midian, came to hearing, 
 
 came to sight. 
 All the great deeps of his being rose that morning 
 
 to full height. 
 
 15 
 
y He had learned how near Jehovah to a mortal man 
 
 can be, 
 Heard his voice across a desert, saw his glory in a 
 
 tree 
 All the world will w^ave around us sights and 
 
 sounds of Paradise, 
 When we listen with our spirits and our souls look 
 
 through our eyes. 
 
 There, to Moses, seemed that desert like a stretch 
 
 of Heaven's street. 
 For he bowed low in the glory, took the sandals 
 
 from his feet, 
 Rose, and gazed straight on, and answered, God 
 
 still looking in his face, 
 And was not afraid to meet Him out there in a 
 
 lonely place. 
 For the voice of God is tender, and all fear within 
 
 us dies. 
 When we listen with our spirits, and we see with 
 
 clearer eyes. 
 
 God has not gone into hiding, nor in silence moulds 
 
 His thought, 
 Only to the eye that's holden, and the ear that hears 
 
 Him not. 
 That same bush had flamed with glory others days 
 
 as on the last, 
 But the man saw the rude outline of a common 
 
 tree — and passed. 
 So we miss the glow of beauty, hear no accents deep 
 
 and wise. 
 Till we listen with our spirits and we see with other 
 
 eyes. 
 
 All the flowers along the valleys, all the mountains, 
 forest plumed, 
 
 i6 
 
Sun and star, and men and angels, stand in fire 
 
 and unconsumed. 
 Speech, divine as any written in the ancient, Sacred 
 
 word, 
 Now is spoken all around us, and can anywhere be 
 
 heard. 
 But the silence is unbroken, and the light beyond us 
 
 flies 
 Till we listen with our spirits and see farther than 
 
 our eyes. 
 
 There are men, as man is measured, walking daily 
 
 on the streets. 
 Who see but a silver dollar, and hear when a big 
 
 drum beats; 
 Trees are worth so much as timber, mountains, for 
 
 the wealth they hold; 
 They would trade in air and sunshine if these could 
 
 be bought and sold. 
 Earth is but a money market, God has vanished from 
 
 their skies, 
 For the spirit shrinks within them ; there's no soul 
 
 behind their eyes. 
 
 ONLY A ROD, AND— GOD 
 V 
 
 When the man received his mission, He, before 
 
 whom angels stand. 
 Gave him nothing — simply asked him what he held 
 
 in his right hand. 
 "I have but a rod," he answered, holding it aloft, in 
 
 view — 
 "Yonder there must be achievement — little here with 
 
 which to do." 
 
 In life's winning, or its losing, it will very much de- 
 pend 
 
 17 
 
Not upon the rod that's wielded, but the man 
 
 the handle end. 
 Any Pharoah will surrender if you have the staying 
 
 stuff, 
 Patience, courage, perseverence, and you pound him 
 
 long enough. 
 
 Use all means to win the battle : Moses gave old 
 
 Pharoah pain. 
 Scattered lice upon his body, swarmed the locusts 
 
 through his grain. 
 Sent him flies, and frogs and hail stones sweeping all 
 
 his acres broad, 
 Turned his morning into midnight and he did it 
 
 with a rod. 
 
 If an old man, passing eighty, fights his battle brave- 
 ly through — 
 
 Opens seas before his people — what can not a young 
 man do. 
 
 In a nation whose high places wait for him who 
 dares to climb! 
 
 If that man had failed, what wonder — to fail here 
 would be a crime. 
 
 Washington, with his rude soldiers, answering to 
 the bugle calls, 
 
 Hadn't more supplies than Moses bearding Pharoah 
 in his halls. 
 
 Yankee here, or Hebrew yonder, ages past, or yester- 
 day. 
 
 Manhood wins in every battle, and the will will 
 make the way. 
 
 Poverty of means! dismiss it, worthy only of dis- 
 dain. 
 
 He is rich with feet, hands, muscle, beating heart, 
 and thinking brain. 
 
 i8 
 
All one needs is but a foothold somewhere squarely 
 
 on the sod, 
 With a purpose high and noble, none can hinder — 
 
 and — a rod! 
 
 If we use the help that's near us, trust the way we 
 
 cannot see, 
 Though the odds may seem against us, life will end 
 
 in victory. 
 Let us not sit down, disheartened, we can tread 
 
 where others trod, 
 All that man in Pharoah's palace had to help him, 
 
 was a rod, 
 And the infinite recourses, for the asking, of his 
 
 God. 
 
 COMPENSATION FOR SACRIFICE 
 
 The Mount of Transfiguration 
 VI 
 
 As to a mountain height our Lord ascended. 
 The glory on His face made daylight dim. 
 
 And when this deep, mysterious prayer was ended. 
 Then Moses and Elias talked with Him. 
 
 He spake of His decease, in accents tender, 
 He should accomplish at Jerusalem, 
 
 His face still radiant with the heavenly splendor. 
 And Moses and Elias talked with Him. 
 
 They had come forth from their high place of glory, 
 Where flowed the sound of harp and holy hymn, 
 
 To see His face, who fills all human story, 
 And Moses and Elias talked with Him. 
 
 19 
 
They had been living near His elevation, 
 Higher than angel stood; or seraphim; 
 
 As He had loved a world, they loved a nation, 
 And Moses and Elias talked with Him. 
 
 We can make friends with Pharoah, Ahab, Jesus, 
 Win earthly crown, or fadeless diadem: 
 
 In our own company the future sees us. 
 For Moses and Elias talked with Him. 
 
 To hear from Christ's own lips a Brother's hailing. 
 Was more than Pleasure's cup filled to the brim, 
 
 For He is Life and Love and Light unfailing, 
 And Moses and Elias talked with Him. 
 
 They who leave palaces of earth, beholding 
 The light that shines beyond the horizon's rim, 
 
 Shall one day see the gates of Life unfolding, 
 
 And meet the Christ, to walk and talk with Him. 
 
 THE RAISING OF DORCAS 
 
 It was long ago when the church was young. 
 And the preacher's preached with a fiery tongue. 
 When the people prayed in the Holy Ghost, 
 And a handful grew in a day to a host. 
 That a noble worker with needle and thread 
 In the city of Joppa was lying dead. 
 
 In an upper room beside the sea 
 
 She waited her last sad ministry. 
 
 The chisel of sorrow had left no trace 
 
 To mar the mould of her noble face. 
 
 She seemed as one who had wrought all day 
 
 Then quietly laid her work away, 
 
 And peacefully turned to rest awhile 
 
 In the tender light of her Master's smile. 
 
 20 
 
For a brighter sheen than the mornings wear 
 Flowed over her face as she slumbered there. 
 But the people rushed through the streets all day, 
 And the ships weighed anchor and sailed aw^ay, 
 The world moved on, for it could not miss 
 From its countless throngs such a life as this. 
 
 Only a worker with needle and thread 
 
 In an upper room was lying dead ; 
 
 But thither the widows and children came. 
 
 Wailing their sorrow, and calling her name, 
 
 Ever deferring the burial day, 
 
 Refusing to carry the body away, 
 
 Counting her alms deeds and telling them o'er — 
 
 A desciple of Jesus, a friend of the poor. 
 
 Cheering the sad as an angel of light — 
 
 How could they bury her out of their sight? 
 
 Then a mother in Israel rose and said: 
 
 "This sorrow^ avails not; Dorcas is dead. 
 
 But Jesus hath power to quicken her clay; 
 
 Bring Peter from Lydda, and let him pray." 
 
 The counsel w^as timely; Peter was brought; 
 
 They showed him the garments that Dorcas had 
 
 wrought. 
 With their passionate pleas they trouble the air — 
 Would Jesus have mercy, and answer prayer ! 
 
 Then Peter sent all the people away. 
 And knelt at the side of the dead to pray. 
 His face was turned to the Gates of Gold; 
 At the touch of his prayer they backward rolled ; 
 And there, in a listening attitude. 
 The glorious form of his Master stood. 
 "O, Jesus of Nazareth !" Heaven grew still. 
 As Peter prayed :"If it be Thy will, 
 Send back to this frame the spirit fled! 
 Thy servant worked with a needle and thread ; 
 She ministered daily to human needs, 
 21 
 
Thy gospel preached by her loving deeds, 
 And the poor of the city are sore distress'd 
 Because thou hast taken her home to rest. 
 We have thousands left who will face the stake, 
 The rack and the prison for Thy Name's sake, 
 But nobody comes her place to fill — 
 O, send her back, if it be Thy will." 
 
 Then the Master turned as He heard the prayer. 
 And beckoned to one of His children there; 
 And forth she came, with obedience sweet. 
 All robed and crowned, to the Master's feet. 
 
 He told her the burden of Peter's plea, 
 
 How the widows were weeping bitterly. 
 
 In the city of Joppa, far away. 
 
 And Peter was kneeling beside her clay 
 
 Till the answer came — could she forego 
 
 The joys of the heavenly life, and show 
 
 Her love for God with as sweet a grace 
 
 As she sang His praise in the heavenly place? 
 
 Pass out from the song and the fadeless bloom 
 
 To her lowly task in a narrow room? 
 
 With never a sigh for the glory fled. 
 
 As she worked again with needle and thread ? 
 
 Swift as the lightning flies through heaven. 
 
 Was the purpose formed, and the answer given. 
 
 To work for the love of the Lord below ; 
 
 To sit in a desolate room and sew 
 
 The seams of a coat, that an orphan lad 
 
 Might leap for joy, and be better clad, 
 
 To her royal heart seemed a nobler thing 
 
 Than to stand up there by the throne and sing. 
 
 Serving the Lord with a needle and thread. 
 
 Stitching away till her fingers bled, 
 
 That a widow's heart for a garment given 
 
 Might turn with praise to the Lord In heaven. 
 
 22 
 
Filled her soul with a richer melody 
 Than the harpers make on the Jasper sea. 
 And this is the kind of religion we need, 
 Enshrining itself in a loving deed, 
 Counting it better to serve the least 
 Than to sit a guest at a royal feast. 
 
 Then the wondrous news through the city sped. 
 That she who had wrought with the needle and 
 
 thread. 
 Had left the Paradise of the Blest- 
 Its cloudless skies and its vales of rest. 
 Deeming it nobler to carry an alms, 
 To a suffering soul, than to sing high psalms. 
 With a harp of gold, in a grove of palms.^ 
 And the heavens rang with a glorious strain, 
 That the love of the Lamb for sinners slain, 
 Did such an abounding glory shed. 
 That a lowly worker with needle and thread 
 Could sit in a narrow room and sew 
 A coat for a child, and never know 
 Her heart had a single pleasure lost — 
 Though her soul had over the river cross'd, 
 Though her feet the heavenly floors had trod, 
 And her eyes had looked on the glory of God. 
 So Peter knew that his prayer was heard ; 
 The motion of wings the still air stirred. 
 And the odor of heaven's unfading bloom 
 Swept suddenly into the narrow room, 
 A flush to the face of the sleeper came— 
 He sprang to his feet and called her name ! 
 She answered with outstretched hand, and rose 
 As one who had taken a sweet repose. 
 And the people paused in the streets that day: 
 Not a ship weighed anchor or sailed away, 
 For the news through the city of Joppa sped 
 
 23 
 
That the power of God had raised from the dead 
 A lowly worker with needle and thread. 
 
 To the valley of death the kings go down, 
 
 And never come back to the throne or crown ; 
 
 Apostles, martyrs, a glorious band. 
 
 Return not again from the Silent Land. 
 
 The masters of speech, the singers sublime. 
 
 Are only once heard in the forum of Time; 
 
 The favored of fortune, the noble by birth 
 
 Leave once and forever their places on earth. 
 
 Not even great Paul can come back to write. 
 
 For the churches he loved, a letter of light. 
 
 But a lowly woman in Joppa plies 
 
 Her needle and thread for the poor, and dies. 
 
 And she, out of all that adorable train, 
 
 Was needed to live her life over again. 
 
 Her voice was not heard in the chorus of song; 
 
 Her form was not seen in the world-ruling throng. 
 
 Had she one tender tie that sweetened her life? 
 
 Had she sister or friend? Was she loved as a wife? 
 
 Her death stirred no ripple on life's flowing tide, 
 
 A few humble women were sorry she died. 
 
 And all that remained to speak for the dead. 
 
 Was a little love-labor with needle and thread. 
 
