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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
QUIVER OF ARROWS 
 
 BY 
 
 Louise A. Weitzel 
 
LIE5KARY of CONGHESS 
 fwo Copies rteceivi^- 
 
 APR 10 1908 
 
 ■jiivtnitin tniry 
 00 PY b. 
 
 
 COPYRIGHTED 190H 
 
 THE EXPRESS PRINTING CO. 
 LITITZ, PA. 
 
DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 E. L, H. 
 
 WHOSK UNTIRING AND I,OYAI, KINDNESS AND SYMPATHY 
 
 IN TIMKS OF GREAT TRIAI. WERE AN UNFAILING 
 
 SOURCE OF COMFORT AND CHEER 
 
I shot an arrow into the air, 
 It fell to earth, I know not where ; 
 For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
 Could not follow it in its flio^ht. 
 
 I breathed a song- into the air. 
 It fell to earth, I know not where ; 
 For who has sight so keen and strong. 
 That it can follow the flight of song? 
 
 Long, long afterward, in an oak 
 I found that arrow, still unbroke ; 
 And the song, from beginning to end, 
 I found again in the heart of a friend. 
 
 —Heniry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
Index 
 
 Answer, The 218 
 
 Arbor Day, The Lesson of... 63 
 Army of Breadwinners, The. . 86 
 
 Asters, Late Purple 196 
 
 At Eventide, It Shall be Light 243 
 
 Babouscka 181 
 
 Bells of Linden Hall, The .... 71 
 
 Bereaved 238 
 
 Beyond the Alps Lies Italv. . . 126 
 
 Birth of Christ, The '. . . . 85 
 
 Brook, The 198 
 
 Butterfly, The 110 
 
 Chain, The 72 
 
 Change, A 166 
 
 Changed 224 
 
 Chapel Bells, The 165 
 
 Chestnutting 105 
 
 Christmas Story, The 119 
 
 Christmas, After 205 
 
 Clock, Old The 37 
 
 Cloister at Ephrata, The Old. 13 
 Come, Lord Jesus, Be Our 
 
 Guest 44 
 
 Coming of the King, The 116 
 
 Commonplace People 36 
 
 Conflict, In the 229 
 
 Cost, The 104 
 
 Cross, The Shadow of The. . . 54 
 
 Crown of the Year, The 201 
 
 Curse of the Ages, The 106 
 
 Czar, The 82 
 
 Dame Nature's Feast 108 
 
 Dead, The Sainted 200 
 
 Death the Swiftest Rider 23 
 
 Deserted 130 
 
 Deserted Nest, The 156 
 
 Destiny 219 
 
 Dragon, The Modern 79 
 
 Dirge, A 75 
 
 Drinking Song, A 21 
 
 Dog, To a 229 
 
 Dyer, Mary 230 
 
 Elaine,The Witch's Daughter. 206 
 
 Elegy, An 29 
 
 Elijah's Triumph 239 
 
 Evening Clouds 218 
 
 Faith 107 
 
 Firelight In the 152 
 
 Flood at Williamsport, An In- 
 cident of the 235 
 
 F^uneral of the Year, The. . . . 124 
 
 Gettysburg 173 
 
 Giving Enriches 15 
 
 Good Friday 163 
 
 Hand of God, The 2^1 
 
 Handwriting on the Wall, The 32 
 
 Haunts of the Muse, The 209 
 
 Heritage, Our 16 
 
 Hero, Fallen The 10 
 
 Heroes, The 242 
 
 Home, Sweet Home 178 
 
 Human Nature Never Satisfied 143 
 
 Isles of the Blest, The 121 
 
 Judge Not 88 
 
 Judgment, The 100 
 
 Juggernaut of Progress, The. 133 
 
 June Song, A 204 
 
 Justice Ill 
 
 Katydid, The 42 
 
 Kept 114 
 
 King's Palace, The 34 
 
 King Philip 157 
 
 Land of Romance 203 
 
 Last Christian Martyr, The.. . 169 
 Legend of the Two White 
 
 Chargers 187 
 
 Lesson of Autumn, The 135 
 
 Like Little Children 95 
 
 Limitations of Nature, The.. 146 
 
 Limited 53 
 
 Lititz, A Retrospect and a Pro- 
 phecy 193 
 
 Lititz Springs, The 56 
 
 Little Cloud, A 58 
 
 Longing for Freedom 162 
 
 Master's Feet. The 129 
 
 Memories 90 
 
 Memory, A 45 
 
 Memory of Childhood, A.... 186 
 
 Missionarv Graves 69 
 
 Mother, I'Want My 219 
 
 Mother's Precepts, A 154 
 
 Mv Birthdav 171 
 
 M'v Dream.' 180 
 
 M\ Garden 175 
 
 My Wealth 160 
 
 Muse, The 210 
 
 Nativitv, The 139 
 
 Nature's Call 216 
 
 Nemesis 39 
 
 New Muse, The 46 
 
 None of These, 181 
 
Not in Vain 225 
 
 October 20 
 
 Old Age 61 
 
 Old Clock on the Stair, The. . . 97 
 
 Old Fashioned 98 
 
 Old Friends, The 136 
 
 Old Letters 217 
 
 Parable, A 220 
 
 Parted 174 
 
 Partridge, The 92 
 
 Passing of the Year, The 102 
 
 Phantom Deer, The 137 
 
 Plea for the Traveler, A 184 
 
 Picture, A 51 
 
 Poet, The 177 
 
 Poet's Theme, The 77 
 
 Presentementand A Prayer, A 155 
 
 Presumption Reproved 132 
 
 Prophecy, The 48 
 
 Regret 203 
 
 Rejoice 214 
 
 Reminder, The 74 
 
 Resignation 153 
 
 Retribution 67 
 
 River of Time, The 70 
 
 Road, The Long 226 
 
 Rose, A.... 168 
 
 Rose of Jericho, The 161 
 
 Roses, My 232 
 
 Shadows 100 
 
 Ships, My 31 
 
 Sirens, The 183 
 
 Sold 240 
 
 Song of Labor, The 127 
 
 Song of Spring, A 114 
 
 Soul, The 64 
 
 Soul, Why Mournest Thou 
 
 Thv Youth 213 
 
 Sparrows, The 59 
 
 Spring Flowers, Lesson of the 9 
 
 Spring Melodies 140 
 
 Star, My 24 
 
 Stein, Matthew 227 
 
 Superstition 30 
 
 Suspicion 215 
 
 Tea Kettle, Song of The 11 
 
 Temple of the Sun, The 123 
 
 Thanksgiving 66 
 
 Then? 43 
 
 The Servant is Not Greater 
 
 Than His Lord 81 
 
 Thunder Storm at Night, A. . 18 
 
 To C. K. B 212 
 
 Tones of the Soul 232 
 
 Too Late 96 
 
 Too Low 211 
 
 Traveling 41 
 
 Unprepared 192 
 
 Veiled Statue at Sais 221 
 
 Village Graveyard, The 142 
 
 Vision, A 197 
 
 Voice in the Night, A 118 
 
 Voices of the Springtide, The 83 
 
 Waiting 233 
 
 Walk, A 117 
 
 Wandering Jew, The 166 
 
 Warning, A 18 
 
 Warning The 180 
 
 W^eather, A Question of 193 
 
 What the Flowers Said 35 
 
 What is It? 122 
 
 What Was Heard in the Woods 28 
 
 White Man's Burden, The... tl3 
 
 White Slaves of To-Day 176 
 
 Why the Woman's Christian 
 Temperance Union Stands 
 
 for the Home 148 
 
 Window, At the 94 
 
 Woods in Winter, The 158 
 
 World Problem, The 49 
 
 Would You? 234 
 
 Yellow Bird, The 62 
 
 Young Man, The Rich 26 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 In order to disarm the critics, if such a thing is pos- 
 sible, I wish to say that I am only too well aware that 
 these poems bear the marks of crudity, immaturity and 
 haste. They were mostly composed under disadvantages 
 of various kinds. I have never been in a position to de- 
 vote myself unreservedly to the muse. Some of the poems 
 have appeared in various publications, the names and dates 
 being given below. Some were written in my teens and 
 might have been left to rest in oblivion without loss to the 
 public but there were certain associations connected with 
 them which endeared them to me and I could not resist 
 the temptation to insert them with the rest. I pleased 
 myself and if others are not pleased I Avill not fret. The 
 arrangement also is not of the best and if I were to pre- 
 pare the poems a second time for the press I would group 
 them according to the subjects. It is a marvel to me and 
 my friends that I ever got the book ready for publication 
 in my present circumstances. The pleasure however 
 atoned for the sacrifices. 
 
 LOUISE A. WEITZEL. 
 
THE LESSON OF THE SPRING FLOWERS 
 
 Once on a time, oppressed with care, 
 Too g-reat for my weak self to bear, 
 Absorbed in thought, scarce knowing why, 
 I wandered to a wood hard by. 
 
 Ah, there I found the peace I'd sought 
 In crowded mart and found it not. 
 And there I breathed a holy calm 
 Sweet as the air of David's Psalm. 
 
 Fair Spring was present in the land. 
 As I could see on every hand, 
 And where her dainty feet had trod 
 She left her impress on the sod. 
 
 Beside a winding rivulet 
 I found the star-eyed wind-flower set. 
 Near by, beneath a greening tree, 
 The fragile rue anemone. 
 
 And there stood Jack, the preacher kind. 
 Preaching a sermon to his mind. 
 "What do you think?" he said to me, 
 " Look, all around God's goodness see. 
 
 " See how He clothes each little flower 
 Meet for the day and for the hour, 
 Each takes its part in Nature's plan, 
 As thou too must, oh doubting- man ! 
 
 '' We grew beneath the darksome mold. 
 We flourished 'mid the snow and cold. 
 Warmed by the sun, fed by the rain. 
 And thinkest thou we live in vain? 
 
" The God who placed the flowerets here 
 Has planned your life, to Him more dear 
 Than fairest plant within the grove, 
 And all is well, for God is love ! " 
 
 — The Moravian, April, J 903 
 
 THE FALLEN HERO 
 
 The smoke of battle has not cleared 
 Ere slinks away the form revered 
 
 Obscured amid the gloom, 
 
 Alas ! is this his doom ? 
 
 Has fame no other fate for those 
 Whom chance of finer metal shows 
 Than is the vulgar crowd 
 Which greets with plaudits loud ? 
 
 Ah, who can tell? What hath he done? 
 Can he not keep the laurels won 
 
 By lofty valor tried 
 
 But late in war's red tide ? 
 
 He shamed the old heroic mold. 
 Could not resist the glint of gold, 
 Upon that giddy height 
 Could not maintain his flight. 
 
 None but the eagle's eye can bear 
 The piercing sunlight's steady glare 
 
 The weaker eye must shrink, 
 
 In sheltering darkness sink. 
 
 Our hero could not bear the gaze 
 Of all the world, nor face the blaze 
 
 Of sudden glory born. 
 
 He was of night, not morn. 
 
 The light discloses flaws that we 
 In lesser mankind fail to see, 
 
 The marble shows the stain 
 
 Because of finer grain. 
 
 ID 
 
But we demand a marble pure, 
 All clean, unspotted, to endure 
 
 The wear of time and tide. 
 
 The fall of human pride. 
 
 He is no hero whom we crowned. 
 Then let the laurel be unbound. 
 
 Farewell, so let him go. 
 
 The world says : "Better so." 
 
 To our true level, soon or late, 
 Life brings us, if content to wait, 
 
 And fortune, kind or rough, 
 
 Reveals the real stuff. 
 
 Better to take the lower seat 
 
 Than, pushed aside for one more meet, 
 
 A cruel fate lament. 
 
 And pine in discontent. 
 
 —Lititz Express, Dec, 1900 
 
 THE SONG OF THE TEA KETTLE 
 
 In this world of sounds confusing 
 Anything is got by choosing, 
 Music that is ear-destroying 
 Or aesthetic senses cloying 
 With a ravishment enchanting, 
 Yet none ever tried supplanting 
 Half the homely sweetness ringing 
 In the song the kettle's singing 
 When the board is spread for tea. 
 
 Sweeter never sang soprano 
 To the violin or piano. 
 Tenor, basso nor contralto 
 From Berlin to Palo Alto; 
 Ne'er was any chorus sweeter 
 Heard in church or park or theatre ; 
 And the bands of all creation 
 Cannot win my heart's oblation 
 When the kettle sings for tea. 
 
 [II] 
 
Though my soul is set ou fire 
 When I hear the wild birds' choir 
 In the green depths of the forest, 
 And my heart can find no more rest 
 Till the sweet strains all are ended, 
 And the birds their flight have Avended 
 To the land of ceaseless blooming 
 I turn homeward in the gloaming 
 Where the kettle sings for me. 
 
 In the world we often wander 
 Far and wide and vainly ponder 
 Why the happiness we're chasing 
 We can ne'er succeed in placing, 
 While the hearth fire left behind us 
 Doth in nightly dreams remind us 
 Of the mystic circle broken, 
 Where the tender words were spoken 
 While the kettle sang for tea. 
 
 Ah, methinks I see the table 
 With its cups antique but stable, 
 Sponge-Uke bread and butter yellow. 
 And the honey, fragrant, mellow, 
 But the cake my power surpasses, 
 For the mist is on my glasses, 
 While the snow-white cloth is specklesg, 
 And my appetite grows reckless. 
 As the kettle sings for tea. 
 
 That old kettle's song is cheery. 
 But the heart feels often dreary 
 That recalls its tone contented, 
 For its memories are scented 
 With the love we may have flouted 
 When the home-land's voice we scouted. 
 How once more we'd love to gather. 
 Sheltered from the stormy weather, 
 Where the kettle sings for tea! 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligence^^ March, 1903 
 
 [12] 
 
THE OLD CLOISTER AT EPHRATA, PA. 
 
 Twas October, dreamy, tender, all the land was bathed in 
 
 S])lendor, 
 And our hearts did melt within us as w^e loitered by the 
 
 way. 
 O'er the old stone bridg^e we wandered and half audibly we 
 
 pondered 
 How a million feet had passed it ere we saw the light of 
 
 day. 
 
 Soon we reached a stile and over climbing landed in green 
 
 clover 
 Carpeting the field surrounding buildings men come far 
 
 to see. 
 Here they lived, the old and sainted Brethren history has 
 
 painted, 
 In their simple lives and labors, in their rare old piety. 
 
 As they reared the quaint, high gables naught cared they 
 
 for lettered fables 
 But the glory of the Highest whom their daily walk 
 
 adored. 
 Hence these temfJes more enduring, to the pious more 
 
 alluring, 
 Built they than Old World cathedrals in their splendor 
 
 can afford. 
 
 As we passed through narrow doorways, as we trod the 
 
 firm, hard floorways. 
 Paced the narrow halls and entries and each bare and cell- 
 like room 
 Oft we seemed to see the stately Sisters passing, prim, 
 
 sedately, 
 Kneeling in the chapel, working at the distaff or the 
 
 loom. 
 
 And we wondered if they hovered, by kind Providence em- 
 powered, 
 
 In those dim and low ceiled chambers, once so dear to 
 them of yore, 
 
 [13] 
 
Curious, too, to see the zealous — and, perhaps a little 
 
 jealous 
 
 Of their desecrating fingers — linger o'er their work to 
 
 pore. 
 
 Did they revel in the beauty of kind Nature or did duty 
 
 Chain them to their tasks more closely than we heirs of 
 later date ? 
 
 Artist souls felt no repression, see we by their own con- 
 fession, 
 
 In the charts and books they left us, spared as yet by 
 time and fate. 
 
 All around is changed and changing, as each wanderer sees 
 found ranging 
 
 'Round the weather-beaten structures, which alone un- 
 changed remain, 
 
 And those pictured forms uncanny of the Sisters few, if 
 any, 
 
 Scenes familiar would discover, if to life returned again. 
 
 One thing only changes never; for the human heart for- 
 ever 
 
 Find we in all times and places beating to the same old 
 tune ; 
 
 And the same old joys and sorrows, yesterdays and same 
 tomorrows 
 
 Share we with those ancient Brethren, like the changes 
 of the moon. 
 
 Virtue too, is found not only grown in sheltered cloisters 
 
 lonely, 
 But it blooms wherever shineth God's free sunshine o'er 
 
 the land. 
 Yea, we find it in all ages, in this old world's passing 
 
 stages. 
 Cloistered halls may fall and crumble, but His kingdom 
 
 still shall stand. 
 
 — The Lancaster New Era, Nov., 1901 
 
 [14] 
 
GIVING ENRICHES 
 
 It was Solomon, the Wise, — 
 Thus tradition testifies, — 
 
 Who received from Sheba's queen, 
 That from distant Afric came. 
 Led by rumor of his fame, 
 
 Richest vase of emerald sheen. 
 
 This rare vessel then he filled 
 With a liquor he distilled 
 
 That a wondrous virtue had 
 To extend by many a span 
 The uncertain life of man. 
 
 Years untold one drop could add. 
 
 Rumors wide the tidings bore. 
 Once a criminal dared implore 
 
 One drop of the liquid rare. 
 But the king refused the gift. 
 Malefactors had small shrift. 
 
 With the bad he could not share. 
 
 When a good man made request 
 He too would remain unblest. 
 
 No appeals the king would heed, 
 For he feared for one drop's sake 
 The cover of the vase to break. 
 
 That, he deemed, were waste indeed. 
 
 When at last the king grew ill 
 Turned he with a right good will 
 
 To his servants and he said : 
 " Open quick the precious lid." 
 They made haste as they were bid. 
 
 But the spirit thence had fled ! 
 
 Thus the treasures that we store 
 Lose their virtues more and more, 
 Till they fail us in the end. 
 
 f 15] 
 
For the plant in giving- grows, 
 And the stream in giving flows. 
 We grow rich by what we lend. 
 
 — The Moravian, Nov. , 1901 
 
 OUR HERITAGE 
 
 WRITTEN FOR ALUMNAE DAY AT LINDEN HALL SEMIMARY, JUNE 17, 1902 
 
 Long years ago, Ave read, was born a child 
 
 Amid Moravia's everlasting hills. 
 The grandeur of primeval forests wild 
 
 Into his veins its strong free life distils. 
 
 To fit him for the place that Heaven wills. 
 Philosopher and sage, prophet and priest, 
 
 And humble, child-like soul ! Not yet fulfills 
 Our age the aspirations that but ceased 
 To thrill his gentle soul when welcome death released. 
 
 A pilgrim and a stranger guest, at home 
 
 In every land but that his own decreed. 
 His weary feet were aye compelled to roam. 
 
 But neither exile, pain nor direst need 
 
 Nor loss nor disappointed hopes could breed 
 Despair, that lofty spirit tame nor blot 
 
 The visions that his steadfast faith did feed 
 Of that fair time when war should be forgot 
 And liberty should be the universal lot. 
 
 As, once, on breezy hillsides he had dreamed 
 
 Of mother-love to him so soon denied, 
 Philanthropist and patriot, he schemed 
 
 How through sweet mother-love should be supplied 
 
 The manhood true that makes a nation's pride. 
 How womanhood should be no more debarred 
 
 From wisdom's stream her brother-man beside, 
 Nor ever lack the power wherewith to guard 
 Her nestlings from the conflict that their fathers scarred. 
 
 [ if^ ] 
 
Two centuries have run their course and more 
 Since wise Komensky filled a grave obscure. 
 
 Defamed in life, his work forevermore 
 Shall in the memory of mankind endure 
 While blest by millions dead whose path was sure 
 
 Through life, their destiny more grand through him, 
 Yet unborn generations shall secure 
 
 A fame whose lustre time can never din 
 
 On earth while heaven's eternal choirs his praises hymn, 
 
 He reared the fabric of that wider life 
 That chance and age and time itself defies. 
 
 He furnished weapons for the world-old strife 
 Begun when closed the gates of Paradise 
 Between the woman and her deadly-wise 
 
 But prostrate foe, unlocked the long barred gate 
 Unfolding vistas that the straining eyes 
 
 Of ages past had longed to penetrate. 
 
 To be explored by children of a happier fate. 
 
 He smoothed the pathway for the tiny feet 
 
 While thorns and briars his path through life beset. 
 And here in our new world it is most meet 
 
 That we remember this our mighty debt, 
 
 Nor we ; his children in the faith, forget 
 What once for us in tears and blood he wrought, 
 
 The privilege throughout all time to get 
 The products of the ages' garnered thought, 
 To learn, to be, to act, as once Comenius taught. 
 
 We thank thee, prophet of the larger mold, 
 
 Whom some of thine own age so little made. 
 We thank thee with a gratitude untold 
 
 Here in our Alma Mater's ivied shade. 
 
 As hands are pressed and welcome words are said. 
 We bless the heritage that gave us thee 
 
 And the long line of noble souls whose aid 
 Has made us better than we e'er could be 
 Without, more fit to reign in yonder vast Eternity. 
 
 -Linden Hall Echo, Oct., 1902 
 [I7l 
 
A THUNDER STORM AT NIGHT 
 
 Patter, patter, on the roofs, 
 Like the prancing" of the hoofs 
 Of an army's thousand chargers that are coming- in their 
 might. 
 As I He but half awake 
 With a drowsy fear I shake 
 Lest the mimic troops o'erwhehn me in the darkness of 
 the night. 
 
 Now the Hghtning's vivid flash 
 
 And the thunder's roll and crash 
 Tell me that the battle's raging and the conflict's fierce and 
 long. 
 
 I lie still within my bed, 
 
 Draw the cover o'er my head. 
 I am safe within my castle and the castle walls are strong. 
 
 Morn at length breaks fair and calm, 
 Air as sweet as Gilead's balm, 
 For the tem'pest wild has conquered Nature fierce and left 
 her mild. 
 Thus the battles of the night 
 And its terror and affright 
 Master all our wilder nature, leave us g-entle as a child. 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligencer, June, 1902 
 
 A WARNING 
 
 (suggested by the last election) 
 
 Beware, O nation rich and great, 
 
 Lest thou be drunk with glory ! 
 Remember that the Ship of State 
 
 Has sailed through oceans gory. 
 It has not reached the port of peace, 
 
 The darksome clouds will lower. 
 And, lest the tempests still increase, 
 
 Look to a higher Power ! 
 
 [ i8] 
 
If Christ, the Captain, does not steer 
 
 Thy boasting- is not lawful. 
 If once thou push Him to the rear 
 
 Thy doom is swift and awful. 
 Full many a nation fell before 
 
 Whose name was quite as g-lorious. 
 And many a race is known no more 
 
 Once mighty and victorious. 
 
 The kingly eagle sweeps the sky 
 
 Till pierced by foeman's arrow. 
 What matter though he soar on high 
 
 Above the lowlier sparrow ? 
 And should his plumage be of gold 
 
 His fate comes all the faster, 
 All eyes the glorious bird behold, 
 
 All long to be its master. 
 
 The laurels that the fathers won 
 
 Made only them immortal, 
 The father cannot for the son 
 
 Enter fame's narrow portal. 
 Rise up and win a brighter crown 
 
 Whose gleam no shame can banish. 
 For storied urn cannot atone 
 
 For glory born to vanish. 
 
 Rise up and the polluted shrine 
 
 To Freedom once erected 
 Reconsecrate with spark divine. 
 
 And let it be protected 
 From howling hounds of party hate, 
 
 From license and oppression. 
 From tyranny of church or state, 
 
 And fossil retrogression. 
 
 On Jesus Christ, the corner's head, 
 This temple has been builded. 
 
 Let on it precious stones be laid. 
 No base alloy just gilded. 
 
 19 
 
That far and wide the nations may 
 
 See rise a form gigantic, 
 A light to lead a world astray 
 
 Across the wide Atlantic. 
 
 But if, filled full with power and gold, 
 
 Thou dance the dance unholy 
 Led by the slaves to Mammon sold, 
 
 And scorn the poor and lowly, 
 Thy star will vanish from its place 
 
 And sink in gloom and sorrow. 
 And after thee a worthier race 
 
 Will greet a fairer morrow. 
 
 —Lititz Express, Nov. 16, 1900 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 Yes, my friends, we must be going 
 In these lovely Autumn days 
 
 While October winds are mowing- 
 All the woodlands as we gaze. 
 
 And the harvest is a treasure 
 Of the red and yellow leaves, 
 
 While Fall metes them with the measure 
 That it meted out the sheaves. 
 
 Ah, my friends, we dare not miss it, 
 
 Since the charm cannot be told, 
 Mark the air, the sunbeams kiss it 
 
 Into lambent waves of gold, 
 And the golden haze suffuses 
 
 With a halo common things. 
 All dull care the present loses 
 
 In the glory that it brings. 
 
 For a weaver is October, 
 
 Broidering wondrous tapestries, 
 
 He's an artist, gay — not sober — 
 Loving brightest, richest dyes, 
 
 [20] 
 
And a poet with a leaning- 
 
 Toward the lyric in his verse — 
 Every measure has a meaning 
 
 Which the lisping leaves rehearse — 
 
 A musician improvising 
 
 Wondrous oratorios, 
 Every living thing comprising 
 
 Chords from which the music flows. 
 With a magic touch he filleth 
 
 All the landscape with his tunes. 
 E'en the drowsy brooklet trilleth 
 
 Echoes of forgotten Junes. 
 
 Orpheus-like, he leads, we follow — 
 
 Can we help it ? — for his sake 
 Down there to the wooded hollow 
 
 Where all shy things are awake. 
 And their cheeks are red with blushes 
 
 And they quiver with delight, 
 While the sombre daylight flushes, 
 
 For his feet are shod with light. 
 
 Dare we, would we miss such splendor ? 
 
 Ah, we would not, if we could, 
 'Twere an insult to the sender 
 
 Of such fleeting earthly good. 
 Let us go and catch the beauty 
 
 Of the passing Autumn glow. 
 'Twill illumine days of duty 
 
 When the leaden clouds hang low. 
 
 — The Lancaster Neiv Era, Oct. 2U, 1901 
 
 A DRINKING SONG 
 
 (not aftkr the old style) 
 
 Let poets sing of ruby wine 
 
 And Bacchanalian revels. 
 They bait the tempter's hook and line. 
 
 We aim for higher levels. 
 
 [21] 
 
We'll sing of water pure and sweet 
 And praise no foaming flagons. 
 
 We'll lay no snares for heedless feet 
 And loose no fiery dragons. 
 
 We know that in the brimming cup 
 
 There lurketh still an adder. 
 The drunkard drinks his fortune up. 
 
 Can any fate be sadder ? 
 
 If we but drink of Adam's ale 
 We're sure to be the winner. 
 
 A drink it is that cannot fail 
 To strengthen saint and sinner. 
 
 Let pretty maidens all beware 
 
 Of men who like to guzzle, 
 For, like a mad dog at a fair, 
 
 They are without a muzzle. 
 
 Cold water will no passions feed. 
 
 It keeps the hot brow cool. 
 For this whoever runs may read. 
 
 E'en though he be a fool. 
 
 Cold water makes the reason keen. 
 The nerves quite firm and steady. 
 
 It keeps the conscience pure and clean. 
 The tongue makes swift and ready. 
 
 Of no short-lived Lethean draught 
 
 It ever was a mixer. 
 But they who this cool beverage quaffed 
 
 Had the true life elixir. 
 
 King Alcohol his thousands slew, 
 
 Ten thousand water healeth, 
 The miseries that wine's votaries knew 
 
 No history e'er revealeth. 
 
 The nations rise, the nations fall 
 
 In centuries' grand rotation. 
 From Noah to Belshazzar all 
 
 Wine rules without cessation. 
 
 [ 22 
 
The throned demon, he dictates 
 
 Throiig-h every great upheaval. 
 He ruleth Zens and the Fates, 
 
 Incarnate son of Evil ! 
 
 But where cold water's potentate 
 
 'Tis reason fair that ruleth. 
 And neither sot nor addle-pate 
 
 The ready wire pulleth. 
 
 Who rules his spirit greater is 
 
 Than he who takes a city. 
 No drinker ever doeth this, 
 
 The greater is the pity. 
 
 Take heed, ye men and maidens all, 
 
 Remember this and ponder, 
 The small thief scales the garden wall, 
 
 The greater crawleth under. 
 
 The little foxes spoil the vines, 
 
 The little drinks the purses. 
 Who once Gambrinus' toils divines 
 
 Had better heed my verses. 
 
 Cold Water is our king today. 
 
 O, may he reign forever. 
 And may he rum's battallions slay 
 
 To rise again, ah never ! 
 
 —Lititz Express, Oct. 19, 1900 
 
 DEATH THE SWIFTEST RIDER 
 
 (translated from the GERMAN OF EMANUEL GEIBEl) 
 
 There is a rider men call Death, 
 
 No faster e'er was seen. 
 He outrides the rosy morning's breath, 
 
 The lightning swift and keen. 
 
 [23] 
 
All spotless as the driven snow, 
 
 Unharnessed is his steed ; 
 The buzzing- arrow from his bow 
 
 Flies to the heart with speed. 
 
 Past hamlet, city, hill and vale 
 
 He flies in wild career. 
 Through rosy dawn and twilight pale 
 
 Pursues his chase of fear. 
 
 Where'er he rides with noisy tread 
 
 The bells behind him ring". 
 And funeral dirges for the dead 
 
 Abroad the breezes fling. 
 
 Then let not pride possess your mind, 
 O man, though crowned you be ! 
 
 You are as chaff before the wind 
 And even so must flee. 
 
 The sands within the glass run low, 
 
 The hour strikes anon, 
 This page your breath moves to and fro 
 
 And your race may be run. 
 
 —Lancaster New Era, Jan. 28, 1905 
 
 MY STAR 
 
 The night was cold, the night was still. 
 The snow lay white on road and hill. 
 The western sky was flushed with red, 
 The crescent moon shone overhead. 
 The stars within the clear, cold sky 
 Sparkled and glittered bright and high. 
 One star shone bright above the rest 
 In lonely splendor in the west, 
 A star of royal magnitude. 
 Within whose sphere did not intrude 
 His paler brethren all around 
 Strewed far as the horizon's bound. 
 
 [24l 
 
Night after night I watched that star, 
 
 A silent devotee from far. 
 
 None of the rest were aught to me ; 
 
 That one alone I seemed to see, 
 
 While the vast distance only lent 
 
 More charm unto its ravishment. 
 
 Hence I was not inclined to fret 
 
 That space to nearer view had set 
 
 A bar I never could remove 
 
 Though endless years in vain I strove. 
 
 One night my star had disappeared. 
 In vain 1 looked, in vain I feared. 
 The sky of lesser stars is full. 
 That sky to me is dark and dull. 
 Men say some stars are quite as fair. 
 They only add to my despair. 
 I worship at an empty shrine. 
 The idol that I thought was mine 
 Its light has shed ; on empty space 
 I gaze with fond but hopeless face. 
 
 If some fair eve my star again 
 
 Should shine, would I feel joy or pain ? 
 
 And would I know if 'twere the same 
 
 Or one that only bore its name? 
 
 How can I know if light is gone 
 
 Or if for me is spread alone 
 
 A curtain which I may not lift 
 
 Because unworthy such a gift? 
 
 Can others see that star which I 
 
 No longer see within the sky ? 
 
 In vain I ask. None understand. 
 
 All stars men find alike. At hand 
 
 Are things of life. The stars are cold 
 
 And far away. How should they know 
 
 One more or less in heaven's show? 
 
 And so I stand unanswered yet. 
 
 Mine eyes on empty space are set. 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligencer, March 11, 1905 
 
 [25] 
 
THE RICH YOUNG MAN 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 A young man once to Jesus came — 
 
 Vast wealth some day he would inherit — 
 
 *' Good Master, what I need to claim 
 Eternal life, tell me, what merit ? " 
 
 " Call me not good for good is He, 
 
 The God to whom our prayers we render. 
 
 " But why," said Christ, do you ask me 
 When laws and prophets wisdom tender?" 
 
 " Thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not kill ; 
 
 But above all shalt love thy brother, 
 The holiest, highest duty still. 
 
 Writ on man's heart before all other." 
 
 " All this," the youth said undismayed, 
 I have from childhood truly heeded." 
 
 So you would think Christ would have said, 
 " Then go in peace, no more is needed." 
 
 But no the Savior said, " Go forth. 
 Thy goods be with the poor divided. 
 
 For thus can treasure not of earth 
 By heavenly mercy be provided." 
 
 But deeply troubled slunk away 
 The youth of riches vast possessor. 
 
 To his disciples Christ did say, 
 
 " See Mammon's loveless faith's confessor ! 
 
 " In truth who all the law doth keep 
 
 He'll find it little him availeth. 
 Through needles' eyes may camels creep. 
 