 But He who beholds all the secrets of thought 
 
 Had measured the spirit in which she had wrought ; 
 
 The love-woven garments of Dorcas appeared 
 
 The costliest monument mortal had reared. 
 
 The work of the sculptor shall suffer decay, 
 The tints of the painter will vanish away. 
 O'er temple and palace wild ruin shall spread, 
 But the work of this woman with needle and thread 
 Shall shine when the stars drop out of the sky 
 As something too beautiful ever to die. 
 
 24 
 
THE SPARE-ROOM BED 
 
 If anything can fill a soul with gloom 
 
 It is the memory of that best spare room, 
 
 Set in the north side of the house, its name 
 
 Sends even now a cold chill through one's frame. 
 
 The odor of antiquity pervades 
 
 Its furnishings and air; the window shades 
 
 Are closed against the sun, lest it should spoil 
 
 The bright rag-carpet, wrought with so much toil. 
 
 The linen on the bed is white as snow. 
 
 But in the musty mattress down below 
 
 Malarial germs are slumbering, fevers, chills, 
 
 The breeders of innumerable ills. 
 
 And when the Parson calls, from home afar. 
 
 He has that room. How kind some people are! 
 
 About an hour before he must retire 
 
 On some sharp w^inter night, they light the fire, 
 
 Make everything about it warm and nice. 
 
 Just warm enough, you know, to melt the ice, 
 
 Moisten the pillows, bring the frost up through 
 
 The sheets — that seem baptized with heavy dew. 
 
 And all night long the Parson tries to sleep 
 
 Feeling the cold chills start and slowly creep 
 
 All through his frame, wondering, benumbed and 
 
 chill'd, 
 How many ministers that bed has killed. 
 A best spare bed room, on the cold north side. 
 The household treasure and the family pride, — 
 Whatever else the Parson may endure — 
 Will leave a wound no medicine can cure. 
 And on his tomb with truth it might be said : — 
 "He died a martyr to the Spare-Room Bed." 
 
 25 
 
PLOD 
 
 Of the wise and holy Maker, of the good and 
 
 gracious God, 
 Men can ask few higher blessings than the power 
 
 and grit to plod. 
 Show3^ gift may be attractive, glibly talk of "going 
 
 to do," 
 But it takes the solid lifting of old Plod to "put her 
 
 through." 
 He is mightier than all genius, greater than all 
 
 boasted skill. 
 Having for his inspiration an indomitable will. 
 Genius is a passing meteor — Plod, a never-setting 
 
 sun. 
 Where all else hath failed and fainted. Plod has just 
 
 gone in and won. 
 He hath reared the mighty cities, with a strength 
 
 God-like, sublime, 
 Made a highway for the nations through the ancient 
 
 hills of time. 
 
 He hath made the lightning serve him, counted stars 
 
 and measured space. 
 Wealth and genius fairly beaten in the middle of 
 
 life's race. 
 Hard to rouse, and slow to action but, when Plod 
 
 once says, "I will," 
 He is I'ust as sure to do it as the lightning is to 
 
 kill. 
 He was busy at the building of the pyramids of old, 
 And though kings sought deathless mention 'tis of 
 
 Plod their tale is told. 
 Never yet hath wond'ring pilgrim 'neath their 
 
 gloomy shadows trod. 
 Without feeling and believing the omnipotence of 
 
 Plod. 
 
 26 
 
He hath yet beheld no mountain where his flag he 
 
 dared not plant, 
 Just because he didn't whimper, and sit down, 
 
 and say "I can't." 
 
 In those days of sober plodding, thirty, forty years 
 ago, 
 
 We had more of solid progress, less of tinsel and of 
 show. 
 
 Our old mothers taught their daughters how^ to 
 scrub, sew, churn and bake, 
 
 How to take a hand in haying, on the load or at the 
 rake. 
 
 Milk and drive the cows to pasture, catch and har- 
 ness up old Bill, 
 
 Crack the whip and take the produce to the market 
 or the mill. 
 
 Never smarter, wittier lasses traded at the coun- 
 try store. 
 
 And they more than matched the saucy, smooth- 
 tongued peddlers at the door. 
 
 Handsomer they w^ere and nobler in the neat and 
 simple dress, 
 
 Than the modern lady strutting in a ruffled wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 They would rather go to meeting, sitting with a 
 happy smile. 
 
 In the old pung, cracked and broken, than to go in 
 debt for style. 
 
 Not a dollar would they squander, not an extra rib- 
 bon get. 
 
 Till the parlor had been furnished and the farm was 
 out of debt. 
 
 They'd have scorned the thought of sitting, dressed 
 in frills and boughten curls 
 
 27 
 
While the house was run to ruin by a pack of hired 
 
 girls; 
 Or, to be accomplished ladies, make the organ squeal 
 
 and moan 
 While the old folks, late and early, worked their 
 
 fingers to the bone. 
 Yet with all this sober plodding, nature had few 
 
 richer charms 
 Than she gave the happy maidens on the grand 
 
 New England farms. 
 But this age of great inventions, deeper thought 
 
 and clearer light. 
 Has produced a patent lady, and dame Fashion holds 
 
 the right. 
 
 Not content with sober plodding, tired of loafing 
 and unrest. 
 
 Half the boys are taking tickets for the prairies of 
 the West, 
 
 And they need but small persuasion to pull up their 
 stakes and go 
 
 To where nature yields a harvest if she's tickled with 
 a hoe, 
 
 But I've somehow got the notion that a lad with 
 prospects fair, 
 
 Failing in New England valleys is a failure any- 
 where ; 
 
 He may have the mildest climate, he may have the 
 richest sod. 
 
 But it just amounts to nothing if he hasn't got the 
 plod. 
 
 It may be the age is giving birth to more enlightened 
 views, 
 
 But it doesn't do to farm it in a pair of patent shoes! 
 
 And it simply stands to reason that a man can't till 
 the ground. 
 
 If one-half the time he's loafing, and the other — rid- 
 ing round. 
 
 28 
 
Barns well shingled, thriving cattle, stoneless acres 
 
 rich and broad, 
 Come from nothing else, believe me, but the steady, 
 
 sober plod. 
 Plod can bring back for this nation solid wealth to 
 
 farm and mart, 
 Lay a cool hand on the throbbings of her worldly, 
 
 restless heart, 
 Give contentment, raise the people, make them great 
 
 as they are free. 
 Lead her on with thoughtful courage to her glorious 
 
 destiny. 
 
 THAT CHARLEY McCABE,* 
 
 OR 
 
 What an Old Methodist Said to Her 
 Husband 
 
 Before the Missionary Meeting 
 
 So you go to the meeting, John, do you, to-night? 
 Go with you ? of course ; foreign missions are right : 
 But the home claims are many remember that, 
 
 John, 
 Or the first we shall know every dollar has gone. 
 There's the Preacher, and Elder, and Bishops, and 
 
 all, 
 Oh, you think you wont give, or your gift will be 
 
 small? 
 Look out for your wallet, hold on to it tight ;^ 
 For its Charley McCabe, who'll be speakin' to- 
 night; 
 
 *This will bring to the memory of m.any the mar- 
 velous work of Chaplain McCabe, when Mission- 
 ary Secretary. 
 
 29 
 
He is raisin' a million for missions this year, 
 And whatever else fails, this will have to occur. 
 When he speaks of the heathen away from the fold 
 He will loosen 5^our grip on the last piece of gold. 
 Laugh away, if you will, its a very good plan, 
 To get in a laugh, John, w^henever you can. 
 But, to-night, after service, if you are not poor 
 Your Mary's no kind of a prophet, that's sure ; 
 For I've been in a meetin' that gave all its pelf 
 To this Charley McCabe, and then mortgaged itself, 
 Seen the stingiest brother the Lord ever made, 
 Who was death to a meetin' whenever he prayed. 
 After twistin' and wigglin' with "yes" and with 
 
 "no," 
 In a flood of delight let his last dollar go. 
 This givin' a mite for the plate to move on. 
 Will not do for McCabe, not a bit of it, John ; 
 He is none of your little meek "Conference Supplies." 
 But a whole board of Bishops boiled down to his 
 
 size. 
 Punched quarters devoutly passed into a hat — 
 Wont be taken to-night, and I'm thankful for that! 
 Put a roll of big bills in my bag on the wall. 
 Or that Charley McCabe will be gettin' them all. 
 Mind the cows, John, especialy old Brindle we'll 
 
 keep. 
 There's that nice speckled heifer, the flock of fine 
 
 sheep. 
 And that colt you've been raisin', the best in the 
 
 State, 
 Trots to-day without urgin' a two twenty gait, 
 We'll hold on to her when they're passin' the plate. 
 Why, Mary, the meetin s as cheap as a shout! 
 Yes, they let you in free, but you pay to go out, 
 For that Charley McCabe has the wizard-like knack 
 Of taking the coat straight off from your back. 
 
 30 
 
At the Missionary Meeting 
 
 There, there, John's the man who's to speak and to 
 
 sing; 
 And he looks every inch like the child of a king. 
 How the flashing black eyes of the creature survey 
 The meetin', to estimate what it can pay. 
 We hadn't no more than got into the pew 
 When his eyes rested on us, and looked us all 
 
 through ; 
 And the satisfied air on his face seemed to say : 
 "That's a hard mine to w^ork, but I guess it'll pay." 
 He is off to the organ, now, that is his style. 
 He will sing like a seraph, shout glory and smile. 
 Till the ice in the heart of the meetin' is thawed, 
 And the stingiest brother makes out to applaud. 
 Sit still, John, sit still, he has only begun, 
 You will pay enough money before he has done. 
 When he sings the ''Lost Chord" the "Trundle 
 
 Bed!" song, 
 And "Help Just a Little" you will see this vast 
 
 throng 
 Start up to its feet in a moment and give 
 As freely as water runs down through a sieve. 
 He is well started now in his speech for the night; 
 And a perishing world looms up on his sight. 
 Its darkness and sorrow, its sin and its shame. 
 Stir his soul, till his words in a whirlwind of 
 
 flame 
 Sweep over the throng ! hearts tremble around ; 
 Now the Cross he surveys, and a silence profound 
 Reigns over the house, as with tear flooded eyes 
 All look on the face of the Lord as He dies. 
 Now he changes the scene, and the nations appear 
 Expectantly waiting that story to hear: 
 Their cry has gone up to the Lord on His throne 
 He is asking His church, His belov'd and His own, 
 
 31 
 
To pour out her treasurers, her silver and gold, 
 That the good news for all unto all may be told. 
 Got his hand on old Brindle, and pullin like time 
 John, what are you doin', there, ain't that sublime? 
 "A million for missions: It's coming, all hail!" 
 He just needs old Brindle to fill up the pall. 
 He'll get the whole farm, sure as we are alive, 
 At Mission Rooms, Broadway, eight hundred and 
 
 five. 
 He is after that heifer^ and winnin the race! 
 Not the speckled one, John, with a star In her face? 
 Why, we lotted on her for the next cattle show. 
 She will take the first prize, O, we can't let her go ! 
 But if Charley McCabe Is on to her track. 
 You may settle it now she will never come back, 
 He is driving the?n sheep straight out of the field. 
 This will never do, John, shake him off, and don't 
 
 yield. 
 The meetin' you said, was as cheap as a shout, 
 John, didn't I tell you how things would come out? 
 If it goes on like this you may make up your mind, 
 That there wont be a horn or a hoof left behind 
 On that farm, and the sheep mustn't go anyhow! 
 They are leapin the bars of my heart, Mary, now, 
 Why, we'd just got'em ready to load on the cars; 
 Well he's sung every fleece of them over the bars. 
 You are losin' your head, John, the first I shall know 
 You will give me for China, and tell me to go, 
 Then oflFer yourself as the right kind of man 
 To send to the Congo, or Into Japan, 
 Reach out for your hat, let us push for the door; 
 But he's singin' again, we will hear him once more. 
 There! — never an angel with fair shinin' brow 
 Sung sweeter than Charley McCabe's singin' now. 
 He's a gettin the colt! Is that so, John, hang on 
 To the lines and say "no" or your trotter is gone! 
 
 32 
 
And yet you remember how once we denied 
 
 The Lord what he asked, and the thing up and died, 
 
 It will be so again, let her go, it does seem 
 
 The Lord never meant we should drive a fast team. 
 
 Who'd have thought that that colt with a two 
 
 twenty gait 
 Would have trotted square on to the missionary 
 
 plate. 
 But the meetin's a wreck, anyway; all its deeps 
 Are broken, convuls'd and sung up into heaps, 
 Men who loved money more than all else upon earth 
 Seem to lose all conception of what it is worth. 
 And the preachers, God bless 'em, earth's purest and 
 
 best. 
 Keep a givin' and givin' to lead on the rest. 
 
 After the Missionary Meeting 
 
 Well, the matter stands, John, I believe as you say. 
 We grow rich in proportion as we give away. 
 At the altar this morning you didn't just look 
 For the shortest of psalms to be found in the book. 
 Then lead us in prayer with your heart out of doors 
 And down at the barn lookin' after your chores; 
 But you took a long chapter, and read it all 
 
 through. 
 As though it was precious, delightful, and new. 
 Then you bowed down to pray, not a cold formal 
 
 prayer. 
 But you talked to the Lord just as though He was 
 
 there, 
 And lingered and poured out your heart at His 
 
 feet 
 As though it was something unspeakably sweet. 
 Last night you seemed throwin' the whole farm 
 
 away. 
 But you made an investment that's going to pay. 
 We have lived with our money locked, bolted and 
 
 barr'd, 
 
 33 
 
But we've gone Into partnership now with the Lord. 
 Our wealth none can borrow or plunder or spend, 
 We hold shares in a kingdom that never will end. 
 Let Charlie McCabe sing his songs through the 
 
 land, 
 We will pray for him John, and strengthen his 
 
 hand, 
 He found our ways narrow, and laid them out broad. 
 And has taught us the secret of living for God ! 
 
 THE ARK OF GOD ON A NEW CART 
 
 ''And they set the ark of God upon a new cart." 
 — 2 Samuel 6:3 
 
 (Read before Woman's Foreign Missionary Society) 
 
 Sin stalked abroad with his poisonous breath, 
 
 And his flag of doom unfurled, 
 While the chariot wheels of the archer. Death, 
 
 Were echoing round the world : 
 But the priests, with the ark, stood far apart 
 
 From the world, in its despair. 
 So the Lord hath found Him a brand new cart, 
 
 The ark of His grace to bear — 
 The pure, strong love of a woman's heart. 
 
 With its wheels of Faith and Prayer. 
 
 It is made of wood in God's garden grown — 
 
 Deborah's zeal for the truth, 
 Fair Esther's pity and love for her own. 
 
 And grace from the heart of Ruth ; 
 Repose, in the bosom of Mary found, 
 
 And service from Martha's hand. 
 The triumph of Miriam over the drowned, 
 
 All woman has been that's grand, 
 Well-seasoned, and matched, and together bound, 
 
 Will make a cart that shall stand. 
 
 34 
 
For the might of the strong right arm of Jael, 
 
 The wife of the Kenite, blest, 
 Hath fastened it sure with the hammer and nail, 
 
 As she did the brow of her guest. 
 The Queen of Sheba, with wondering eyes. 
 
 And a woman's royal heart 
 For the panels rare stones and gold supplies. 
 
 All wrought in the finest art; 
 And swift the needle of Dorcas flies 
 
 To furnish the Lord's new cart. 
 
 Priscilla of Corinth rich tents has wrought 
 
 To shelter the ark at night; 
 And the five wise virgins, whose lamps failed not. 
 
 Shall guard it till morning light ; 
 Brave Rizpah, who suffered no bird of air. 
 
 Or ravenous beast of prey 
 To feed on the flesh of her dead so fair. 
 
 Shall protect it night and day; 
 While she who the Risen One ran to declare. 
 
 Shall run and prepare the w^ay. 
 
 Not a hand to steady the ark we need, 
 
 Though the oxen shake it sore; 
 It is moving abroad with a swifter speed 
 
 Than it ever knew before; 
 For a w^oman's zeal no power can thwart, 
 
 She waits through the dark for dawn, 
 The love and the faith of her simple heart 
 
 Bear fruit when the summer's gone; 
 And the Lord hath got this kind of a cart. 
 
 And His ark is set thereon. 
 
 God's love in the world's great mother-Roul^ 
 
 With a faith His word inspires, 
 Her lips touched anew with a glowing coal 
 
 From His quenchless altar fires. 
 All her nature laid as an offering free 
 
 35 
 
For use as the Lord deems best, 
 Shall stir in the nations, from sea to sea, 
 
 A yearning for heavenly rest, 
 Till the young world climbs to her mother-knee, 
 
 To be nourished at her breast. 
 
 Come, clear out the stones from the king's highway, 
 
 Ye sons of the priesthood, strong, 
 For the ark of the Lord brooks no delay, 
 
 And his cart must pass along; 
 Let the boards of missions new schemes evolve, 
 
 That the world may Jesus know; 
 Let committees meet and resolve, resolve, 
 
 It is right they should do so ; 
 But the Lord of hosts shall the problem solve — 
 
 He's got a cart that will go! 
 
 It is pressing its way to the distant shores 
 
 With a gospel grand and new, 
 And the golden gates, everlasting doors. 
 
 Are lifted, to let it through; 
 At the ceaseless roll of its wheels the seas 
 
 To their deepest soundings part, 
 While the giant hills of the centuries. 
 
 Like the morning clouds depart. 
 O, grand and eternal the victories 
 
 God wins through a woman's heart. 
 
 We follow the pillar of cloud by day. 
 
 The pillar of fire by night: 
 They spread through the enemy's camp dismay. 
 
 But they give us strength and light. 
 Sweet palms abound through the desert lone, 
 
 And over the desert sand 
 A cooling shade from a rock is thrown — 
 
 The shadow of God's own hand; 
 
 36 
 
While the sweet, fresh winds from the uplands 
 
 blown, 
 Make music through the land. 
 
 And never again shall the ark be laid 
 
 With Abinadab to rest, 
 Or pause, through a breach upon Uzzah made, 
 
 To be Obededom's guest. 
 For the Macedonians send their appeals. 
 
 And the answers they are few, 
 So the women of God have put their seals 
 
 To the work He bids them do; 
 And the ark of the Lord is set on the wheels 
 
 Of a cart that will take it through. 
 
 O'er the way we have passed are blessings strewn; 
 
 Thickly as stars through the sky; 
 We must offer to all heaven's greatest boon. 
 
 Nor would pass one sinner by. 
 Right nobly the oxen breast unto breast 
 
 Move on with their precious freight. 
 But — they weary grow, and they needs must rest, 
 
 For the hour is growing late — 
 Give relays of horse! the fleetest, the best! 
 
 Just pass the collection plate! 
 
 Let us give to the Lord as He hath given, 
 
 In a grand, full-handed way, 
 He giveth the son of His love, and heaven. 
 
 Let us give our gold to-day ; 
 The heathen shall know that a Saviour died. 
 
 To His blessed Cross be drawn; 
 Time sinks to the verge of its eventide. 
 
 Full soon will the morning dawn — 
 But the w^orld is lost; and the world is wide; 
 
 Let the ark of God move on. 
 
 37 
 
"ALL HAIL!'* 
 
 Poem of Welcome to the New England Branch of 
 the Woman's Foreign Missionary Society 
 
 It was early in the morning that the women sought 
 
 the tomb, 
 Bringing spices for the Master, richly laden with 
 
 perfume. 
 They would wrap the Sacred Body, which the spikes 
 
 had pierced through. 
 With the soothing, healing spices — that was all 
 
 that love could do. 
 And their eyes were dim with weeping, and their 
 
 hearts were heavy, sore ; 
 He who loved them and had blessed them — they 
 
 would hear his voice no more. 
 
 But an angel had descended, took the massive stone 
 
 that lay. 
 Sealed, before the Master's chamber, and had rolled 
 
 it far away. 
 And a living Saviour met them, walking through 
 
 death's mystic veil. 
 And they heard His salutation ringing sweet and 
 
 clear: "All Hail!" 
 They would know that voice of voices, there, or 
 
 through the heavens broad, 
 It was filled with all the music of the pitying heart 
 
 of God. 
 When they heard it last its accents on their hearts 
 
 with anguish fell. 
 Now it comes, "All Hail!" saluting, and command- 
 ing them, "Go, tell!" 
 
 Then they bowed low in His presence, rose, and 
 on their mission sped, 
 
 38 
 
Telling everywhere the story: "He is living who 
 was dead." 
 
 And through woman's heart forever, until time it- 
 self shall fail, 
 
 Will the echoes still be ringing of that first divine: 
 "All Hall!" 
 
 And her great world-wide commission from the 
 Master's own lips fell, 
 
 In the garden that sweet morning in those magic 
 words: "Go, telll" 
 
 Well He knew, who all our wondrous human na- 
 ture understood. 
 
 He could trust this world-wide mission to the 
 heart of womanhood ; 
 
 That her faith would never falter, that her hope 
 would never fail. 
 
 Or one accent be forgotten of His beautiful "All 
 Hail!" 
 
 So upon her splendid mission from the garden, on 
 
 that day, 
 Hearing clear, "Go, tell the story," she has gone 
 
 far, far away. 
 Through the heathen lands of sorrow, where the 
 
 faithless temples rise 
 To the gods that have no pity in their darkened, 
 
 stony eyes. 
 Well the message of the Master she, in sacrifice, has 
 
 borne, 
 To the multitudes in darkness, to the hearts that 
 
 helpless mourn. 
 Till the eastern skies, long-shadowed, are with 
 
 morning light aflame, 
 Through the mission of the women in the blessed 
 
 Master's name. 
 
 39 
 
As they meet in this convention, telling o'er their 
 
 wondrous tale, 
 We salute them with the Saviour's Easter morning, 
 
 glad "All Hail!" 
 All our doors are open swinging, all our hearts a 
 
 welcome beat 
 To the messengers of mercy that around our altars 
 
 meet. 
 Stir us, womanhood devoted to the saving of the 
 
 race, 
 With a vision of the glory of the wondrous day of 
 
 grace, 
 For the angel of sweet sympathy has rolled all 
 
 stones away, 
 And we give the Master's greeting, His divine "All 
 
 Hail!" to-day. 
 Then, to speed them In the future, may the golden 
 
 gates uplift, 
 And the everlasting doors before their coming back- 
 ward drift. 
 And the King of Glory enter the last realm held by 
 
 His foes, 
 With sweet womanhood attending and acclaiming 
 
 as He goes. 
 
 TAKING THE COLLECTION 
 
 I was taking my collection for the Foreign Mission 
 
 work, 
 And, believing it the practice on the part of some to 
 
 shirk 
 From the clearest Christian duty, leaving others to 
 
 sustain 
 The sublimest work of ages, — in my preaching and 
 
 was plain, 
 Rather personal in places, and, as people sometimes 
 
 say, 
 
 40 
 
Struck out squarely from the shoulder In the good 
 
 old-fashioned way. 
 There was restlessness and motion, quite unusual, m 
 
 the pews, 
 Women re-arranged their bonnets, men had trouDie 
 
 with their shoes. 
 In the gallery all around me there was one contmual 
 
 stir. 
 And a large amount of coughing for that season 
 
 of the year. 
 This but acted as a challenge on a nature such as 
 
 mine, , 
 
 So I rose to the occasion, hewmg closer to the Ime. 
 Uncle Ben, as was his custom, gave the sermon earn- 
 est heed, , 
 But his face wore some expressions that were ditti- 
 
 cult to read. 
 I discoursed upon the subject, argued, scolded tor 
 
 an hour, . , , , 
 
 And pronounced a peroration of considerable power, 
 The collection was my first one, and I naturally be- 
 lieved 
 It would reach a handsome figure: I was thor- 
 oughly deceived. 
 When the ushers gave the total, they both said, with 
 
 solemn face, . 
 
 That it was the smallest offering ever taken in that 
 
 place. 
 Full of weariness, reflecting on the selfishness ot 
 
 men, ^ 
 
 I went early Monday morning up to talk witn 
 
 Uncle Ben. 
 He was milking, and I asked him what the bottom 
 
 reason was . 
 