 To enter heaven the rich man faileth." 
 
 Christ's true religion here behold 
 As He to His disciples taught it. 
 
 The uncorrupted Gospel told. 
 
 Yet never yet a rich man sought it ! 
 
 [26] 
 
In Christ's name nigh two thousand years 
 Yourselves with pomp you've been baptizing, 
 
 Yet to His shame your rule appears 
 With swords and funeral pyres rising, 
 
 To whom do you the crops confide ? 
 
 Whose sweat gives field and forest tillage ? 
 Who palace, dome and fort provide ? 
 
 Whose industry built town and village ? 
 
 Who doth the earth's depths penetrate, 
 For ore and coal with nature wrestle ? 
 
 Who strives with ocean monsters great 
 To bring pearls that in darkness nestle ? 
 
 Who weaves the network of your street? 
 
 Who lightly guides o'er land and ocean, 
 Like birds that thread the air so fleet, 
 
 To race with wings of steam in motion ? 
 
 When mind conceived a noble deed, 
 When hand a splendid work perfected 
 
 It was the hand of one in need. 
 The mind privation had directed. 
 
 Your brother 'twas, the common boor, 
 Though suffering mind and body over. 
 
 Created luxuries, naked, poor, 
 
 That you had food and clothes to cover. 
 
 Your thanks, your pay, say, state the sum ? 
 
 In lowest slavery sunk, forsaken. 
 And, to the shame of Christendom, 
 
 His native birthright ye have taken. 
 
 And you as Christians would appear. 
 
 Like unto Jesus ? Tell us truly, 
 Ye rich and prosperous, have ye e'er 
 
 Shared with the poor or helped the lowly ? 
 
 Say, truly, who among you was 
 
 E'er with his earthly lot contented ? 
 
 Nor, powerful and rich, sought cause 
 
 To have his power and wealth augmented ? 
 
 [27] 
 
And how you hate and mock your slave 
 AMio dares to speak of pain's reHeving-! 
 
 Seeks he full human rights to have 
 'Tis treason, crime beyond believing. 
 
 The hour of judgment draweth nigh. 
 
 And see your forts, your thrones are crumbling ! 
 The shaking scoundrel hears pass by 
 
 The crowd's batallions' hollow rumbling, 
 
 Within the future's lap at rest 
 
 A spirit's darkly prophesying. 
 For weal or woe. Seek peace, 'tis best ! 
 
 If battle, let your flags be flying! 
 
 —Lititz Express, Nov., 1903 
 
 WHAT WAS HEARD IN THE WOODS 
 
 What came ye out for to hear ? said the wind. 
 What came ye out for to see ? said the trees. 
 
 We have naught for their souls who leave not behind 
 The cares of the world. We have nothing for these. 
 
 Will ye have, said the trees, my russet and gold. 
 My garments of scarlet and purple so rare ? 
 
 They are not to be bought and not to be sold 
 In the markets and streets of Vanity Fair. 
 
 Would ye prison the song, said the wind, that I sing ? 
 
 Mortal tongue cannot render nor keep the tune. 
 From the heart of the universe do I bring 
 
 The measure and melody of my rune. 
 
 What came ye out for to see and to hear, 
 O mortals, so blind, so deaf and so dull ? 
 
 The things ye would seek ye will find them not near, 
 For your hearts of the world are surfeit and full. 
 
 Of those joys of the world that are tinsel and glare, 
 The wealth of the world that is pomp and show. 
 
 Its pleasures all mingled with sorrow and care. 
 And despair the harvest of the seed that ye sow. 
 
 [28] 
 
The thoughts that ye think and the words that ye speak, 
 
 Frail children of clay, are folly and noise. 
 If our holiest of holies ye dare seek 
 
 Bring the heart of the child but discard childish toys. 
 
 Said the wind and the trees, then we'll give of our best, 
 Our gifts that are not for barter nor sale. 
 
 They are freedom from care, simple joy, peace and rest, 
 And they last when the treasure of earth shall fail. 
 
 —Lancaster New Era, Nov., 1902 
 
 AN ELEGY 
 
 Who is lying on that bier ? 
 
 Well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! 
 One the Nation held most dear. 
 
 Well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! 
 
 Sound the solemn funeral bell, 
 Far and wide the tidings tell 
 How the viper whom we nursed 
 Sent its venomed fangs accursed, 
 Sent them to the Nation's heart. 
 Sent them to the Nation's head. 
 For our crimes a good man bled. 
 Spread we ashes on our hair, 
 Hunt the serpent to its lair. 
 In the crime we all have part. 
 
 Sound the solemn funeral bell, 
 Sound aloud our Chieftain's knell. 
 Tell the nations far and wide 
 How our noble Leader died. 
 Lowly our beloved lies ! 
 He the man whom we revered, 
 Whom all honored, no one feared. 
 He the statesman, wise and great. 
 Safe who steered our Ship of State. 
 Ah, he was a shining prize ! 
 
 29 
 
Sound the solemn funeral bell. 
 
 Let the tong^ue be muffled well 
 
 Lest it send another soul 
 
 To our hero's blessed goal, 
 
 Lest the gentle heart that beat 
 
 In communion with his own, 
 
 In the happy past as one 
 
 At the cruel blow should break, 
 
 Break at once for sweet love's sake. 
 
 Make the sacrifice complete. 
 
 Sound the solemn funeral bell, 
 
 May the mournful peal foretell 
 
 Purer manhood, better laws. 
 
 While the stealthy worm that gnaws 
 
 At our vitals lives no more, 
 
 Not in vain the sacrifice, 
 
 Not in vain our hero dies 
 
 If his dying pave the way 
 
 For a happier, brighter day 
 
 By the seers foretold of yore. 
 
 Who is lying on the bier ? 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! 
 'Tis our Chieftain lieth here. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! 
 
 President William McKinley was shot at the Pan-American Exposition at Buf- 
 falo, by an anarchist, September 6, 1901, and died September 14, 1901. This poem was 
 published in the L,ancaster New Era September 18, 1901. 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 We sometimes find within an ancient house 
 Some hidden nook, some corner unexplored 
 That once concealed an unknown miser's hoard 
 But now the roost of owl and bat and mouse 
 Whose slumbers deep no gleam of sun will rouse. 
 Stately and fair without, within well stored 
 With spoils of land and sea, of pen and sword. 
 To charm a sage or grace a fool's carouse. 
 That house is haunted, though mayhap unknown 
 
 [30] 
 
Unto the owner's self. Thus, too, we see 
 A man good, honest, upright, void of guile, 
 Within whose brain there yet may be some lone 
 Spot tenanted by superstitions he 
 Would spurn did he suspect their presence vile. 
 
 — The Rostrum, Aug., 1901 
 
 MY SHIPS 
 
 When my ships set sail together 
 
 'Twas early in the day. 
 I sat on the shore and watched them 
 
 Till all had sailed away. 
 
 The one was gorgeous and stately, 
 
 And one was all of gold, 
 The third was sapphire and silver, 
 
 A wonder to behold. 
 
 Like a snowflake one, least comely. 
 
 Least valued of all by me. 
 I cared not for its going ; 
 
 More cared I for the three. 
 
 So they sailed away together 
 
 O'er the troublous sea of years. 
 O, how I waited and waited, 
 
 With longing and with tears ! 
 
 And when their voyage was ended 
 
 Did my ships come back to me. 
 Freighted with a wondrous burden, 
 
 Over the troubled sea ? 
 
 The first was Fame and it foundered 
 
 Afar on an iceberg's peak. 
 The next was Wealth that sailing 
 
 Had sprung an awful leak. 
 
 The third one, Love, sailed bravely 
 
 Till, on a fog-bound coast. 
 It struck the rock of Suspicion, 
 
 And there the ship was lost ! 
 
 [31] 
 
The last was Faith and slowly 
 
 It sailed back, soiled and worn, 
 But it bore a precious cargo, 
 
 Full freighted, though forlorn. 
 
 I loved the weather-worn vessel 
 
 Better than ever the three, 
 For my life was gone and only 
 
 This one was left to me. 
 
 At last I learned the lesson 
 
 Which of my ships was best. 
 'Tis the one I can trust to bear me 
 
 Into the haven of rest. 
 
 Linden Hall Echo, April, 1901 
 THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL 
 
 "and thou, O RRLSHAZZA.R, HAST NOT HUMBLED THINE HEART, THOUGH THOU 
 KNEWEST ALL THIS.'''— Dan. 5 : 22. 
 
 Once a king in drunken revel, as the Holy Book has told, 
 Drinking from the sacred vessels, in his blasphemy grown 
 
 bold, 
 Saw upon the wall emblazoned his own fate in words of 
 
 gold. 
 
 Now again a doom is written and a nation's fall decreed, 
 And a mighty harvest ripened, springing from a little seed. 
 Well for thee, oh cowering despot, if thou dost the warn- 
 ing heed ! 
 
 Dost thou see the red blood flowing, over in the lurid 
 
 East? 
 Dost thou see thy people trodden lower than the lowest 
 
 beast ? 
 Dost thou hear the malediction upon him who hurts the 
 
 least ? 
 
 Hear the thunder of the cannon, see thy beaten legions fly ! 
 See the corpses heaped like mountains where the vultures 
 
 hover nigh ! 
 Send them forth unto the slaughter. Ask them why they 
 
 eo to die ! 
 
 b" 
 
 [32] 
 
In the iron fortress bind them, they who dared to utter 
 
 truth ! 
 Send the flower of thy people, send the promise of thy 
 
 youth 
 To the dungeon, to the galley ! Send them without shame 
 
 or ruth. 
 
 Send them ? Truly thou hast sent them ! Will the foun- 
 tain ne'er give out 
 
 Till the noblest all have perished ? There remains the 
 rabble rout 
 
 Who will compass like an army all thy tyrant ])rood about. 
 
 Prate not of the "yellow peril." See ye not 'tis God's own 
 
 hand 
 That great Russia's name has written on a bar of shifting 
 
 sand 
 Which the heathen, like a flood-tide, shall engulf at His 
 
 command ? 
 
 Matters it who does the weighing if the scales be held by 
 
 Him ? 
 Matters it the sword who wielded, if it be not dull nor 
 
 dim? 
 Matters it if small the vessel filled with wrath unto the 
 
 brim ? 
 
 Wise old Peter dreamed of conquest far unto the Yellow 
 
 Sea, 
 Of an Asiatic Empire greater never should there be. 
 But he missed the true foundation of a people strong and 
 
 free. 
 
 Like the great Assyrian's image, golden head and feet of 
 
 clay, 
 Shall a mighty empire topple, growth of centuries, in a 
 
 day ; 
 For, though blind it seems, God's justice at the last doth 
 
 truly weigh. 
 
 — The Lancaster Intelligencer, March 21, 1905 
 
 [33] 
 
THE KING'S PALACE 
 
 It is within the mystic East 
 
 Where Hfe once counted one long feast 
 
 That legend finds a home and song. 
 Strange are the tales that oft are told 
 Of Bagdad and her Kalifs old 
 
 Translated from an unknown tongue. 
 
 Of many a wondrous tale we hear 
 One doth appeal unto the ear. 
 
 As well as to the soul of man. 
 It tells how once a Persian king 
 Unto his steward gave his ring 
 
 And treasures vast at Ispahan. 
 
 " I go to see the world," he said, 
 "And give thee power in my stead 
 
 To build a palace grand and fair. 
 On my return I hope to see 
 The finest ever built for me. 
 
 Remember, this shall be thy care." 
 
 The monarch left. The steward spent 
 His time to build a momument 
 
 That should his royal master please. 
 But as he passed throughout the land 
 For building stone on every hand 
 
 So much of misery he sees 
 
 That ere he thinks the treasure's gone 
 And happy homes, not sculptured stone. 
 
 Remain his master's eye to greet. 
 The king was wroth and soon in jail 
 The hapless steward to bewail 
 
 His piteous lot had found a seat. 
 
 That night the monarch had a dream. 
 And in his vision it did seem 
 
 The gates of heaven were opened wide. 
 He saw the new Jerusalem, 
 All bright with many a jewel and gem. 
 
 And joyful saints on every side. 
 
 34 
 
And in that city without peer 
 He saw a beauteous palace near, 
 
 The Hke he never dreamed before. 
 *' For whom was yonder palace built ? " 
 ''For thee, O king, if thou but wilt 
 
 Possess the home paid with thy store. 
 
 '' The gifts with which thy steward blest 
 Thy hapless subjects and redressed 
 
 The wrongs of many wretched poor 
 Have raised this palace rich and great. 
 Go home, O king, and expiate 
 
 Thy wrong to him thou didst immure." 
 
 The angel ceased. Aroused from sleep 
 The king made haste his charge to keep. 
 
 The steward now new favor found. 
 O'erwhelmed with honors and with wealth 
 He reached old age blessed Avith good health, 
 
 And love of grateful people croAvned. 
 
 The moral is not far to seek. 
 
 Make your foundations strong, not weak, 
 
 By building in the human heart. 
 The poor man's blessings and his prayers 
 Will raise for you the golden stairs 
 
 To yonder home not framed by art. 
 
 — The Moravian, Nov. 11, 1902 
 
 WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID 
 
 Said the daisies to the asters, 
 As they nodded by the way: 
 
 " There's a sound of human footsteps 
 Where the waving shadows play." 
 
 And the asters crowned with purple, 
 Whispered to the golden rod : 
 
 " Human touch to us is fatal, 
 Human foot with death is shod." 
 
 35 
 
Said the asters to the daisies : 
 
 "Does it matter, after all? 
 For Jack Frost will soon come hither, 
 
 And before his breath we fall." 
 
 And the golden rod made answer, 
 " Don't you think 'tis better so 
 
 That a human soul we gladden 
 Ere we perish 'neath the snow ? 
 
 For we know the children love us 
 
 And their love is undefiled. 
 Since we must die let us perish 
 
 In the warm clasp of a child." 
 
 The New Era, Sept. 12, 1903 
 
 COMMONPLACE PEOPLE 
 
 What will you do with the commonplace men, 
 
 And the commonplace women, say ? 
 With the men not led by visions and dreams, 
 For whom no fortunate star ever beams 
 Upon the commonplace way ? 
 
 With the men who have not the artist's eye 
 
 For the glory of land and sea, 
 Nor the hand to mingle the pigments rare 
 And picture the beauty of earth more fair 
 
 Than we dreamed that it might be ? 
 
 There are men who have not the poet's soul. 
 
 Nor voice of the singer divine. 
 Who can never sway the masses of men 
 With the silver tongue nor the ready pen, 
 
 Nor charm the gold from the mine. 
 
 There are men who have never ruled a state. 
 
 Nor paced in the scholar's gown. 
 Who never have won the hero's name, 
 Nor graced the temple that men call Fame, 
 And never will wear a crown. 
 
 [ 36 ] 
 
There are men who fig'ht in the rank and file 
 
 And may never command the host, 
 Whose bodies must lie 'neath a nameless mound, 
 While never a drum nor trumpet will sound, 
 . And no one will miss the lost. 
 
 There are men who must sow while others reap, 
 
 W^ho must labor while others rest. 
 Who must delve and search and may never know 
 What it is to find and to have, but throw 
 
 Life away in fruitless quest. 
 
 Ah, sure, we have need of commonplace men. 
 
 There's commonplace work to be done. 
 And the men who bask both early and late 
 In the smile of a beneficent Fate 
 
 Are fewest under the sun. 
 
 There was One who came to this commonplace world 
 
 For commonplace people to die. 
 And rose again from a commonplace grave 
 A commonplace race from its sin to save 
 
 And fit for heaven on high. 
 
 Sure, then, we can lead a commonplace life 
 
 Since our Master did not disdain 
 To bear our commonplace burden and care, 
 Nor thought us too commonplace to share 
 
 In the glories of His reign ! 
 
 — The Intelligencer, Nov. 18, 1902 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK 
 
 The old clock stands in the corner there, 
 Its form is tall and its face is fair. 
 And it has the benignant and placid air 
 
 Of one that is sure of its place. 
 It has somewhat of a pedigree 
 As one with half an eye can see. 
 For it is its own best family tree, 
 
 And the heir of a noble race. 
 
 [3/1 
 
Though not quite as old as Noah's ark 
 It has long ago passed the century mark 
 And has ticked through periods light and dark 
 
 In the annals of our land. 
 It knew the men whom the Indian wars 
 Adorned with numerous scalps and scars, 
 It heard of the British Jacks and Tars 
 
 And our Georo^e and his fearless band. 
 
 fe' 
 
 It was told how our sea rovers sent 
 The English ships from the continent, 
 And how once old Alexico was rent 
 
 When our Yankee boys arose. 
 It quivered with righteous wrath and shame 
 When the first attack on Fort Sumter came 
 And the boys in blue were all aflame 
 
 To punish the black man's foes. 
 
 It heard how the knights of a colder age 
 Set forth in the zeal of chivalrous rage 
 Against a despotic Spain to wage 
 
 A war for a race oppressed. 
 The last, and would God that it might be, 
 That never a war our land should see 
 Save to set men's souls or bodies free 
 
 From the East unto the West. 
 
 I don't know what the old clock may think, 
 But it ticks on without nod or wink. 
 And time has left nor wrinkle nor chink 
 
 On its changelss countenance. 
 It is as calm as old Time itself, 
 Above the cares of honor and pelf. 
 It sees all things, yet it's on the shelf. 
 
 Unruffled by life's mischance. 
 
 We pigmy mortals will strive and fret, 
 
 And toil and worry and aye forget 
 
 That life is not all and the end is not yet 
 
 [38] 
 
But old clock thy face benign 
 Should teach us a lesson of quiet and peace, 
 To live in the midst of alarms in ease, 
 Since time from all care will bring release, 
 
 As we read in the Book Divine. 
 
 —The Neiv Era, May 7, 190U 
 
 NEMESIS 
 
 Do you hear how the poor at your door make their moan ? 
 We have asked you for bread and you give us a stone, 
 
 We have asked you for drink and you give us gall, 
 
 We have asked for a bed and you give us a stall ! 
 O the world was made wide and the world was made fair, 
 But you've fettered the sunshine and prisoned the air ; 
 
 You have taxed all the land, you have pinioned the 
 breeze. 
 
 While we toil and we sweat you can live at your ease. 
 
 Is it just ? Is it right ? Are you better than we ? 
 
 Who gave you dominion o'er the land and the sea? 
 We were made of one clay by the breath of one God 
 Though earth's sceptre you wield and we carry the hod. 
 
 We must labor. You rule. Whose the greater claim 
 
 To the honor of man ? There is surely no shame 
 
 In the humblest of toil. 'Twas the Christ who wrought 
 At the carpenter's bench and 'twas He that taught 
 
 The worth of the poor and the lofty estate 
 
 Of the men who are scorned as the puppets of fate. 
 
 Must we grovel for aye, like the swine in the mire? 
 
 Have we never a spark of the heavenly fire ? 
 Content with our food and our drink and a roof. 
 Like the beast of the field that parteth the hoof ? 
 
 Eyes we have that can see all the beauty of earth, 
 
 Ears to hear the sweet strains of celestial birth, 
 
 [39] 
 
And hearts that respond to the kindred demand, 
 As the strings of the harp to the master's hand. 
 
 Say who painted the skies for the favored few? 
 
 And the stars, were they hung- out for us or for you ? 
 Were the bowels of the earth stored with riches untold 
 For one sordid tribe to secure and to hold ? 
 
 Was the wealth of the eons reserved but for those 
 
 Who have power to take it and strike down who oppose ? 
 
 'Tis the plaint of the ages, the plea of all time. 
 
 Did we hunger for bread, that, perhaps, were no crime. 
 Scarce master so hard that he grudges a shed, 
 A dry crust and a bone and straw for a bed 
 
 To the slave who toils, to the beasts who may bring 
 
 A good price in the market, no trivial thing ! 
 
 But we ask you for food for the soul, for the mind, 
 And you put out our eyes, like Sanson's, bid us grind. 
 
 At the mill, use our strength, as of old, for your gain, 
 And be still as of old. All our struggles are vain. 
 
 Aye, dumb brutes we have been in the years that are 
 past, 
 
 But the giant, though blind, in his strength rose at last. 
 We arise ! have risen ! No more beg but demand 
 The right, not as slaves to toil, but to stand 
 
 In the height of our manhood, the strength of our power 
 
 Your equals, your peers in the stress of the hour. 
 
 Should you spurn us as oft you have spurned us before 
 Then the weight of the blame shall lie at your door. 
 
 For the temple you reared with the blood we have shed, 
 
 With the labors and cares of the noble long dead. 
 With the prayers of the mother, the tears of the child. 
 Now by buyer and seller degraded, defiled, — 
 
 Its altars all blackened where once burned the flame 
 
 Of freedom so holy — while idols defame, 
 Shall topple around you and fall to the ground. 
 While we perish alike all in ruin profound ! 
 
 — Lititz Express, Jan. 16, 1903 
 
 [40] 
 
TRAVELING 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 
 
 Friends, you would that I should travel, 
 
 Lungs expanding on the wing? 
 Tempt from narrow ruts of labor 
 
 To the love of wandering ? 
 Yet this very time more closely 
 
 To my home I'm bound to cleave, 
 Feel myself to it devoted. 
 
 Richer far than you conceive. 
 
 Ne'er can I exhaust these pathways. 
 
 Never quite explore this vale. 
 And the old, well-trodden footways 
 
 Move me like the newest tale. 
 When full oft the road is lonely. 
 
 To myself I must declare, 
 Then will brush in broadest daylight 
 
 Cherished phantoms past me there. 
 
 When the sunlight has departed 
 
 Still my heart can find no rest, 
 With it seeks from mountain turrets 
 
 Fabled islands of the blest. 
 When the stars emerge from darkness 
 
 Forward I must press in might. 
 And in ever widening orbits 
 
 Tread the gods' own paths of light. 
 
 Dreams of early youth and later. 
 
 Past and future I can see. 
 Boundless spaces of the heavens 
 
 Hourly are mapped out for me. 
 Therefore, friends, why should I travel ? 
 
 Road and goal, I beg you, show. 
 Even in home's quiet circle 
 
 Hearts too oft will wandering go. 
 
 —Lancaster New Era, Jan. 5, 1905 
 
 [41] 
 
THE KATYDID 
 
 Katy found the summer cool. 
 
 Then she said she didn't. 
 For, with Katies 'tis a rule 
 
 Stick to truth they needn't. 
 For, like all the Katie clan. 
 
 They are sometimes contrary. 
 When they argue with a man 
 
 They can be slippery, very ! 
 
 They will sit up all the night 
 
 To argue on a question. 
 They are always in the right. 
 
 Avaunt the bare suggestion 
 That a Katie might be wrong. 
 
 If only for a moment ! 
 Were all the Katies wise and strong 
 
 Pray, who would quarrels foment ? 
 
 Whether they are right or not, 
 
 We even must forgive 'em, 
 For they brighten many a spot, 
 
 And so we may not grieve 'em. 
 Does it matter, after all, 
 
 Who speaks the last in meetin' ? 
 Many giants great and tall 
 
 By little words are beaten. 
 
 Katie, stick to what you say. 
 
 And if you did it, say it. 
 And if you didn't, say so, pray. 
 
 And no one will gainsay it. 
 Chatter from the dark to dawn. 
 
 E'en through the day, if't please you, 
 None shall e'er upon my lawn 
 
 Dare to molest or tease you. 
 
 — Lancaster Intelligencer, Sept. S, X90S 
 
 [42] 
 
THEN? 
 
 When m}^ spirit meets your spirit when the years of time 
 
 are spent, 
 And the warp of misconceptions, Hke a garment has been 
 rent, 
 Will we love each other truly, as Ave did in days gone by 
 When we dreamed that our affection nevermore could 
 wane nor die ? 
 
 When my spirit meets your spirit in the shadowy land of 
 
 dreams, 
 Wliere the shadows are the real things and the once real 
 only seems, 
 W^ill the things that cut and harrassed, will they matter 
 
 in the least ? 
 Or will we have put them from us far as West is from 
 the East ? 
 
 When my spirit meets your spirit, will we know each 
 
 other, say. 
 With the flesh that once encumbered, like a garment 
 rolled away? 
 Will the spirit be as lovely as the clay so w^ell we knew? 
 Or will we shrink back in horror when we see the real 
 and true? 
 
 When my spirit meets your spirit in its stern reality 
 Will we meet some other spirits in the flesh we used to 
 see ? 
 Win there be a rude awakening in that twilight gray 
 
 and dim 
 W^hen we know each comely mortal as he aye appears 
 to Him ? 
 
 When my spirit meets your spirit will the Judge of all be 
 
 there ? 
 Will the lightning of His glances fill us only with despair ? 
 Or will He hide our nudeness with a garment richly 
 
 dyed 
 In the crimson blood of Calvary where He once for sin 
 ners died ? 
 
 — Lancaster Intelligencer, Sept. 20, 1905 
 
 [43] 
 
COME, LORD JESUS, BE OUR GUEST ; 
 
 (from THB GERMAN OF ADALBERT VON HANSTEIN) 
 
 The days of the week passed in labor and pain 
 
 And around the poor table they're seated again, 
 
 The father, the mother, the children are here. 
 
 Will no guest at this feast of the Lord's Day appear? 
 
 As each look rests with scorn on the table so bare 
 
 The hands of the father are folded in prayer : 
 
 " I know One by whom both cot and palace are blest. 
 
 Come Thou, Lord Jesus and be our Guest ! " 
 
 " Thus I prayed as a child long ago at the knee 
 Of the mother who taught in her fond piety. 
 Many years have passed since she sank in the lomb 
 And a wife by my side stood in young beauty's bloom. 
 But even the children, scarce awakened to life, 
 Find it means only toil, morn to eve, toil and strife. 
 There is none to relieve us so hardly oppressed. 
 O come Thou. Lord Jesus, be Thou our Guest ! 
 
 " 'Tis a beautiful tale of the Christ, how, of yore 
 
 Thou wast wont to wander by the Jordan's green shore. 
 
 Thou didst choose Thy friends 'mid the poor of the 
 
 earth, 
 Those tormented by labor and want from their birth. 
 Thou didst say as the council condemned Thee to die, 
 " To the end of the world to you I am nigh! " 
 O now kee]~) the sweet promise to us once addressed. 
 Do come. Lord Jesus, and be our Guest! 
 
 When at Easter the world by the vigor of Spring- 
 Was pervaded Thy love conquered death's cruel sting. 
 And when woodland and hedge bud anew and grow green 
 We remember the day of Thy rising, I ween. 
 Where but two can be found in Thy name who do meet 
 It is there, Thou hast said, in their midst is my seat. 
 O do Thou hear us pray, filled with longing, unrest. 
 O come. Lord Jesus, and be our Guest ! " 
 
 44 
 
The words died away the still circle among. 
 
 On its hinges the door all noiselessly swung, 
 
 And truly He enters, so solemnly slow, 
 
 The holiest of features with meekness aglow. 
 
 And a sacred joy fills each hea*rt with the tide 
 
 For the love of heaven would with them abide ! 
 
 And his head bows the father, with reverence depressed, 
 
 " Be seated. Lord Jesus, and be our Guest! " 
 
 - The Moravian, Sept. 2U, 1902 
 
 A MEMORY 
 
 Though the sky is curtained with clouds to-night 
 
 And the air is heavy and chill, 
 I am bathed in the amber light of a dream, 
 A vision so bright it would almost seem 
 
 Both the past and the present to fill. 
 My fancy reverts tp an evening in May 
 
 When the air was atune with song, 
 And the odor of lilacs was strong on the breeze 
 As it floated from cots embowered in trees 
 
 Where the road went winding along. 
 
 Yoii remember it well, you were with me, sweet. 
 
 As we passed round the edge of a crag 
 A hill rose up on our right, as you know. 
 While a stream glided through the vale below. 
 
 Less swift than our fleeted-footed nag. 
 The path was bordered with junipers dark 
 
 And the hill with violets blue. 
 The shadows were creeping up from the dell 
 Where the fervent shafts of the sun never fell 
 
 And the shyest wood-flowers grew. 
 
 On the round, green top of a hill in the west 
 
 The sun was just going to bed. 
 The while he was cushioned on pillows of cloud. 
 Like the eider-duck's breast, yet his head was allowed 
 
 To peep forth so round and so red. 
 
 [45 1 
 
Then out from the shade of the junipers dense 
 
 The brooklet again we met, 
 And the waters clear formed a mirror of gold 
 Where the sun might its glory redoubled behold 
 
 Long after we thought it had set. 
 
 Past farm house and hamlet, past grain field and wood 
 
 'Neath the amber and opaline sky 
 Ever onward we went and we chattered and laughed, 
 And full deep of the odorous breezes we quaffed. 
 
 Care free as the birds sailing by. 
 We had gone on forever and aye, I am sure, 
 
 As on wings of the light and the wind. 
 But the deepening haze on the hills full soon. 
 And the pallid face of the waning moon 
 
 Brought the end of our ride to mind. 
 
 —hancaster Intelligencer, Jan. 7, 1905 
 
 THE NEW MUSE 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 
 
 When engaged in legal study, 
 
 'Gainst my heart's impulses strong, 
 And myself had but half severed 
 
 From the tempting voice of song, 
 Many a tune I dedicated 
 
 To the God whose eyes are tied, 
 Never one to thee, oh goddess 
 
 Blind of Justice, had I tried ! 
 
 Other times need other muses. 
 
 And in this so earnest time 
 Nothing agitates my bosom, 
 
 Spurs me to the war of rhyme 
 As when thou with scales and weapon, 
 
 Themis, sit'st enthroned in might, 
 Nations call'st to accusation, 
 
 Kings to answer at thy right. 
 
 — Lancaster Intelligencer, Feb. 15, 1902 
 
 [46] 
 
MARCH 
 
 Thou ridst abroad on winos of mighty wind, 
 Or treadst the earth a giant in thy wrath ; 
 The nude trees shudder at thy touch unkind. 
 
 The very dust makes haste to clear thy path, 
 The dull skies seem to wear a leaden frown. 
 Thou bringst to us the Winter's aftermath. 
 
 Thy presence as connecting link we own 
 Between stern Winter and the gentle Spring, 
 As herald thou and harbinger art known. 
 
 In lulls of thy wild sport the robins sing, 
 And while the blue bird suns its azure breast 
 The sable blackbird too is on the wing. 
 
 And mild, calm days will come at thy behest 
 When it might seem that April's self were here, 
 With fickle smiles and tears alternate dressed 
 
 Then through the mold in sheltered woods will peer 
 
 The liverwort, its waxen petals flushed 
 
 With rose and windflowers by the brooklet clear. 
 
 Beneath thy ponderous foot thou hast not crushed 
 
 The tender snowdrop nor the violet 
 
 In their sweet presence thy loud voice is hushed. 
 
 The yellow cowslip springs from marshes wet. 
 The pussy willows peep from furry hoods. 
 The crocus, jewel-like, in the grass is set. 
 
 There's myriad life within denuded woods. 
 And, though she seems to loiter by the way. 
 The Spring is present in the mildest woods. 
 
 —Linden Hall Echo, March 2, 1902 
 
 [471 
 
THE PROPHECY 
 
 This has reference to the Moravian Church founded in Bohemia in 1457. John 
 Amos Comenius Komensky, a Bohemian, was one of its greatest men, bishop, author, 
 scholar and educator, whose memory is revered to this day throughout the world. 
 
 On the Bohemian mountains 
 
 Comenius stood, the seer. 
 Behind him lay the pleasant land 
 
 Which he still held so dear. 
 Before him lay the wide world, 
 
 An exile he had trod, 
 But to his country always true, 
 
 His brethren and his God. 
 
 The church he loved was scattered 
 
 In cave and forest lone. 
 Men had more confidence in beasts 
 
 Than kindred of their own. 
 Gone up in smoke and ashes 
 
 The work of hand and brain, 
 While happy home and prosperous town 
 
 The wanderer sought in vain. 
 
 But with unwavering courage 
 
 And faith undaunted yet, 
 Though by a legion doubts assailed 
 
 And trials hard beset, 
 He uttered the prediction 
 
 The centuries have proved true : 
 That Bohemia's crushed and outlawed church 
 
 Should blossom forth anew. 
 
 Count Zinzendorf, the noble. 
 
 Furnished the garden fair. 
 On German soil the " Hidden Seed " * 
 
 Sprang up with proper care. 
 'Twas there Bohemia's exiles 
 
 Founded a home once more 
 Beyond the reach of cruel foes 
 
 And persecution sore. 
 