 That the people gave so little to the Foreign Mis- 
 sion cause: 
 
 41 
 
"Try your hand at milking, parson," Uncle Ben 
 
 said, with a smile, 
 "Take this Jersey," and I sat down well pleased 
 
 to make a trial. 
 Going at the business roughly, like a novice, pull, 
 
 tug, pound. 
 And that heifer in a moment laid me flat out on the 
 
 ground ; 
 "Whoa there, Bessie: Jump up parson: ain't hurt 
 
 much: I'll brush your coat: 
 Here's your hat;" he said. I swallowed something 
 
 rising in my throat. 
 Then he sat beside that Jersey, humming some old- 
 fashioned air. 
 Milking, humming, and the creature stood and never 
 
 stirr'd a hair. 
 "Well," I said, regaining slowly calmness and a 
 
 sweeter mood, 
 "Who would dream to see that heifer she would 
 
 ever act so rude." 
 Uncle Ben looked up and whispered, "Its a curious 
 
 kind of trick 
 How to get the milk out from her, and not have the 
 
 creature kick. 
 Learn the lesson, parson, clearly, learn it here and 
 
 learn it now. 
 You must touch a congregation gently as I touch 
 
 this cow: 
 Lay your hand upon the people with a stroke as soft 
 
 as silk, 
 And you'll fill the plates with money as I fill the 
 
 pail with milk." 
 
 42 
 
MOTHER'S OLD HYMN 
 
 Through the trembling veil of the twilight dim 
 I can hear the strain of that grand old hymn, 
 Which mother, whose heart is now still and cold, 
 Sang amidst her cares in the days of old. 
 
 When the cross was heavy, and hard to bear. 
 When in spite of reason, and faith and prayer. 
 The scalding tears filled her eyes to the brim, 
 She would chant a strain of that grand old hymn. 
 
 The pathos that saddens the psalm of seas, 
 With the joy of the springtime's melodies. 
 And the triumph of choiring seraphim, 
 Alternately flowed through mother's old hymn. 
 
 No master of song had attuned her tongue. 
 But her heart went out in the hymn she sung. 
 And it changed with light the cloudy days. 
 The water of grief to the wine of praise. 
 
 There w^as something about it to woo and win 
 The wanderer back from the paths of sin, 
 And the careless believer rose to trim 
 The lamp in his soul, when he heard that hymn. 
 
 There was something about it, undefined, 
 That charmed into quiet the troubled mind, 
 O'er the cold heart breathed with a spirit bland, 
 Like a warm South wind o'er a frozen land. 
 
 And crowning it all, was a strange, deep chord, 
 Like the throb of the heart of the blessed Lord, 
 That shed through the fainting soul abroad 
 A sense of the pitying love of God. 
 
 43 
 
The songs of the singers that fame has crowned, 
 In the flood of the years are lost and drowned, 
 But mother's old hymn, every pause and tone, 
 With the growth of time has the sweeter grown. 
 
 If care comes in with the face of a foe, 
 Or a friend turns round and deals me a blow, 
 Or my heart is sick, and weary each limb. 
 There's nothing can soothe like mother's old hymn. 
 
 When the days come freighted with naught but ill. 
 And my failures weaken my strength of will, 
 At the sound of mother's old hymn there springs 
 The purpose and courage for nobler things. 
 
 We know not the music that spirits hear. 
 As earth is receding, and heaven draws near. 
 But treading death's valley of shadows dim, 
 I ask but to hear my mother's old hymn. 
 
 THE MASTER'S WAY 
 
 From age to age the sandled feet 
 Of Christ have downward trod. 
 
 And men have heard his great heart beat 
 And longed to be like God. 
 
 To mountain bases He has passed, 
 From heights, where glory rolls, 
 
 And with a word of power cast 
 The demons from men's souls. 
 
 "The Church has failed the demon leaps, 
 And tears the world," you say? 
 
 Then Christ is stepping down the steeps — 
 He's coming now this way. 
 
 44 
 
TOIL AND TOLL 
 
 That gold is the brightest our labor has won, 
 Through beating of storm and through blinding of 
 sun. 
 
 The island we found in the ocean of thought 
 Lies fruitful and fair as no other is wrought; 
 
 And never a palace so brilliantly shone 
 
 As the two-storied house we moulded in stone, 
 
 God cursed us in kindness that we might know how 
 The sweet of the bread was the sweat of the brow. 
 
 To him who first hailed it, with rapture divine. 
 The star will forever most splendidly shine. 
 
 And dearer than others the Shepherd will hold 
 The lost sheep He found and brought back to the 
 fold. 
 
 Not the harvest of grain from the field of the Lord, 
 But the sheaf we have in it, will be our reward, 
 
 And the richest delight Heaven's music can bring 
 Will come from the voices we taught how to sing. 
 
 Our part in the King's everlasting renown 
 Is the light of the stars we set in His crown ; 
 
 And all that the heavens will yield us of worth 
 Is what we take into them out of the earth. 
 
 45 
 
THE ILLUMINED HOME 
 
 "All the Children of Israel had Light in Their 
 dwellings." — Ex. 10:23 
 
 Home, with all Its silent forces, 
 
 Holy loves, and longings great, 
 Guides the nations in their courses, 
 
 Makes or mars the growing State. 
 
 Stands a nation high in glory. 
 
 Ask her how she grew so fair! 
 And the answer is this story — 
 
 The illumined Home is there 
 
 What though chains of wrong have bound us, 
 
 By the cradle stands the throne, 
 And the illumined homes around us 
 
 Show that God is with His own. 
 
 Party powers may lord it o'er us, 
 
 Gold a passing triumph gain, 
 In the good time just before us 
 
 The illumined home shall reign. 
 
 Trim the lamps, and set them glowing 
 
 In the windows through the night. 
 Out of Egypt we are going 
 
 To the promised land of light. 
 
 SELF 
 
 I love to walk on sunny heights. 
 
 With opening heavens above, 
 And taste of God's supreme delights, 
 
 Transfigured by His love. 
 
 46 
 
SELF SACRIFICE 
 
 I love to walk when Hope departs, 
 And Grief her shroud unrolls, 
 
 To bind up broken, bleeding hearts, 
 And comfort sorrowing souls. 
 
 A LABOR SONG 
 
 We cannot reach the heights afar, 
 
 All patient toil declining; 
 The richest gems deep buried are. 
 
 Reached only after mining. 
 
 The perfect song, immortal, grand. 
 
 Meeting each age to win it. 
 Came forth at no light heart's command. 
 
 The singer's soul was in it. 
 
 After long toil from out the stone 
 
 The angel form comes leaping! 
 The seed in tears must first be sown, 
 
 And then the splendid reaping. 
 
 The wintry winds the gardens smite. 
 All beauty's wealth consuming 
 
 To give birth to the lilies white 
 And set the roses blooming. 
 
 The Cross on which our souls repose 
 
 In faith that fails us never, 
 Out of a broken heart uprose, 
 
 A thing divine forever. 
 
 "My Father worketh hitherto, 
 And I work" is Christ's saying, 
 
 For finished worlds, and souls made new, 
 The price of labor paying. 
 47 
 
THE DAY IS AT HAND 
 
 In darkness we rallied as party and tribe, 
 
 Nor heard the great heart of humanity beat, 
 
 Nor heeded the voice of the Christ, low and 
 sweet. 
 Midst flaming anathema, shibboleth, gibe — 
 
 As one in the light of the morning we meet. 
 God's pity upon us! How much we have erred! 
 How blindly we rushed to the thick of the fight. 
 And wounded our brother: we fought in the night; 
 And men have been slain for the sake of a word 
 
 They spoke in the dark, that was meant for the 
 light. 
 The night is far spent, the day is at hand, 
 
 When down from the well-rounded form of the 
 creed 
 Shall sweep the white robe of the merciful deed, 
 And over the desolate fields of the land 
 
 The sower of kindness shall scatter his seed. 
 In quest of the truth moves the vanguard of souls; 
 
 The myths of the ages are melting away 
 Before the calm gaze of the heart searching day. 
 On temple and altar, on time honored scrolls. 
 The light trembles down. Let us praise; Let us 
 pray. 
 
 SUN AND RAIN 
 
 The sun worked all alone each day; 
 
 The rain stayed far, and far away; 
 
 Then there was trouble ever5rwhere — 
 
 The fields were scorched, the hills were bare. 
 
 To mould the grass, the flow^er, the grain, 
 
 There must be sun, there must be rain. 
 
 What tasks are waiting to be done! 
 If Faith is rain, then Work is sun, 
 
 48 
 
And one alone can never do 
 The deed that calls aloud for two. 
 O'er all the fields of thought and grain 
 There must be sun, there must be ram. 
 
 Man seems sufficient for his hour! 
 What gifts are his, what genius, power ; 
 But where the harvests he has grown. 
 Or empires he has shaped, alone? 
 He works with God, or works In vam ; 
 There must be sun, there must be ram. 
 
 THE DEVIL 
 
 Men don't believe In a Devil now, as their fathers 
 
 used to do; 
 They've forced the door of the broadest creed to 
 
 let his Majesty through. 
 There Isn't a print of his cloven foot, or a fiery 
 
 dart from his bow 
 To be found In earth or air to-day, for the world 
 
 has voted so. 
 
 They say he does not go about as a roaring Hon 
 now. 
 
 But whom shall we hold responsible for the ever- 
 lasting row 
 
 To be heard In home. In church and State, to the 
 earth's remotest bound. 
 
 If the devil, by a unanimous vote. Is nowhere to 
 be found? 
 
 Who Is it mixing the fatal draught that palsies 
 
 heart and brain? 
 Who loads the bier of each passing year with ten 
 
 hundred thousand slain? 
 Who blights the bloom of the land to-day with the 
 
 fiery breath of hell, 
 49 
 
If the devil isn't, and never was, won't somebody 
 rise and tell? 
 
 Who dogs the steps of the toiling Saint, and digs 
 
 the pits for his feet? 
 Who sows the tares in the fields of Time wherever 
 
 God sows his wheat? 
 The devil was voted not to be, and, of course, the 
 
 thing is true, 
 But who is doing the kind of work the Devil 
 
 alone should do? 
 
 Won't somebody step to the front, forthwith, and 
 
 make their bow, and show 
 How the frauds and crimes of a single day spring 
 
 up, we want to know. 
 The Devil was fairly voted out, and, of course, 
 
 the Devil's gone. 
 But simple people would like to know who carries 
 
 his business on. 
 
 THE SINGING PROPHET 
 
 There may come a day like summer, full of Life's 
 impassioned thrills, 
 
 When the ice is in the valleys, and the snow is on 
 the hills; 
 
 In their hives, securely sheltered, wait the cau- 
 tious honey bees. 
 
 Till they hear the robins singing, swinging in the 
 maple trees. 
 
 From the South the winds may wander, warm and 
 wooing, on their way. 
 
 Breathing tones in April weather with the tender- 
 ness of May, 
 
 But the orchards will not waken, not a bud the 
 sunshine sees, 
 
 50 
 
Till the robins have been singing, swinging in the 
 maple trees. 
 
 In the folds the sheep tread restless to and fro 
 the barren floors, 
 
 With a bleating for the pastures, and the joy of 
 out-of-doors. 
 
 And the cattle stalled all winter chafe in stan- 
 chions, ill at ease, 
 
 When they hear the robins singing, swinging in the 
 maple trees. 
 
 Then the sportsman thinks of rifle, fishing outfit, 
 
 laid away. 
 And his dog makes truant visits to the hunting 
 
 grounds each day. 
 Then the Spring flowers spread their blossoms to 
 
 the sunshine and the breeze, 
 When they hear the robin singing, swinging in the 
 
 maple trees. 
 
 There are prophets that deceive us, who pretend to 
 
 know each sign 
 On the book of nature written, when they cannot 
 
 read a line. 
 But we know the Spring is near us, when we hear 
 
 the melodies 
 Of the happy robins singing, swinging in the maple 
 
 trees. 
 
 A GREEN MOUNTAIN SONG 
 
 Here's a song of our Green Mountains, 
 Fair, and loved, and honored State, 
 
 Of her valleys and her fountains. 
 And her sons who made her great. 
 
 Bright will shine her deeds in story, 
 
 51 
 
Evermore her fame will ring; 
 Covered is her flag with glory 
 And her praises will we sing. 
 
 Small she is — a bird can cross her, 
 
 Without pausing in its flight, 
 But she has a compensation — 
 
 Her material, moral height; 
 Standing up amidst the nation 
 
 As once st'^od the kingly Saul, 
 In the presence of the people, 
 
 Head and shoulders over all. 
 Greece was small, and so was Britain, 
 
 But they rose to sovereign sway 
 As Vermont has slowly risen 
 
 To the place she holds to-day. 
 
 In the Senate she has spoken. 
 