 [48] 
 
The bones of old Komensky 
 
 Two hundred years have lain 
 Far from the land he loved so well 
 
 But never saw again, 
 And the church he served and honored 
 
 Has compassed sea and land 
 And works unceasing- to this day 
 
 To keep her Lord's command. 
 
 A name given to the almost annihilated church by the historians. 
 
 — The Little Missionary, Feb. 1905 
 
 THE WORLD PROBLEM 
 
 (suggested by whittier's "voices of freedom ■) 
 
 I laid aside the well-worn book, 
 
 The sweet strains lingered in my ears. 
 The dear old man ! he could not brook 
 
 The sight of human woes and tears. 
 
 He filled the measure of his years 
 With manly words and manly deeds ; 
 
 Now when the ripened fruit appears 
 Of all his toil for human needs 
 He shines a saint above the strife of creeds. 
 
 He helped to wipe one deadly stain 
 
 From ofif his country's noble shield 
 Would that no more might there remain 
 
 To leave her truest worth concealed ! 
 
 Still must her knights go forth to wield 
 The sword against a myriad foes 
 
 Who will not fly and will not yield 
 But battle to the bitter close. 
 For, while life lasts, the blood of heroes flows. 
 
 For hoary wrong will live and thrive, 
 Entrenched within the forts of use; 
 
 Or, newly-named, will still contrive 
 A greener age her course shall choose. 
 
 [49] 
 
The hydra Sin has many a ruse 
 With which to charm the world anew 
 
 And untrained warriors to confuse. 
 The same old bogs she leads us through, 
 Though by a path our fathers never knew. 
 
 No more are human chattels sold 
 
 In Southern markets at this day 
 We only grind men into gold 
 
 In factories in another way! 
 
 No more the cruel stripe we lay, 
 But burn the Negro at the stake 
 
 For crimes his paler brother bold 
 A milder punishment may take, 
 And e'en the while a pang of pity wake. 
 
 No more do witches expiate 
 
 A crime they never could commit, 
 But fouler demons daily bait 
 
 Their hooks to catch the small of wit. 
 
 The wise men of the Senate sit 
 In halls of state through sessions long. 
 
 They wrangle and words finely split 
 The while the forms of vice and wrong. 
 Grown bold, stalk unreproved the crowds among. 
 
 And has the world no better grown 
 
 Since One there died on Calvary's tree? 
 Has the dark flower of sin not bloAvn 
 
 And shed its fruit of misery? 
 
 Ah, we must wait if such as He 
 In the long night of ages can. 
 
 We are but atoms, should we be 
 Less patient than He is with man? 
 He sees and saw the end ere we began. 
 
 Ah, this must be our solace then, 
 The world-old problem hath an end. 
 
 He solved it who once died for men. 
 On Him we must and can depend. 
 
 [50] 
 
E'en now the pillars tottering bend 
 Of time-worn systems built in blood. 
 
 The hosts of sin may seem to rend 
 The very heavens while placid Good 
 Sits on her throne, though worlds in ruin stood. 
 
 —New Era, June 16, 1901 
 
 A PICTURE 
 
 It is winter, dark and surly, 
 
 When the morn breaks late, and early 
 
 Night descends upon the land. 
 Leaden are the skies and sombre 
 And the earth lies locked in slumber 
 'Neath her spotless robe snug hidden, 
 While, like sentinels, unbidden, 
 
 Air the tall trees guarding stand. 
 
 But my heart is bent on dreaming. 
 And a golden light is gleaming 
 Somewhere, where my thoughts will wander, 
 For I see a picture yonder 
 
 Hanging on the parlor wall. 
 There's the warmth of summer sending 
 To my breast a glow and lending 
 Charms unheeded when the splendor 
 Shone around me and the tender 
 
 Light eclipsed not Winter's pall. 
 
 'Tis a field of luscious clover. 
 That the wild bee hovers over, 
 
 And the grass is deep and cool. 
 Hard by stands a woodland shoAving 
 Deep recesses where are growing 
 Wild flowers sweet; and shly glancing, 
 Through the sun-flecked spaces, dancing 
 With the breezes gently sighing, 
 And the bright-eyed squirrels prying 
 
 Flutter birds about the pool. 
 
 51 
 
Ah, methinks I hear the veery. 
 And the wood thrush, bright and cheery. 
 And the oriole's bugle sounding 
 Where his orange breast is bounding-. 
 While the s.tar-winged blackbird brushes 
 Through the undergrowth of rushes 
 
 To his nest concealed from view. 
 There the stillness is unbroken. 
 For he gives nor sign nor token. 
 
 To his secret he is true. 
 
 Midway through that field goes stealing. 
 Like a silver serpent reeling, 
 A clear brooklet, crystal, sparkling. 
 And the trees bend, dipping darkling 
 
 In its mossy, pebbly bed. 
 There the large-eyed kine are standing 
 With their placid miens commanding 
 All this wealth of tranquil sweetness. 
 Finding joy's unmixed completeness. 
 With the winter lapping coolly 
 'Round their feet embowered newly 
 
 Where the cress its nets has spread. 
 
 \Miat a scene of restful quiet, 
 Happiness, contentment, nigh at 
 Nature's bosom and the beating 
 Of her great w^arm heart unweeting 
 
 By her glad dumb children heard ! 
 And that great heart still is throbbing 
 Though the winter winds are sobbing- 
 Through that same wood dark and naked. 
 Through that field the Frost King raked. 
 O'er that ice-bound streamlet crawling 
 'Neath a mantel thick, appalling. 
 
 With no sound of bee or bird. 
 
 ■Lancaster Intelligencer, Jan. 17, 190c 
 
LIMITED 
 
 Ah yes, we think we know our friends, 
 But then a look, a passing word. 
 The heart is deeply pained and stirred. 
 
 And so a life-long friendship ends ! 
 
 We know the color of men's eyes. 
 We touch each other as we pass. 
 And each reads each as in a glass, 
 
 But the soul's curtain may not rise. 
 
 So wise in our own conceit 
 
 We know just what a man will do. 
 We know exactly where he'll go. 
 
 Or how his life's events he'll meet. 
 
 And should he make a sad mistake, 
 The hidden motive un confessed, 
 AVe gauge the soul behind the vest, 
 
 And vvise and warning heads Ave shake. 
 
 But if a noble deed is done 
 
 A meaner object oft we guess, 
 
 And carp the while that we should bless 
 
 A soul that flies while we lie prone. 
 
 We see with microscopic glance 
 
 The smallest spot upon the shield, 
 Then bravely we our weapon wield — 
 
 The tongue — and each must have his chance! 
 
 Within our minds as on a shelf. 
 We set our friends up in a row. 
 All weighed and measured, labelled, too. 
 
 Each knows his brother as himself. 
 
 Should men outgrow the pattern that 
 We ready cut and made for them 
 We're sure to sneer and to condemn. 
 
 We'd make the head to fit the hat! 
 
 53 
 
We strive to measure human love 
 With scales, or by the inch and yard. 
 And then we think it very hard 
 
 If our small scales unequal prove. 
 
 E'en thus we measure God, for we 
 
 To such vast heig-hts can never reach ; 
 We cannot understand His speech. 
 
 We blindly grope but cannot see. 
 
 The plumb line of our little minds 
 Such depths of love can never sound. 
 We can but circle 'round and 'round, 
 
 And guess a wealth all undefined. 
 
 We look abroad and wonder why 
 The good is ever mixed with ill. 
 And Tjad men thwart His holy will, 
 
 AVhile the long centuries roll by. 
 
 We cannot see why such and such 
 
 A wicked thing He will permit. 
 
 W^hy doth He not in judgment sit 
 Who shivers systems without touch? 
 
 He lives beyond the universe, 
 
 He was and is ere time began. 
 
 What thinkest thou, ephemeral man, 
 Shall He thy small resentments nurse? 
 
 If our friends' hearts are sealed thus. 
 Who are but human as we are, 
 How then can such as we are dare 
 
 Judge God who made both them and us? 
 
 —Lancaster New Era, August 28, 190'^ 
 
 ' THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS 
 
 When Mother Mary found her Son 
 
 Stretched at full length ^upon the floor. 
 
 To rest his tired limbs when day was done. 
 Within the cottage door 
 
 [54] 
 
Her living heart was filled with dread, 
 
 For there upon the floor she saw 
 A sliadow dark extend from feet to head, 
 
 Symbol of fear and awe. 
 
 The cross, ah yes, the fated cross. 
 
 Whose shadow lay upon her heart, 
 Emblem of all her grief and shame and loss 
 
 That should no more depart. 
 
 Beneath that shadow walked the Christ 
 
 •For thirty years and faltered not, 
 Upon its cursed wood He sacrificed 
 
 The glories of His lot. 
 
 That shadow falls upon us still. 
 
 Rock-like within a desert land; 
 Beneath it we can safely rest until 
 
 Storms die at His command. 
 
 It leads us through the wilderness, 
 
 A cloud by day, a fire by night, 
 As once of old through times of joy and stress 
 
 Israel was lead aright. 
 
 No longer symbol now of fear, 
 
 But type alone of One who freed 
 Our guilty hearts from sin, the cross is dear 
 
 To us in very deed. 
 
 O blessed shadow, let it rest 
 
 Forevermore upon my soul ! 
 There where thy form is found w^ithin the breast 
 
 The sin-sick are made whole. 
 
 O blessed cross, lead thou the way 
 To yonder home where He who died 
 
 Doth live and reign in endless, blessed sway, 
 Jesus, the crucified. 
 
 — The Moravian, March 26, 1902 
 
 ss 
 
THE LITITZ SPRINGS 
 
 When her head the pussy willow 
 Dons and rising from her pillow 
 
 In the soft, warm lap of Mother Earth the Spring- 
 flower feels her way, 
 When the hemlock shakes its hoary 
 Locks at Winter's feet before the 
 
 Slow advancing steps of milder hours that herald 
 brighter day, 
 
 When the fervent sun of Summer 
 Woos with kisses every comer. 
 
 Makes him seek the shade sequestered of some leafy, 
 cool retreat. 
 When the Autumn air is weaving 
 Golden charms perpetual, leaving 
 
 Misty aureoles surrounding all the landscape at one's 
 feet, 
 
 Then I seek a spot enchanted. 
 By all dearest memories haunted, 
 
 Hallowed by the dreams of childhood and the joys of 
 later time. 
 Spot to me there is none dearer 
 To my heart, nor aqy nearer. 
 
 Hence, indeed, I can but choose it for the subject of my 
 rhyme. 
 
 Parks and gardens all unending 
 
 In this land their charms are lending 
 
 To our lordly towns and cities from the mountains to 
 the sea. 
 Yet the Yellowstone, I know it, 
 And Niagara's self below it 
 
 Fall in tender recollection 'neath this spot so dear to me. 
 
 Should I e'er be forced to wander 
 In strange zones and sadly ponder 
 
 O'er the scenes I left behind me in my dear and native 
 land 
 
 [56] 
 
One there is would stand out ever, 
 Distance could efface it never, 
 
 Like a cherished picture painted by some skilled and 
 loving hand. 
 
 And that picture! Will you listen 
 AVhile I paint it? Men did christen 
 
 (Old Moravian hamlet fathers in the days of long ago) 
 Just a little spring surrounded 
 With a woodland green, and bounded 
 
 With a fence this spot idylic where the rippling waters 
 flow. 
 
 See the sunlit spaces gleaming 
 Through the fretted leaf-work, dreaming 
 
 Bend the tall trees stately over, mirrored in the glassy 
 pool. 
 See the checkered pathways leading 
 Up the terraced hill-side threading 
 
 Still green nooks where lovers loiter dreaming 'mid the 
 shadows cool. 
 
 Here the robin carols cheerly. 
 And the oriole whistles clearly, 
 
 Here the speckled trout is dancing blithely o'er the 
 pebbly bed, 
 Here the squirrel scampers shyly 
 And the wood mouse nibbles slyly 
 
 Where the emerald moss its meshes o'er the marshy 
 ground has spread. 
 
 Here the guileless laugh of childhood 
 Echoes through the bosky wildwood. 
 
 Here the youths and maidens wander in a glad com- 
 munion blest, 
 Here the weary wanderer findeth 
 WHiat his jaded soul remindeth 
 
 Of his own long vanished Eden and his long abandoned 
 quest. 
 
 — Lancaster Neiv Era, June 12, 1902 
 
 [57] 
 
A LITTLE CLOUD 
 
 A little cloud on the horizon, 
 
 No bigger than a hand. 
 And yet before the day was done 
 
 It darkened all the land. 
 The prophet knew well what it meant 
 
 It meant the blessed rain 
 So long withheld at last was sent 
 
 To glad the thirsty plain. 
 
 O prophets of a later date, 
 
 Can ye not read the sign 
 Writ plainly by the hand of Fate, 
 
 Guided by Power divine? 
 What means that cloud on the far-ofif rim 
 
 Of a bright and sunlit sky? 
 It means the heavens will soon be dim 
 
 With storm-clouds rushing by. 
 
 The fool beside his wine sits long. 
 
 The miser counts his gold. 
 The thunder's drowned amid the song. 
 
 The lightning's flash is cold 
 Beside the ruddy lamplight's glow. 
 
 Once more upon the wall 
 Of earth's palatial mansions show 
 
 The words that mark their fall. 
 
 Belshazzars of a later time. 
 
 Soon shall your doom be read ! 
 The great Avenger of all crime 
 
 Is not asleep nor dead. 
 Look well to yonder little cloud 
 
 Upon the border far. 
 It means the downfall of the proud. 
 
 The sombre threat of war. 
 
 It means the thirsty land shall drink 
 From springs of heavenly grace, 
 
 It means that earthly thrones shall shrink 
 Before Jehovah's face, 
 
 [58] 
 
It means the just shall rule the earth 
 
 While strife and tumult cease, 
 And thousand years of war give birth 
 
 To thousand years of peace. 
 
 —Lititz Express. Nov. 29, 1901 
 
 THE SPARROWS 
 
 The sparrows are a noisy tribe, 
 
 A busy folk so garrulous ; 
 They seem to chat and tease and jibe 
 
 In gay content, with endless fuss. 
 They flutter down upon the street, 
 Then fly before the passing feet 
 With haste unstudied yet discreet. 
 
 Upon yon ivy-mantled tower 
 
 They build their nests and rear their young, 
 And there I hear them every hour 
 They are not blest with liquid note. 
 They wear no gorgeous painted coat, 
 No charm on which the poets dote. 
 
 From matins unto vespers rung. 
 
 And yet they have a part to fill 
 
 In Nature's plan, I doubt it not. 
 Thy songsters haunt the wood and rill. 
 
 The sparrow finds its humble lot 
 In city streets so dull and bare. 
 So destitute of sun and air 
 That naught there lives that's green and fair. 
 
 It bears a gleam of sunlit skies 
 
 To gloomy yards. Its glancing wing, 
 
 The .sparkle of its small bright eyes. 
 Its merry chirp perhaps may bring 
 
 To minds all darkened by the gloom 
 
 Of sin and care a dream of bloom 
 
 In country lanes sweet with perfume. 
 
 [ 59 ] 
 
It hath a wider mission yet, 
 
 To pick fragments that might pollute, 
 And yet itself no harm doth get 
 
 From what is trodden under foot. 
 Its business thus to purify 
 The street lest man should taste and die 
 Of poisoned germs that round him lie. 
 
 Ah, little birds, I love you well. 
 
 Your ceaseless chatter does not jar 
 Upon the ear like sounds that well 
 
 From labor's smoke-grimed field of war 
 Your russet coats are like the bark 
 On woodland trees, your footprints mark 
 A track like that of meadow lark. 
 
 You're brothers to the thrushes brown 
 
 And to the robin near of kin. 
 I love you for their sakes and frown 
 
 On your detractors. 'Twere a sin 
 To scorn the dusty race whom One 
 Saw fit to mention, did not shun 
 Their fall to note, as we have done. 
 
 We human sparrows who are born 
 To humble lots and common toil, 
 
 We have no cause to mope and mourn 
 For finer vesture, richer spoil. 
 
 We have our uses; let us learn 
 
 To cheerily chirp ; 'twill serve our turn 
 
 As well, and then amid the stern 
 
 Realities we daily taste 
 
 Use well our wings from first to last. 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligencer, March 21, 1902 
 
 60] 
 
OLD AGE 
 
 I sit in the twilight with folded hands 
 
 'Mid the shadows of the past 
 I'm stranded alone upon the sands 
 
 By an ocean dim and vast. 
 
 My eyes are heavy with unshed tears, 
 And dim with tears that were shed, 
 
 And adown the far vista of the years 
 I see but ghosts of the dead. 
 
 As they pass before me in long review. 
 My childhood and youth and prime 
 
 I ask, did I do the best I could do 
 With the precious gift of time? 
 
 Did I fold soft hands in sluggard ease. 
 
 As the swift years fled away, 
 Striving myself alone to please 
 
 And shunning the better way? 
 
 Did I clothe the naked and feed the poor? 
 
 Visit the sick and distressed? 
 Or did I stubbornly close the door 
 
 Against the heavenly Guest? 
 
 Ah no, I strove with a halting gait 
 
 To follow the Master afar. 
 But the way was narrow, the path was strait. 
 
 Spirit and flesh were at war. 
 
 I see down the aisles of years that are gone 
 Not phantoms of friend and foe. 
 
 But the ghosts of victories I should have won 
 O'er the sins of long ago ! 
 
 So the record of years is not as fair 
 
 As a record of years should be, 
 But the blood of Christ, my soul, ah, there 
 
 A solace is found for thee ! 
 
 6i] 
 
These hands are hardened with toil and brown, 
 They have earned their hard-earned rest. 
 
 Gladly I lay my burdens down 
 And trust my God for the rest. 
 
 There is One who walks on the lonely strand 
 
 As human comforts flee, 
 And He beckons me to that far-off land 
 
 Where there shall be no more sea. 
 
 — The Moravian, Dec. 6, 1899 
 
 THE YELLOW BIRD 
 
 'Twas a little yellow bird, 
 Sweetest singer I had heard, 
 That my uncle said he'd bring 
 When he came to us again 
 In the Spring. 
 
 So I thought of naught beside 
 From the morn to eventide 
 But the bird that he would bring 
 When my uncle came again 
 In the Spring. 
 
 When at length the bird was brought 
 It was not what I had thought, 
 Not the yellow bird he'd bring 
 When my uncle came again 
 In the Spring. 
 
 Ah, the bitter pain and ruth ! 
 Uncle had not told the truth. 
 For the bird would never sing 
 That he brought and gave to me 
 In the Spring. 
 
 And its coat was not of gold 
 It was russet to behold. 
 Saddest tears 'twould only bring 
 
 [62 
 
Uncle's plain and silent bird 
 In the Spring. 
 
 But I grew to love that bird 
 Though its voice was only heard 
 In a chirp. It could not sing. 
 Fond companions we became 
 That same Spring. 
 
 Many a golden bird I've chased 
 But its lustre was effaced 
 Ere 'twas caught, nor could it sing 
 Like the wild birds of the wood 
 In the Spring. 
 
 So I've learned to be content 
 With the brown birds that were meant 
 With their cheering chirp to bring 
 Comfort through the winter drear 
 As in Spring. 
 
 — The New Era, Sept. 23, 1905 
 
 THE LESSON OF ARBOR DAY 
 
 Now in the chaplet of the years 
 
 That generous Nature weaves 
 Once more the verdant spring appears 
 
 All garlanded with leaves. 
 
 And while the fickle April skies 
 
 Alternate smile and frown, 
 The dying March wind softly sighs 
 
 And lays his sceptre down. 
 
 In harmony with both we gaze 
 
 Where once a purling brook 
 Meandered through a forest's maze, 
 
 More giving than it took. 
 
 But both are gone. Where oak trees stood 
 
 Like monarchs on a throne, 
 Where walnuts, chestnuts filled the wood 
 
 With treasures all their own, 
 
 [63] 
 
Behold dark wastes, for, year by year. 
 
 Felled by the woodman's blow. 
 Our grand old forests disappear, 
 
 And streamlets cease to flow. 
 
 Rash were the hands that sealed their doom, 
 
 And rash the heads that planned 
 By woodman's ax to spread such gloom 
 
 O'er hill and mountain land. 
 
 Oh! shall these tortured vales cry out 
 
 In vain for their release 
 From storm and scorching sun and drought, 
 
 While harvests still decrease? 
 
 No ; let us strive, while yet we may, 
 
 Past errors to amend, 
 Till each successive Arbor Day 
 
 Becomes a trusty friend 
 
 To him who plants and him who reaps, 
 
 And dreary wastes rejoice 
 As once they did, when 'mid the deeps. 
 
 Earth heard Creation's voice. 
 
 And ye who have the power to stay 
 
 This waste of soil and trees 
 Send forth your message, " Plant, but lay 
 
 No longer hand on these." 
 
 Then fountains nursed in loving arms. 
 
 Shall heal each sun-seamed clod. 
 And Nature, with her thousand charms, 
 
 Proclaim anew her God. 
 
 —The New Era, April 13, 1901 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 The brook flows on to the river, 
 The river flows to the sea, 
 
 And the great sea sings forever 
 A wordless song to me. 
 
 [64 
 
It sings of another ocean, 
 It sings of a shoreless sea; 
 
 No pause in its wild commotion, 
 No peace for you and me. 
 
 It sings, "I have no beginning;" 
 
 It moans, " I have no end. 
 In my boundless orbit I'm spinning. 
 
 I ever tear and rend." 
 
 The beautiful ships I swallow 
 
 With their priceless human freight, 
 
 And then I foam and bellow 
 In measureless wrath and hate. 
 
 Yea, look upon me and wonder, 
 
 O, little son of man ! 
 Yea, look and fear and ponder, 
 
 Your life is but a span. 
 
 And yet you bear within you, 
 
 As fearless of control — 
 I am a type of its untried sinew — 
 
 The boundless human soul. 
 
 It hath nor beginning nor ending, 
 It knows nor peace nor rest, 
 
 Forever tearing and rending 
 The hapless human breast. 
 
 It knows nor lord nor master. 
 It brooks nor bridle nor rein. 
 
 It brings but wreck and disaster 
 And sorrow in its train. 
 
 Only the Maker and Giver, 
 The Lord of thee and thine 
 
 Can still its wild tumult forever 
 With the peace that is divine. 
 
 [65] 
 
Then from here to the hereafter 
 
 It blesses where it flows, 
 And the sunshine of its laughter 
 
 No note of warning" knows. 
 
 So the brook flows down to the river 
 
 And the river flows to the sea, 
 And the human soul seeks ever 
 
 The shores of eternit3^ 
 
 -The New Era, Feb. U, 1903 
 
 THANKSGIVING 
 
 Your barns are full to o'erflowing, 
 
 Your bins and your larders are stored, 
 
 The harvest has trebled the sowing, 
 O, come ye, give thanks to the Lord ! 
 
 His blessing attended the growing, 
 Then let Him preside at the board. 
 
 Before His altar low kneeling 
 
 Thank the Giver for all the good. 
 
 How can you be hard and unfeeling, 
 Ye thankless, unthinking brood. 
 
 When a thousand brethren are reeling" 
 For lack of their daily food? 
 
 Come, heap on your groaning table 
 The fruits of the garden and field. 
 
 Bring forth from your cellar and stable 
 The choicest that they can yield. 
 
 Let the cornucopia of fable 
 Be the sceptre that you wield. 
 
 Go into the hedges and highways 
 
 And bring in hither the poor. 
 Yea, out of the alleys and highways 
 
 [66 1 
 
And in through the wide open door. 
 " Let the ways of mercy be thy ways," 
 Thus commanded the Christ of yore. 
 
 Then shall the voice of thanksgiving 
 Mount on joyful wing- to the skies 
 
 When the glad tongues of all the living 
 Shall the Giver of good things prize, 
 
 While the very air will be heaving 
 With the smoke of the sacrifice. 
 
 —Lititz Express, Nov., 23, 1900 
 
 RETRIBUTION 
 
 You prate of human brotherhood 
 
 The while the cannon roar, 
 And from the ground your brother's blood 
 
 For vengeance crieth sore. 
 
 Into the cannon's awful mouth 
 
 The bread of men you feed, 
 W^hile fever, famine, plague and drouth 
 
 Your dying millions bleed. 
 
 The measure of your bitter cup 
 
 Is full unto the brim. 
 Mother of nations, drink it up 
 
 Before your eyes wax dim. 
 
 And from your palsied hand they break, — 
 Whose powers no more restrain, — 
 
 The prostrate races in your wake 
 That swell your conquering train. 
 
 The long, dark list of Erin's woes, 
 
 And trade's unwilling slaves, 
 The opium victims' dire throes 
 
 The drunkard's yawning graves. 
 
 [67] 
 
Hast thoii no care for these, oh State, 
 
 Grown large in wealth and greed? 
 Once, too, old Rome was counted great, 
 
 The Persian and the Mede. 
 
 Ah, empires rise and empires fall, 
 
 According to His word. 
 His kingdom rises over all, 
 
 His mandates must be heard. 
 
 Thy prophets and thy priests are dumb, 
 
 Thy children shed their blood — 
 That Christian churches may find room 
 
 Where heathen temples stood? — 
 
 Ah no, that English pride may grow 
 
 And English wealth increase. 
 And English Jasons safe may go 
 
 For Afric's golden fleece ! 
 
 On history's pages read the tale 
 
 How mighty Xerxes fell. 
 The Boers can teach thee — do not fail 
 
 To learn the lesson well. 
 
 'Tis not too late to right the wrong, 
 
 The bloody sword to sheathe ; 
 Let peace succeed the funeral song, 
 
 The ghastly feast of death. 
 
 Lest where Britannia could unfurl 
 
 From rise to set of sun 
 Her banners fifty banners hurl 
 
 Defiance to her one. 
 
 —Lititz Express, Oct., 1901 
 
 [ 68 ] 
 
MISSIONARY GRAVES 
 
 On history's pages we have read 
 
 Of many a bloody battle. 
 Of men who oft like heroes bled 
 
 And hordes that died like cattle. 
 
 But yet of many a well-fought field 
 
 We never ken the story, 
 Of those who feared not life to yield 
 
 For human souls — not glory. 
 
 The red men of our forests knew 
 
 The graves of pale-faced teachers 
 And Amazonian verdure grew 
 
 O'er fever victims' features. 
 
 The snow-clad wastes of Labrador, 
 
 Alaska's ice-bound waters 
 And Greenland's bleak and barren shore 
 
 Have hid our sons and daughters. 
 
 'Mid Nicaragua's dark lagoons, 
 
 Jamaica's sparkling fountains, 
 'Mid Arctic nights and tropic noons, 
 
 On Himalayan mountains. 
 
 Upon the fatal Guinea coast, 
 
 'Mid Hottentot and leper. 
 Where great Nyanza's Lake is crossed, 
 
 'Neath Southern Cross and Dipper, ' 
 
 Where once the black man wandered wild 
 
 In forests of Austrailia 
 In terror of the Christian child 
 
 They earned a king's regalia. 
 
 And when the saved of many a land 
 
 Shall rise when time is ended 
 And call th^m blest on Christ's right hand 
 
 Their work shall be commended. 
 
 —The Little Missionary, April, l^OU 
 
 [69] 
 
THE RIVER OF TIME ' 
 
 O, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 
 
 Away far back it began. 
 It was born in the throes of a world sublime 
 
 Before the birth of man. 
 
 It was born when the light at the word of the Lord 
 
 Spread o'er the formless void, 
 It had grown full deep when again His word 
 
 The infant world destroyed. 
 
 The banks of the stream are jagged and steep, 
 
 With ruins on either side, 
 And the tombs where the great of the world lie asleep. 
 
 Slain in their strength and pride. 
 
 O, its waters are red with the blood of the slain 
 
 And dark with the deeds of shame. 
 For the lands it has laved left behind them their stain 
 
 And gave it evil fame. 
 
 There the headless gods of the heathen guard 
 
 Their crumbled fane and shrine. 
 And the mouldering castle keeps watch and ward 
 
 O'er the despot's form supine. 
 
 There the cities lie that were builded in blood. 
 
 Their walls are leveled long, 
 And where once contending armies stood 
 
 Flows the river deep and strong. 
 
 But sometimes the banks are fringed with flowers 
 
 Sown by the good and wise, 
 'Mid the mould of dungeons spring up fair bowers 
 
 That breathe of Paradise. 
 
 [ 70 ] 
 
And again the river is crystal clear 
 
 Where right has left its mark, 
 While l\arvests of gold on its banks far and near 
 
 Brighten the prospect dark. 
 
 O, a wonderful stream is the River of Time. 
 
 It flows right on to God 
 To be lost in the flood of that ocean sublime 
 
 Whose shores by saints are trod. 
 
 —Lancaster New Era, March 1, 1902 
 
 THE BELLS OF LINDEN HALL 
 
 Hear the wild, melodious clamors, 
 
 Swinging of the iron hammers, 
 
 Till the air is all a quiver, 
 
 And the clambering ivies shiver 
 
 Softly through their clinging tendrils outside on the tower 
 
 wall! 
 In the morning's dawning brightness. 
 In the twilight's mystic lightness. 
 In the noontide's quiet hour 
 Bells are swinging in the tower. 
 And the mellow brooding cadence holds the village in its 
 
 thrall. 
 
 In the springtide vernal tender, 
 
 In the summer's golden splendor, 
 
 In the autumn's hazy weather 
 
 Hear the bells ring out together. 
 
 In the winter they are muffled by the snowflakes like a 
 
 pall. 
 There the yellow sunlight dances. 
 There the pallid moonlight glances 
 On the clappers quickly gliding 
 In and out through shadows hiding 
 'Mid the dim and dark recesses of the tower square and 
 
 tall. 
 
 [/I] 
 
As the bells awake from slumber 
 
 Stranger, can you tell their number? 
 
 'Tis a trio, like the Graces, 
 
 Charm is theirs of voice, not faces. 
 
 Yielding to their mild persuasion school girls hasten at 
 the call. 
 
 All the liquid notes are blending 
 
 In the web of school life, lending 
 
 Threads of brightness that will linger 
 
 In its history, like a finger 
 
 Pointing out the pleasant places where the lights of mem- 
 ory fall. 
 
 Chiming forth the Christmas story, 
 
 Sounding out the Easter glory. 
 
 Sending loud the New Year greeting, 
 
 All these festive scenes repeating 
 
 In the coming years they'll echo, sweet bells sounding 
 
 through it all. 
 And the old girls, when returning 
 To the dear scenes a yearning- 
 Time itself and all its changes, 
 Whereso'er the tired foot ranges, 
 Ne'er effaces, listen fondly to the bells of Linden Hall. 
 
 Linden Hall Echo, Oct., 1900 
 
 THE CHAIN 
 
 The old man Avrought in his shop alone 
 Careful and well till the task was done, 
 Better workmen were few or none. 
 
 He was forging a chain with all his might. 
 And every link must be made just right. 
 For he did his work as in God's sight. 
 
 Why need he work with infinite pain 
 To make alike the links in the chain? 
 So much time spent seemed wasted and vain. 
 
 72] 
 
No one could see what the old man did, 
 A flaw or weakness could well be hid. 
 Who cared when he lay 'neath the coffin lid? 
 
 The days went by and the chain was sold, 
 Was laid away in a good ship's hold. 
 And its use by most unguessed, untold. 
 
 The years rolled on and the good ship passed 
 Across the ocean so wide and vast. 
 Not a cloud the calm sky overcast. 
 
 There came a day when the breakers roared, 
 O'er the slippery deck the waters poured. 
 And the ship was doomed with all on board. 
 
 The anchors were brought from the vessel's keep 
 
 And one by one dropped into the deep. 
 
 While the cruel waves seemed to laugh and leap. 
 
 When the cables all snapped like rotten tow 
 The big sheet anchor was brought from below 
 To bear the brunt of the storm-king's blow. 
 
 So the mighty chain a use had found. 
 And coil after coil was now unwound, 
 Like a leash to hold a struggling hound. 
 
 The tempest at last had met its match, 
 
 The mariners saw — they were on the watch — 
 
 The chain had never a flaw nor scratch. 
 
 The tempest died and the good ship lay 
 
 At anchor safe in the quiet bay, 
 
 For not a link of that chain gave w^ay. 
 
 The man wrought better than e'er he knew^ 
 As all men must who are good and true, 
 And their work brings joy instead of rue. 
 
 [73 1 
 
We all forge chains at our daily work. 
 
 The links are weak when we dawdle and shirk. 
 
 While the hidden flaws are sure to lurk. 
 
 Our characters are the chains we make. 
 
 Strong to bear or brittle to break 
 
 In the strain of life when the passions wake. 
 