 Still is speaking, and her word. 
 Calm, majestic, full of wisdom, 
 
 Carries weight whenever heard. 
 On the bench and in the market 
 
 Pure as flame her actions glow. 
 And what battle-field beheld her 
 
 Turn her back upon the foe? 
 For the nation knows that ever 
 
 In the day of blood and tears 
 She can count upon the valor 
 
 Of her hardy mountaineers, 
 That, in answer to the bugle. 
 
 Forth from mountain and from glen 
 Will be marching to the battle 
 
 Fifty thousand armed men, 
 As they marched, well, all men know it. 
 
 For this fact in history shines. 
 That Vermont is good at plowing 
 
 Stony lands or rebel lines. 
 Sound the bugle, she will hear it, 
 52 
 
And awake to mighty deeds; 
 Lift the banner, she will cheer it, 
 And then follow where it leads. 
 
 It's the best State in the Union 
 
 For the cure of that distress 
 Which a sight of people die of, 
 
 Known as chronic laziness. 
 For her Summer is too fleeting 
 
 For a man to sit at ease, 
 And her Winter such a wild one 
 
 That he's bound to work or freeze. 
 Stamped upon her vales and mountains, 
 
 Clearly seen by every eye. 
 Are these words of solemn import: 
 
 "You must either dig or die!" 
 
 Was there ever breathed from organ, 
 
 Or rehearsed in poet's lines 
 Any music like the sighing 
 
 Of her winds among her pines? 
 Any strain by spirit chanted 
 
 Though a night of happy dreams 
 That surpassed the measures woven 
 
 By the flowing of her streams? 
 There's the spirit of contentment 
 
 In the lowing of her herds; 
 There's a thrill of magic rapture 
 
 In the singing of her birds, 
 And sublime as shout of victors, 
 
 When their foes, defeated, fly. 
 Is the answer of her mountains 
 
 To the thunders of the sky. 
 
 Was there ever laid on canvas, 
 For the love of fame or gold. 
 
 Hues like those which clothe her maples 
 When the year is growing old? 
 53 
 
Softer lights, and richer shadows 
 
 Float before her children's eyes, 
 Than have swept the wolds and waters. 
 
 Underneath Italian skies. 
 Who shall paint her mountains rising 
 
 Up like towers to greet the sun, 
 Or the streams that from their summits 
 
 To their bases leap and run? 
 Who shall tell the strange enchantment 
 
 Of her resurrection hours. 
 When the Springtime rises o'er her. 
 
 Changing snow drifts into flowers? 
 When the woods, all bare at sunset. 
 
 Greet the morning's tender dawn. 
 Like a troop of pleasure seekers 
 
 With their Summer garments on? 
 Angels drifting to her valleys 
 
 Ere the Indian Summer dies 
 Might still dream that they were moving 
 
 In the midst of Paradise. 
 
 Horses? Well, trot out that Morgan, 
 
 Hitch her up and clear the way; 
 See that gait! she'll keep it steady 
 
 Through the longest Summer day, 
 Swing a buggy o'er the mountains, 
 
 Lines drawn tight, or lying slack, 
 Turn at nightfall to the stable. 
 
 Not a wet hair on her back. 
 Little, is she? Well, each finely 
 
 Moulded, supple, nervous limb. 
 It just like the State that raised her. 
 
 Crowded full of go and vim ; 
 And it's safe to say, for traveling 
 
 Over these delightful hills, 
 Nothing better than the Morgan 
 
 Ever stood between two thills. 
 
 54 
 
Maple sugar? she supplies it 
 
 For the East and Western home, 
 Sweeter than the nectar hidden 
 
 In the purest honey comb. 
 Oh, the tinkle of the dropping 
 
 Of the sap into the pails! 
 Was there ever such fantastic 
 
 Music borne upon the gales, 
 Was there ever sight more jolly 
 
 Seen by mortals here below 
 Than a group of lads and lasses 
 
 Eating sugar upon snow? 
 
 There's her butter — just look at it! 
 
 Yellow as her goldenrod; 
 Colored? Yes, with colors nature 
 
 Mixed up with her virgin sod. 
 Bring that Jersey — milk a pailful, 
 
 And the cream at once will rise. 
 To the surface, rich and yellow, 
 
 While you look, before your eyes. 
 Then, the women are such marvels. 
 
 Made of such superior parts. 
 That the butter, when they touch it, 
 
 Takes the flavor of their hearts; 
 Every time they turn it over. 
 
 Kneed it up, or toss it round, 
 Something seems to make it worth 
 
 Another cent or two a pound. 
 See it ready for the market, 
 
 Wrapped in snow^-white linen bands. 
 And you'll say that it was moulded 
 
 By the daintiest of hands. 
 
 Freedom's soul is in the sighing 
 
 Of her pines o'er mountains green, 
 And the smile of peace is lying 
 
 55 
 
On her vales that sweep between. 
 Soft the skies that bend above her, 
 
 Dear the homes that round her cling: 
 Old Vermont we love, we love her, 
 
 And her praises will we sing. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 
 
 The eagle came out of his shell at a tap from Wash- 
 ington's sword. 
 
 When the banner of old King George down at 
 Yorktown had been lowered. 
 
 He was pin-feathered, downy, rude, and his head 
 was bald as a bell — 
 
 Just the queerest of looking birds that ever came 
 out of a shell. 
 
 He looked up at the sun, nor blinked, glanced at 
 North, South, East and West, 
 
 While the wind from all quarters came and played 
 with the down on his breast. 
 
 George Washington said: — "He is strong!" Pat- 
 rick Henry said: — "He is game!" 
 
 Then Jefferson wrote out his rights, and he signed 
 the eagle's name. 
 
 How the old world laughed when it heard, that 
 
 away in the Western clime, 
 A Republican breed of bird had stepped out from 
 
 the shell of Time. 
 Some said: — "Let us clip his broad wings!" but 
 
 others said : — "Let him alone. 
 For what is a land without kings, and a nation 
 
 without a throne?" 
 But all w^ere agreed he may fly till a few troubled 
 
 years have run. 
 And then he will sicken and die as birds of that 
 
 breed have done. 
 
 56 
 
Yet the wisest of prophets may err, as prophets 
 have erred before, . 
 
 For that bird is not only alive, but is just begin- 
 ning to soar. 
 
 On a later day in the South rose a bird of another 
 
 breed, 
 With wings that were black as the night; and a 
 
 scream to all discord keyed. 
 Then the bird from the Union nest answered back 
 
 from his eyrie high: 
 "One eagle, unchallenged, alone, shall over this 
 
 continent fly!" 
 They met where the storm winds blew; they bat- 
 tled like fiendish things; 
 And the land was darkened four years with the 
 
 shadow of eagles' wings. 
 Then the victor alone was seen, perched above the 
 
 stripes and stars, 
 In his talons and beak two wings, and some shreds 
 
 of a flag with bars. 
 
 As he sat on a rock one day, and heard the boom- 
 ing of guns. 
 He said:— "In Manila Bay is one of my Green 
 
 Mountain sons, ^ c • ' 
 
 George Dewey, just hammering holes into Spain s 
 
 old-fashioned fleet!" — 
 Then the fire leaped out of his eye, and his heart had 
 
 a swifter beat — . 
 
 Up he rose on his broad, brave wings, took a circle 
 
 or two in the height. 
 Then away over seas sailed he, the American eagle 
 
 In flight,— 
 Paused above the Philippines and screamed :^^ 
 
 "Hold everything, George, you can get! 
 And the captain saluted and answered, the Green 
 
 Mountain way: — "You bet!" 
 57 
 
If the Old World knows what is best it will let that 
 
 eagle alone, 
 And it won't throw stones at his nest, — the stars 
 
 and stripes he has flown, — 
 Or rufl^e his feathers the least, for a strange fire 
 
 glints in his eye, 
 And his talons are tipped with steel, and that eagle 
 
 is bound to fly. 
 
 UNCLE BEN 
 
 Uncle Ben, I met him early in my pastoral pur- 
 suits. 
 Typical Vermonter, standing straight, and six feet 
 
 out of boots. 
 I was thirty, he was eighty, but this single sign 
 
 appeared 
 Of Time's wasting work — the whiteness of his 
 
 flowing locks and beard. 
 At the close of my first sermon, with a friendly 
 
 hand and smile, 
 By the altar rails he met me, led me down the 
 
 center aisle. 
 Introduced me to the people, praised the pastors 
 
 gone before, 
 Told me how and where to find him as we parted 
 
 at the door. 
 "Go up by the village school house, take the first 
 
 road to your right; 
 Keep on till you pass three houses, two are brown 
 
 and one is white. 
 When you reach the signboard standing just beyond 
 
 the waterbox. 
 Turn sharp to your left hand leaving on your right 
 
 a ledge of rocks; 
 Go straight down the hill, and follow, still your 
 
 left, a shady lane, 
 
 58 
 
Leave a clearing on your right hand — there — I 
 
 guess I've made It plain. 
 Keep on through a sugar orchard, not the best of 
 
 roads, and then, 
 Right before you stands a farm house — I live there 
 
 —I'm Uncle Ben." 
 Going out I met my brother half-way through the 
 
 shady lane, 
 Leading at his side a Morgan, w^ith his hand thrust 
 
 through her mane. 
 ''Handsome horse, she's been," I ventured, after 
 
 greeting, to remark. 
 And his clear, blue eye responded in an instant 
 
 v^^Ith a spark 
 Of electric fire, and, smiling, he said: — "Parson, 
 
 walk with me 
 To the pasture, just beyond us, then go home and 
 
 stop to tea." 
 I assented; then he gossiped: "This old creature's 
 
 name is Fan. 
 Morgan horses come the nearest in intelligence to 
 
 man. 
 I must tell you something, parson, since you kind 
 
 of like the mare, 
 What occurred one fall as I was driving out to 
 
 see our county fair. 
 Fan was trotting gently onward; I was taking in 
 
 the scene; 
 Nature never looked so lovely, never seemed so 
 
 sweet and clean. 
 Round the hills a purple splendor like an ocean 
 
 seemed to float, 
 And the maple groves stood wearing Joseph's many- 
 colored coat. 
 Presently a team o'ertook us, and I heard the driver 
 
 cry — 
 In a rude, sarcastic manner, "Now, old man, let us 
 
 go by!" 
 
 59 
 
Looking round I saw two dudish, pert, young fel- 
 lows, with a black. 
 High stepping, stylish creature, they could hardly 
 
 hold him back. 
 I was just about to give them all they wanted of 
 
 the way, 
 When "old fossil," said the other, "we can't take 
 
 your dust to-day." 
 "Maybe not," I said: he answered, "We don't ride 
 
 behind the heels 
 Of your old Green Mountain creepers, turn out, 
 
 or off comes your wheels." 
 I looked back at those two dandies, and said, meek- 
 ly: — ''Is that sof" 
 Turned to Fan; took up the ribbons, uttered one 
 
 short message — "Go!" 
 As the tiger bounds elated in the forest on the 
 
 prey; 
 As the floods rush through the meadows when the 
 
 milldam breaks away. 
 So this Morgan, bless her, straightened, at one 
 
 bound, and struck a pace 
 That had heaps of business in it, and we settled 
 
 down to race. 
 Road was full of teams and people, but they heard 
 
 the noise and drew 
 Up against the wayside fences, making room to let 
 
 us through. 
 How they cheered as we shot past them — women 
 
 cheered as well as men — 
 I could hear their voices shouting — "Let her out! 
 
 Go, Uncle Ben!" 
 And I went. Fan understood it; took the bit 
 
 right in her teeth 
 While the trees and fences round us, and the firm 
 
 ground underneath 
 
 60 
 
Flew behind us. Dogs were barking, geese were 
 
 cackling, fowls flew 
 High above the barnyard fences, dust in clouds 
 
 behind us blew. 
 That was traveling, parson, traveling; every buckle, 
 
 girth and strap 
 Seemed alive. Fan's neck extended, and her tail 
 
 laid in my lap. 
 Over hilltops, down through hollows, crossing 
 
 bridges with a bound, 
 And the wheels went so like lightning that they 
 
 hardly touched the ground. 
 Well, I'm most ashamed to tell it, but Fan went 
 
 at such a rate 
 That I thought it best to head her for the course, 
 
 straight through the gate. 
 And so calm her down and cool her, get her sobered, 
 
 well in hand. 
 But the horses were just starting as I reached the 
 
 judges' stand. 
 And the folks that 'tend the races had the biggest 
 
 kind of show. 
 For the instant that the starter shouted out the mes- 
 sage— "Go!" 
 Fan was in it; couldn't stop her, and the jockeys 
 
 in their gigs 
 With their whips adorned with ribbons, in their 
 
 reg'lar racing rigs. 
 Whipped and shouted, but, no matter, I was lead- 
 ing with the mare 
 That had never struck a hoof upon a race course 
 
 at a Fair. 
 Don't believe in racing, parson, never did, but this 
 
 was one 
 Of the purest of surprises, and the people had the 
 
 fun. 
 There I was, old-fashioned buggy, old straw hat, 
 
 without a whip, 
 
 6i 
 
Leading round the whole procession at a clean two- 
 twenty clip. 
 How the people cheered and shouted — ''Go in 
 
 hayseed: you'll win;" 
 And I w^ent in; couldn't help it: Fan was going 
 
 then like sin, 
 With that old Green Mountain Morgan, little 
 
 cyclone sort of pace, 
 Its superlative abandon, and its fascinating grace. 
 But the jockeys entered protest, for they saw that 
 
 they were beat. 
 I was not a reg'lar entry, and could trot no other 
 
 heat. 
 I was glad of the conclusion, and proceeded to ex- 
 plain, 
 But the crowd broke into cheering, and the band 
 
 struck up a strain ; 
 So we left the course with honor. Fan and I, but, 
 
 parson, just 
 Beyond the gate those dandies with a horse all foam 
 
 and dust. 
 Limped beside us, and I raised my hat, and asked, 
 
 in a cool way — 
 *'How is business, boys, progressing, taking wheels 
 
 off, this fine day?" 
 But they didn't seem to hear me ; their attention had 
 
 been led 
 To some interesting object, — they were looking 
 
 straight ahead. 
 When they pass Green Mountain Morgans, with 
 
 our sort of hills to climb. 
 They must get up pretty early, and be busy all the 
 
 time. 
 Here's the pasture, parson, drop a bar dow^n, two 
 
 or three. 
 Thanks ! Go, Fan ! Just see her, parson ; come 
 
 home now, and stay to tea." 
 
 62 
 
OBEDIENCE 
 
 Speak the word God bids thee, 
 
 No other word can reach 
 The hearts that wait in silence 
 
 The coming of thy speech. 
 
 Sing the song God bids thee, 
 
 The heart of this world-throng 
 
 Needs for its perfect solace 
 The music of thy song. 
 
 Do the work God bids thee; 
 
 One, only one still loom, 
 Awaits thy touch and tending 
 
 In all this lower room. 
 
 READING THE APPOINTMENTS 
 
 I was sitting in a wing-slip, close beside the altar- 
 rail. 
 
 When the Bishop came in softly, with a face serene, 
 but pale. 
 
 And a silence indescribably pathetic in its power, 
 
 Such as might have reigned in Heaven through 
 that "space of half an hour," 
 
 Rested on that whole assembly as the Bishop rose 
 and said: 
 
 "All the business being finished the appointments 
 will be read." 
 
 Not as one who handles lightly merchandise of lit- 
 tle worth, 
 
 But as dealing with the richest, most important 
 things on earth. 
 
 In the fellowship of Jesus, with the failings of a 
 man, — 
 
 The good Bishop asked forebearance, — he had done 
 his best to plan 
 
 63 
 
For the glory of his Master, trusting Him to guide 
 
 his pen, 
 Without prejudice or favor — and the preachers 
 
 cried — "Amen." 
 "Beulah Mountains" — "Henry Singer" — happy peo- 
 ple, happy priest, 
 On the dainties of the gospel through the changing 
 
 year to feast. 
 Not a church trial ever vexed them, all their preach- 
 ers stay three years, 
 And depart amidst a tempest of the purest kind of 
 
 tears. 
 "Troubled Waters — Nathan Peaceful" — how that 
 
 saintly face grew red, 
 How the tears streamed through his fingers as he 
 
 held his swimming head, 
 But his wife stopped dow^n and whispered — what 
 
 sweet message did she bear? 
 For he turned with face transfigured as upon some 
 
 mount of prayer. 
 Swift as thought in highest action, sorrow passed 
 
 and gladness came. 
 At some wondrous strain of music breaking forth 
 
 from Jesus' name. 
 "Holy Rapture," said the Bishop, "I have left to 
 
 be supplied," 
 And I thought — you couldn't fill It Mr. Bishop, if 
 
 you tried. 
 For an angel duly transferred to this conference be- 
 low 
 Wouldn't know one half the wonders that those 
 
 blessed people know. 
 They would note some strain of discord though 
 
 he sang as Heaven sings. 
 And discover some shortcomings in the feathers of 
 
 his wings. 
 "Grand Endeavor — Jonas Laggard" — blessed be 
 
 the Lord, thought L 
 
 IT 64 
 
They have put that Brother Laggard where he has 
 
 to work or die. 
 For the church at Grand Endeavor, with its energy 
 
 and prayer, 
 Will transform him to a hero or just drive him to 
 
 despair. 
 If his trumpet lacks the vigor of the gospel's charm- 
 ing sound 
 They will start a big revival and forget that he is 
 
 round. 
 "Union Furnace — Solon Trimmer" — what a Bishop 
 
 that must be! 
 They have got the kind of preachers who will suit 
 
 them to a T. 
 Metho. — Congo. — Baptist — Uni. — in one nature 
 
 blithe and bland. 
 Fire or water, hell or heaven, always ready on de- 
 mand. 
 "Consecration — Jacob Faithful" — hand in hand the 
 
 two will go. 
 Through the years before them bringing heavenly 
 
 life to earth below. 
 "Greenland Corners — Peter Wholesoul" — but he 
 
 lost his self-control, 
 Buttoned up his coat as if he felt a cold wind strike 
 
 his soul. 
 Saw the dreary path before him, drew a deep 
 
 breath, knit his brows, 
 Then concluded to be faithful to his ordination 
 
 vows. 
 In the front pew sat the fathers, hair as white as 
 
 driven snow — 
 As the Bishop read appointments they had filled 
 
 long years ago, 
 Tender memories rushed upon them, life revived in 
 
 heart and brain. 
 Till it seemed that they could travel their old cir- 
 cuits o'er again. 
 
 65 
 
"Happy Haven — Joseph Restful" — how the joy 
 
 shone in his face 
 At the thought of being pastor for three years in 
 
 such a place ! 
 "Hard-as-Granite — Ephraim Smasher" — there the 
 
 stewards sat in a row, 
 And they didn't want that Smasher, and he didn't 
 
 want to go, 
 "Drowsy Hollow — Israel Wakim" — he is sent to 
 
 sow and reap 
 Where the congregations gather in the interests of 
 
 sleep. 
 As they sit on Sabbath mornings in their softly 
 
 cushioned pews 
 They begin to make arrangements for their regular 
 
 weekly snooze. 
 Through the prayer a dimness gathers over every 
 
 mortal eye: 
 Through the reading of the scriptures they begin 
 
 to droop and sigh; 
 In the hymn before the sermon, with its music 
 
 grand and sweet, 
 They put forth one mighty effort to be seen upon 
 
 their feet. 
 Then amidst the sermon throbbing with the gos- 
 pels sweetest sound, 
 They sink down in deepest slumber and are nodding 
 
 all around. 
 But I guess that Brother Wakim, on the first 
 
 bright Sabbath day, 
 When he preaches to that people, and is heard a 
 
 mile away, 
 Will defy both saint and sinner on a breast to lay 
 
 a chin 
 Till he strikes the strains of "lastly," and I'll war- 
 rant him to win. 
 For by all who ever heard him it is confidently 
 
 said 
 
 66 
 
If 'twere possible to mortal he would wake the very 
 dead. 
 
 Then a mist came o'er my vision, as the Bishop 
 still read on, 
 
 And the veil that hides the future for a moment 
 was withdrawn — 
 
 For I saw the world's Redeemer far above the Bis- 
 hop stand, 
 
 On his head a crown of glory, and a long roll in 
 his hand — 
 
 Round His throne a countless number of the ran- 
 somed, listening, pressed, — 
 
 He was stationing His preachers in the city of the 
 Blest 
 
 Some whose names were most familiar, known and 
 reverenced by all, 
 
 Went down to the smaller mansions back against 
 the city wall. 
 
 One who took the poorest churches, miles away from 
 crowds and cars, 
 
 Went up to a throne of splendor with a crown 
 ablaze with stars. 
 
 How the angels sang to greet him, how the Mas- 
 ter cried — "Well done" — 
 
 While the preacher blushed and wondered where 
 he had such glory won. 
 
 Some whose speech on earth was simple, with no 
 arguments but tears. 
 
 Nothing novel in their sermons for fastidious, itch- 
 ing ears. 
 
 Coldly welcomed by the churches, counted burden- 
 some by all. 
 
 Went up to the royal mansions, and were neighbors 
 to Saint Paul. 
 
 Soon the Master called a woman, only known here 
 in the strife 
 
 67 
 
By her quiet, gentle nature, though a famous preach- 
 er's wife. 
 
 Praised and blest her for the harvest she had gar- 
 neied in the sky. 
 
 But she meekly turned and answered — " 'twas my 
 husband. Lord, not I." 
 
 "Yes," the Master said, "his talents were as stars 
 that glow and shine 
 
 But thy faith gave them their virtue, and the glory, 
 child, is thine!" 
 
 Then a lame girl — I had known her — heard her 
 name called with surprise. 
 
 There was trembling in her bosom, there was won- 
 der in her eyes. 
 
 "I was nothing but a cripple, gleaned in no wide 
 field, my King, 
 
 Only sat a silent sufferer 'neath the shadow of 
 thy wing!" 
 
 "Thou hast been a mighty preacher, and the hearts 
 of many stirred 
 
 To devotion by they patience without uttering a 
 word ;" 
 
 Said the Master, and the maiden to his side with 
 wonder pressed — 
 
 Christ was stationing His preachers in the City of 
 the Blest, 
 
 And the harp strings of the angels linked their 
 names to sweetest praise 
 
 Whom the world has passed unnoticed in the blind- 
 ness of its ways. 
 
 I was still intently gazing on that scene, beyond the 
 stars, 
 
 When I saw the conference leaving and I started 
 for the cars. 
 
 68 
 
THE PAINTERS 
 
 A painter sat at his task one day, 
 
 And the picture grew apace; 
 I saw the lights and the shadows play 
 
 As he wrought upon his face; 
 For light and shadow, in strange accord, 
 
 Moved under his skillful touch; 
 He finished his task, and for reward 
 
 The people applauded much. 
 
 A Painter sits in the open space, 
 
 And He works day after day. 
 We cannot see if upon His face 
 
 The lights and the shadows play; 
 But, lo! at the touch of the brush of God. 
 
 The lights and the shadows meet ; 
 And all the universe will applaud 
 
 When the picture is complete. 
 
 THE WOOING, WARNING CHRIST 
 
 The voice that comes across the sea. 
 The Master's voice from Galilee, 
 Oh, how it warns and how it woos, 
 Its accents heal, its accents bruise; 
 The wooing and the warning meet 
 To make the Master's word complete. 
 
 We hear Him woo with matchless grace. 
 But when we look Him in the face 
 "If thou wouldst my disciple be 
 Leave all," He cries, "and follow me." 
 He woos to warn, and warns to woo 
 A band of soldiers tried and true. 
 
 The desolating Winter moans 
 
 Through all the Master's magic tones; 
 
 69 
 
Lay His most gracious message bare, 
 And, lo, the Cross is hiding there. 
 He offers Life, and the same breath 
 Is burdened with the dust of death. 
 
 A two-fold truth the Master tells — 
 Now he attracts, now He repels. 
 Dispensing gifts divine and free, 
 And then demanding poverty. 
 O, winsome Christ, how fair thou art! 
 O, sovereign searcher of the heart! 
 
 THE GOD OF ANOTHER CHANCE 
 
 A man named Peter stumbled bad. 
 Lost all the love he ever had. 
 Fouled his own soul's divinest spring. 
 Cursed, swore, and all that sort of thing; 
 He got another chance, and then 
 Reached the far goal of Godlike men. 
 
 Your boy goes wrong, the same as he 
 Who fed swine in the far country; 
 He seems beyond the utmost reach 
 Of hearts that pray, of lips that preach. 
 Give him another chance, and see 
 How beautiful his life may be. 
 
 Paul cast the young man, Mark, aside, 
 
 But Barnabas his metal tried. 
 
 Called out his courage, roused his vim, 
 
 And made a splendid man of him. 
 