 Let us live alway as in God's sight, 
 
 Doing our best with our little might. 
 
 His strength is ours when we work aright. 
 
 — The Moravian, July 31, 1901 
 
 THE REMINDER 
 
 In ancient Egypt, we are told, 
 'Twas custom that a mummy hold 
 The place of honor at the feast. 
 Thereby the cheer was scarce increased 
 But each one thought that he must die 
 While Death's grim form was sitting by, 
 Nor dared to self-indulgence yield 
 Lest his own doom thereby be sealed. 
 Unseemly mirth and unkind jest 
 IMethinks that presence had suppressed, 
 While e'en the stoutest heart had quailed 
 Lest in the sli^ghtest thing it failed. 
 Sure virtue high and reason cool 
 Alone at such a feast must rule. 
 While trivial thoughts, words insincere 
 At such a time dared not appear. 
 
 Sometimes when youth and health are rife 
 
 And riot in abundant life, 
 
 With all the thoughts on pleasure bent, 
 
 Deaf ears are to experience lent; 
 
 Wisdom and age are pushed aside 
 
 By the full sweep of folly's tide ; 
 
 f74] 
 
Let a pale child of want and sin, 
 
 With death enthroned on features thin 
 
 Pass by and graver thoughts prevail, 
 
 Counsels derided now avail, 
 
 And visions of immortal birth 
 
 Blot out the transient sigfhts of earth. 
 
 'fe' 
 
 'Tis well, frail children of the dust. 
 
 To be reminded that we must 
 
 Haste on our journey nor delay, 
 
 Beguiled by folly on the way. 
 
 For life is but a thoroughfare, 
 
 A pilgrimage, and we must wear 
 
 The palmer's garb and not the bells 
 
 And trappings of the clown. He sells 
 
 His birthright who sails down the stream 
 
 Of life as in a pleasant dream 
 
 The while the souls of men are lost. 
 
 If pagan Egypt knew the cost 
 
 And danger of forgetting death 
 
 Much more should we, since Scripture saith 
 
 We die to live forevermore 
 
 In bliss or pain on yonder shore. 
 
 — Lancaster Intelligencer, July 29, 1902 
 
 A DIRGE 
 
 Once again a patch of woodland falls beneath the wood- 
 man's ax. 
 
 Once again the birds are mourning desolation in their 
 tracks. 
 
 Once again a spot of beauty leaves the landscape nude 
 and bare, 
 
 And the shy blooms of the wildwood nevermore shall 
 scent the air. 
 
 One step nearer to the era when the drought shall rule the 
 land 
 
 [75] 
 
And our far-famed garden county rival Afric's wastes of 
 
 sand. 
 God made earth a thing of beauty, man, impelled by greed, 
 
 or whim, 
 Leaves where'er his footsteps wander wailing and the 
 
 funeral hymn. 
 
 Reason! Would you know the reason? Reason there 
 
 is none, nor law, 
 Save that hungry commerce gathers everything within its 
 
 maw. 
 From the monarch of the forest to the blossom of the dale. 
 Robbing all we count worth having, all for barter and for 
 
 sale. 
 
 Shall we vainly plead for mercy? They who grind out 
 
 children's blood 
 Scarce would falter at the slaughter of a fragment of a 
 
 wood. 
 Yet you tell us this is progress ! Would we might be 
 
 spared the same. 
 When it is on ruins builded it is progress but in name. 
 
 When the smoke and grime of factories blot out all that's 
 fair and sweet, 
 
 Wlien the sun's obscured in heaven and the grass beneath 
 our feet 
 
 We would call a halt on progress or ask only "Spare us 
 these, 
 
 For our vanished peace and quiet but a patch of green- 
 wood trees." 
 
 For the love of all that's lovely, for the sake of all that's 
 
 best 
 For our many-sided nature let us guard and save the rest, 
 Lest a like fate come upon us such as Eastern annals 
 
 show 
 Of gaunt famine stalking hopeless where the forests are 
 
 laid low\ 
 
 [76] 
 
Do you wonder at my passion? Do you ask, "Why this 
 
 ado 
 'Bout a paltry strip of woodland where the trees are sparse 
 
 and few?" 
 It is only one of thousands and the ruin that is wrought 
 By the ax past computation, reach of fancy or of thought. 
 
 Yet if only bards and children missed the wood's recesses 
 
 cool 
 Ye dared not condemn my raving as the drivel of a fool. 
 For it is to bards and children and to trees and flowers 
 
 and birds 
 That we owe our tenderest feelings deeper than the flow 
 
 of words. 
 
 Lititz Express, June 22, 1906 
 
 THE POET'S THEME 
 
 'Twas in the childhood of the race 
 
 That warriors only found a place 
 
 In singer's carol poet's song. 
 
 For might was right and weakness wrong. 
 
 Then men of Herculean mold, 
 
 Alike in love and battle bold, 
 
 'Neath Northern lights and Southern skies 
 
 Were sung by scalds in epic wise, 
 
 Or in Homeric numbers found 
 
 High flowing praise of sonorous sound. 
 
 No others worthy of renown. 
 
 No others might the poet crown. 
 
 When mankind reached its lusty youth 
 'Twas love and war again, forsooth ! 
 In battle, chase and tournament 
 The flower of knighthood all was spent. 
 The warrior fought for lady's hand. 
 For God and castle, king and land, 
 For honor, pleasure, vengeance, fee. 
 
 // 
 
Christ's tomb from Paynim hold to free. 
 The wandering minstrel sang the Avoes 
 Of lovely dames and knightly foes, 
 While milder arts could only dwell 
 In cloistered hall and monkish cell. 
 
 The race swung forward to its prime. 
 What was the theme of poet's rhyme? 
 The knight was gone and in his stead 
 A tonsured monk was at the head. 
 Through twilight dim he led the way 
 To better and to brighter day. 
 His arms a cross, his sword a Book, 
 His clarion voice the nations shook. 
 Ere that a man of peace went forth 
 And found for men a wider berth. 
 While many a wonder too was wrought 
 By winged minds in realms of thought. 
 What then? The fruit was war alone. 
 Ere lon^ the warriors on the throne, 
 He fought for freedom and for right, 
 And poets sang the warrior's might. 
 
 What shall the poet now rehearse 
 
 In garlands of immortal verse? 
 
 The theme, methinks, has lost no charms, 
 
 And still he pictures war's alarms. 
 
 And love again he can but choose 
 
 When catering to the fickle muse. 
 
 Yet Launcelot now and Guinevere 
 
 No more in poet's dream appear, 
 
 As little as the Titan throng 
 
 That sported in Homeric song. 
 
 Our knightly type is Galahad 
 
 In purity, like armor, clad — 
 
 The dragon Sin, where'er he sees, 
 
 He combats, knowing rest nor ease — 
 
 Our type of love is Una fair, 
 
 The spotless maid. A goodly pair! 
 
 Where'er they go they plant the rose 
 
'Mid desert tracks of Arctic snows. 
 A brio^hter Eden smiles afar 
 Led by the gleam of Bethlehem's star. 
 What better theme can poet sing? 
 What better wares to market bring? 
 From childhood down to doting age 
 What do we read on history's page? 
 The poet cannot mould the race 
 But hold the mirror to its face. 
 Should the reflection fairer be 
 Than in time past we're wont to see 
 The mirror's faithful — say no more — 
 Then laud the age the which him bore. 
 
 — Lancaster New Era, April 12, 1902 
 
 THE MODERN DRAGON 
 
 There were dragons and giants in days of old 
 
 But they are here no more, 
 Yet the Trust, we are told, is as fierce and bold. 
 
 And he crushes king and boor. 
 He sits entrenched in mine and in mill, 
 
 He owns the land and_ the sea, 
 And he chalks down a line where men may walk 
 
 In this country of the free. 
 And he cries, *T am lord of all I survey, 
 
 Human and fowl and brute. 
 There was never a man of woman born 
 
 Who dares my right to dispute." 
 
 The cattle upon a thousand hills. 
 
 King Trust, he owns them now, 
 And each heart thrills at the butcher's bills 
 
 And darker grows each brow. 
 He owns the flour, he sells the bread, 
 
 H^e peddles the milk in the street. 
 He's got his finger in every pie 
 
 That a man may choose to eat. 
 
 [79] 
 
He sands the sugar and colors the tea 
 
 And butters the oleo, 
 And then he gloats o'er his handiwork 
 
 And up the prices go ! 
 
 The ogres in the fairy tales 
 
 In ages that were dark 
 Left grewsome trails of bones and nails 
 
 Their bloody feasts to mark. 
 Our ogre leaves no warning sign 
 
 That any man can tell 
 That he's in reach of the ogre's claw 
 
 And may mark his footing well. 
 What does it matter? We all get there, 
 
 So be it soon or late. 
 There's no escape from the ogre's maw. 
 
 'Tis so decreed by fate. 
 
 'Tis many a day that we are owned 
 
 By King Trust and his godless crew. 
 We have sighed and groaned and wept and moaned, 
 
 And we know not what to do. 
 We left him go when he was young, 
 
 Now he has grown so tall 
 That soon he'll own each blessed thing 
 
 On this terrestrial ball. 
 He's girding all the land with steel 
 
 And all the sea with steam, 
 And liberty will soon become 
 
 A vain and idle dream. 
 
 O, where is the knight that will slay the Trust, 
 
 The dragon so fierce and grim? 
 This man, he must be both pure and just 
 
 And armed in every limb. 
 O, men shall laud him near and far, 
 
 With laurel he'll be crowned. 
 And his name in tale and song shall live 
 
 The whole wide world around. 
 And we'll cry: "Hurrah for the goodliest knight 
 
 [80] 
 
That ever has wielded sword, 
 For he has slain our strongest foe, 
 Our tyrant once and lord ! " 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligencer, August 19, 1902 
 
 THE SERVANT IS NOT GREATER THAN HIS 
 
 LORD 
 
 I thought, as in the Book I read. 
 The seers and prophets all are dead 
 And how then shall the race be led? 
 
 All dead, indeed, can it be so? 
 All history loudly answers. No! 
 Its prophets every age must know. 
 
 'Tis not alone God's chosen race 
 
 That claims all rights of time and place. 
 
 They only set the world the pace. 
 
 We have our seers and prophets now 
 With pierced feet and thorn-crowned brow. 
 Whose claims the world will not allow. 
 
 The men who bear for conscience' sake. 
 Who, while men sleep, must toil and wake, 
 Refuse the good that others take. 
 
 The men who fast while others feast. 
 Who smooth life's way for man and beast, 
 Nor e'er neglect God's very least. 
 
 They follow where the Master trod. 
 Homeless, like Him, and poorly shod, 
 The surest way that leads to God. 
 
 They're scorned, as were the seers of old, 
 They bear oppressions manifold, 
 E'en hunger, nakedness and cold. 
 
 [8il 
 
Like to the fathers of one mind, 
 We to their mission oft are blind 
 Until the g^rand result we find. 
 
 fe' 
 
 From Moses down to saintly Paul, 
 From Huss to Luther, Sumner, all, 
 They drink the wormwood and the gall. 
 
 Yea, all around in very deed 
 
 Behold them suffer, see them bleed ! 
 
 And yet the world gives little heed. 
 
 They are the handful, strong and free, 
 A cringing world will never see 
 To Belial bend the coward knee. 
 
 'Tis they who dare all wrong to shun, 
 'Tis they who dare to stand alone. 
 If only to be spit upon ! 
 
 E'en now the mass its hard palm paints 
 With the warm blood of martyred saints, 
 The while the godly spirit faints. 
 
 And still the mob will not be led, 
 
 'Twill rather crucify instead. 
 
 The living jeer and crown the dead. 
 
 —Lititz Express. Feb. 21, 1901 
 
 THE CZAR 
 
 Who, craven-like, fled from the terrible city? 
 Who felt for the people compassion nor pity? 
 Who hid in his palace safe and far? 
 Who was it? What think ye? The noble Czar! 
 
 W^ho is weighed in the balance and now found wanting? 
 Who is reaping the harvest of his own planting? 
 Who is feeling the pangs that despots are 
 Alone with his conscience? The mighty Czar ! 
 
 [ 82 ] 
 
Who has trodden for years a nation under? 
 
 Who answers with sword and with cannons' thunder 
 
 When to ask for their rights a people dare? 
 
 The gentle, peace-loving, the Christian Czar ! 
 
 Who is living in fear of his noble head's falling? 
 W^ho must hear in his dreams the cries most appalling 
 That rise from prisons and shambles of war, 
 The curses that light on the fatherly Czar? 
 
 Who is heir of vast lands and dominions unbounded? 
 Who rules o'er an empire by wiser men founded? 
 Who is caged like a prisoner behind the bar? 
 Who is harried and hated? The terrible Czar ! 
 
 Who is clothed with great power but by nature unfitted? 
 Who must answer for sins by others committed? 
 Who was born in the light of an evil star? 
 The puny, the weakling, the pitiful Czar ! 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligencer, Feb. 3, 1905 
 
 THE VOICES OF THE SPRINGTIDE 
 
 Plenteous is the summer's glory. 
 
 Wealth of flower and fruit and tree. 
 Fair is harvest's golden story, 
 
 Autumn's sun-dyed tapestry. 
 But the sweetest charm of Springtide 
 
 Has departed from the land 
 When the birds have ceased to sing. Wide 
 
 Silence reigns on every hand. 
 
 Ah, the winter's long and surly 
 When the feathered tribe is still, 
 
 But the Springtide brings them early, 
 
 Though March winds blow fierce and chill, 
 
 While the tearful April quivers 
 With a joy but half confessed 
 
 [83] 
 
When a voice aerial shivers 
 With the transport in its breast. 
 
 Comes then May, the winsome maiden, 
 
 Laughs the wood, the garden, field, 
 Laughs mankind to see her laden 
 
 With all beauty earth can yield. 
 Never artist lived, musician 
 
 That such forms could paint, or wake 
 Sounds so varied and Elysian 
 
 From the chords of human make. 
 
 When the sky is full of sunshine 
 
 And the earth is paved with green, 
 And all Nature's drunk the run wine 
 
 That has glorified her mien 
 There's a harp in every bush and 
 
 There's a lute on every limb. 
 While the woodland is a full band 
 
 Playing one thanksgiving hymn. 
 
 It is then we miss them sorest 
 
 When the summer's flame burns dull, 
 For the silent autumn forest 
 
 Of the wind is only full. 
 Ah, a myriad foreign voices 
 
 In the world cannot atone 
 To the spirit that rejoices 
 
 No more when the birds are flown. 
 
 Yea the summer time is glorious 
 
 With its store of shade and bloom, 
 But we miss the choirs uproarious 
 
 That retire to leafy gloom. 
 Ah, the autumn's bearded splendor. 
 
 How we revel in its cheer! 
 But we mourn the lyrists tender 
 
 Of the Springtime of the year. 
 
 Thus our lives may be o'erflowing 
 In our manhood, in our prime, 
 
 [84] 
 
And e'en age may pass unknowing 
 The unkindest cuts of time, 
 
 Yet our childhood's careless songtime 
 And our youth's love-laden strain 
 
 We will miss and mourn a long time 
 With a deep but useless pain. 
 
 Lancaster New Era, July 17, 1903 
 
 THE BIRTH OF CHRIST 
 
 Hark, the bells up in the steeple 
 Tell to all the listening people 
 That the day by prophets wanted, 
 That the day by poets chanted, 
 That the patriarchs long pondered 
 As in darkness oft they wandered. 
 Now has dawned upon the earth. 
 
 Ah, it is a day of mystery 
 That has changed the face of history, 
 That dim Hades once set quaking, 
 Jove upon his throne left shaking. 
 Drove old Thor into his wildwood, 
 And fore'er enthroned sweet childhood, 
 Day of the Messiah's birth! 
 
 Twenty centuries have vanished 
 Since the old faiths have been banished 
 To the limbo of dead fable. 
 And the sinless One is able 
 To hold sway with reign unbroken 
 Where the angels' words are spoken. 
 All the world proclaims His worth. 
 
 Let us, too, then do Him honor. 
 Him of all good gifts the donor. 
 Let the souls whom sin enslaveth 
 Bring repentance that He craveth, 
 
 [8s] 
 
And our hearts and doors wide flinging, 
 Let the melody of singing 
 
 Rise from every home and hearth. 
 
 Him, who loosed for aye the portal 
 Leading to the life immortal, 
 Him who stands our Mediator, 
 Friend and Brother, as Creator, 
 Who shall reign when time is ended 
 Now adore on knees low bended. 
 
 Reverence give that knows no dearth. 
 
 Since He came with richest blessing 
 Let us share of our possessing 
 With the poor, the sick, the humble, 
 Let us lift the ones that stumble, 
 Let us serve men with the sweetness 
 That shall crown with full completeness 
 Day of our Redeemer's birth. 
 
 — Lancaster Intelligencer, Dec. 21, WOIt 
 
 THE ARMY OF BREAD WINNERS 
 
 All over the world's broad highways 
 
 Wherever we go we meet, 
 A3^e passing and repassing. 
 
 The tread of the million feet. 
 
 They are going forth in the morning, 
 They are coming back at night. 
 
 And often the tread is heavy. 
 And often the purse is light. 
 
 'Tis not an army with banners. 
 They carry no sword nor gun, 
 
 Yet they fight from dawn to darkness 
 And the battle is never done. 
 
 86 
 
There are old men, there are children, 
 There are maidens sweet and pure, 
 
 There are matrons worn and anguished. 
 There are men made to endure. 
 
 There are some go forth with laughter, 
 There are some go forth with tears, 
 
 Some greet the conflict with pleasure, 
 And some with groans and fears. 
 
 Though many fall by the wayside 
 
 The numbers ne'er decrease ; 
 While the human heart is beating 
 
 The body finds no release. 
 
 There are heroes, there are martyrs, 
 
 There are cowards in the fray; 
 Some battle alone in the darkness. 
 
 Some faint in the broadest day. 
 
 They fight the wolves of Hunger 
 
 And the demon of Despair, 
 They hunt the giant Poverty 
 
 And beard him in his lair. 
 
 'Tis the army of bread winners, 
 
 And they fight for very life. 
 The ground with their blood is fertile. 
 
 They buy our peace with their strife. 
 
 They win our bloodless victories. 
 They sow our fields with grain, 
 
 They run our mills and factories. 
 They plow the stormy main. 
 
 While the smoke of farm and village 
 Have marked the ruinous track 
 
 Of the world's victorious armies 
 
 That brought naught but ruth and wrack 
 
 [87] 
 
We find only peace and plenty 
 
 Where this mighty host is seen. 
 Men bless their unending progress 
 
 And keep their memory green. 
 
 No standing army is needed, 
 
 No dynamite nor guns, 
 Before a host so powerful 
 
 There's never a foe but runs. 
 
 But woe to the land whose soldiers 
 
 Can wield no tool but a sword. 
 And whose homes are at the mercy 
 
 Of a devastating horde ! 
 
 Yea, the army of bread winners. 
 
 Our strength it is and shield, 
 For the yard and last and harrow 
 
 Are the weapons they can wield. 
 
 They keep at bay gaunt famine. 
 
 Dishonor and loss and shame. 
 And in the march of the nations 
 
 They win a conquering name. 
 
 —The New Era, August H, 1902 
 
 JUDGE NOT 
 
 Be show in judging lest you should 
 
 In others but yourself condemn; 
 Be zealous still to find the good. 
 
 The blackest mud may hide a gem. 
 
 Be slow to blame the hypocrite. 
 
 What if his face be long and sour. 
 The while that you in judgment sit 
 
 Your own faults grow in strength and power. 
 
 One little fault may thrive and grow 
 Until it rules the very man, 
 
 [88] 
 
While virtue ever grow^eth slow, 
 To giant evil but a span. 
 
 Some little good is always found 
 In men, however vile they be, 
 
 And many petty faults abound 
 In saints of heavenly purity. 
 
 The wisest man may act the fool, 
 The greatest fool a sage appear. 
 
 And all the learning of the school 
 
 Experience oft proves worthless gear. 
 
 The child may sometimes teach the sage. 
 Experience bend to innocence. 
 
 And all the trappings of the age 
 Be less of wisdom than pretense. 
 
 Oft outward joy hides inward care 
 And outward wrinkles inward peace, 
 
 The clown who dances at the fair 
 May inly pray for prompt release. 
 
 Who heaps up gold oft bids farewell 
 To conscience clear and slumbers light 
 
 The guards that in a palace dwell 
 Are darksome spirits of the night. 
 
 Wealth is not wisdom, nor are brains 
 Confined to cottage walls alone, 
 
 The intellect a monarch reigns 
 Unbound by walls of sod or stone. 
 
 Then treat all men with equal cheer, 
 Be courteous, pitiful and kind. 
 
 For all are brethren far and near. 
 Our needs us all together bind. 
 
 We have one Father and we kneel 
 Before one common mercy seat, 
 
 [89 ] 
 
Before one Eye we all must feel 
 
 That we are nought, our lives a cheat. 
 
 Then do not judge, for we are all 
 
 Already judged by Him who made 
 Us human atoms, great and small ; 
 
 We're hourly in His balance weighed. 
 
 —Lititz Express, Jan. 17, 1902 
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 We were walking out together in the hazy autumn 
 
 weather, 
 Speaking of the friends beloved in the days of long ago. 
 Some had moved to other places strange to us and left 
 
 no traces 
 That enabled us to follow and their present welfare know. 
 
 Others living right around us strange had grown and 
 stranger found us 
 
 Till we scarcely knew each other as we met upon the 
 street. 
 
 But by far the greater number slept the long and dream- 
 less slumber 
 
 In the low and narrow mansions of the graveyard's still 
 retreat. 
 
 Cautiously we trod and slowly hushed our voices, for a 
 
 holy 
 Atmosphere seemed brooding over our pathway as we 
 
 went, 
 While the dry leaves had a dreary rustle that scarce made 
 
 us cheery, 
 And the very air seemed vocal with a half suppressed 
 
 lament. 
 
 Schoolmates who had sat beside us, nought, we thought 
 
 then, could divide us. 
 Since had passed beyond the river while our eyes were 
 
 dim with tears ; 
 
 [90] 
 
Later comrades of an hour — how they haunt us with 
 
 strange power ! — 
 Laughter that was drowned in sorrow, phantom jests 
 
 rang in our ears. 
 
 Neighbors, kinsmen, all had vanished, ruthlessly by time 
 
 wxre banished 
 From the living, acting present to the chambers of the 
 
 past. 
 Here their places no more knew them and our thoughts 
 
 alone pursue them 
 To that region of the shadows, halls of memory dim and 
 
 vast. 
 
 There was Kittie, light and airy, like her namesake, and 
 
 contrary, 
 But at times so wondrous solemn with her large and 
 
 liquid eyes ; 
 There was Anna, slow and steady, with her smile so 
 
 quick and ready, 
 And her heart as full of sunshine as her head was calm 
 
 and wise. 
 
 One had died a wife and mother, useful and beloved the 
 
 other 
 Left a host of mourning kindred and a busy world behind. 
 There was Charlie, merry fellow, with his songs, his jokes 
 
 and 'cello; 
 In his bright auspicious spring time his young manhood's 
 
 sun declined. 
 
 There was Susie, plump and jolly, blue-eyed Etta, gentle 
 
 Mollie, 
 How they seem to crowd around us as their features we 
 
 recall ! 
 There w^as Willie, naughty, clever, there was Minnie, 
 
 laughing ever, 
 There was Laura, dark and handsome, graceful, dignified 
 
 and tall. 
 
 [ 91 ] 
 
One by one we look them over, like old portraits 'neath 
 
 the cover 
 Of an album, and we wonder as we find the list increase, 
 Whether we two are the only living ones that wander 
 
 lonely 
 In the now deserted chambers where the dear dead rest in 
 
 peace, 
 
 And we pray that no sad changes e'er may sever or 
 
 estrange us 
 While we bide within the borders of the land of living 
 
 men, 
 And the fall wind's mournful sighing whispers assent 
 
 while we're trying 
 In our hearts to sign a covenant needing neither ink nor 
 
 pen. 
 
 Linden Hall Echo, Nov., 1900 
 
 THE PARTRIDGE 
 
 The serpentine road wound up the hill 
 
 And down on the other side. 
 The evening lay brooding calm and still 
 
 O'er the landscape far and wide, 
 The birds were cuddling down to their rest 
 
 With a chirp and trill and song. 
 And the sun had painted the gorgeous WcvSt 
 
 With colors that lingered long. 
 
 When close at my side I heard a sound, 
 
 A liquid, persuasive note 
 That seemed to rise from the dewy ground 
 
 From an almost human throat. 
 As I tried to follow where it led, 
 
 By the coaxing accents drawn, 
 It seemed below and again overhead, 
 
 And anon the voice was gone. 
 
 [92] 
 
Through wooded lanes where the hedge rose grew, 
 
 Through tangles of weed and vine 
 I followed in vain the haunting clew, 
 
 Unaided by token or sign. 
 Past fields of wheat just turning to gold, 
 
 Which the sun to life had called. 
 Corn field and clover with wealth untold 
 
 In crimson and emerald. 
 
 I gave up the useless chase at last. 
 
 Slow taking my homeward way. 
 In a jubilant tone the words were cast 
 
 From close behind, I should say. 
 Sure 'twas a phantom that high and clear 
 
 Called out three words, only three, 
 'Twas "Ah Bob White ! " Now wasn't it queer 
 
 What the phantom called after me? 
 
 I've heard it since and full many a time 
 
 And chased it often in vain, 
 For whether I walk or creep or climb 
 
 To give up the quest I am fain. 
 I hear it near and I hear it far, 
 
 Its dulcet and ghostly call 
 Evanescent as a falling star. 
 
 Say, is it a voice at all? 
 
 The lover that seeks his vanished bride. 
 
 The youth that woos phantom fame, 
 The sage that toils for the lore denied 
 
 Or finds it an empty name, 
 The dotard that mourns his long lost youth. 
 
 The mother that wails her child : 
 I must be of kin, to these, in truth. 
 
 By a haunting voice beguiled. 
 
 — The Intelligencer, June H, 1902 
 
 [93] 
 
AT THE WINDOW 
 
 Before her window sits alone 
 
 Within her cozy room and still 
 A woman frail whose youth is gone. 
 
 Her arm is resting on the sill, 
 Her face is calm that once, was fair, 
 Now marked by lines of pain and care. 
 
 Her work lies idly in her lap, 
 
 Her eyes are out upon the sea, 
 Her thoughts, I do not know — mayhap 
 
 She would not tell us where they be. 
 Two potted plants with scarlet bloom 
 Have filled with cheer the tiny room. 
 
 The scarlet bloom, the little cot 
 
 Have vanished from her dreamy eye, 
 
 The present, ah, she sees it not. 
 
 Her dreams are all of days gone by. 
 
 Her eyes are out upon the waves 
 
 Because they hold two cherished graves. 
 
 The ships go out and ships come in 
 The while the long years come and go. 
 
 But neither 'mid the breakers' din 
 
 Nor where the waves like glass would show 
 
 Is heard or seen one ship that passed 
 
 One day across the ocean vast. 
 
 Upon the far horizon's rim 
 
 There rests upon that sea an isle. 
 
 And she can see the light house gleam 
 At night with an illusive smile. 
 
 It did not lead her ship aright 
 
 Upon one dark and fateful night. 
 
 And so she dreams upon the shore 
 
 Of that vast, wide and treacherous deep, 
 For she can leave it nevermore 
 
 94 
 
Since her beloved lie asleep 
 Beneath its calm and sunlit face 
 Clasped in its last and long embrace. 
 
 Her face has caught the placid look 
 
 Of 3^onder sea she knows so well, 
 But, like that sea, of storms that shook 
 
 Her inmost soul, its lines can tell. 
 Yet now God's sunbeams on it rest 
 As oft upon the ocean's breast. 
 
 — Lancaster Intelligencer, June. 23, 1905 
 
 LIKE LITTLE CHILDREN 
 
 Jesus called little children to come unto him and said, " SuflFer little children to come 
 unto me and forbid them not for of such is the kingdom of God, Verily I say unto 
 you. Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise 
 enter therein." — L,uke 18:16, 17. 
 
 Why trouble ye the Master? 
 
 Why trouble Him indeed 
 By splitting hairs of doctrine 
 
 And tithing anise seed? 
 Why tire the patient Master 
 
 With bickerings of a child, 
 Ye hoary-headed sages 
 
 Whose hearts are so defiled? 
 
 The Master long is weary 
 
 Of loveless sacrifice. 
 Your bullocks are all tainted. 
 
 Your incense will not rise, 
 For know your prayers are weighted 
 
 With widows' and orphans' tears. 
 They fall to earth unheeded 
 
 Nor reach the Father's ears. 
 
 Ye are cruel, hard, ungentle. 
 
 And filled with vain conceit, 
 Pollute His holy temple 
 
 With barter of the street, 
 
 [95] 
 
Ye wrangle, hate and envy 
 
 Until the sky is black 
 With smoke of wars and carnage. 
 
 Stand back, I say, stand back ! 
 
 Ye come to the gentle Jesus 
 
 With hands stained red with crime, 
 On ladders built of mockeries 
 
 Ye would to heaven climb. 
 Stand back, whited sepulchers, 
 
 And let the children come. 
 Before their faith so simple 
 
 Ye stand condemned and dumb. 
 
 'Tis love alone and kindness, 
 
 Only the pure in heart ' 
 That in the many mansions 
 
 Up yonder shall have part. 
 And know ye not the children 
 
 Bring all the things ye lack? 
 Stand back ye hoary sinners. 
 
 Stand back, I say, stand back! 
 
 — The Little Missionary, Nov., 1903 
 
 TOO LATE 
 
 Suppose Love came not with the Springtide flowers 
 But when the frost had broidered all the pane, 
 
 L'd say, "Why didst thou waste the sunny hours? 
 Thy coming now is but in vain ! " 
 
 Suppose Fame came not when the heart beat high 
 With hope and all life's powers were at the full, 
 
 I'd say, 'Tn age thou mayest pass me by. 
 Mine eyes are dim, mine ears are dull." 
 
 Suppose cold poverty and carking care 
 
 Drained my life's blood in youth and manhood's prime, 
 Thinkst thou that I should smile to fall late heir 
 
 To wealth when past the joys of time? 
 
 [96 
 
Suppose I stood alone when most in need 
 
 Of friendly hands to raise me up, once more 
 
 Why should 1 care for hosts of friends or heed 
 When I am near the other shore? 
 
 There's time for all things and that time is now. 
 
 Love, learn, strive, act by day, the night's at hand 
 When no man can turn back his life boat's prow 
 
 Moored fast on the eternal strand. 
 
 —Linden Hall Echo, Feb., 1903 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIR 
 
 The old clock stands where it has stood 
 For a hundred years and more, 
 
 And many a tale could it tell, if it would, 
 Of days that have gone before, 
 
 Of maidens that tripped demure and shy 
 
 To their duties here and there, 
 And the old and feeble that hobbled by 
 
 Upon the wide, old stair. 
 
 When the plain Moravian sisters dwelt 
 
 In the quaint stone pile of old 
 The clock was there, for the house was built 
 
 For the sisters, we are told. 
 
 And the first ones came across the sea, 
 But the clock, whence did it come? 
 
 Ah, no one knows, but it seems to me 
 That it came from a German home. 
 
 They were sweet and good, those sisters all. 
 In their modest caps and gowns, 
 
 And they greeted the clock so straight and tal 
 With smiles, I am sure, not frowns. 
 
 97 
 
They were busy too, those sisters sweet, 
 
 And they kept the old halls clean, 
 While the big clock watched their active feet. 
 
 And they cared not that they were seen. 
 
 But then there followed a younger crew 
 
 Of school maids frisky and bright, 
 And they bore the sisters, grown old and few. 
 
 To the graveyard on the height. 
 
 The old halls rang with laughter and song, 
 
 As they ring to this very day. 
 And the dancing feet of the merry throng 
 
 As they pass to study or play. 
 
 But the old clock stands in the same old place 
 
 As long ago it stood, 
 And the old girls love its familiar face, 
 
 For it helped them to be good. 
 
 It preaches the same old sermon still 
 
 To others year by year. 
 And never a girl has taken it ill 
 
 But holds the preacher dear. 
 
 —Linden Hall Echo, May, 190^ 
 
 OLD FASHIONED 
 
 Oh yes, I know, it is out of date 
 
 To believe the Bible today, 
 And the higher critics quibble and prate 
 
 And lead all the world astray. 
 But the dear old Bible my fathers read 
 
 Will do just as well for .me, , 
 And the lamp by which their feet were led. 
 
 By its light I too may see. 
 
 O yes, of course, it is out of style 
 To believe in hell. That is so. 
 
 [98 
 
But then, I think, it is scarce worth while 
 ^ To argue with fools you know ! 
 For everywhere is the mark of the beast, 
 
 And the veriest child can tell 
 That the lists of crime have not decreased 
 
 Since the people will jest with hell. 
 
 You may rave of Buddha and Mahomet, 
 
 And of isms and fads galore, 
 But the light of the Gospel will quench them yet, 
 
 For the Christ is at the door. 
 There is many a gem, I do ,not doubt 
 
 In the books from which you cite, 
 But we can easily do without 
 
 It they're only almost right. 
 
 There is but one book that I w^ould choose 
 
 To teach me the way to die. 
 It's the good old Book that you abuse 
 
 When the sun of your life rides high. 
 There is only one Book to which I turn 
 
 When sorrow and care oppress, 
 There is only one Book for which men yearn, 
 
 But one that can heal and bless. 
 
 Then since, after all, it has stood the test 
 
 Of time and men's use so long 
 To let it alone might still be best. 
 
 Ye critics so wise and strong! 
 It is but a cowardly game, forsooth. 
 
 To destroy the faith of the child. 
 And he who would measure arms with Truth, 
 
 Like her, must be undefiled. 
 
 - The New Era, April 18, 1905 
 
 LOfa 
 
 99 
 
SHADOWS 
 
 There's a vacant seat at the table 
 
 And a voice I love is still. 
 There's a shadow gaunt and sable 
 
 That has stalked across my sill. 
 It lingers with me by night and by day. 
 And nevermore can I drive it away. 
 
 There's a vacant chair at the ta1)le 
 
 Of my neighbor across the street. 
 And she clothes her body in sable, 
 
 An ebony winding sheet. 
 She weeps by herself by night and by day 
 'Neath the shadow she will not drive away. 
 
 There are vacant seats at the tables 
 
 Around me on every side. 
 And the mourning garments and sables 
 
 God's sunlight darken or hide. 
 They glide through our homes by night and by day, 
 And love and sweet peace are driven away. 
 
 Thank God for that seat at the table. 
 
 Thank God for that vacant place ! 
 (But alas for the mournful sable 
 
 That shadows your path and face !) 
 An angel awaits your coming some day. 
 Look up, sad soul, chase the shadow away ! 
 
 — The Moravian, March 25, 190S 
 
 THE JUDGMENT 
 
 I dreamed one night that I was dead 
 And friends of mine not few. 
 
 Before the vast tribunal dread 
 Were many that I knew. 
 
 Jehovah on his awful throne 
 Sat there with dreadful mien, 
 
 [ lOO] 
 
The Christ as Advocate was known. 
 The culprits ranged between. 
 
 \\'hile there amid that guilty crowd 
 
 I took my rightful place 
 Before my fierce accusers loud 
 
 I hid my blushing face. 
 
 What accusations do I hear? 
 
 What fearful clamors greet 
 And fall upon my listening ear 
 
 Prone at the judge's feet. 
 
 The words I cannot comprehend. 
 
 I hear a caravan 
 Without beginning without end. 
 
 But not a single man ! 
 
 ^^^ith wonder do I raise my head 
 
 And see a fearful sight 
 Of starving horses, dogs ill fed, 
 
 J\Iad with abuse and fright. 
 
 Creatures of every class and kind 
 
 Ill-used by cruel men, 
 From mourning bird to suffering hind, 
 
 From forest, field and pen. 
 
 There was the toad I stoned for fun. 
 
 The bird I shot for game. 
 The pig I raced one day and won, 
 
 The horse I rode till lame. 
 
 There was the cow I cruelly beat, 
 ]\Iy neighbors crippled cat. 
 
 The aigrettes and the song birds sweet 
 Upon my wife's new hat. 
 
 These sins unto the very least 
 They sank me down to hell. 
 
 The voice of every suffering beast 
 Sounded mv soul's last knell. 
 
 lOI 
 
I turned me from the fearful scene 
 And stopped my tingling ears. 
 
 It hid Jehovah's dreadful mien 
 And Jesu's pitying tears. 
 
 The very ocean could not drown 
 This horrid din and roar. 
 O, could eternity atone 
 
 These crimes forevermore? 
 
 I woke and time cannot efface 
 This lesson from my mind. 
 
 I read in each dumb, pleading face : 
 " Be kind ! Be kind ! Be kind ! " 
 
 Lititz Express, Sept. 28, 1900 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 
 
 Another year has passed away 
 
 With the solemn midnight chime, 
 
 Another corse we sadly lay 
 In the catacombs of Time. 
 
 What did he bring this gaunt Old Year, 
 Who now hath breathed his last? 
 
 What mighty columns did he rear 
 In the Temple of the Past? 
 
 Did he but bring his share of pain 
 The world's woe to increase, 
 
 Or did he nearer bring the reign 
 Of the Thousand Years of Peace? 
 
 There's blood upon his garment's hem, 
 
 All spotless once and fair; 
 The smoke of battle clings to them. 
 
 The mark that Cain bare. 
 
 Past him they file in dread array, 
 
 The brave, the fair, the young, the old, 
 
 [ 102] 
 
The souls of those he helped to slay, 
 As beads on rosary told. 
 
 The volume of his life is read, 
 
 Twelve chapters grave and gay; 
 By them we judged the pallid dead 
 
 As in his shroud he lay. 
 
 Old Year, I scarce could bear to see 
 
 Thee lying on thy bier, 
 For with thee went a part of me. 
 
 My past lies buried there. 
 
 With thee there went full many a heart 
 
 Into the silent tomb. 
 How couldst, how darest thou depart, 
 
 Sad angel of our doom? 
 
 Full freighted thou with hopes and fears 
 
 As ships to sea that go. 
 Thou liest down beside thy peers. 
 
 Our lives go with thee too. 
 
 Then as we toll, Old Year thy knell, 
 
 Full many knells are tolled. 
 How many Time alone can tell. 
 
 For Time is growing old. 
 
 But through the caverns of the tomb 
 
 There gleams a light from far, 
 Piercing the depths of that vast gloom, 
 
 The light of Bethlehem's star. 
 
 Like Jacob's ladder, on its rounds 
 
 To heaven men have climbed. 
 And over graves and grassy mounds 
 
 The peals of joy have chimed. 
 
 Ah ! then, Old Year, we dare not weep 
 
 That thy last task is done 
 Since through death's long and dreamless sleep 
 
 The heights of heaven are won. « 
 
 — The Moravian, December, 1899 
 
 { 103 1 
 
THE COST 
 
 An artist lived in days of eld. 
 
 And he, 'tis said, had formed a plan 
 
 To paint a picture to be unexcelled 
 By any work of man. 
 
 A ruddy color he would use, 
 
 Though life itself should be the price ; 
 The same no artist e'er again should choose, 
 
 Too great the sacrifice. 
 
 The colors grew beneath his hand. 
 
 But as they grew his color fled ; 
 The picture spread his fame through all the land. 
 
 Too late. The man was dead. 
 
 And now the riddle men could read, 
 
 The secret of that pigment rare ; 
 The artist shed his blood in very deed 
 
 Its lustre to prepare. 
 
 There is a picture age can't dim; 
 
 Its like we'll never see again. 
 Upon a cross which forms its background grim 
 
 One shed his blood for men. 
 
 We all are artists, small or great. 
 
 Upon life's canvas we must paint, 
 And still the color must decide the fate 
 
 Of sinner or of saint. 
 
 We dip the brush in red life-blood, 
 
 We paint with heart and hand and brain. 
 
 If the dark shade of sin crowd out the good 
 Bright hues the work is vain. 
 
 In the white splendor of that light 
 
 That shines around the judgment throne 
 
 The evil hues must fade away from sight, 
 The good remain alone. 
 
 [ 104 ] 
 
The faded daub the Master takes 
 
 And with his blood-dipped brush divine 
 
 The palHd forms to Hving lustre wakes 
 Fit for the heavenly shrine. 
 
 — The Lutheran Observer, March 1, 1901 
 
 CHESTNUTTING 
 
 Sauntering slow by the noisy old mill, 
 Crossing stones o'er the chattering brook, 
 
 Clambering over the side^ of the hill, 
 
 See the gay children, how happy they look ! 
 
 Nestling in leaves in the hollow deep piled. 
 Peeping from burrs like a fort spiked around, 
 
 Sought for with shouting and joy undefiled. 
 Glossy brown nuts in their coverts are found. 
 
 Deep in the search for the harvests untold 
 
 Treasures unnumbered besides are not missed. 
 
 Purple of. daises and primroses' gold 
 
 Growing sequestered, by sunbeams unkissed, 
 
 Bunches of bright scarlet berries concealed, 
 Patches of moss, green and soft to the feet, 
 
 Fern tufts, and scampering forms half revealed, 
 Glimpses of rabbits and squirrels so fleet. 
 
 Flaming red bushes reminding of one 
 
 Tending the sheep on the hills long ago. 
 
 Trees turning orange and gold in the sun, 
 Filling the woods with a soft amber glow. 
 
 High o'er the laughter and chat of the girls. 
 Deep 'mid the shouts of the boys they can hear 
 
 Rising and falling, as crested wave curls, 
 Tones of the wind in the trees far and near. 
 
 Mournful the music it plays 'mid the leaves, 
 Merry it sounds to their innocent ears, 
 
 L 105 ] 
 
Blowing- the locks in their faces it gives 
 Matter for laughter but never for tears. 
 
 Homeward at last w4th the sun they are going, 
 Bearing the spoils of a day in the wood, 
 
 ]\Iemories and bags with delights overflowing 
 That must be tasted to be understood. 
 
 —Lititz Express, Nov. 2, 1900 
 
 THE CURSE OF THE AGES 
 
 All along the Yalu River, 
 
 By the Rappahannock's side. 
 
 Where the blue Rhine mingles ever 
 Waters with the Northern tide, 
 
 There the bones of men lay whitening 
 Since old Time his march began. 
 
 There the wrath of man in lightning 
 Fierce descended upon man. 
 
 Age on age in lore grows richer. 
 Race on race grows great and dies, 
 
 But the scholar than the ditcher 
 In some things is not more wise. 
 
 Egypt treads the nations under, 
 
 So in turn, old Babylon, 
 Persia reigns with blood and thunder 
 
 Till suppressed by Macedon. 
 
 Greece lies crushed anon and bleeding 
 'Neath the conqueror's iron heel. 
 
 For the Roman power is leading 
 By the force of brand and steel. 
 
 Centuries pass, the monster's lying- 
 in the throes of death at last 
 
 While a dozen States are vying 
 For dominion still more vast. 
 
 [ io6 ] 
 
Though the scourge of Europe's pining 
 
 On his island all alone. 
 Price of blood is not declining, 
 
 Widows still and orphans moan. 
 
 Scarce her borders hath extended 
 
 Britain by the gun and sword 
 Ere great Russia condescended 
 
 To embroil the Mongol horde. 
 
 Everywhere men's blood is flowing. 
 
 Fertile is the soil of earth, 
 And the golden grain is growing 
 
 Over grave and ruined hearth. 
 
 Brethren, stop and hear the preaching 
 
 Of the Christ who came to stay 
 War and bloodshed. Yea, His teaching 
 
 Ye do shame until this day! 
 
 For, like cattle to the shambles, 
 
 Battle-field and prison pen, 
 Men are driven. Mammon gambles 
 
 With the flesh and blood of men. 
 
 Cease this farce or cease the sending 
 
 Of the Gospel. Men are fed 
 But on husks the while you're spending 
 
 Human lives for daily bread. 
 
 Now the blessed morn draws nigher 
 When the Christmas bells will ring. 
 
 Hush your cannon that the choir 
 Of the angels sweet may sing. 
 
 —Lancaster New Era, Decemder 12, 190 Jt 
 
 FAITH 
 
 At early dawn a robin sang, 
 Her song all day was ringing, 
 
 And when the evening twilight closed 
 That robin still was singing. 
 
 107 
 
The day was fair, I did not dare 
 
 At such sweet joy to wonder. 
 Next day was drear, it rained and there 
 
 Was Hghtning too, and thunder. 
 
 Above the patter on the roof, 
 
 Above the gutter's pouring-. 
 Between the Hghtning's fitful flash, 
 
 Between the thunder's roaring 
 
 ' I heard that robin's cheery note. 
 
 With sweet persistence trilHng 
 She almost split her little throat 
 To seek the tempest's stilling. 
 
 Through sun and shower, cloud and storm. 
 
 No trouble e'er divining. 
 That cheery bird sang on and on 
 
 To shame the soul's repining. 
 
 Would, like that bird, my heart could sing 
 Through joy and pain and sorrow, 
 
 Nor ever life's bright present cloud 
 With phantoms of the morrow. 
 
 W^ould, like that bird's, my faith would shine 
 
 With brightness never failing- 
 Till I beheld Him face to face 
 
 And met Him without quailing. 
 
 — The Moravian, July, 1899 
 
 DAME NATURE'S FEAST 
 
 The air is full of a wonderful life. 
 
 Tender and buoyant and sweet ; 
 It is seen in the trees, which are swelling with pride 
 And a beauty as pure as the blush of a bride. 
 
 And the blossoms at our feet. 
 
 The grass is spangled with purple and gold, 
 As if stars had dropped from the sky 
 
 [ io8 1 
 
And had taken root in the brooding earth, 
 Changed their sapphire nest for a lower berth 
 But, like mortals, to wither and die. 
 
 The willows are rustling their tasseled trains, 
 
 Like fair ladies in festive array, 
 The maples are clothed in the brightest of green. 
 And the larch, no fairer was ever seen 
 
 At the banquet of bonnie May. 
 
 While the brooklet hurries along his course 
 
 He scolds with the pebbles that fret. 
 He must be at the feast. There's no time to be lost. 
 And there's many a stock and stone to be crossed, 
 
 So he's almost in a pet. 
 
 There's a shimmer and flash of a ruddy breast. 
 
 There's a whirr of an azure wing. 
 There's a quiver and flutter, an amorous trill 
 From fence and from tree, from bush and from sill 
 
 Where the sweet feathered choristers sing. 
 
 But below in the pool there is wild unrest 
 
 And the fiddlers are out of tune. 
 They are practicing in the bull frog's school. 
 When the birds are at rest and the air is cool 
 
 They will play by the light of the moon. 
 
 So the feast is ready Dame Nature has spread. 
 
 Then hither come one, come all. 
 There is fragrance and beauty and warmth and light, 
 There is innocent mirth and the purest delight, 
 
 And none will be left unfed. 
 
 There is naught that is asked but a seeing eye 
 
 And an ear that is open to hear. 
 And a heart like the heart of a little child 
 As open to joy and as undefiled. 
 
 To the Kingdom of God as near. 
 
 — Lancaster New Era, May 11, 1901 
 { loy ] 
 
THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 A golden winged butterfly 
 
 Sits poising on a flower, 
 It revels in the sunny sky, 
 
 The gladness of the hour. 
 
 It has no thought of good or ill. 
 
 It has no thought of sorrow, 
 It carps not at its Maker's will. 
 
 It fears not for the morrow. 
 
 O butterfly with golden wings 
 
 That only joys in being, 
 To thee false Future never brings 
 
 Visions of bliss aye fleeing. 
 
 Thou'rt by no phantom Past pursued, 
 No memories dark, unpleasant, 
 
 Thou creature of earth's fairest mood, 
 Thou ofTspring of the Present. 
 
 What would I give to be like thee, 
 
 All hateful things foregoing! 
 Yet were I happy to be free. 
 
 All human ills unknowing? 
 
 The bitter svv^eetens all the sweet, 
 Sorrow gives birth to joying. 
 
 Ah no, my life were incomplete 
 Without that life's annoying. 
 
 Thou golden winged butterfly, 
 
 Spirit of joy Elysian, 
 Thou once wert of the ground, didst die 
 
 To burst in lovely vision. 
 
 For life is always born of death 
 
 (All Nature tells the story), 
 Not even a butterfly draws breath 
 
 But points the moral hoary. 
 
 Spirit of Light, thy hour is bought 
 By seasons dark and hidden, 
 
 [no] 
 
So I'll attain the bliss I sought 
 Throuo^h a whole life forbidden. 
 
 'fe' 
 
 True symbol of the soul art thou 
 With shining- wings aquiver, 
 
 Only thy joy is here and now, 
 While mine shall last forever. 
 
 Lancaster New Era, August 11, 1904 
 
 JUSTICE 
 
 One nig-ht I had a vision 
 
 Of a woman who was blind. 
 Her surroundings were Elysian 
 
 But her face was scarcely kind. 
 Upon an elevation, 
 
 In solitude profound, 
 In deepest meditation ' 
 
 The woman sat and ground. 
 
 Two stones she ground together, 
 
 Like women of the East, 
 The upper on the nether , 
 
 And her labor never ceased. 
 The grains she ground between them 
 
 O wondrous fine they grew. 
 If you had never seen them 
 
 You would not think it true. 
 
 And as I looked and pondered 
 
 The grinding had no end. 
 Whence comes the corn? I wondered, 
 
 And I could not comprehend. 
 I drew a little nearer 
 
 To see the woman's face. 
 And then my sight grew clearer 
 
 xAnd the features I could trace. 
 
 [nil 
 
'Twas Justitia, sure and certain, 
 
 Minus sword and minus scales, 
 O'er her eyes the same old curtain 
 
 (For her vision ever fails.) 
 The millstones were both labeled, 
 
 The letters I could read, 
 (And if you think this fabled 
 
 You must be blind indeed ! ) 
 
 Well, ''Union" was the watchword 
 
 That blazed upon each one. 
 (A very pretty catchword, 
 
 And he who reads will run !) 
 The Union of the master, 
 
 The Union of the slave, 
 And either means disaster 
 
 To the "non-unioned" lave. 
 
 The corn it was the people 
 
 That blind Justitia crushed. 
 Their voice it was so feeble 
 
 By grinding it was hushed. 
 For the labor of the grinding, 
 
 Although the sound was low. 
 Yet, deafening and blinding, 
 
 Made sure work, if but slow ! 
 
 But when the patient masses 
 
 Were ground all fine and fair, 
 Strong men and tender lasses 
 
 And corn was no more there. 
 She ground the stones together. 
 
 Impartial as blind 
 The upper and the nether 
 
 They must each other grind ! 
 
 — The Lancaster Intelligencer, Sept. 30, 1902 
 
 [112] 
 
THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN 
 
 (not according to kipling) 
 
 Take up the white man's burden, 
 
 Th*e blighting curse of rum. 
 How can we say : ''Our Father" ? 
 
 And, "Let Thy kingdom come" ? 
 How do we lift the nations? 
 
 How do we help them, pray? 
 The children of the races, 
 
 Who makes them devils, say? 
 
 Who brings the fur-clad Aleut 
 
 Extinction sure, if slow? 
 Destroys the stalwart Negro 
 
 Where Congo's waters flow? 
 The white man's fire-waters 
 
 His legions are, and strong. 
 They bind the yoke of sorrow 
 
 On those who know no wrong. 
 
 Cargoes of rum and Bibles ! 
 
 O, Holy Christ, not so 
 Didst Thou send forth Thy servants 
 
 Into a world of woe! 
 Wliy do we tie the burden? 
 
 Ah, sure it is not meet 
 Since we enchained and helpless 
 
 Bow at the tyrant's feet. 
 
 The arm that bears the standard 
 
 Triumphant o'er the wave 
 Is shackled and its owner 
 
 Is but a branded slave. 
 Off with the iron fetters 
 
 That bind your craven sons 
 And bless instead of cursing 
 
 Earth's crushed and bleeding ones ! 
 
 —Lititz Express, Jan. 11, 1901 
 
 [113] 
 
KEPT 
 
 Sometimes a bird within its cage 
 Beats wildly 'gainst the bars; 
 
 Just so my soul in feeble rage 
 Against Thy spirit wars. 
 
 But Thou hast planned my life for me 
 And Thou hast set the bound. 
 
 My chafing cannot anger Thee 
 But my own spirit wound. 
 
 Thou knowest where the fowler's snare 
 
 For wandering feet is set 
 While safe within my shelter here 
 
 For liberty I fret. 
 
 For many dangers are without 
 
 But few there are within, 
 And Thy love hedges me about 
 
 From hurtful snares of sin. 
 
 Then like some birds in sweet content 
 
 O might I pass my days, 
 And make my narrow firmament 
 
 Resound with tuneful praise. 
 
 —The Moravian, May I4, 1902 
 
 A SONG OF SPRING 
 
 Ah, the children long ha^x waited 
 
 For her footsteps slow, 
 'Tis a maiden fair belated 
 
 By March winds and snow, 
 And with hopes their hearts are freighted 
 
 As the short days grow. 
 
 [114] 
 
For her stay is wondrous pleasant. 
 
 Though but brief at best. 
 Fleeting as the happy present 
 
 To a heart oppressed. 
 Shadowy and evanescent 
 
 Seems this winsome guest. 
 
 Whence then cometh this fair maiden? 
 
 AA'hither doth she hie? 
 A^'ith the South wind honey-laden 
 
 Where the flowers ne'er die, 
 And the balm}^ airs of Aiden 
 
 O'er the meadows sigh. 
 
 What is it this maiden bringeth? 
 
 Gifts both strange and new; 
 Generously around she flingeth, 
 
 Violets not a few, 
 And the robin madly singeth 
 
 W^elcome glad and true. 
 
 In the emerald grass all golden 
 
 Shine the starry-eyed 
 Dandelions which embolden 
 
 Plands to steal their pride. 
 Though by lissome maid beholden 
 
 She will never chide. 
 
 Hist ! 'tis there the Summer cometh 
 
 In her wealth arrayed, 
 Drowsily the wild bee hummeth, 
 
 Farewell, gentle Maid ! 
 Nature's full orchestra drummeth 
 
 Parting serenade. 
 
 And the children, the}' are playing 
 
 Where the roses bloom, 
 Happy faces ne'er betraying 
 
 Fear of coming doom. 
 Yet the present joys outweighing 
 
 Far-ofif shadows loom. 
 
 ["5 1 
 
For youth's spring-time swiftly passes, 
 
 Pain and age are near. 
 And the flowers in the grasses 
 
 Follow brown leaves sere, 
 While through life's fast darkening glasses 
 
 Heaven's stars appear. 
 
 Linden Hall Echo, May, 1900 
 
 THE COMING OF THE KING ; 
 
 Far away in the land of the olive and cedar. 
 
 Where the temple of Solomon gloriously shone, 
 Jehovah's loved people once more found a leader, 
 
 And the Son of great David came unto His own. 
 But they knew not their King in that infant so lowly, 
 
 His cradle a manger, Flis palace a shed. 
 And they missed all the joy of that midnight so holy. 
 
 While poor shepherds alone by the vision were led. 
 
 So He comes every year as the centuries are numbered 
 
 And the monarchs of earth still receive not their King. 
 All along, as of old, they have slept and have slumbered 
 
 While the songs of the angels throug-h ages yet ring. 
 They are rocked in the cradle of wealth and of pleasure. 
 
 They are charmed by the strains of the sirens of sin, 
 They are heaping the gems of the world's buried treasure. 
 
 They have barred all the doors and He cannot come in. 
 
 With the splendor of art men have closed all the portals, 
 
 With the sweetness of music have drowned out the song. 
 With the clamor of earth driven away the immortals, 
 
 With an image the Christ 'mid the worshipping throng. 
 While without in the darkness and cold there still 
 blunder 
 
 The lambs of the fold that was once built for them. 
 'Mid this new crucifixion they patiently wonder. 
 
 May this be the Christ born in old Bethlehem? 
 
 [ii6] 
 
'Tis the incense of prayer that the meek Christ is seeking, 
 
 'Tis the song of the children, unstudied and sweet, 
 While His altars with blood of the guiltless are reeking, 
 
 While His house is a den for the robber more meet. 
 While your voices are muffled with pride and complacence. 
 
 While your purses are fat with the spoils of the poor, 
 AVhile you make to your own portly forms your obeisance 
 
 The Christ of the lowly cannot enter your door. 
 
 t 
 He is found where the songs are but sorrow and sighing. 
 
 He is found where the flame of the candle burns dim, 
 He is found where prayer means the wild, anguished cry- 
 ing 
 
 Of the soul that gropes in the darkness for Him, 
 He comes, as of old, without diadem royal, 
 
 He comes, as of old, without sceptre or throne. 
 He comes to the hearts that are waiting and loyal. 
 
 And 'tis thus that He cometh at last to His own. 
 
 —Lititz Express. Dec. 21, 1900 
 
 A WALK 
 
 V\'e crept beneath the hawthorn hedge 
 (The king bird saw us passing by) 
 
 And stealthily along the edge 
 Of a wee streamlet where the cry 
 
 Of red-winged blackbirds startled us, 
 W^e could not find the nest we sought. 
 
 With many a flutter, many a fuss 
 Confusion in the ranks was wrought. 
 
 We rambled through an orchard old. 
 
 Under the gray gnarled apple trees 
 Unwonted sounds we heard that told 
 
 More than the keenest vision sees. 
 
 ["7] 
 
We reached a wooded isle at length 
 
 Surrounded by an ocean green 
 Of wheat fields fair whose latent strength 
 
 Foretold a harvest aught but lean. 
 
 Anemones w^e found a mine 
 
 Amid the tall grass star-like set, 
 The golden fringed columbine 
 
 Embraced a rocky parapet. 
 
 Upon a moss-grown trunk we sat 
 And told each other life was sweet, 
 
 (An ideal place to have a chat 
 Where Nature's heart unhampered beat.) 
 
 We listened with divided ears 
 
 And what we said scarce understood, 
 
 Our tones Ave re graded by our fears 
 
 Lest we disturb some woodland brood. 
 
 By trim farmhouses then we went 
 With weary feet our homeward way, 
 
 And we pronounced the time well spent 
 In God's outdoors that lovely day. 
 
 — Lancaster New Era, June 2h, 190U 
 
 A VOICE IN THE NIGHT 
 
 There is a voice that speaks in the night, 
 That speaks to the ear of man. 
 
 It speaks with power, it speaks with might. 
 It speaks as loud as it can. 
 
 It speaks of the wrongs that he has done 
 Or those to right he has failed. 
 
 It never omits a single one 
 Committed ere da3dight paled, 
 
 The little lies that were hah a truth, 
 Little thefts that no one knew, 
 
 ii8 
 
The thoughtless follies of giddy youth, 
 And sins with the years that grew. 
 
 The errors of a whole life time 
 
 How like sheeted ghosts they conle. 
 
 Till every omission seems a crime 
 And the good deeds all are dumb ! 
 
 The voice that by daylight scarce is heard 
 
 Sounds like a bell in the dark, 
 It sears the heart with each burninpf word 
 
 As it flies straight to the mark. 
 
 'fc) 
 
 'fe 
 
 'Tis the voice of the Judge that sentence gives 
 
 From which there is no appeal, 
 And the naked soul but vainly grieves. 
 
 'Tis a Judge that cannot feel. 
 
 Well for the soul with an Advocate 
 
 To plead at the pitiless bar! 
 There was One who died without the gate 
 
 For the souls whom sin did mar. 
 
 And they who fear that voice in the night 
 Must strive, while there's time, to win 
 
 The only One that has gained the right 
 To silence the Judge within. 
 
 — The Moravian, Dec. 30, 1903 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 Once upon a midnight holy 
 As the shepherds, poor and lowly. 
 Sat their woolly flocks defending 
 On the plains of Palestine. 
 
 Lo the shrouded skies were riven 
 By a light from highest heaven, 
 And, their reverent foreheads bendine 
 
 Did they hear a voice divine. 
 
 [119] 
 
 &' 
 
While the message of the ages, 
 Longed for by the priests and sages, 
 By angeHc choirs chanted 
 Fell upon their charmed ears. 
 
 First they listened, then they wondered 
 And the gladsome tidings pondered, 
 By that glorious vision haunted 
 Bade farewell to all their fears. 
 
 Soon they haste to find the royal 
 Infant and adore in loyal 
 Fashion at the lowly manger 
 Found in little Bethlehem. 
 
 There a God with flesh encumbered 
 Come to bear our ills unnumbered, 
 To his people aye a stranger. 
 Lay, the fruit of Jesse's stem. 
 
 Far within the holy city 
 Dives feasted (ah, the pity!) 
 All unknowing of the glory 
 Banished to a village inn. 
 
 Priests and Levites, all unheeding 
 On Jehovah's errands speeding, 
 Never heard the angels' story 
 Told no temple court within. 
 
 Once again the bells are ringing 
 And the childish hosts are bringing 
 Gifts of praise of hearts and voices 
 To the King who came a child. 
 
 Once again the nations offer 
 Richest gifts from purse and coffer. 
 And the Christian world rejoices 
 Over Him men once reviled. 
 
 [ 120] 
 
But, ye potentates, remember, 
 And ye Pha^risees, (December 
 Hath no colder heart, I know it!) 
 Christ was born for lowly men. 
 
 Though a king he lived a peasant, 
 Chose no easy lot nor pleasant, 
 And to crown his love ye owe it 
 To grow humble once again. 
 
 THE ISLES OF THE BLEST 
 
 The fleecy white clouds are lying still. 
 
 Like isles, in a sapphire sea, 
 Or the flocks of heaven that graze at will 
 
 In cerulean pastures free. 
 Are those the fabled isles of the blest. 
 
 Or the fields of asphodel. 
 Where the soul is at peace in an ocean of rest, 
 
 As inspired poets tell? 
 
 If those are the isles of the blest, my love, 
 
 Or the heavenly pastures fair 
 No pathway I see that leads above 
 
 No ladder nor golden stair. 
 Must we climb the steeps of amethyst 
 
 That the azure pastures bound? 
 I see only a cloud of purple mist 
 
 That girds yon summit 'round. 
 
 Those may be the isles of the blest, my dear. 
 
 For aught that we may know. 
 And Jacob's ladder may still be here, 
 
 While the angels come and go. 
 The eyes of the spirit are dull and weak 
 
 Within the body penned. 
 And the isles of the blest we may not seek 
 
 Till death the vail shall rend. 
 
 — The Lancaster New Era, May 23, 1903 
 
 [ 121 ] 
 
WHAT IS IT? 
 
 DEDICATED TO A. C. R. 
 
 What's that on the sofa there, 
 Violet eyes and golden hair, 
 
 Laughing- mouth and dimpled chin, 
 Snowy neck and rose-leaf cheek. 
 Where the dimples play at peek? 
 
 Sure to guess you can't begin. 
 
 What's that on the sofa, say, 
 Cooing to itself all day, 
 
 Laughing- at its pink-toed feet, 
 Seeing wonders everywhere. 
 At the ceiling, in the air, 
 
 Thinks this world is hard to beat? 
 
 What's that lying by itself. 
 Like a dolly on a shelf. 
 
 Like a little idol-god 
 On a downy pedestal, 
 Like a Avhite pearl in a shell. 
 
 Like a sweet pea in a pod? 
 
 What is that so fresh and fine, 
 Like a jewel from the mine, 
 
 Like a rose bud 'mid the leaves, 
 Like a dew drop on a flower, 
 Like a fairy in her bower. 
 
 Like the blush of rosette eves? 
 
 What is that so snug and warm. 
 Safely cuddled up from harm 
 
 Like a birdling in a nest, 
 Flutters like a birdling too. 
 With a gurgle and a coo 
 
 Flying to the mother's breast? 
 
 \^^lat is that as pure and clean 
 As a snowflake's stainless mien. 
 Like an angel spotless quite, 
 
 [ 122] 
 
Free from sin and innocent, 
 From celestial regions sent 
 By a messenger of light? 
 
 It's a baby. Can't you guess? 
 You are stupid, I confess ! 
 
 Yet you are not all to blame, 
 For the thing so dainty is 
 One might eat, instead of kiss, 
 
 Were it not a blessed shame! 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF THE SUN 
 
 In ancient Egypt lived a king 
 
 Who would the sun a temple build, 
 
 So forth he sent wise architects to bring 
 To make the plans he willed. 
 
 And rich reward he would confer 
 
 On him Avhose plan should please him best. 
 Among the multitude of plans there were 
 
 Three better than the rest. 
 
 The one was massive, wide and high. 
 Colossal work of sculptured stone, 
 
 But through its walls gigantic ne'er the sky 
 Xor sun had ever shone. 
 
 The second was an artist's dream, 
 
 A splendid vision unexcelled, 
 And yet its gloomy space within no gleam 
 
 Of sunlight e'er beheld. 
 