 Then Paul, near death, longed for one glance 
 
 At Mark, who had another chance. 
 
 Far-fallen souls, rise up, advance, 
 '^"^^ is the God of one more chance. 
 
 70 
 
The trees have other summers yet, 
 New mornings follow suns that set. 
 And God's own son found on his way 
 Through Death, the new, fair Easter day. 
 
 EASTER HYMNS OF HOPE 
 
 "If it were not so, I would have told you." 
 
 We seem to walk the world alone, 
 
 Environed by strange mysteries. 
 And yet we hope to find our own 
 
 Beyond the hills, beyond the seas. 
 
 We cannot see Life's distant goals. 
 For veils of mist hang everywhere, 
 
 But there are longings in our souls. 
 And God himself hath set them there. 
 
 The signs of Nature plainly say, 
 
 And that divinest Book of all ; 
 "We die to live again some day, 
 
 Or else we never die at all." 
 
 One came and went who gave no heed 
 To doubt and fear in angry strife: 
 
 He was Himself what we most need. 
 The Resurrection and the Life. 
 
 The grace of Love had made Him wise; 
 
 His speech had no uncertain tone; 
 There were no mists before His eyes; 
 
 He saw so far — He must have known. 
 
 For faithless eyes no light He shed ; 
 He hushed the curious, awed the bold ; 
 71 
 
But told He not all when he said : 
 "Were it not so I would have told?" 
 
 II 
 
 'A young man sitting . . . clothed in a long, 
 white garment** 
 
 A young man sitting in a tomb, 
 That is the last clear sign of death, 
 
 A flower of Hope, whose fadeless bloom 
 Sweetens the wide world with its breath. 
 
 A young man sitting clothed in white 
 Amidst the shadows dark and deep 
 
 Keeps watch throughout the brief, still night, 
 Where our beloved take their sleep. 
 
 Then death is but the border line 
 
 Dividing realms fair and more fair — 
 
 This is the meaning and the sign 
 
 Of strong young manhood sitting there. 
 
 The glow of youth is on his brow, 
 
 A fadeless lustre in his eyes. 
 He goes at morn — 'tis breaking now — 
 
 Back with our own to Paradise 
 
 For where the Christ found brief repose 
 On the rough road to His high goal, 
 
 He left behind Him, when He rose. 
 The angel Hope, for every soul. 
 
 An angel in the tomb we dread! 
 
 This is the truth the vision brings: 
 Along the darkest paths we tread, 
 
 We find the sweetest, brightest things. 
 
 72 
 
Ill 
 
 The flowers appear on the earth . . . the 
 time of the singing of birds is come.'* 
 
 I saw wise Nature bury deep 
 
 Her faded flowers, her shriveled leaves, 
 
 Refusing in her heart to keep 
 
 One thought of aught that pains or grieves. 
 
 She said: "Naught ends that is begun:" 
 Then stood, a weaver, at Life's loom. 
 
 And with the South wind and the sun 
 She blotted out the past with bloom. 
 
 She taught her birds their gladdest strain ; 
 
 No sorrow lingered in her eyes; 
 While over all she arched again 
 
 The splendor of her summer skies. 
 
 The blight of winter lingered long; 
 
 His sepulchre was deep and wide; 
 She rose, and filled the world with song. 
 
 As though no flower had ever died. 
 
 And thus she holds the mellow tone 
 
 Of youth, through all the changing years: 
 
 Forgetting rude winds that have blown. 
 And making rainbows out of tears. 
 
 IV 
 
 "Except I see . . . / will not believe.'* 
 
 Friend Thomas, there are eyes that see 
 Far deeper than the eyes of sense: 
 
 73 
 
To Love there is no mystery, 
 
 And Faith hath blessed recompense. 
 
 To see His hands, His feet. His side, 
 
 Who outward swung death's massive door, 
 
 To us, in these late days denied, 
 Gives but the joy of seeing more. 
 
 For souls that feel to-day His hand, 
 The healing of His wounded side. 
 
 And His sweet nearness understand. 
 Know that He surely lives who died. 
 
 Thanks, Thomas, for thine hour of doubt, 
 The firm demand to touch and see, 
 
 For we had been less sure without 
 The help that comes to us from thee. 
 
 THE GOOD SAMARITAN 
 
 Or, Secret Life the True Measure of Character 
 
 Scene — The lonely road of eighteen miles between 
 Jerusalem and Jericho. 
 
 Actors — Four robbers, a Jew, Priest, Levite, Sa- 
 maritan. 
 
 Just what we do, unbiased, free. 
 Just what we are where none can see 
 On lonely paths we travel o'er, 
 Just that we are, and nothing more. 
 Our public acts the world may scan. 
 The secret life reveals the man. 
 
 Here, far away from man's abode, 
 Upon this lonely mountain road 
 Between two noble cities laid, 
 
 74 
 
Men, as they are, will be displayed. 
 
 Above — Jerusalem ; below — 
 
 The walls of ancient Jericho, 
 
 With eighteen miles of road between — 
 
 The wildest, loneliest ever seen, 
 
 As if the sea at some God-word 
 
 Had turned to stone and never stirr'd. 
 
 Four men, well dressed, are passing now; 
 They raise their hats, full low they bow: 
 Their forms such finished grace display, 
 Sons of some noble house are they. 
 Now far up on the rocky height 
 A lonely traveller comes in sight. 
 Slowly he threads his winding way; 
 His form is bent, his beard is grey. 
 The locks that o'er his shoulders flow 
 Are white as Hermon's driven snow. 
 Nearer he draws! a noble face. 
 Some patriarch of that favored race 
 Which gave the Christ; a wealthy Jew: 
 And on he passes from our view. 
 
 Hush! there's a cry! a w^ail! a shriek! 
 
 The strong are striking down the weak! 
 
 And there the victim from the rocks 
 
 Is struggling, sinking 'neath the shocks 
 
 Of brutal blows; he falls at last; 
 
 And lo! the well dressed men that passed 
 
 Have robbed the Jew in open day 
 
 And left him bleeding by the way. 
 
 A man may wear a fine black coat. 
 
 Salute you well, then cut your throat. 
 
 The biggest rascals in the land 
 
 Will move with manners the most bland. 
 
 And pious stories glibly tell: 
 
 They look like heaven, and act like — well, 
 
 7$ 
 
A lonely place, no eyes about, 
 Will find that sort of people out. 
 Jerusalem and Jericho 
 The public life may read and know, 
 But on the lonely roads between 
 The measure of the soul is seen. 
 
 Here comes a Priest, a man of God, 
 
 With sympathies both deep and broad, 
 
 A love that knows nor race nor creed, 
 
 Call to him, Jew! he will give heed! 
 
 The moans which tell of thy distress. 
 
 The open wound, thy nakedness. 
 
 Will move the man that loves to pray — 
 
 Call to him, Jew, across the way. 
 
 Call louder! holy themes and high 
 
 Engage his thoughts. He's passing by! 
 
 Saw you the look of high disdain 
 
 That answered to the cry of pain! 
 
 The air of awful saintliness 
 
 With which he gathered us his dress, 
 
 Acting, as plain as speech could be, 
 
 "You'd better die than trouble me!" 
 
 The climber of grand altar stairs. 
 
 The maker of unending prayers. 
 
 The keeper of all heavenly balms. 
 
 The singer of seraphic psalms. 
 
 The friend of souls, their hope, their guide. 
 
 He passes by the other side. 
 
 If we have love, beyond a doubt 
 
 A dying man will call it out. 
 
 A lion, brute, will heed the yelp 
 
 And anguish of its wounded whelp, 
 
 And soulless bird that sings and flies 
 
 Will answer to its own that cries. 
 
 What made the priest, that man of prayer 
 
 Pass by, his nose up in the air? 
 
 76 
 
He wrought his noble actfons when 
 
 They could be seen and praised of men. 
 
 That bleeding Jew, in this lone place 
 
 Has torn the mask from ofi his face. 
 
 In spacious temples he was loud 
 
 And lacrymose before a crowd, 
 
 He gave munificently where 
 
 The throng would cry out ''there, look there!" 
 
 He seemed to have a generous heart 
 
 When he was acting out a part 
 
 In some fine play; but that lone Jew 
 
 Has laid him bare and looked him through. 
 
 He would have seen that bleeding brow 
 
 Up in Jerusalem just now; 
 
 He would have heard that cry of woe 
 
 Along the streets of Jericho, 
 
 And helped his brother like a God, v 
 
 With tongues to tell the deed abroad; \ 
 
 But here, where none stand by to see. 
 
 No tongue, hands, eyes or heart has he. 
 
 His life to low, self-seeking, ran. 
 
 He was a priest, but not a man. 
 
 A scandal to the name he bears. 
 
 Just a machine for making prayers. 
 
 We may be great where men can praise, 
 
 What are we on life's lonely ways? 
 
 The whispered word of hopeful cheer, 
 
 The silent falling of a tear. 
 
 The friendly hand, the generous deed, 
 
 Known only to the heart of need. 
 
 Show, clearer than a dress parade. 
 
 The stuff of which our souls are made. 
 
 Here comes another of his kind. 
 But smaller, and so walks behind, 
 A Levite (would the tribe had ceased), 
 Apeing the manners of the priest; 
 Puts on the same "don't-touch-me" look, 
 77 
 
Takes just the gait his master took, 
 
 Treads in his track where ere it goes, 
 
 The same precisely, heels and toes. 
 
 No ! he is crossing to the place 
 
 Where the Jew lies; looks in his face, 
 
 Walks round him, views each wounded limb. 
 
 Stares in the eyes fast growing dim, 
 
 Treats him as so much broken clay. 
 
 Then pigeon-toes himself away. 
 
 This doer of religious chores 
 
 Inside of Temple hours and doors. 
 
 Who held religion as a trade 
 
 And only worked it when it paid, 
 
 No thought had he of sw^oons or pains, 
 
 But simply looked on the remains, 
 
 As people walk our dead about 
 
 To see if they are well laid out. 
 
 He served his Maker by the piece 
 
 In handling pots and blood and grease, 
 
 And having dressed the last beasts limb, 
 
 Nor God nor man had claims on him; 
 
 He loosed himself from holy things 
 
 When he untied his apron strings. 
 
 Poor Jew, thy sorrows have not ceased. 
 For riding slowly on his breast. 
 Comes one who bears thy fiercest ban. 
 The loathed and lost Samaritan, 
 The scum and refuse of all lands — 
 Cover thy face up with thy hands! 
 Upon thy nation and thy tribe 
 He will heap jest and scatter gibe. 
 Hurl curses at thy Holy Place, 
 And call thee dog right to thy face, 
 Answer thy cries with oath and hiss — 
 Would God that thou hadst died ere this! 
 He lingers: it is but to kill! 
 Beside the Jew the beast stands still! 
 78 
 
Above the wounded, dying man, 
 Leans that abhorred Samaritan. 
 He seeks the knife beneath his cloak 
 That carries death in one swift stroke; 
 He draws it! no! that's oil! that's wine! 
 He looks like love, heaven-born, divine, 
 Big tears are streaming down his cheeks, 
 How tender are the words he speaks, — 
 "My brother, in distress thou art; 
 I am thy brother; here's my heart; 
 Thy wounds shall drink my oil, my wine, 
 Then on this humble beast of mine 
 To a near inn safe thou shalt ride. 
 And I will walk close at thy side." 
 
 Take home the lesson as ye can. 
 The secret life reveals the man. 
 
 How we have erred in judgment all. 
 Calling that great which is so small. 
 Calling that low which is so high 
 And Godlike, it can never die. 
 We see, but only see in part. 
 We see the face, but not the heart — 
 Beneath some cursed and hated name 
 May sweep a soul with love aflame. 
 And priestly robes may hide a gaunt. 
 Disfigured soul, all froth and cant. 
 
 Samaritan, well named the Good, 
 
 We hail thy sign of brotherhood, 
 
 It breathes through every cry of need. 
 
 And answers in each loving deed. 
 
 It knows nor sect nor creed nor race, 
 
 But shines in every human face. 
 
 Links North to South and East to West, 
 
 And throbs in every human breast. 
 
 79 
 
Deep as the soul of man it goes, 
 Wide as his sympathies it flows, 
 High as his hopes, deep as his fears, 
 Awakening joys, suppressing tears, 
 And in the face of clique and clan 
 Proclaims the Brotherhood of Man. 
 