 The model of the third was glass. 
 
 Transmuted, as it were, to gold. 
 Through all its walls the sun itself might pass 
 
 Unhindered, uncontrolled. 
 
 'This is the temple of the, sun 
 
 And wins the prize," the king thus spake. 
 ''Upon this pattern wisely, finely done 
 
 My temple I will make." 
 
 [ 123 ] 
 
The lesson dost thou understand 
 
 The legend is designed to teach? 
 Through temples made by erring human hand 
 
 VVouldst thou the great God reach? 
 
 Our temples often only hide 
 
 The glory that they would reveal. 
 How can the Holy Spirit e'er abide 
 
 In walls that but conceal? 
 
 And what are we? His temples all! 
 
 Then let the Spirit's glory shine 
 Through bodies that all times unhindered shall 
 
 Transmit His power divine. 
 
 — The Moravian, Feb. 15, 1905 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF THE YEAR 
 
 They have buried the Year in cloth of gold, 
 They have crowned her with jewels rare. 
 
 She was clothed in the purple that kings wore of old, 
 All bordered with ermine so fair. 
 
 They bore her to rest 'mid the solemn swell 
 
 Of the North Wind's music so deep 
 While the leaves of the forest in showers fell, 
 
 Like tears from the eyes that weep. 
 
 And the Clouds, like hooded friars, bent low% 
 
 Counting beads in the drops of rain. 
 While the moaning Trees lent their note of woe 
 
 To the requiem's sad refrain. 
 
 She was borne by the winds so gentle and fleet, 
 Like a wraith through the autumn mist. 
 
 They touched not the earth with their winged feet. 
 And made her a grave where they list. 
 
 [ 124 ] 
 
In the vast isles of the forest so dim 
 
 There was silence and grief profound, 
 And the wild North Wind hushed his mournful hymn 
 
 As she lay on the mossy ground. 
 
 The train of her mourners was long and still, 
 
 From city and hamlet they came, 
 From mountain and valley, woodland and hill. 
 
 Scarce limit to number or name. 
 
 And a gorgeous pageant the Seasons made, 
 
 As they followed the quiet dead. 
 In the splendor of all the earth arrayed, 
 
 As if decked for a marriage bed. 
 
 The Days and the Hours, a jubilant throng. 
 Trooped along, clasping hand in hand. 
 
 But dumb on their lips had frozen the song. 
 And their garlands had broken the strand. 
 
 The fowls of the air and the beasts of the field. 
 
 And men, not the last nor the least. 
 They mourned with a grief that was unconcealed, 
 
 And they lauded her, man and beast. 
 
 For the Year had borne a fame that was good, 
 She had done the best that she knew, 
 
 She had filled the land with plenty and food 
 And had left nor sorrow nor rue. 
 
 Her smile had gladdened the rich and the poor, 
 Her bounty the good and the bad. 
 
 She had entered, an angel of mercy, the door 
 Of the aged, the sick and the sad. 
 
 Do you wonder, then, there was little dearth 
 Of splendor to garnish her tomb? 
 
 It is meet that she sleep like the great of earth 
 In beauty and sacred gloom. 
 
 [ 125 
 
They laid her low with the flowers of Spring, 
 
 But not like the flowers to rise 
 When the birds from the Smith their matins sing 
 
 'Neath the smile of sunnier skies. 
 
 She was laid with the years that have gone before 
 
 In the catacombs of the Past, 
 And the fame of her deeds shall die no more 
 
 While the records of earth shall last. 
 
 — Lancaster New Era, Nov. 28, 190S 
 
 "BEYOND THE ALPS LIES ITALY" 
 
 '' Beyond the Alps lies Italy," 
 
 Beyond our present pain 
 W^e ever look for joys to be, 
 
 And evermore in vain. 
 Ever on the beyond our weary eyes we strain. 
 
 The prattle of the little child, 
 
 The golden dreams of youth 
 Show minds by airy forms beguiled 
 
 Unknown to sterner Truth, 
 And doomed to feel the touch of Time's unsparing tooth. 
 
 Joys fly before our onward pace, 
 
 As we approach recede. 
 As false mirage the travelers chasQ, 
 
 We still pursue with speed 
 To find a mocking pain where'er their fottsteps lead. 
 
 One dreams of love and fame and gold, 
 
 But as the years roll by 
 They find him poor, unknown and cold 
 
 Yet still with courage high. 
 He will not see his fate as one gigantic lie. 
 
 [126] 
 
Another dreams his S(ms may reap 
 
 The joys to him denied, 
 That they may cHmb the Abpine steep 
 
 And reach the sunny side, 
 Hope, disappointed, dies in love's unselfish tide. 
 
 \Mien time and toil and care their part 
 
 Have done to quench the light 
 The vision in the human heart 
 
 Grows even then more brig-ht, 
 The dimmed eye reaches up to a supremer height. 
 
 Dream on, dream on, oh, human soul ! 
 
 God gave thee v^dngs to soar, 
 That v^hile the billows 'round thee roll 
 
 Thou mayst not hear them roar 
 But fly to One who stands upon the other shore. 
 
 As one by one thy bubbles l3reak. 
 
 Thy dreams and visions fail 
 Thy flight to yonder Eden take 
 
 Where endless joys prevail 
 Before whose brightness all thy fairest dreams must pale. 
 
 — Lancaster New Era, July 19, 1902 
 
 THE SONG OF LABOR 
 
 Not the ]:)ainter sees the picture, not the poet hears the 
 
 rhyme. 
 Not the singer feels the music ringing through the aisles 
 
 of time, 
 But the poet's soul is throbbing 'neath the blouse as well 
 
 as vest, 
 While the artist in the artisan stands openly confessed. 
 
 Azure skies display their glories to the sons of ease and 
 
 toil, 
 And the sweetest flowers oft l)lossom in what seemed l)ut 
 
 sterile soil. 
 
 '[1271 
 
God hath made the earth so lovely that the eyes of all 
 
 might see 
 
 And His gifts to men are scattered widely, plentiful and 
 
 free. * 
 
 Beauty to the gorgeous sunset and the flower is not con- 
 fined, 
 
 Genius finds a soil not only in the Izard's or painter's mind. 
 
 For the common things have beauty, but for him alone 
 contained 
 
 Who has eyes by God anointed nor by love of gold pro- 
 faned. 
 
 There is music in the hammer, there is music in the saw, 
 Sure as love in Sinai's thunder and the terrors of the law. 
 Though the screeching factory whistle by the scornful is 
 
 decried, 
 'Tis the bugle call of labor and its music will abide. 
 
 Long in carnage men delighted and the battle was the 
 
 theme 
 Of the singer and the poet, of the peaceful artist's dream. 
 Minstrels vied to weave the laurels 'round the despot's 
 
 cruel head. 
 And the butcher was the hero dyeing all the rivers red. 
 
 Change your theme, ye peaceful painters, and ye bards of 
 
 gentle heart, 
 Do not in the march of progress bear the wild barbarian's 
 
 part. 
 Sing the praises of the builder not of the destroyer grim. 
 To the maker, the inventor, tune your sweet, triumphal 
 
 hymn. 
 
 There is beauty in the workshop, there is beauty every- 
 where 
 
 Where the work of man is towering over land and sea in 
 air. 
 
 He who feels no thrill of gladness nor a conscious power 
 within 
 
 At the signs of man's achievement man nor poet should 
 have been. 
 
 [ 128 ] 
 
Sing the praises of the monster spanning- earth on ribs of 
 
 steel. 
 Sing the terror of the ocean and the triumph of the wheeh 
 Ah^the gifts of God are varied and the men who toil and 
 
 sweat. 
 The}' are meant to be the monarchs, that shall rule this old 
 
 earth yet. 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligencer, Feb. 5, 1906 
 — Gems in Verse, American Press Association, 1906 
 
 THE MASTER'S FEET 
 
 Out upon the wind-swept common 
 
 Where sweet herbs the cattle summon, 
 
 'Mid the gentle undulations of the rolling fields of wheat. 
 
 In the cool, green woodland quiet 
 
 ^^'here the shy birds only riot 
 
 Evermore we hear the echoes, echoes of the Master's feet. 
 
 Seated on the breezy hillside, 
 Or in boat by the lake's still side, 
 
 Teaching people as He wandered by the blue Gennesaret, 
 AVhiling 'mid the gray-green shadow 
 (Once upon His brow so sad. oh!) 
 
 Falling from the bending olives where the ground with 
 blood was wet. 
 
 Do we see Him only yonder, 
 
 Where He once was used to wander, 
 
 'Mid the sacred vales and hills of far-off pictured Pales- 
 tine? 
 
 In a mystic light and holy, 
 
 Dim and distant, living solely 
 
 By the painter's brush or pages of the Scriptured text di- 
 vine? 
 
 No, the centuries have left Him 
 Brighter light than men bereft Him 
 In a land where many of us never will be like to go. 
 And we have Him; He is present 
 Evermore with king and peasant 
 
 In a sense that ancient Israel could not, did not care to 
 know. 
 
 [ 1^9 1 
 
Ah, I know it, yea, I feel it, 
 'Tis the heart that must reveal it, 
 
 He is walking- ever with us as the seasons wax and wane. 
 He is with us in the g-arden. 
 Lest the bitter cup should harden. 
 
 To the dreg-s himself He drained it. bitter cup of human 
 pain. 
 
 He is here at morn and even 
 And he brings a breath of heaven 
 
 Into every passing minute of the Meeting years and days. 
 With the footsteps of the Master 
 Life may move on ever faster 
 
 Since we're here, as well as yonder, walking in Llis jdeas- 
 ant ways. 
 
 — The Evangelical, Sept. 25, 1900 
 
 DESERTED 
 
 The shadows dance on the wall to-night 
 'Mid the fitful flames that flicker bright 
 In the dusky room but half alight 
 
 From the hearth fire's. ruddy glow. 
 A woman sits in the shadow there, 
 The frost of winter is on her hair. 
 Her head droops low in her easy chair 
 
 As she dreams of long ago. 
 
 In the night outside the snow falls fast. 
 
 The white flakes scurry before the blast, 
 
 While the old house shakes like the rotten mast 
 
 Of a storm-tossed ship at sea. 
 The little old house is very old. 
 The lives it has sheltered are manifold. 
 The storms it has weathered are untold, 
 
 As autumn leaves on the lea. 
 
 The mossy shingles are rotted through. 
 And the neighboring owls and bats ne'er knew 
 A better place for a rendezvous 
 Than the space below the roof. 
 
 130 
 
On the garret squirrels have found a house. 
 Through the ceiHng creeps the fearless mouse, 
 While noises strange of the wild carouse 
 Of rats are a nightly proof. 
 
 The furniture's worn and out of date, 
 
 The pictures are a century late. 
 
 While the very floors seem but to wait 
 
 To trip the unwary feet. 
 The woman too is behind the age, 
 But worn-out gear upon life's stage, 
 In the battle of life that all must wage 
 
 She had met a slow defeat. 
 
 She saw them departing one by one. 
 
 Childless they left her, widowed and lone. 
 
 But she cannot weep, she hath ceased to moan. 
 
 Was it so, or had she dreamed? 
 She had been without the light so long 
 She loved the shadows she dwelt among, 
 And the very firelight all too strong 
 
 To her darkened vision seemed. 
 
 While the crazy house in the tempest shakes. 
 And the mouse behind the wainscot quakes. 
 The slumbering power of memory wakes 
 
 And peoples the dusky room. 
 She sees her husband so strong and tall, 
 Her children are there, both great and small, 
 E'en parents and friends have come at call 
 
 To lighten her life's long gloom. 
 
 No more the ghostly voices are heard. 
 
 But the cheerful sound of the spoken word, 
 
 And childhood's laughter, Hke song of bird, 
 
 So joyous, secure from ill. 
 The storm dies down with the dawn of day, 
 Dream-forms and shadows have fled away. 
 And the fire has sunk in ashes gray. 
 
 While the room is bare and chill. 
 
 [131] 
 
The snow has covered the earth outside 
 A^'ith the spotless robe of a new-made bride, 
 And the Easter bells ring^ far and wide 
 
 For the resurrection morn. 
 But the figure before the fireless grate — 
 She slumbers long, she slumbers late — 
 For her soul has entered the pearly gate 
 
 From the tenement old and worn. 
 
 PRESUMPTION REPROVED 
 
 St. Augustine the good and wise, 
 Was poring once with tired eyes 
 And weary brain o'er mysteries 
 
 Within God's Word, 
 Besieged by doubts and vain surmise 
 
 By Satan stirred. 
 
 He fell asleep and dreamed that he 
 Was walking by the mighty sea. 
 He saw a child who seemed to be. 
 
 With shell supplied, 
 Dipping into a hole which she 
 
 Had dug beside. 
 
 "What are you doing, child?" he said. 
 The little girl was undismayed. 
 '' I want to fill the hole I made 
 
 With water I 
 Find in the ocean wide displayed 
 
 And dip it dry." 
 
 The sage, awakened from his dream. 
 Said sadly, " Think that I could deem 
 My little mind would hold one gleam 
 
 Of truth divine 
 \\'hile cherubim and sera])him 
 
 Unknow^ing pine ! 
 
 [ 132 1 
 
" Like yonder little child in vain 
 I tried to dip the boundless main 
 Into my pigmy human brain. 
 
 Henceforth no more 
 Upon the mysteries God would fain 
 
 Conceal I'll pore." 
 
 — The Moravian, March 5, 1902 
 
 THE JUGGERNAUT OF PROGRESS 
 
 O, the Jugg'ernaut of Progress, 
 
 Now it hews a nation down, 
 Then the forest giants of eons 
 
 For the building of one town. 
 Once it slew the fierce Assyrian, 
 
 Now we dig him from the dust. 
 And the grandeur of old Egypt 
 
 Is the. prey of worm and rust. 
 
 Over graves of buried empires 
 
 It has paved a broad highway 
 For the wizard feet of Science 
 
 From Granada to Cathay, 
 And the Gods that ruled unchallenged 
 
 In the dungeons of the past 
 Shrink away with blinded eyeballs 
 
 From the glare upon them cast. 
 
 Once the Indian ruled our forest, 
 
 And his wigwam specked the plain, 
 While his light canoe unhampered 
 
 Sailed the river to the main, 
 Now the smoke of grimy cities 
 
 And the dust and filth of trade 
 I-Iave polluted all our waters, 
 
 Given slum for sylvan shade. 
 
 Now again the race of Nature 
 
 In our islands of the sea 
 Feels the ruthless feet of Progress 
 
 v')v) 
 
And mi>st bow the conquered knee. 
 We will civilize the savage 
 
 Till we've almost slain the race, 
 And at least may people Hades 
 
 Though the isles are desert space. 
 
 Freedom ! Do you speak of freedom ? 
 
 Freedom is an idle dream 
 When the giant force of Progress 
 
 Sweeps us onward, like a stream, 
 And we may not check the current 
 
 ('Tis relentless, like a Fate) 
 Lest it fling us on the headlands 
 
 For a warning all too late. 
 
 Where its form has never entered 
 
 Is there liberty and peace? 
 While the sun reigns high in heaven 
 
 Its dominion cannot cease. 
 'Tis the Juggernaut of Progress 
 
 That at last all wrongs must right. 
 For the hoary wrongs of ages 
 
 It treads under in its might. 
 
 'Tis the Juggernaut of Progress 
 
 That alone a path can clear 
 For the truer peace and freedom 
 
 Of a brighter, happier sphere. 
 For the freedom of the savage, 
 
 Like the wild beast's in its den, 
 Is the prey of all the terrors 
 
 Both of elements and men. 
 
 Would we go back to the desert. 
 
 With the painted Indian dwell? 
 For his boasted independence 
 
 All our patrimony sell? 
 Would we flout the toil of centuries 
 
 Of the martyr and the sage. 
 Would we forfeit all the riches 
 
 Of the world's well-lettered page? 
 
 134 
 
No, we would not hinder Progress, 
 
 Thoug-h its ways are often dark, 
 Like the pathless waste of ocean 
 
 ^When Columbus manned his bark. 
 For its course is always forward, 
 
 With no limit but the stars. 
 Would we share the victor's triumph 
 
 AA> dare never shun the scars. 
 
 THE LESSON OF AUTUMN 
 
 The reddening vines upon the chapel tower 
 
 The windy brown October wood 
 Reminders are of summer's waning power 
 
 And winter's sterner mood. 
 
 See yonder park all bathed in golden glory, 
 The brook grown drowsy in 'the mist. 
 
 The falling leaves now tell another story. 
 No more by zephyrs kissed. 
 
 Now sweeps the Storm King with his mighty choru; 
 
 O'er fields where harvests late were seen, 
 Thus ruthlessly life's joys are swept before us. 
 
 As they had never been. 
 
 The merry birds too have long since departed. 
 
 No flowers grace the barren soil. 
 Thus pleasures oft desert the broken-hearted, 
 
 And shun the suns of toil. 
 
 Yet there is beauty in this fading splendor 
 And in the Storm King's paeans deep. 
 
 Through all we read a meaning sweet and tender. 
 And smile the while we weep. 
 
 The generous hand that all the joy dispenses, 
 The springtide and the summer's bloom. 
 
 Can make us see through His diviner lenses 
 A lioht amid the o-loom. 
 
 [ 135 
 
As throug-h our trembling- hands we see them cruml^le, 
 These earth-born joys, short-lived and frail, 
 
 AVe raise our tear-dimmed eyes with spirit humble 
 To joys that cannot fail. 
 
 — The Moravian, November, 15, 1899 
 
 THE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 The shadows dance upon the wall, 
 The old friends all have fled. 
 
 Across the waste of years they call. 
 The voices of the dead. 
 
 Within the firelight's ruddy glow. 
 
 In twilight's quiet hour 
 We see the old friends come and go 
 
 And feel their oldtime power. 
 
 Some died as children, girls and boys, 
 
 They left us at our play. 
 We think of them as broken toys 
 
 That we have laid away. 
 
 Some left in woman, manhood's prime. 
 Ere their day's work was done. 
 
 They sickened, died before their time ; 
 As flowers in the sun. 
 
 Some in the fullness of their years. 
 Like sheaves were gathered in. 
 
 Though we could not restrain our tears 
 We felt that grief was sin. 
 
 The long procession comes and goes, 
 The old friends we have known. 
 
 Though the quick tear no longer flows 
 We oft make speechless moan. 
 
 136 
 
Is is a goodly company, 
 
 We love with them to speak. 
 Sometimes the daily cares we flee 
 
 And converse with them seek. 
 
 They still can kindly counsel give, 
 
 Their presence yet is sweet. 
 Who with the past delight to live 
 
 The present joys repeat. 
 
 AMiat if the old friends all be dead, 
 
 This comfort will remain 
 That though their living forms are fled 
 
 Their memory we retain. 
 
 — Lancaster New Era, Feb. 17, 1906 
 
 THE PHANTOM DEER 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE ALLEGHENY MOUNTAINS 
 
 In the Green Woods lived Tom Bronson but he never 
 found it lonesome 
 
 For his wife was fair and winsome and two stalwart sons 
 she bore. 
 
 Reckless was the man, undaunted, in a region terror- 
 haunted, 
 
 Openly his courage vaunted when the hunters aired their 
 store 
 
 Of adventures dread, appallng, which l^efel them, o'er and 
 o'er. 
 
 On a day Tom went a gunning when he saw^ a white deer 
 
 running. 
 But no thought had he of shunning what he ne'er had 
 
 cause to fear. 
 \\>11 he knew^ the faith prevailing, oft saw swarthy 
 
 hunters paling 
 As the phantom deer went sailing scathless, l)e it far or 
 
 near, 
 Yet he aimed and soon the crimson life-blood stained the 
 
 snowy deer. 
 
 [ 137 ] 
 
In the dnsk a dreary token, thoui^ht he, though with 
 
 thoui^ht unspoken, 
 Was a dismal raven croakin^- in the branches overhead. 
 But the white doe's flesh was eaten and his timid friends 
 
 seemed beaten 
 ^Vhen they said there was no cheating vengeance by a 
 
 phantom dread, 
 Retribution sure would follow on the man's devoted head. 
 
 Sure it followed six weeks after and it caused in Tom no 
 
 laughter. 
 For, though skilled in huntsman's craft, he fell while look- 
 
 for the den 
 Of a wolf's pack near the river, and the mishap made him 
 
 shiver 
 For he broke his arm and ever he kept thinking 'twas the 
 
 glen 
 W here he did a deed no power e'er could make him do 
 
 again. 
 
 Tom had come to see his folly and he soon grew melan- 
 choly, 
 
 In his time so bold and jolly, fearing neither man nor 
 ghost. 
 
 But misfortunes gathered faster and he was no longer 
 master 
 
 Of his fate. Now cruel disaster robbed him of his heir 
 and boast. 
 
 Then his wife died and the anguish of that blow unnerved 
 him most. 
 
 Forth at last into the forest wandered Bronson to the 
 
 sorest 
 Battle, for at home no more rest could the wretched hunter 
 
 find. 
 Here a wounded buck attacked him. Though he sought, 
 
 his son ne'er tracked him. 
 For the fierce beast tore and hacked him till both died, 
 
 Tom and the hind. 
 Bones were found by traveling fishers bleached snow-white 
 
 by sun and wind. 
 
Knife and rifle told the story of Tom's dire fate and gory. 
 
 But the white deer in its glory ever since unscathed re- 
 mains, 
 
 For no hunter there wouhl venture such a grevvsome, sad 
 adventure, 
 
 Neither would he brave the censure of his brethren of the 
 plains, 
 
 And misfortune spares the huntsmen in the pale deer's 
 wide domains. 
 
 'PME NATIVITY 
 
 The days are filled with quietness. 
 The nights are white and still. 
 
 And a mantle of crystal brightness 
 Covers valley, field and hill. 
 
 The sunlight glimmers through a mist, 
 The stars gleam pale and cold. 
 
 On such a night the infant Christ 
 Was born, as seers foretold. 
 
 Although the hills of Palestine 
 
 'Round ancient Bethlehem 
 Were covered with the shec]) and kine, 
 
 And shepherds watched by them. 
 
 Judea's plains were green and fair. 
 
 Judea's hearts were cold, 
 Judea's ears were slow to hear 
 
 What herald angels told. 
 
 The very oxen in their stalls 
 The new-born King adored 
 
 While haughty men in palace halls 
 Nor knew nor sought their Lord. 
 
 Thus it is ever. Nature sings 
 
 One ceaseless song of praise. 
 While man alone no tribute brings. 
 Steeped in forgetfulness. 
 
 • 
 [ 139 1 
 
Two thousand years have rolled away 
 
 Since erst the Lord was born, 
 And are our hearts as cold to-day 
 
 As that first Christmas morn? 
 
 The grass on Judah's hills is green, 
 
 Our fields are white with snow. 
 But the Lord Christ may still be seen 
 
 Where warm the heart-fires glow. 
 
 Then quickly ere it be too late. 
 
 While winter winds blow keen 
 Open the door, unbar the gate, 
 
 And let the Christ Child in. 
 
 And though He come in garments old, 
 
 Come tattered and come torn. 
 With Him the Sybil's Age of Gold 
 
 Within your heart is born. 
 
 ^^'ith^n your soul a reign of peace 
 
 His entrance there shall bring, 
 A joy that nevermore shall cease 
 
 The while the angels sing. 
 
 — The Moravian, Dec. 20, 1899 
 
 SPRLNG MELODIES 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF ANNA HElNZ) 
 
 The clouds disperse, the wandering mist 
 
 'Mid clefts of rock is shivered. 
 And through the azure morning air 
 
 The lark's glad note has quivered. 
 My heart, now canst thou hope once more 
 
 After dark AVinter's sorrow. 
 The golden days are at the door, 
 
 Songtide of youth's fair morrow ! 
 
 140 
 
The S])ring' wind o'er the hillside sweeps 
 
 A song of triumph swelling, 
 In tones of resurrection harps 
 
 The murmuring beechwood's welling; 
 AMiat the brook dreamed all winter long 
 
 W ithin the gray rock's niches 
 In young life foams a current strong 
 
 And trills a sons: delicious ! 
 
 '^. 
 
 And what the chaffinch glad o'erheard 
 
 Whispered in budding hedges 
 Drunk with the joy of Spring it shouts 
 
 The young day from the ledges. 
 In answering choirs the robins sing 
 
 From valley unto valley, 
 As if joy's self were entering 
 
 On song's gold wings to dally. 
 
 It is, as though from duress freed, 
 
 Love's holy power and tender 
 O'erflowed in sound all unaware. 
 
 Surcharged with heaven's splendor, 
 As if one mighty chorus filled 
 
 The earth with festal singing. 
 The sunbeam's self that blossoms thrilled 
 
 With kisses music bringing. 
 
 Hast thou, my heart, through winter long 
 
 Grown old and heavy laden. 
 Wake up ! the stirring life force shouts 
 
 In joyous strains of Aiden. 
 O, sing aloud, rejoice once more! 
 
 Discard thy weeds of sorrow\ 
 The golden days are at the door, 
 
 Songtide of y(~>uth's fair morrow ! 
 
 —Linden Hall Echo, May, 190.2 
 
 Mil 
 
THE VILLAGE GRAVEYARD 
 
 The village church stands on a hill, 
 
 The God's acre behind it lies, 
 A sacred spot, remote and still 
 
 From traffic's noise and prying eyes. 
 
 'Twas there we strayed, my friend and I, 
 
 One balmy eve in early May, 
 And not another sound w^as nigh. 
 
 But robins trilled along the way. 
 
 The moss pink flushed some mounds with red. 
 And some were broidered all in white. 
 
 Its azure stars the myrtle spread 
 
 O'er some like rays of heaven's light. 
 
 Their wealth of waxen fairy bells 
 Half hid in tufts of deepest green. 
 
 The valley's lilies, in which dwells 
 
 The sweetest fragrance wove a screen 
 
 O'er many a lowly grave the while 
 The mossy slabs half seemed to bend 
 
 To catch the dainty floweret's smile 
 
 And gray death with sweet life to blend. 
 
 Ah, yes, gray death was all around, 
 All lichened, mossy, full of gloom. 
 
 And dull decay while every mound 
 Was bright with resurrection bloom. 
 
 A simple name upon a stone, 
 
 • A soul in yonder world of bliss. 
 
 The record we have here alone, 
 
 The empty room whose light we miss. 
 
 The seed we planted in the earth 
 
 Delights the eyes with beauty rare, 
 
 Our dead awake to higher birth 
 And loveliness beyond compare. 
 
 [1421 
 
O, fair God's Acre, thou didst teach 
 
 A truth we find too often hid, 
 For our dull minds too seldom reach 
 
 Above the height of coffin lid. 
 
 — The Lancaster Intelligence!- , May S, 1902 
 
 HUMAN NATURE NEVER SATISFIED 
 
 Of Haroun Al Raschid it is said 
 
 That love of mankind often led 
 
 Him through the streets of Bagdad gay 
 
 To wend at night his unknown way. 
 
 And learn in lot of rich and poor 
 
 The ills that he, might find the cure. 
 
 Rut not alone the calif went, 
 
 The grand vizier his counsel lent. 
 
 And Alezrour, executioner. 
 
 Was at his side to heed each stir 
 
 Of princely wrath and let the sword 
 
 Decide vexed problems at a word. 
 
 No despot he who would not heed 
 
 Or did not feel his subjects' need. 
 
 One night they passed a mansion fair 
 
 Whence issued accents of despair. 
 
 So silently the trio drew 
 
 Near to a window, seeing through 
 
 The same a man of regal mien 
 
 On a divan of satin sheen. 
 
 The calif saw in great surprise 
 
 His petted favorite bathed in sighs, 
 
 The man whom he had honored more 
 
 Than any in his realm before. 
 
 *'0. Allah ! " cried the wretched wight, 
 
 O take my life, I pray, to night ! " 
 
 Al Raschid longed to know what fate 
 Ill-starred oppressed the man. Though late, 
 He entrance craved and entrance found. 
 
 [ '4,? 1 
 
Soon in the master's presence round 
 A well-spread table sat the three. 
 The host still sad, as they could see. 
 At last Al Raschid spoke. '' My friend, 
 What dost thou crave? Can Allah send 
 You more than you already own. 
 Unless you want Al Raschid's throne?" 
 " True, stranger," quoth the host, " I need 
 Nothing that earth can give, indeed 
 I've honors, wealth and favor great 
 With Allah's favorite, yet I hate 
 These things since one thing is denied. 
 I want Zuleima for my bride. 
 Her face is like the moon at full. 
 Her eyes make the gazelle's seem dull. 
 She loves me not and hence I yearn 
 To leave this life whose joys I spurn," 
 " r>y IVophet's beard thy case defies 
 All human help, but Allah's wise ; 
 He may deliver you or give 
 You strength to bear, if you must live." 
 
 The calif left the mansion's door 
 
 And sought the streets where dw^elt the poor 
 
 Amid the gloom he tripped. Well nigh 
 
 He fell o'er something whence a cry 
 
 Issued as one were in distress. 
 
 "O, Allah, spare m}^ wretchedness! 
 
 Must I be trodden under foot 
 
 By other beggars, like a brute?" 
 
 His sword indignant Mezrour drew 
 
 But dared not strike. Al Raschid due 
 
 Inquiries made. WHiat man would sleep 
 
 Where others walk, all in a heap? 
 
 " Mashallah," quoth the beggar, " I 
 
 Sleep here since I've no place to lie. 
 
 Divans of silk could give no rest 
 
 To one by want and ills oppressed. 
 
 And did I sleep my dreams would be 
 
 Of banquets that my waking flee. 
 
 [ 144 ] 
 
The wasting flames my home consumed, 
 My kindred died and I am doomed 
 To languish here of all bereft 
 I once held dear; life only's left." 
 ''One thing," the calif said, " at least 
 I hope to cure. Buy shelter, feast." 
 His purse he to the beggar gave 
 Who took it like a thankless slave. 
 " What help is money since disease 
 Its golden charms unvanquished flees?" 
 
 A palace now the three draw near 
 
 And through a lighted window peer. 
 
 Behind the silken curtains paced 
 
 A man whose heavy eyelids faced 
 
 A sleepless night. With languid feet 
 
 He walked and then upon a seat 
 
 He threw himself and yawning cried: 
 
 " How can I still this life abide? 
 
 It is a never ending cheat, 
 
 Hope disappointed and defeat ! " 
 
 The curious calif knocked once more, 
 
 And soon inside the friendly door, 
 
 As Eastern custom has decreed. 
 
 The strangers were refreshed with speed, 
 
 The melancholy host was kind 
 
 But seemed to converse ill inclined. 
 
 He paced the floor and took no part. 
 
 So great the burden on his heart, 
 
 " If thy disease of cure admit, 
 
 The calif said, " I venture it 
 
 Will yield to remedies I learned 
 
 While on my travels where I earned 
 
 A leech's name." ''Ah, no, my pain 
 
 Is mental. Every cure is vain. 
 
 My curse is that I have no lack, 
 
 No hope, no joy. Could I turn back 
 
 And strive, as once in days gone by! 
 
 I nothing need, ambitions die. 
 
 Had I one want I could be glad 
 
 [145 1 
 
Once more as ere I all things had." 
 
 " Thy case is quite beyond my skill," 
 
 The calif said. " I have my fill 
 
 Of human nature for to-night. 
 
 O, perverse man, it is in vain 
 
 I seek to ease thy diverse pain ! 
 
 If one thing lacks or all or none 
 
 Joy will the hapless mortal shun, 
 
 We'll home to bed. Let Allah care 
 
 For such a race. I've done my share ! " 
 
 THE LIMITATIONS OF NATURE 
 
 SUGGESTBD BY WORDSWORTH 
 
 The sun shone bright, the sky was blue 
 
 And clear as sky could be. 
 The air was fresh with morning dew. 
 
 And sweet with minstrelsy. 
 
 The grass was green, the flowers bloomed, 
 
 Nature kept holiday. 
 Could any living thing be doomed 
 
 To aught but joy and play? 
 
 "Ah me, it is a lovely world, 
 
 A joyous world," I said. 
 I felt my soul's wings wide unfurled, 
 
 As a ship's sails are spread. 
 
 Exultant as a bird and free 
 
 I drank the sweet air's breath. 
 
 I asked myself if pain might be, 
 Or such a thing as death? 
 
 A letter came. A dark pall fell 
 
 And hid the sunny day, 
 The gay birds sang a doleful knell, 
 
 The light air weighed like clay! 
 
 [146 
 
All Nature sings with myriad voice — 
 
 Too oft a doubtful boon — 
 For while the rolling- worlds rejoice 
 
 The soul is out of tune. 
 
 music of the spheres, ring on 
 While endless eons roll ! 
 
 Better a human touch upon 
 The vibrant human soul ! 
 
 1 love the everlasting hills, 
 I love the forest grim, 
 
 Yet Nature freezes oft and chills; 
 Iler light at best, is dim. 
 
 No running brook can ever heal 
 
 A soul by sin -oppressed; 
 The heart the sharpest pain can feel 
 
 By zephyrs mild caressed. 
 
 The ancient Greek found no repose 
 
 In universal Pan, 
 Philosophy no solace knows 
 
 For sinning, suitering man. 
 
 The balm of Gilead is not found 
 
 Amid the tempest's roar. 
 Earth's temples are the fearful ground 
 
 Where Sinai's thunders pour. 
 
 The beauteous fields, the glowing skies, 
 They speak of endless power. 
 
 Not of a Saviour kind as wise, 
 Hope of the dying hour. 
 
 Then let us love her. Nature fair, 
 
 Wisely but not too well ; 
 Much does her open book declare 
 
 That sages cannot tell. 
 
 [147 
 
iUit need we balm for human woe, 
 
 A cure for sorrow's smart, 
 Then to another Book we'll go, 
 
 The store-house of the heart! 
 
 — The Evangelical, Nov. 6, 1900 
 
 WHY THE WOMAN'S CHRISTIAN TEMPERANCE 
 UNION STANDS FOR HOME 
 
 Why do we stand for home, you ask? 
 
 The answer is not far to seek. 
 Ah, sure it is a pleasant task 
 
 For our loved homes to speak. 
 
 Yet should I speak in verse or prose 
 
 I cannot say the thing-s I would. 
 With all the colors of the rose 
 
 No painter ever could 
 
 Do justice to the vision fair 
 
 That up before his spirit came 
 ^^'hen he would half the charms declare 
 
 Held by that simple name. 
 
 No artist, poet, minstrel bright 
 Could e'er depict the joys we find 
 
 In that dear haven that by right 
 Flolds heart of humankind. 
 
 Home is the dearest, sweetest word 
 
 In every land, with every race ; 
 No dearer wanderer ever heard 
 
 Left with no resting place. 
 
 It lingers on the lip and tongue. 
 
 It melts the eye to tender tears. 
 Like song by some sweet singer sung 
 
 Reechoes in the ears. 
 
 Flome is the nest where birdlings thrive 
 Beneath the brooding mother wing. 
 
 [1481 
 
To keep that nest untouched, men strive 
 By every evil thing. 
 
 There childhood innocent remains. 
 There youth to man untainted grows. 
 
 There woman's honor knows no stains 
 And purity no foes. 
 
 \\'ith home is linked a father's care, 
 A mother's love, a sister's charm. 
 
 Men find a peaceful haven there, 
 A refuge from all harm. 
 
 Once thus it was, but is it yet? 
 
 A stronghold erst, will it remain ? 
 Can parent a loved child forget 
 
 And leave in want and pain? 
 
 Can traps be set for heedless feet? 
 
 Can home be left without a guard? 
 Too oft, alas ! Then is it meet 
 
 That we set watch and ward. 
 
 We, as the mothers of the land, 
 \\'e, as the wives, the sisters dear, 
 
 ^^'e, as the daughters, we demand, 
 "Who dares to enter here?" 
 
 If husbands, fathers, brothers fail 
 To guard the shrine we love so well 
 
 Then must the tender and the frail 
 To war with shot and shell. 
 
 ^^> may not rest, we dare not shrink. 
 And apathy means certain death. 
 
 Like Christ the bitter cup we drink 
 That others safe draw breath. 
 
 The air is full of death to-day. 
 
 Of noxious vapors, foul and dense. 
 
 Then forth, fair women, to the fray. 
 And drive the terrc^r hence. 
 
 149 
 
Lest it 'Should enter and destroy 
 What we would gladly die to keep 
 
 Untainted for the girl and boy 
 For whom we work and weep. 
 
 What we have done we'll do again. 
 What we have long begun complete, 
 
 A/Ve'll spare not muscle, tongue nor pen, 
 Nor falter at defeat. 
 
 We'll raze the dens by bad men built 
 
 Our dearest pleasures to pollute, 
 And make them slaves of blackest guilt, 
 
 Half devil and half brute. 
 
 We will build temples, fanes instead. 
 Where men may worship and adore 
 
 A holy God, the foe w^e dread 
 Banished forevermore. 
 
 —Read at a W. C. T. U. Institute, July, 1905 
 
 THE WOODS IN WINTER 
 
 The stars are shining overhead, 
 The snow gleams white beneath. 
 
 And all around I see the dead, 
 " The settled face of death." 
 
 The trees are rattling skeletons, 
 (The brook's entombed in ice) 
 
 Some look like cowled monks and nuns, 
 Or sculptor's quaint device. 
 
 And some look most like shieted ghosts, 
 Some more like mailed knights. 
 
 The wind artillery for these hosts 
 Sends clattering from the heig'hts. 
 
 A diverse group, fantastic forms. 
 Death's voiceless carnival ! 
 
 [150] 
 
The puppets of a thousand storms 
 They keep high festivaL 
 
 Earth seems one lofty charnel room, 
 
 The spectral lamps gleam far, 
 No human sound this fete of gloom 
 
 May interrupt or mar. 
 
 Why shrink, my soul, within thyself 
 
 And fly the grisly show 
 When buoyant life, a sportive elf, 
 
 Lies hid beneath the snow? 
 
 In ermine and in eider down, 
 
 Like royal child it sleeps, 
 Spring waits the lusty babe to crown, 
 
 Afar she vigil keeps. 
 
 Once more the vigorous sap shall run 
 Through stiffened limbs and bare, 
 
 Once more shall thrive in breeze and sun 
 A verdure fresh and fair. 
 
 Where sheeted ghosts stand grim and tall 
 
 Shall stand a stately crew 
 Of crowned monarchs at the call 
 
 Of summer's grand review. 
 
 The flowers shall star the barren ground. 
 
 As planets stud the sky, 
 And life shall reign where death is found. 
 
 For Nature cannot die. 
 
 Thus age's frost nor death can kill 
 
 The soul with slow decay. 
 The life is there, unchained it will 
 
 Burst forth in endless day. 
 
 Linden Hall Echo, January, 1902 
 
IN THE FIRELIGHT 
 
 As I sit alone by the fire to-night, 
 All bathed in the glow of its rosy light, 
 My heart is filled with a calm delight. 
 
 Suffused with the sense of its warm content 
 
 1 care not a fig for a continent. 
 
 Nor for all the toys for which men lament. 
 
 I look upon its cheery depths and see 
 The picture of all things dear to me 
 In the past or in time that is yet to be. 
 
 I see the faces of friends that have passed 
 The shadowy portals, dim and vast, 
 Whose threshold we all must cross at last. 
 
 Here is the stuff of which dreams are made. 
 An Aladdin's lamp by whose genial aid 
 I can people the realms of roomy shade. 
 
 Here is the chariot in which with ease 
 I may travel over all lands and seas. 
 With nor let nor limit save as I please. 
 
 I see the snow on the Apennines, 
 
 I visit the North with its fiords and pines, 
 
 And feast on the fruit of fair Candia's vines. 
 
 The tinkle I hear of the Alpine herd. 
 
 Sweet Philomel's song ('tis the poet's bird), 
 
 Yea, my heart by unnumbered sounds is stirred. 
 
 The crackle of coal 'mid the purple flame 
 Can be made to sound like whate'er I name 
 From the cataract's roar to the call of game. 
 
 I chill for a while in the Arctic zones. 
 And I swelter galore beneath tropic suns 
 Till my heart at last such a pastime shuns. 
 
 [152] 
 
Then homeward I hie and thank my stars 
 That I can travel like Hermes or Mars, 
 Win the battle's trophies, without its scars. 
 
 Ah, yes, there are joys by the world untried, 
 And 'tis well with the heart content to bide 
 In the genial bounds of the fireside. 
 
 For 'tis little at best the heart can hold, 
 
 And 'tis well if it be not over bold 
 
 In its search for thing-s to have and to hold. 
 
 —Linden Hall Echo, Jan., 1905 
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 One day I saw^ a butterfly, 
 
 A lovely but a feeble thing, 
 Beating against the casement high 
 
 AA'ith gold and purple wing. 
 
 I threw the window o])en wide 
 Below. Above it beat in vain, 
 
 Blindly fluttering from side to side, 
 Battling in useless pain. 
 
 Sinking at last half dead it drew 
 
 The entering breath of blossoms rare, 
 
 Then spread its purple wing-s and flew 
 Off in the sun-lit air. 
 
 Thus, thought I, do we mortals beat 
 Against the bars of circumstance, 
 
 The door God opens at our feet 
 We miss in the wild dance 
 
 Our uncurbed passions lead us till 
 Fainting we sink in the vain strife 
 
 With the crushed heart and broken will 
 Loved by the Lord of Life. 
 
 [153] 
 
And then we see the open door, 
 
 And see God's sunshine streaming- through, 
 Then we our own vain strife deplore 
 
 And try to Hve anew. 
 
 — Tlie Lititz Express 
 
 A MOTHER'S PRECEPTS 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF LANGBEIN) 
 
 A mouse of tender age 
 
 Set out the world to view, 
 But found herself beset with fear. 
 
 And all things strange and new. 
 
 So back she came with speed. 
 
 Parental counsel sought. 
 " Mother, how shall I bear myself 
 
 Since I am all untaught.'' 
 
 ** Many the forms I see, 
 
 But know not friend from foe, 
 
 And so my terrors have no end. 
 I know not what to do. 
 
 "An adventure I had 
 
 Of dangerous kind, I ween. 
 
 Into a barn a monster came, 
 A form with awful mien. 
 
 " His step was proud and bold, 
 His brow with passion glowed. 
 
 And, as he walked, a pointed spur 
 Upon each foot he showed. 
 
 " He flapped his w^ings with noise 
 
 In fear I sought to fly. 
 But though he opened wide his jaws. 
 
 He only gave a cry. 
 
 [154] 
 
" But one I saw beyond, 
 
 A form of g'race divine, 
 With eyes that grleamed hke Hving stars. 
 
 Yet gentle and benign. 
 
 " She seemed on flowers to tread, 
 
 Noiseless her step and slow, 
 She stroked her cheek with velvet paw, 
 
 As soft and white as snow. 
 
 ''A-glow with love and joy 
 
 For friendship I had sued, 
 Had not the monster barred my way 
 
 In threatening attitude." 
 
 " Thank him," the mother said, 
 
 *'He saved you from a foe. 
 It was the sly and cunning cat 
 
 Whose presence charmed you so ! 
 
 '' Despite his swaggering noise 
 
 The cock is well inclined. 
 The blusterer you need not fear, 
 
 But shun the creepin^g kind ! " 
 
 — The Lititz Express 
 
 A PRESENTIMENT AND A PRAYER 
 
 There is a weight on my heart to-night, 
 
 A stone about my neck. 
 Is it a wrong I failed to right? 
 
 A life I helped to wreck? 
 
 Is it a shadow of wrong that's past, 
 
 Or shade of ill to come 
 That o'er my heart its gloom has cast, 
 
 A foretaste of my doom? 
 
 O, can it be that a word of mine, 
 
 Spoken in wrath or jest, 
 Has turned a soul from Thy blest shrine. 
 
 Or robbed a heart of rest? 
 
 [155] 
 
Was ever done a deed of mine 
 
 That sent a soul to hell? 
 That made the hot blood leap like wine? 
 
 Or tolled a funeral bell? 
 
 O Christ, Thou of the nail-pierced hand, 
 Christ of the thorn-crowned brow, 
 
 'Tis Thou alone canst understand 
 And canst forgive me now. 
 
 Thou knowest what I might have done, 
 
 Or what I yet may do, 
 Thou knowest that my heart is prone 
 
 To work the deeds I rue. 
 
 Thou knowest well that I would be 
 
 Like Thee, the pure and just, 
 Though I should do the things I'd flee. 
 
 Frail child of sin and dust. 
 
 Do Thou lead me. I cannot walk 
 
 Alone. I am so weak ! 
 Let Thy blest Spirit through me talk ; 
 
 Without I cannot speak. 
 
 Then am I sure to do no wrong. 
 
 Nor Jead a soul astray. 
 Then in my weakness am I strong 
 
 To walk the narrow way. 
 
 If shadows e'er should come between 
 
 Again in coming years, 
 Be they the shades of others' sin. 
 
 While others claim my tears ! 
 
 — The Moravian, Oct. 21, 1903 
 
 THE DESERTED NEST 
 
 There was a brown house in a hollow, 
 
 Hard by a dim, dark wood. 
 But the blows of the ax now follow 
 
 Where erst the old trees stood. 
 
 156 
 
Sweet sang- the shy birds of the wildwood 
 
 Around it night and morn, 
 And the merry laughter of childhood 
 
 Upon the ear was borne. 
 
 But the little brown house stands lonely, 
 
 Deserted to this day, 
 Of a happy household one only 
 
 Lingers to weep and pray. 
 
 Ah, she mourns for the vanished glory 
 
 Of woodland deep and dim, 
 Yea, she mourns for each giant hoary, 
 
 Each broken trunk and Umb 
 
 That the little old house once guarded 
 
 From cold and winter's' blast, 
 Or ever with its green arms warded 
 
 From heat within the past. 
 
 She mourns for the merry laughter 
 
 That made the woodland ring. 
 For the children have followed after 
 
 The birds ; they're all a wing. 
 
 The trees and the birds and the children 
 
 Ha\e vanished to this day. 
 The only one tireless watcher 
 
 Lingers to weep and pray. 
 
 —Lancaster New Era, March 2, 190J, 
 
 KING PHILIP 
 
 We know but too well from the tales men tell 
 
 Of the red man's woeful fate, 
 How his footsteps fail 'fore the white man's trail 
 
 From Maine to the Golden Gate. 
 
 At that tale of blood our hearts have stood 
 
 Almost still with fear and shame. 
 Alas for the greed that givfeth no heed 
 
 To a brother in His name ! 
 
 1^57] 
 
Alas for the race whose name and place 
 Now the white man knows no more ! 
 
 Once strong and free in his own countree. 
 He begs at the white man's door. 
 
 Like to many a chief that but came to griei 
 
 Through pale face greed and lust, 
 King Philip in pride long his foe defied, 
 
 But his soul was great and just. 
 
 While his foes increased, like a hunted beast 
 
 He turned as his power grew less. 
 Full well he knew that his friends they slew 
 
 And heavy was his distress. 
 
 And the country round men could hear the sound 
 
 Of savage warfare rage. 
 Amid swamp and fen he had made his den. 
 
 For the king was swift and sage. 
 
 They saw his track where the smoke hung black 
 
 Over burning towm and farm, 
 And they saw him fly where the midnight sky 
 
 Blushed crimson at war's alarm. 
 
 They would starve him out, but round and a1)out 
 
 V/here the English built a fort 
 He swam on a raft, and the Indians laughed. 
 
 For his flight was swift and short. 
 
 Then again he went and the message sent 
 
 To tribes that were far away, 
 To Chief Canonchet, of Narraganset, 
 
 Who took his part that day. 
 
 When the snow lay deep in swamp and on steep 
 
 Came a mighty English host, 
 And once more betrayed by a renegade 
 
 The Indian's cause was lost. 
 
 The fight waged long, for the foe was strong, 
 
 But the sachem fled at last. 
 Of all bereft, but a handful left, 
 
 Of a force of veteran cast. 
 
 [158] 
 
But their shrieks of fear as in their rear 
 
 They left l^urning fort and homes, 
 And could hear the cries, as in fiendish wise, 
 
 The pale foe in living tombs 
 
 Their children small, their wives and their all. 
 
 E'en the men of age destroyed. 
 Made for once to smart the long hardened heart 
 
 Of warriors of pity void. 
 
 Canonchet, the brave, would not be a slave 
 To the foreigner's guile and greed. 
 
 Nor would he betray his friend but would stay 
 Most true in his direst need. 
 
 Shorn of all his strength he must fall at length, 
 
 But unshaken, undismayed. 
 Ah, the pale of face can show but small grace 
 
 To heroes of darker shade. 
 
 He said, '' It is well I die ere men tell 
 
 Unworthy deeds of me. 
 Ere I faint and speak the words of the weak." 
 
 He did not, as all agree. 
 
 The death of his friend now brought near the end 
 
 Of Philip, the hapless king. 
 Forsaken by all, the proud Indian's fall 
 
 Lacked not e'en the final sting. 
 
 For the men wdio w^ere fed by his bounty led 
 
 The enemy to his lair. 
 Where untamed of will and majestic still 
 
 He crouched in his despair. 
 
 Like a spectre wild, shorn of rank and child, 
 He wandered where once he reigned. 
 
 The last of the few who still were true 
 His blood the marshes stained. 
 
 Yea. such was the fate of the man whom hate 
 
 Still deprives of justice due. 
 Of a king whose wrong in no poet's song 
 
 Has been granted pity true. 
 
 ■ [159] 
 
Yet sure it is meet that the heart which beat 
 
 In a hero's breast be shown, 
 And let me but crave one tear for his grave 
 
 Though dishonored and unknown. 
 
 MY WEALTH 
 
 I never owned a foot of land 
 
 Nor yet a pile of stone. 
 There never was a hill of sand 
 
 That I might call my own, 
 And yet I hold the right of way 
 
 Wherever eye can range. 
 Mine is an undisputed sway 
 
 That knows no loss nor change. 
 
 I own the palace of the rich, 
 
 I own the poor man's cot, 
 I'm lord of forest, farm and ditch, 
 
 Of waste and garden plot, 
 I own the starry worlds on high, 
 
 The sea, the cataract. 
 For others' wealth I never sigh 
 
 For all is mine in fact. 
 
 For mine is the unfettered mind, 
 
 The kingdom of my soul. 
 And that nor time nor space can bind, 
 
 Nor set it let nor goal. 
 I wander where my eye would list, 
 
 And where my thought can go, 
 I sail the seas of amethyst 
 
 Bathed in the sunset's glow. 
 
 Some sell their souls for shining gold, 
 
 But what is gold to me? 
 The things I have I scarcely hold, 
 
 I own what I can see. 
 
 [i6o] 
 
Possession is but half a claim, 
 
 A slave to fickle fate, 
 And wealth too oft is but a name 
 
 To stir the rabble's hate. 
 
 \\^ho has no claim to land nor pelf 
 
 Feels little tie to earth. 
 He need but yield his inner self 
 
 To God who g-ave him birth. 
 There's but a step from star to star 
 
 And so the soul can wing 
 Her flight beyond the narrow bar 
 
 Of death without a sting. 
 
 THE ROSE OF JERICHO 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF MEHEMED ALl) 
 
 They bloom, the roses of Jericho, 
 
 Wondrous fiery red ; 
 They say that the Savior's blood did so 
 
 Dye them when he was dead. 
 
 In summer and winter flourish they 
 
 Wondrous fiery red; 
 Their green leaves never know decay 
 
 Since Jesus Christ is dead. 
 
 Sir Godfrey sent from the Holy Land, 
 
 Wondrous fiery red. 
 His lady a rose by a foreign hand 
 
 An hour ere he was dead. 
 
 And as with the rose in full bloom they came, 
 
 Wondrous fiery red, 
 To the castle where dwelt the noble dame 
 
 With tidings that he was dead 
 
 She pressed the rose with weeping eyes. 
 
 Wondrous fiery red. 
 Above were the frosty Northern skies 
 
 And beneath the icy dead. 
 
 i6i ] 
 
In a few short hours they have paled 
 
 Her splendid glowing red. 
 Perhaps she, white and pale, bewailed 
 
 That the lady fair was dead? 
 
 The legend thus. Yet in Jericho ' 
 
 To-day bloom fiery red 
 The roses that Jesus Christ once so 
 
 Colored when he was dead. 
 
 In summer and winter flourish they 
 
 Wondrous fiery red ; 
 Their green leaves never know decay. 
 
 They have no death to dread. 
 
 — The Lititz Express, 188^ 
 
 LONGING FOR FREEDOM 
 
 I am longing for the quiet and the fragrance of the wood ; 
 Where Dame Nature reigns unhindered it is easy to be 
 
 good. 
 I am tired of the clamor and the squalor of the street, 
 I am weary of the tramping of a thousand pairs of feet. 
 
 To what end this ceaseless striving? For what use this 
 endless toil? 
 
 That the strands we daily strengthen of the ropes that 
 round us coil. 
 
 While we sweat for bread and butter we are weaving- 
 shrouds amain. 
 
 And the wealth which some are heaping means but pleni- 
 tude of pain. 
 
 We are bartering rosy childhood and the freshness of 
 
 youth's bloom 
 For an age unloved and cheerless, for the haunting sense 
 
 of doom. 
 When the soul growls old in striving swift decays the 
 
 body's shell. 
 And the battered hulks some tenant seem like vestibules of 
 
 hell. 
 
 [ 162 1 
 
We have little time lor thinking, scarcely have we time to 
 
 feel, 
 We have lost the art of praying since our gods are near 
 
 and real. 
 All the things that are worth having, all the things we 
 
 truly need 
 We are sacrificing daily on the altar of our greed. 
 
 Sacrificing simple pleasures, sacrificing health and prime, 
 Sacrificing love and duty, all high ideals and sublime. 
 Sacrificing all our dreaming, all achievement true and vast, 
 For the bitter Sodom apple, for the things that cannot last. 
 
 O, the ceaseless whirr and blinding, as if life were a ma- 
 chine. 
 
 And each human soul an atom with no conscious power 
 within ! 
 
 O, the seething human cauldron, oh, the dizzy dervish 
 dance ! 
 
 O, the snorting of the war horse and the flashing of the 
 lance! 
 
 I would fly from all this turmoil, I would flee from all 
 
 this glare 
 To the silence of the forest, to the wild beast in his lair. 
 For the fox is much less cunning and the wolf is much 
 
 more kind 
 Than the worshippers of Mammon, deaf to human need 
 
 and blind. 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligencer, Aug. 21, 1906 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY 
 
 Amid that startled multitude 
 Dread stillness reigned around. 
 
 After that din of voices rude 
 Was heard no mortal sound. 
 
 Upon the sunless land did brood 
 A silence vast, profound. 
 
 [ 163 ] 
 
Three crosses rose upon the hill, 
 
 Three crosses g-aunt and stark, 
 And One there hung who knew no ill 
 
 'Twixt malefactors dark, 
 For evil men had done their will 
 
 Upon that shining mark. 
 
 The jeering lip and mocking tongue 
 
 Of Scribe and Pharisee, 
 The taunting of the ribald throng 
 
 And pagan soldiery 
 Died like spent waves the storm had flung 
 
 On shores of Galilee. 
 
 And there they stood the cross below, 
 
 The women meek and mild. 
 Their hearts were broken by their woe. 
 
 The mother mourned her Child. 
 Ah, none that mother's grief may know 
 
 Save He whom men reviled. 
 
 The little band that kept His word, 
 
 A handful, weak and poor, 
 They stood afar and mourned their Lord. 
 
 Their faith might scarce endure 
 The test of all they'd seen and heard 
 
 And burn up bright and pure. 
 
 The rocks are rent, the dead arise, 
 
 And yonder temple vail 
 Doth part. In vain your sacrifice, 
 
 Ye canting priests, who fail 
 To know the Lamb, whom prophets wise 
 
 In ages past did hail. 
 
 The conflict's o'er, and once again 
 
 Behold the welcome sun ! 
 From their dumb terror wakening men 
 
 Find their salvation won. 
 Through endless ages tongue and pen 
 
 Shall laud the Risen One! 
 
 —Lancaster Intelligencer, April 13, 1906 
 
 [ 164 ] 
 
THE CHAPEL BELLS 
 
 (mARY DIXON MEMORIAL CHAPEL AT LINDEN HALL SEMINARY) 
 
 Let Irish hearts the " Shandon Bells " 
 Enshrine in thoughts full loving, 
 
 For he who wrote the poem tells 
 What made their tones so moving. 
 
 And Schiller's " Bell," ah, may it ring 
 
 In German hearts forever ; 
 Through untold ages may it fling 
 
 Its brazen tongue's last quiver. 
 
 Let all the bells that ever thrived 
 
 In history or fiction, 
 Let all the chimes that ever lived 
 
 In sweet poetic diction 
 
 Let all the bells immortalized 
 
 In sonnet or in story. 
 And e'en the bell our nation prized 
 
 As herald of its glory 
 
 Grow dumb and seek inglorious rest ; 
 
 With ours they cannot grapple. 
 Our bells are still the sweetest, best, 
 
 The bells of our Chapel. 
 
 Our bells ring out a tribute due 
 
 To tender love paternal. 
 And rear to human sound and view 
 
 A monument supernal. 
 
 Our bells enshrine in memory dear 
 
 A picture time shades finer 
 Of one who left her girlhood here 
 
 For womanhood diviner. 
 
 Our bells mark out the daily round 
 
 Of duties light or solemn. 
 At work or play we hear the sound, 
 
 And gazing at yon column 
 
 [ 165 ] 
 
We see the brazen triad swing 
 
 Free in the breath of heaven, 
 And think no triple crowned king 
 
 Such pomp had ever given. 
 
 Ah, students all of former days, 
 
 Your woeful need confessing. 
 You cannot, as the poet says. 
 
 Count ignorance a blessing ! 
 
 And students too, of later times, 
 Who love our bells so truly. 
 Ah, listen to the pleasant chimes 
 You too have heard but newly 
 
 And bear their memory in your heart, 
 
 Of happy days a token. 
 And keep it of yourselves a part 
 
 Till earthly ties are broken. 
 
 — Linden Hall Echo, March, 1906 
 
 A CHANGE 
 
 Of yore when we walked together 
 I walked to be with my friend, 
 
 Little I heeded the weather, 
 
 The talk, not the walk, was my end. 
 
 Now I walk for the love of the flowers, 
 The sky, the trees and the birds, 
 
 Though my friend may talk for hours 
 I hear without heeding the words. 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW 
 
 Upon the Galilean strand 
 
 He walked and talked with Christ of yore. 
 And now He walks through every land 
 
 Forevermore. 
 
 i66] 
 
He saw the Roman sun decline, 
 He saw the Grecian's glory fade, 
 
 Full many constellations shine 
 And sink in shade. 
 
 Within the Occidental sky 
 
 The planets rose and planets fell. 
 
 But one there rode undimmed and high. 
 He knew it well. 
 
 He saw the grand old temple fall, 
 His people scattered far and wide, 
 
 The Moslem reigning over all 
 With upstart pride. 
 
 His people, scorned by every race. 
 Were hunted, hounded and oppressed, 
 
 Nowhere they found a dwelling place. 
 Their feet a rest. 
 
 Afar beyond the western seas 
 He saw a youngling planet rise. 
 
 The vision of Hesperides 
 To aching eyes. 
 
 He saw the hunted of the earth 
 Flock thither to yon halcyon isle, 
 
 Flis people too had found a berth 
 A little while. 
 
 He saw what art and science wrought. 
 He saw the world created new, 
 
 And wondrous things surpassing thought. 
 So strange yet true. 
 
 He saw the envoys of the King 
 
 Uncrowned on earth and spit upon 
 
 All nations to subjection bring 
 Beneath the sun. 
 
 He saw, and yet no tongue can say 
 
 What that strange phantom still may see 
 
 Before the awful judgment day 
 That is to be 
 
 167 
 
When that weird curse shall be removed, 
 And he with millions more shall bow 
 
 And kiss the feet of the Beloved 
 With prostrate brow. 
 
 A ROSE 
 
 Suggested by the Feast of Roses at Manheim, L,ancaster Co., Pa., founded bj' Baron 
 Steigel, when the annual rental of a rose is paid by the members of Zion I^utheran 
 church to descendents of the Baron. 
 
 A rose, a rose, a red, red rose, 
 As sweet a thing as aught that grows. 
 What can it to an old man mean? 
 What but a phantom of a dream? 
 
 What ! Can a red rose compensate 
 For persecution, envy, hate? 
 Can he the bitter past forget, 
 Charmed by its odorous coronet? 
 
 Ah, yes, he can, he will, he may, 
 For back it brings a brighter day. 
 It's ruby heart reminds him of 
 The tender heart of his young love. 
 
 The flush of health is on his cheek. 
 
 He is no longer old and weak, 
 
 The fire of youth is in his eye ; 
 
 He vaults with young Ambition high. 
 
 He sees the crimson blood he shed 
 Upon the field of battle red. 
 The dream of glory nerves his arm. 
 He revels amid war's alarm. 
 
 He sees the rose fade from one face 
 Whose beauty time can ne'er erase. 
 He sees her 'neath the roses sleep 
 While falling petals lie full deep. 
 
 He sees amid the gloom a star, 
 The land of promise beckoning far, 
 
 i68] 
 
A land of flowers and of gold 
 Where speed the sunny hours untold. 
 
 But there his brightest dreams must fade 
 
 As last year's roses lie decayed. 
 
 The monarch of a vast domain 
 
 He wears the debtor's galling chain. 
 
 He sees his kindred 'round him fall 
 As roses from the garden wall 
 When fierce November winds bloAV chill 
 And leaves lie thick in vale and hill. 
 
 He sees the strength forsake his frame, 
 A tottering child, yet not the same 
 That knelt beside his mother's knee. 
 He feels his life's joys from him flee. 
 
 Again, he sees the sacrifice 
 Of One who for his brethren dies, 
 A God who shed his blood like wine 
 'Mid lilies red of Palestine. 
 
 All this — who knows and how much more?- 
 The old man sees. The rose's core 
 The sunlight fills with crimson fire, 
 Fit torch to light his funeral pyre. 
 
 THE LAST CHRISTIAN MARTYR 
 
 Two stalwart men of iron frame 
 Upon the wide arena came 
 To die for gold or idle fame 
 
 A Roman mob to please, 
 Two gladiators, trained to fight, 
 Like beasts of prey who tear and bite, 
 To cater to a beast's delight. 
 
 Such heroes bold Avere these. 
 
 [ 169 ] 
 
Their little game prepared the way 
 For greater shows upon that day, 
 For Christians in a bloody fray 
 
 With fiercer beasts should lead. 
 The gladiators could but whet 
 The mob's cruel appetite and set 
 The tune to which the martyrs met 
 
 The doom their faith decreed. 
 
 A hundred thousand pairs of eyes, 
 A thousand varying shouts and cries 
 At once the fighting pair apprise 
 
 No mercy they need ask. 
 Saluting Caesar now they faced 
 Each other while in murderous haste 
 The blows reigned thick and blood encased 
 
 Their features like a mask. 
 
 What brought that apparition there, 
 An aged man with snow white hair, 
 Whose head and feet alike were bare, 
 
 A prophet sure or priest? 
 He bade the swarthy fighters hold 
 Their bloody hands, he sternly told 
 Them that this wicked pageant old 
 
 Upon that day had ceased. 
 
 The gladiators paused in awe. 
 
 Which soon the watchful audience saw, 
 
 And then from every cruel jaw 
 
 There burst a hissing sound 
 Like volumes of escaping steam 
 From some vast geyser's scalding stream, 
 Or such as one might almost deem 
 
 Issued from hell's dark bound. 
 
 '' Back, back, old man ! " He heard them not. 
 He stood as rooted to the spot. 
 All but his task divine forgot. 
 Then came a deafening shout : 
 
 [170] 
 
" Down ! Cut him down ! " and down he fell, 
 But o'er his prostrate form the knell 
 Of those fierce sports conceived in hell 
 Was rung beyond a doubt. 
 
 And now the Colosseum stands 
 
 A ruin famed throughout all lands, 
 
 And grass grows green where once the sands 
 
 Were red with human gore. 
 The empire where the Caesars reigned, 
 Where captive kings were scourged and chained 
 Where Christian temples were profaned 
 
 Our annals know no more. 
 
 MY BIRTHDAY 
 
 Once more the annual day comes round 
 
 When Life and I first met, 
 A day by some with laughter crowned, 
 
 By others with regret. 
 
 I cannot say I'm loath to greet 
 Thy homely face once more. 
 
 Nor am I glad thy form to meet. 
 As many times of yore. 
 
 Thou hast been kind to me, my friend, 
 
 More so than I deserve, 
 Didst thou remain thus to the end 
 
 I'd have no cause to swerve 
 
 From my devotion unto thee 
 
 In hours or bright or sad. 
 In my desire myself to be 
 
 The best friend we have had. 
 
 Life has not blest me with great wealth 
 And hence with little pride. 
 
 But it has mostly spared me health ; 
 This cannot be denied. 
 