 ONLY THE BEAUTIFUL ABIDES 
 
 We soon forget the snow 
 Amidst the Summer's glow, 
 And in the morning light 
 Forgotten is the night. 
 
 The wildest storm no trace 
 Leaves on the ocean's face. 
 The blight of wintry hours 
 Spring hides beneath her flowers. 
 
 All dark, unlovely things 
 Are borne away on wings. 
 Or swiftly rushing tides — 
 The beautiful abides. 
 
 The universe takes care 
 Of all things true and fair. 
 Only the taint, the lie, 
 Can be destroyed, or die. 
 
 OUR BETHLEHEMS 
 
 Oh, not alone in some far clime 
 The plains of Bethlehem lie, 
 
 Or in some distant night of time 
 Came angels from the sky. 
 
 80 
 
Whenever Christ is born again 
 
 In human hearts, a King, 
 There stretches Bethlehem's star-lit plain, 
 
 And there the angels sing. 
 
 And there are shepherds tending still 
 
 The flocks of souls by night. 
 And leading them with love's rare skill 
 
 Toward the morning light. 
 
 These men hear through midnights deep 
 
 The old glad tidings ring; 
 And they who keep the Father's sheep 
 
 Still hear the angels sing. 
 
 So ever more the wide world o'er 
 
 Divine birth measures roll. 
 And Bethlehem's plain lies near the door 
 
 Of every shepherd soul. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 When alien winds on Summer blew. 
 
 To sheltered vales went he. 
 As Jesus from His foes withdrew 
 To quiet Bethany. 
 
 Around him, as around the Lord, 
 His works of love were spread; 
 
 Some forms of life to health restored, 
 And some raised from the dead. 
 
 The Indian Summer saw with pain 
 
 Her Master's end was near. 
 And brought from mountain, sea and plain, 
 
 The beauty of the year; 
 
 8i 
 
And gave to Summer as he lay, 
 
 In balm and sunshine poured, 
 Anointment for his burial day. 
 
 As Mary did her Lord. 
 
 Then forth the fragrance, wave on wave, 
 
 Burst, like a spirit freed; 
 And gracious words the Summer gave 
 
 The doer and the deed. 
 
 The autumn winds, chagrined at this, 
 
 Esteeming all as loss, 
 Betrayed the Summer with a kiss. 
 
 And Winter reared his cross. 
 
 THE ONE CLEAR NOTE OF LIFE 
 
 Above the world's discordant strife, 
 
 Its tumult and uproar, 
 The one clear note of ageless Life, 
 
 Is gladness evermore. 
 
 The measured movement of all things. 
 
 Life's rhythmic flow, serene. 
 Declare that something flutes and sings 
 
 Behind the starry screen. 
 
 It maybe, just beyond our sense 
 
 Of hearing, there are choirs, 
 And orchestras divine, from whence 
 
 Float strains of lutes and lyres. 
 
 The streams have heard them as they run 
 Through meadows, over plains. 
 
 And earth, and air, and star, and sun. 
 Seem moving to the strains. 
 
 82 
 
The bee goes humming, humming by, 
 
 Repeating some rare rune, 
 And all wings beautiful that fly 
 
 Keep time with some glad tune. 
 
 The winds, they never sigh, they sing. 
 
 To measures rich and rare; 
 Toil's belted wheels in rhythm swing 
 
 To music in the air. 
 
 O, listen to thine own heart-beat. 
 My friend, its throbbings blend 
 
 With some life-music, grand and sweet, 
 Thou canst not comprehend. 
 
 What joys the happy children know, 
 Their eyes, how sparkling bright; 
 
 They live the nearest to the flow 
 Of streams of song and light 
 
 A dying man across the street. 
 Slow drifting from Time's shore, 
 
 Heard melodies surpassing sweet 
 He never heard before. 
 
 A splendor glorified his face, 
 
 And wonder filled his eyes; 
 He must have seen some blessed place — 
 
 Death's beautiful surprise. 
 
 And one walked once in Galilee, 
 To whom high joy was given; 
 
 His ears could hear: His eyes could see. 
 On earth He lived in heaven. 
 
 His Father spoke to Him one day, 
 That His heart might not break: 
 
 83 
 
"It thundered!" some were heard to say; 
 Some said: "An angel spake!" 
 
 Come, friend, let us return and know- 
 Life's deep, unsaddened word. 
 
 And with the Christ through uplands go. 
 And hear what He once heard. 
 
 For spite of tear and sigh and moan, 
 
 All discords that annoy. 
 The one clear, everlasting tone 
 
 Of Life, is Joy — pure Joy. 
 
 MANHOOD 
 
 The star must long in darkness lie 
 Before it glitters in the sky, 
 Be moulded, broken, wrought anew. 
 Shaken to atoms, and passed through 
 The furnace flame, until it glows 
 White as the fire on which God blows, 
 And then He sets it on some height — 
 A lonely splendor through the night. 
 
 How comes the sheaf of ripened grain? 
 
 The wheat must die to live again, 
 
 And out of darkness and the mould 
 
 Make of itself the hundred-fold! 
 
 So he, who to some worth aspires 
 
 Will find it when the testing fires 
 
 Have searched him through, and strokes of pain 
 
 Have beaten into finer grain 
 
 The texture of his heart and brain. 
 
 When, after hammer stroke and heat, 
 
 Serene he stands upon his feet. 
 
 Nor fortune fair, nor sore distress. 
 
 Can make his value more or less; 
 
 To purer, truer manhood wrought, 
 
 He is himself all that he sought. 
 
 84 
 
THE RAINBOW AROUND THE THRONE 
 
 As friends long parted, meeting, 
 
 And joy o'er grief prevails, 
 Use tender signs of greeting 
 
 When other language fails, 
 So, when earth's ties are broken 
 
 And God brings home His own. 
 He greets them with this token, 
 
 A rainbow round the throne. 
 
 There, all things will remind us — 
 
 The rivers and the trees — 
 Of scenes we left behind us — 
 
 The mountains and the seas — 
 And, mellowing all the splendor. 
 
 On walls of polished stone 
 Will beam, with radiance tender, 
 
 A rainbow round the throne. 
 
 The throne — the throne of glory, 
 
 Ah, who could bear the sight 
 Without the gracious story 
 
 Told in that arch of light! 
 If judgment passes knowing. 
 
 Then Love, too, is unknown, 
 The opening heavens showing 
 
 A rainbow round the throne. 
 
 REWARD 
 
 The ministers to human needs, 
 
 The sowers of the heavenly seeds. 
 
 The doers of the blessed deeds. 
 
 Shall walk the streets of precious stones 
 
 And sit down on the splendid thrones. 
 
 85 
 
A SONG OF TRUST 
 
 Over and over and over again 
 God has been sending the sun and the rain, 
 Bloom to the meadows, sap to the boughs, 
 Keeping unbroken with Nature His vows. 
 
 Over and over and over again 
 God has been sending us pleasure and pain, 
 Stirring, then leading to beautiful goals. 
 Keeping unbroken His promise with souls. 
 
 Still we go fearing that something will miss 
 Its measure of care, its guerdon of bliss. 
 With faithfulness written around us so plain, 
 Over and over and over again. 
 
 Seeing the promise of God standeth fast, 
 Trust, for the future will be as the past, 
 Love, leading and rest, the sunshine and rain. 
 Over and over and over again. 
 
 HOW WILL IT BE? 
 
 How will it be when the roses fade. 
 And the trees are brown and bare, 
 
 And the beautiful things that God had made 
 Lie withering everywhere? 
 
 Then, faith will look on a world arrayed 
 In all that is fresh and fair. 
 
 How will it be when the clouds appear. 
 
 And the sun is lost to sight. 
 When the strongest falter and step with fear 
 
 Through the deepening shades of night? 
 "Sun of my soul, thou Savior dear," 
 
 Thy face shall be strength and light. 
 
 86 
 
How will it be when the pomp and show 
 Of the world to which we cling, 
 
 Is lost in the shadows that death will throw 
 From the plumes of his dusky wing? 
 
 We shall see the city of God and go 
 Through the gates to meet the King. 
 
 How will it be when we reach at last 
 The home we have sought so long, 
 
 And tread the courts of its temple vast 
 In the midst of a holy throng? 
 
 Moment of rapture, unsurpassed, 
 It cannot be told in song. 
 
 THE WINDING STAIRWAY 
 
 "A winding about still upward.'* — Ez. 41 17. 
 
 Round and round Life's circles run 
 
 Through plants that spread and climb. 
 Round and round the golden sun 
 
 Earth rolls to reach her prime. 
 And this the way through circling time 
 
 In every age, and every clime 
 That souls have wrought with hope sublime, 
 
 And heaven and glory won. 
 
 We cannot stand in one small place 
 
 And see God's temple fair, 
 The miracles of strength and grace. 
 
 The lights and shadows there, 
 Our feet must tread with patient care 
 
 The rugged steps of toil and prayer 
 All round and round the winding stair 
 
 That leads up to His face. 
 
 87 
 
"AS WE ARE KNOWN" 
 
 We are known — our moral weight, 
 Ruling purpose, inward state; 
 Our true self-hood, loved or loathed. 
 Walks unsandaled and unclothed. 
 On the life of man unseen 
 This great universe looks in. 
 
 Through the deepest, darkest night 
 We stand in a blaze of light, 
 Every secret love unsealed, 
 Every hidden sin revealed, 
 All our being bared to view 
 As the heavens look us through. 
 
 Could w^e climb the loftiest steep. 
 Could we pierce the lowest deep, 
 Were we laid and swiftly borne 
 On the radiant wings of morn 
 To the outmost verge of space, 
 God would look us in the face. 
 
 All our silence-breathing sighs 
 Make a tumult through the skies; 
 Thoughts unuttered peal as chimes. 
 Glad or mournful, through all climes: 
 Every throb of inward strife 
 Stirs the boundless deep of life. 
 
 What we do, not what we dream ; 
 What we are, not what we seem; 
 What behind our word is thought; 
 What behind our prayer is sought. 
 As we live unseen, alone, 
 This we are — and we are known. 
 
 88 
 
Challenge not the false report, 
 Bring no witness into court, 
 With the verdict of to-day 
 Make no issue, go thy way; 
 God at last the truth shall own, 
 Giving glory — we are known. 
 
 WHEN NIGHT COMES ON 
 
 There's work enough till night comes on. 
 In fields that lie untilled and bare. 
 And where the wheat strives with the tare, 
 Through darkened lands, at our own doors, 
 In still soul chambers, mine and yours. 
 For did not He, the wisest, say: 
 "Go! work, while it is called to-day?" 
 
 There's work enough till night comes on. 
 
 There's wealth of Joy when night comes on, 
 For those who, turning to the past. 
 Hear rustling grain from seed they cast 
 The echoes of kind words, their own. 
 Across the graves of dead years blown, 
 And breathe the perfume of the flowers, 
 Called Loving Deeds, through twilight hours, 
 
 There's wealth of Joy when night comes on. 
 
 We cannot work when night comes on : 
 Life's battle may be lost or won. 
 The light has fled, the day is done, 
 The fields of grand achievement lie 
 Deserted, 'neath a darkened sky. 
 And through the market-place no clear 
 Voice rings: "Why stand ye idle here?" 
 
 We cannot work when night comes on. 
 
 89 
 
FINISHED WORK 
 
 Finish what thou hast to do, 
 
 Prove thy right to wear the crown, 
 
 Bravely tread thy journey through 
 Ere the sun goes down. 
 
 Lay some stone each passing hour 
 
 In thy palace of renown, 
 Run the flag up on the tower, 
 
 Ere the sun goes down. 
 
 Crowd thy bark, though storm assailed, 
 Over seas that seek to drown, 
 
 To the harbor mouth, full-sailed, 
 Ere the sun goes down. 
 
 Stand up bravely in the fight 
 Play the king and not the clown. 
 
 Clear the trenches, storm the height. 
 Ere the sun goes down. 
 
 Plow thy furrow in Life's field, 
 
 Though the heavens may smile or frown. 
 
 Falter not, look back nor yield. 
 Till the sun goes down. 
 
 If thou canst not reap, then glean, 
 Midst the stubble bare and brown. 
 
 Search the field and leave it clean 
 Ere the sun goes down. 
 
 Time enough to lay aside 
 
 Warrior's mail and priestly gown 
 In the dusk of eventide. 
 
 When the sun goes down. 
 
 90 
 
JUN 8 19H 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
 \\\f^- 8 
 
 \9il