 [171] 
 
Of learning, pleasure, love and fame 
 
 It could not spare a jot, 
 But it has left an honest name 
 
 To grace my humble lot. 
 
 And it has given me friends, a few 
 
 Than earthly goods more ^ dear. 
 More kindly than the healing dew 
 
 Upon the meadows sere. 
 
 It too has taught me how to drink 
 
 From rills of ancient lore, 
 To pluck the flowers from the brink 
 
 Where sages quaffed of yore. 
 
 And when I see my neighbors bend 
 
 Beneath the weary load. 
 When I am called my aid to lend 
 
 The fainting by the road 
 
 I turn to greet thy pleasant face — 
 
 True friend to me thou art — 
 And thank Life for its sparing grace. 
 
 I'm thankful from my heart ! 
 
 And ever as thy form returns 
 
 I'm nearer to that goal 
 For which my fainting spirit yearns, 
 
 Sweet mansion of the soul. 
 
 Should we meet here no more on earth 
 
 \\'e'll meet 'neath fairer skies, 
 Where endless years shall crown thy dearth, 
 
 And friendship never dies. 
 
 Decemhei^ 2, 1900 
 
 [172] 
 
GETTYSBURG 
 
 There's quiet on the hills to-night 
 
 Lit by the setting sun, 
 No armed host now frets the sight, 
 
 No sound is there of gun 
 Though two score years ago the fight 
 
 Raged till the day was done. 
 
 Within their green and grassy bed 
 
 Victor and vanguished lie 
 In tranquil sleep. Can those be dead 
 
 Whose memory cannot die? 
 Whose names no age shall pass unread? 
 
 No tongue their deeds decry? 
 
 And comrades now are those who erst 
 
 Were foemen on the field, 
 Where death the cruel fetters burst 
 
 Which long their hearts had steeled. 
 Razing the wall of wrong accursed 
 
 That soul from soul concealed. 
 
 But while we render homage due 
 
 To these, our noble brave. 
 Shall we forget the men that knew 
 
 To rescue and to save 
 A tortured people, though their due 
 
 Might be a nameless grave? 
 
 Some deem the age of heroes past, 
 
 Declare us selfish, cold. 
 But no! while human tears flow fast 
 
 And men do wrong for gold, 
 So long Columbia's bugle blast 
 
 Will call us as of old. 
 
 And not as foemen, side by side. 
 
 As these who lie asleep, 
 We'll follow with one flag our guide 
 
 The wide world's peace to keep. 
 No Gettysburg can now divide 
 
 A Union broad and deep. 
 
 I i/.s ] 
 
PARTED 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF AN OLD PLAYMATE 
 
 Do you remember how we played, 
 
 You and I together, 
 All day long within the shade 
 
 Through the sunny weather? 
 
 Do you remember how we sat 
 
 By the winter fire, 
 Telling stories till our chat 
 
 Drowned the storm king's ire? 
 
 Do you remember how we loved. 
 
 Fondly loved each other? 
 I to you a sister proved, 
 
 You to me a brother. 
 
 Do you remember how we dreamed 
 
 Of the future golden? 
 All life then a vision seemed. 
 
 While our eyes were holden. 
 
 Do you remember how a part 
 
 Through the years we drifted? 
 Time and distance from the heart 
 
 Its illusions lifted. 
 
 Do you remember how you lay 
 
 On your last bed sleeping? 
 Sadly then I turned away, 
 
 Turned away with weeping. 
 
 Will you remember when we meet 
 
 At the throne in heaven? 
 Will you know me? Will you greet 
 
 All the past forgiven? 
 
 February 10, 1901 
 
 [174] 
 
MY GARDEN 
 
 My soul is like a garden fair, 
 
 It takes such constant tending there 
 
 To keep the weeds from growing, 
 I once had thought the place well kept, 
 But some one entering while I slept 
 
 Sowed here without my knowing. 
 
 And then I labored hard and long 
 To kill the roots so big and strong 
 
 The soil's strength boldly stealing. 
 The plants had sickly grown meanwhile, 
 All owing to the foeman's guile, 
 
 And my own sloth revealing. 
 
 My soul is like a garden fair. 
 Since I have placed it in His care 
 
 No foeman dares to enter. 
 Where once the poisonous weeds were sown 
 The plants of beauty strong have grown. 
 
 Love's sunshine now their centre. 
 
 My soul is like a garden fair. 
 
 I find such pleasant fruitage there 
 
 All of the Gardener's planting. 
 If I but let Him prune and trim 
 Each plantlet as it suiteth Him 
 
 Good fruit will not be wanting. 
 
 My soul is like a garden fair. 
 
 Sweet flowers bloom so brightly there 
 
 To gladden all surrounding. 
 The lilies and the roses grow, 
 The violets and carnations blow, 
 
 In fragrance too abounding. 
 
 My soul is like a garden fair. 
 The sunshine and the showers there 
 Will let no green thing languish. 
 
 [ 175 ] 
 
The heavenly Gardener sendeth them, 
 With loving care He tendeth them, 
 With sorrow oft and anguish. 
 
 My soul is like a garden fair. 
 May no destroyer enter there 
 
 To spoil its fine appearing, 
 To grieve the gentle Gardener e'er, 
 And render vain His watchful care 
 
 O'er plants of tender rearing. 
 
 My soul be like a garden fair. 
 May nothing ever flourish there 
 
 But plants of Heaven's keeping! 
 And may no noxious vermin sweep 
 Its fair expanse the while I sleep ! 
 
 May angels do the reaping. 
 
 —The Moravian, July 29, 1903 
 
 THE WHITE SLAVES OF TO-DAY 
 
 According to the census of 1900 there were in that year 1,752,187 children admittedly 
 employed in gainful occupations in the United States. Then there are thousands of 
 child toilers in the tenements of great cities who are not included in the census re- 
 turns. 
 
 The kingdoms of the ancient world, like mushrooms in a 
 
 day, 
 Sprang- up and flourished splendidly and then they passed 
 
 away. 
 But they were builded all on blood and so they could not 
 
 stand, 
 While mounds and ruined sepulchers they left on every 
 
 hand. 
 
 And we are carving kingdoms yet from human blood and 
 
 brawn, 
 We raise our structures to the sky till the millenial dawn. 
 Confusion once on Babel fell that rose on Shinar's plain. 
 Our Babels rise on every side where commerce holds its 
 
 rei""n. 
 
 176 
 
The stones are from the nursery our architect employs, 
 The death traps of our smoky mills are filled with girls 
 
 and boys. 
 The pagan's infant sacrifice to Moloch we deplore 
 While babes are feeding furnace fires before our very door. 
 
 A million of them (think, oh man, if one w^ere but thine 
 
 own !) 
 Are passing daily to their doom and no one hears their 
 
 moan. 
 A million little, helpless ones sent to be clothed and fed 
 Are passing through a hell on earth to join the quiet dead. 
 
 They perish in the noxious airs of tenement and mine, 
 They suffer 'mid the drudgery of factories w^ith no sign, 
 With maimed and stunted bodies, with souls deformed 
 
 and killed 
 We raise our giant industries, our millionaires Ave build. 
 
 We slew the flower of the land, like water shed our blood 
 To free the black man years ago, and that was very good. 
 No more the hunted Negro hides within the dismal 
 
 swamp. 
 A million little captives crouch in cellars dark and damp. 
 
 The kingdoms of the old world fell as their foundation 
 
 stones 
 Were reeking with the blood of slaves and built of human 
 
 bones ; 
 The fabrics of our States to-day must sink (for God is 
 
 just!) 
 And our slave-built fortunes crumble into oblivion's dust. 
 — The Lancaster Intelligencer , Jan. 28, 1907 
 
 THE POET 
 
 He went forth in the bloom of youth 
 And in the pride of power. 
 
 With him went Love and holy Truth 
 And Joy, his only dower. 
 
 [177] 
 
He met the sneer of cruel Scorn, 
 
 Ethereal Joy took flight, 
 Then Avarice crossed his path one morn 
 
 And Love was gone ere night. 
 
 'Twas then that Worldly Wisdom came 
 
 To counsel and advise, 
 Truth hung her head in conscious shame. 
 
 While tear-drops filled her eyes. 
 
 He shrank before misfortune's blast. 
 
 The stings of poverty, 
 Truth left him, loyal to the last, 
 
 Starvation's pangs to flee. 
 
 And now he wanders o'er the earth 
 
 A broken, worthless thing, 
 A creature of ethereal birth 
 
 And yet he cannot sing ! 
 
 HOME SWEET HOME 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE CIVIL WAR 
 
 Along the Rappahannock's sides 
 
 Two armies camp together 
 W^hile but a small ravine divides 
 
 The Union from the other. 
 
 To-night they rest, to-morrow fight 
 
 And rage in bloody battle. 
 While smoke obscures fair heaven's light 
 
 And loud the cannon rattle. 
 
 They sit and dream to-night of those 
 
 By firesides fondly waiting 
 For the beloved whom with foes 
 
 Grim death will soon be mating. 
 
 At last is heard a pleasant sound, 
 
 A band is " Dixie " playing. 
 And now the Union band is bound, 
 
 Its loyal hearts betraying, 
 
 [178] 
 
To strike the tune they know so well 
 
 And love, old " Yankee Doodle." 
 By " Maryland " again men tell 
 
 The South, as Swiss by yodel. 
 
 And now the Union band began 
 
 The tune, " Star Spangled Banner." 
 Sure that appeals to every man 
 Or youth born to the manor! 
 
 There was a pause, and " Home, Sweet Home " 
 
 Upon the air fell sweetly. 
 Upon those armies silence dumb 
 
 And awe there fell completely. 
 
 The night was dark, the camp was still, 
 
 Two bands strike up in union. 
 They play the same tune with a will 
 
 And hearts beat in communion. 
 
 Though severed far by pride and hate, 
 
 Divided in opinion. 
 Their hearts beat solely, soon or late, 
 
 For home in one dominion. 
 
 Once more they meet 'mid shell and shot. 
 
 And brother slayeth brother, 
 But love of home in each burns hot; 
 
 For that they fight each other. 
 
 And since the score has long been paid 
 And feuds no more are cherished 
 
 The flowers on the graves are laid 
 Where ancient hates have perished. 
 
 179] 
 
MY DREAM 
 
 A cottage in a mossy dell, 
 
 And some one nigh to love me, 
 A purling stream or bubbling well 
 
 And the blue sky above me. 
 Dark, spicy pines where sweet birds sing, 
 
 A book for stormy weather. 
 Come friend, abroad thy troubles fling, 
 
 And we'll go there together. 
 
 THE WARNING 
 
 One day through the streets of fair Johnstown 
 A horse and rider came flying down. 
 Whence came that rider and whence that steed ? 
 And why such haste? Who could see the need 
 
 The horse was covered with foam and sweat. 
 And the rider hailed each man that he met : 
 " The flood ! The flood ! To the mountains fly ! 
 The time is short. Delay and you die ! " 
 
 Some doubted, some mocked, some did not hear. 
 On, on he went with his message of fear. 
 They were bent on pleasure, on love, on gain, 
 And the awful warning was sounded in vain. 
 
 All smiling and fair the city lay 
 In her strength and pride on that fateful day. 
 Sure no doom so dire could be in store ! 
 The man was a fool and nothing more. 
 
 On went the mad race from street to street, 
 But the pitiless flood was still more fleet. 
 The city awoke to its doom at last 
 When all hope of rescue, alas, was past. 
 
 [ 180I 
 
Through the turmoil of earth God's prophets are sent 
 
 To call mankind to arise and repent. 
 
 Men mock and rail. Ah, little they care, 
 
 Till the sound of His coming brings only despair. 
 
 NONE OF THESE 
 
 (from THB GERMAN OF GOETHK) 
 
 If you will take the servant's place 
 No one will pity your disgrace ; 
 Should you the master's office fill 
 The world will brook it quite as ill, 
 As you were born should you remain, 
 There's nothing in you, folks maintain. 
 
 BABOUSCKA 
 
 (a RUSSIAN legend) 
 
 When the wind blows high and the night is cold 
 Babouscka is out on her quest, as of old. 
 When the snow falls thick as it whitens the plain 
 It is nothing to her. She is seeking again. 
 Ah, she wanders far and she wanders wide. 
 Led along by the bells of the Christmas tide. 
 As in wonder men ask what takes her so far, 
 *' I'm in quest," she replies, "of the track of a star." 
 
 She has loaded a big, heavy bag on her back. 
 Of toys and of goodies there is no lack, 
 And the children she meets with wherever she goes 
 Will receive their full share, as every one knows. 
 Yea, the youngest and weakest she cannot pass by, 
 And the tears trickle down from her faded old eye 
 As she bends o'er the cradle, the crib or the bed 
 Where she finds on the pillow an infant's small head. 
 
 ^^^ouldst thou know why Babouscka abides not at home, 
 The reason why old and forlorn she must roam 
 
 1 i8i 1 
 
Through the darkest of nights and the coldest of days 
 Where the snow drifts are piled in pathless highways 
 As she seeks the track in the sky of a star, 
 And the children on earth, both the near and the far. 
 Though her wandering and searching are ever in vain, 
 Having missed the one clew to the kings and their train? 
 
 We are told that in ages of long, long ago. 
 
 Ere the years came to rob her fair cheek of its glow, 
 
 Babouscka, who lived where the forest gleamed gray, 
 
 Had been sweeping her hut on a wild, stormy day 
 
 W^hen adown the lone road she discovered a sight 
 
 That filled her with wonder and even affright. 
 
 There were camels and men, three crowned kings led the 
 
 train, 
 And straight to her hut all seemed speeding amain. 
 
 She fastened her door with bolt and with bar 
 
 And refused to be seen by those coming from far. 
 
 Now the caravan halted in front of her door. 
 
 And such knocking none ever had heard of before. 
 
 Though she heard it she seemed not to listen or heed. 
 
 While the wanderers ceased not to urge and to plead. 
 
 " We are strangers," they said, " wilt thou show us the 
 
 way 
 We have lost in the midst of the storm this wild day? 
 
 " We are seeking a wondrous, a princely Child, 
 
 And a star is our guide through the desert's bleak wild. 
 
 But all vision to-night is obscured by the snow. 
 
 So we seek for one here who the pathway might know. 
 
 Ask thy price; 'twill be paid, be it gems or red gold. 
 
 For the treasure is great which our stout bags can hold." 
 
 Forth at last came Babouscka and saw but too well 
 
 That the story seemed true they had striven to tell. 
 
 As she stood at the door she could see the three kings 
 With their gorgeous trappings and beautiful things. 
 But she thought of the darkness, the storm and the road 
 And her answer was brief. She would not go abroad. 
 She knew naught of a child and she did not care 
 
 [ 182] 
 
Thus to leave the snug home in the dim forest there, 
 Or mayhap she would go on the morrow at morn. 
 But they could not abide in a place so forlorn. 
 
 So the caravan left and Babouscka was fain 
 
 To see them depart o'er the whitening plain, 
 
 For they hastened aw^ay and passed out of her sight 
 
 Moving mountains of snow in the gathering night. 
 
 On the morn she arose with a strange, vague unrest 
 
 That forever thereafter gnawed deep in her breast. 
 
 Was it all a wild dream? No, it could not be 
 
 For too well she remembered the crowned kings three. 
 
 Then she thought of the Child whom they'd sought from 
 
 afar. 
 Led along by the rays of the wonderful star. 
 Had they found Him or not, and would she be to blame 
 H they failed when they had not told her His name? 
 Would to Heaven she had listened to pleadings so sore 
 Since she well knew the road as it led from her door. 
 From henceforth she must seek through the desert's bleak 
 
 wild 
 For the home and the name of the wonderful Child. 
 
 She has sought for long years. She is seeking Him still 
 
 With a zeal that ne'er flags and a tireless will. 
 
 So this is the cause, as we oft have been told. 
 
 Of the roaming abroad of Babouscka, the old. 
 
 Of her tenderest care for each dear little child, 
 
 Of her search for the Christ, for the holy and mild. 
 
 In each smiling- babe she bends fondly above 
 
 W^ith her eyes full of tears and her heart full of love. 
 
 THE SIRENS 
 
 I can see the white sails glisten 
 Out u])on the sunlit sea. 
 
 And my restless heart will listen 
 To the forms that beckon me. 
 
 ( 183 ] 
 
I can see the islands yonder, 
 Bounded by the purple sky, 
 
 Where the happy spirits wander 
 
 Wrapped in blissful dreams for aye. 
 
 Siren voices, yea, I hear you. 
 Heard you in the long ago. 
 
 But I will no longer fear you. 
 
 Since your mystic charms I know. 
 
 Ye do beckon in the present. 
 As ye beckoned in the past. 
 
 Though your promises are pleasant 
 Ye will but mislead at last. 
 
 False mirage it is, I know it, 
 It would dazzle for a day. 
 
 While it would ensnare the poet 
 Souls would perish by the way. 
 
 Ah, the scented air is freighted 
 With the incense of the tomb, 
 
 And the winged forms are weighted 
 With the atmosphere of doom. 
 
 Ye may beckon, ye may call me 
 
 To a fancied Paradise. 
 Your sweet voices but appal me. 
 
 With their undertone of sighs. 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE TRAVELER 
 
 BY A STAY-AT-HOME 
 
 You who scour land and sea 
 Bid me be content at home. 
 
 But content I cannot be. 
 
 All the world is bound to roam. 
 
 Life is but half lived, I trow, 
 If we linger in one spot. 
 
 [184] 
 
Vain is all this wondrous show 
 Spread for us who see it not. 
 
 He who piled the Alps and set 
 Still lakes at their craggy feet. 
 
 Built Gibralter's parapet 
 
 AVhere two oceans seem to meet ; 
 
 Sowed Ionian waters blue 
 
 With a hundred isles and more, 
 
 Where a generous Nature knew 
 How to lavish all her store ; 
 
 Made Niagara's thunders roll, 
 Dug the canons of the West, 
 
 All the world from pole to pole 
 In a robe of splendor dressed; 
 
 He who gave the hand to make. 
 And the fertile brain to plan 
 
 All the wonders that awake 
 Due respect of man for man, 
 
 From the hoary pyramid 
 
 To the white mosque's glittering pile, 
 And the artist's visions hid 
 
 In the dim cathedral aisle. 
 
 From the vine-clad hills of France 
 To the blue Rhine's castled steep, 
 
 Ivy-covered English manse, 
 Ancient cities buried deep ; 
 
 He who made that man should bind 
 Continents with ribs of steel. 
 
 Scour the universe and find 
 
 Thousand means his course to wheel 
 
 On the sea and in the air, 
 Girdle every mountain peak, 
 
 Till he hews a thoroughfare 
 Rivaling the lightning's freak ; 
 
 [ 185 ] 
 
Did He mean that we should stay 
 Shut up in one narrow place? 
 
 Thousand times I tell you nay ! 
 'Twere a libel on our race. 
 
 From the dark-skinned race whose foot 
 Knows no limit but the sun. 
 
 To the Bedouin whose route 
 With each day's anew begun. 
 
 From Judea's exiled host 
 
 To the redskin of the plain. 
 
 From the Viking of the coast 
 To the pirate of the main, 
 
 From the man of gain in quest 
 To the man in search of health. 
 
 All are tramps. A wild unrest 
 Harries poor and men of wealth. 
 
 All the world is on the move, 
 And you bid me stay at home ! 
 
 All you tell me doth but prove 
 I, like you, am made to roam. 
 
 Pilgrims we and strangers all 
 E'en on earth we may not bide. 
 
 For each mortal, great or small. 
 Sails at last across Death's tide. 
 
 A MEMORY OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 A garden kept by careful husbandman 
 Grows rich and fair with fruit and plant and vine, 
 Large beds where rows on rows of flowers shine 
 In all the splendor of the floral clan. 
 
 Old-fashioned blooms are these, gay holly-hocks, 
 Snapdragons, buttercups, and marigolds, 
 Larkspur, blue bells ; the ladies' slipper holds 
 A motley show, o'ertop])ed by four-o'clocks. 
 
 [ 186I 
 
The air is drowsy with the noontide heat, 
 Heavy with perfume of the flowers and trees, 
 Harmonious with the low-toned hum of bees 
 That revel in a world so bright and sweet. 
 
 And through it all there flits a brown-eyed child. 
 Dreamy and quiet, with no hand to touch 
 The beauteous things but given to wonder much 
 At Nature's store, unstinted, rich and wild. 
 
 That child has long to woman grown and learned 
 Much of the wealth of Nature and her ways, 
 But ah, the glamor of those summer days ! 
 How oft her heart for them in vain has yearned ! 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE TWO WHITE CHARGERS 
 
 'Mid the castles old and stately 
 Whose gray ruins still stood lately 
 Near the blue Rhine, haunted greatly 
 By the tales the poets love, 
 
 There is one that legend hoary 
 Wove about so strange a story 
 That a monument its glory 
 
 And its truth in stone must prove. 
 
 At a window still are standing 
 Two white chargers on the landing 
 Of a stairway, large, commanding 
 All men's notice as they move 
 
 Past the castle, and they wonder 
 Wliat they mean, the horses yonder, 
 As in marble sleep they ponder 
 O'er the mysteries of earth. 
 
 In that castle lived a baron, 
 But one foe he could not war on, 
 Hence it was that gloomy Charon 
 Left him lone beside his hearth. 
 
 [187] 
 
All the love so deep and tender 
 That his wounded heart could render 
 Poured he out in lavish splendor 
 Without limit, without dearth, 
 
 On one dear and lovely creature, 
 Till each cold and pallid feature, 
 As the warm glow 'gan to reach her 
 Of the jewels, seemed to shine 
 
 With a glory scarcely mortal, 
 As of angel at the portal 
 Of the city fair, immortal. 
 
 Pictured by the scribe divine. 
 
 Many a solemn mass and holy 
 Priests had chanted. Sadly, slowly 
 Was the lady laid so lowly 
 In a tomb of rare design. 
 
 Cold and silence reigned around her, 
 But the death-like trance that bound her 
 Broke. Two human ghouls had found her, 
 Tempted by her raiment fair. 
 
 Though the ponderous door soon yielded 
 To the weapons that they wielded 
 Yet the gentle dame was shielded 
 With the jewels that she bare. 
 
 As the coffin lid turned creaking 
 Like a vision, without speaking. 
 Rose the lady, and the sneaking 
 Ruffians fled in wild despair. 
 
 While a ghostly light burned dimly 
 Many a shadow beckoned grimly 
 From the niches, like unseemly 
 Phantoms crouching in the dark. 
 
 Stifling was the air and musty, 
 With the mould of ages dusty, 
 
 [i88] 
 
Iron locks were dull and rusty 
 
 With the blight of old Time's mark. 
 
 Puzzled, as from sleep awaking, 
 Looked the lady at the quaking 
 Villains as they vanished, shaking 
 Out their lantern's feeble spark. 
 
 Then her coffin walls so narrow 
 Made her shiver to the marrow 
 Suddenly, as if an arrow 
 
 Pierced her beating heart at last. 
 
 As she struggled, trembling, fainting. 
 From the narrow bed, acquainting 
 Her soul with the tomb no painting 
 Could describe the horror vast 
 
 That her bosom held that moment. 
 Never had she known what woe meant 
 Till her faltering steps so slow bent 
 Toward the beam of moonlight cast 
 
 Through the heavy door the fleeing 
 Robbers left unfastened, freeing 
 Thus the sweet and gentle being 
 Prisoned by an unkind fate. 
 
 On she tottered o'er the chiUing 
 Roadside with weak steps but willing. 
 All her inmost being thrilling. 
 Could she reach the castle gate? 
 
 While her tender feet were bleeding 
 On she staggered, all unheeding. 
 Freezing, stumbling, only feeding 
 On tiie hope to reach her mate. 
 
 In his chamber, but not sleeping, 
 Nay, a sleepless vigil keeping, 
 Full of sorrow beyond weeping 
 Lay the baron on his bed. 
 
 [ i8» ] 
 
For that day his dearest treasure, 
 Her he loved above measure. 
 Object of his pride and pleasure, 
 Was low laid among the dead. 
 
 Since the bride of months scarce numbered, 
 With no years nor sorrow cumbered 
 Now among- her fathers slumbered 
 All his peace and hope had fled. 
 
 Silence reigned, but not unbroken, 
 For it seemed as one had spoken. 
 Yea, it sounded like a token 
 
 From the cold and silent tomb. 
 
 As the baron rose and listened 
 Something in the moonlight glistened, 
 Something wraith-like, made of mist and 
 Shadow, stepped forth from the gloom. 
 
 And again the still air trembled. 
 And he dreamed not nor dissembled. 
 Ah ! how much that voice resembled 
 Hers who perished in her bloom ! 
 
 " Open, husband ! I am dying," 
 Spoke the vision gently sighing. 
 " Sure," he cried " thou must be lying. 
 For my sweet wife died to-day. 
 
 " 'Tis but some foul fiend's contriving. 
 And the demon's bent on driving 
 My sad soul, without due shriving. 
 From its tenement of clay." 
 
 " No, my husband, I was living. 
 Had you known it all your grieving 
 Had been spared, your heartless leaving. 
 Jesu, let me in I pray." 
 
 "Then indeed thou art a spirit 
 And the masses had no merit. 
 
 [ 190] 
 
Sure I thought thou wouldst inherit 
 Heaven without mass or prayer! 
 
 " Go, sweet spirit, do not haunt me ! 
 Pity, love and do not taunt me 
 With my failing. I will grant thee 
 Masses countless as thy hair." 
 
 Spoke the pallid wife with sinking 
 Hope, her soul within her shrinking, 
 '' Save me. In delay I'm thinking 
 You will slay me unaware." 
 
 " Rather than accept this fable 
 I'll believe my steeds are able 
 To come hither from their stable," 
 Said the baron, hard and cold. 
 
 Suddenly there was a prancing 
 As if iron hoofs were dancing 
 On the long stairs, strangely chancing 
 To confirm the tale she told. 
 
 Now the baron 'gan to shiver 
 
 With an ague or a fever 
 
 As the horses, with no driver, 
 
 Stood behind him large and bold. 
 
 '* Jesu ! Mary!" cried he calling 
 On high heaven, and bore his falling 
 \\ ife, who scarce survived the galling 
 Ordeal, through the castle door. 
 
 With long nursing, fond and loving, 
 She grew strong in time, yet proving 
 Faithful helpmate, and removing 
 Doubts lest earthly bliss be o'er. 
 
 But to keep his heart from growing 
 Dull to pity and for showing 
 To his children, all un-knowing. 
 Stand the horses evermore. 
 
 1 19. ] 
 
UNPREPARED 
 
 As the Magi came from far, 
 Guided by the wondrous star, 
 Did they find Jerusalem 
 For the fruit of Jesse's stem 
 Waiting with a ready heart. 
 Doors and portals wide apart? 
 
 Deeply troubled was the king 
 When he heard the marvelous thing, 
 Questioned Scribe and Pharisee 
 Where this new-born king should be, 
 Feared a rival on the throne 
 When the kingly child were grown. 
 
 Troubled Pharisee and scribe 
 At this tale of Judah's tribe, 
 Troubled all the city too 
 At this vision now come true, 
 And the wise men left that day 
 Never to return that way. 
 
 Ah, those men were truly wise 
 And they found a glad surprise. 
 Found the king that they had sought, 
 Offered gifts that they had brought, 
 Then returned with great content 
 To the farther Orient. 
 
 But the king — the deed he did 
 Such a one may God forbid! 
 And the learned in the law? 
 Never star nor child they saw ! 
 And the people, what they missed 
 Not a son of Abram wist. 
 
 Though for thousand years they heard 
 That in fleshly form the Word 
 Would descend on earth to dwell 
 
 192 
 
Sin and evil to dispel 
 
 When the vision came not one 
 
 Knew the Christ in Mary's son. 
 
 It is ever thus with some ; 
 
 They are blind when visions come, 
 
 Shouting" with averted face, 
 
 " We can see of God no trace ! " 
 
 While the Simeons gladly cry, 
 
 " Glory be to God come nigh ! " 
 
 A QUESTION OF W^EATHER 
 
 When the summer zephyrs blow 
 Then my heart would wooing go 
 With the muses in the dim 
 Aisles of woodland dark and grim, 
 When the wayside flowers bloom 
 Then for man I find no room. 
 When the blithe birds carol sweet 
 Human tongue I find unmeet. 
 I would wander all alone 
 Where Dame Nature has her throne, 
 And the wide world half so dear 
 As her presence holds no peer. 
 But when winter winds howl shrill 
 Then the human heart grows chill. 
 And I long for human tone 
 By the fireside alone ! 
 
 LITITZ 
 
 A RETROSPECT AND A PROPHECY 
 
 A full century has departed and a half has nearly flown 
 Since the old Moravian fathers called this settlement their 
 own. 
 Well they builded (did they know it?) when they plan- 
 ned the little town, 
 
 [ 193 ] 
 
For their work was crowned with blessing and a well- 
 deserved renown. 
 
 Strong and massive were the dwellings which they raised 
 
 — their monument — 
 Still they're standing, time defying, show no blemish, 
 break nor rent ; 
 For they builded for their children, and the latest heir 
 
 to-day 
 Points with pride to work outlasting Time's worst en- 
 gines of decay. 
 
 Where those structures progress 1)anished from the pre- 
 sence of their peers 
 'Twas a costly undertaking and the passage of the years 
 Yet shall prove if size and beauty plain old vigor can 
 
 replace 
 In the human habitation as the building of a race. 
 
 In providing for the body they not only did their part 
 But they builded for the spirit, for the intellect and heart. 
 And the hand of Time still lingers with a gentle touch 
 
 and kind 
 Where the spruce and linden shelter what the fathers 
 once designed. 
 
 From this spot went forth by thousands north and south 
 
 and east and west. 
 Sons and daughters trained and fitted with the highest 
 and the best. 
 And ye younger generations, smile not if the place was 
 
 small. 
 For ye ken how little Nazareth once contained the Lord 
 of all. 
 
 From this spot went forth evangels to the islands of the 
 
 sea. 
 To the Indian in the forest, to the Negro, bond and free ; 
 Far beyond the Arctic Circle, to Mosquito's fevered 
 
 coast 
 Did they take the faith they valued to earth's outcast, 
 lone and lost. 
 
 [ 194 ] 
 
We are growing big and bigger; let us cease ere we out- 
 grow 
 What of old the fathers cherished lest a fast age call us 
 slow, 
 For the simple life is better and the thought of higher 
 
 things 
 Than the scramble after dollars and the dearth of soul 
 it brings. 
 
 Yet they gave to contemplation but .a fraction of their 
 
 days, 
 While in all they wrought they freely gave their Maker 
 proper praise. 
 E'en in temporal things they prospered and the early 
 
 annals tell 
 How the fame of their inventions reached the greater 
 world as well. 
 
 Since the present time is ever quite the best that men have 
 
 known, 
 Each succeeding age can only laud achievements of its 
 own. 
 Simple though we count the fathers yet they were not 
 
 all inclined 
 To leave solely to their children all the fruits of hand 
 and mind. 
 
 We do well the paths to follow which they blazed. Their 
 
 works we know. 
 Our achievements are conjecture, if they make for weal 
 or woe. 
 Youth of counsel is impatient, yet 'tis well to pause 
 
 and think ; 
 At each new, untried endeavor we should tremble on 
 the brink. 
 
 Were they saints, the buried fathers? rVh, I doubt it! 
 
 History's page 
 Shows the weakness of the races, shows the faults of every 
 
 age. 
 
 [ 195 ] 
 
If we shunned their costly blunders, on their wisdom 
 
 still improved 
 Then our g'randsons must acknowdedge that we truly 
 
 lived and moved. 
 
 Ours an ag"e of ceaseless progress, knowiqg neither rest 
 
 nor peace, 
 And with each new undertaking problems grow and pains 
 increase. 
 As the stately piles rise upward and their chimneys 
 
 cleave the sky 
 Do our inner aspirations grow as well and climb as 
 high ? 
 
 Let us lay a strong foundation, nor be lightly satisfied 
 To raise monuments of folly which the future shall deride. 
 Let the coming generations, when a city we've become. 
 Always hear the church bells ringing far above the 
 factories' hum. 
 
 Let the church and schoolhouse ever with the factory 
 
 keep in line, 
 Lest a social retrogression cause industrial decline. 
 When the blood and sweat of childhood fatten money- 
 king and drone 
 It were well that misnamed Progress abdicated crown 
 and throne. 
 
 If we build on human justice, on the brotherhood of man. 
 We will fit into the pattern of God's everlasting plan ; 
 And our work shall be enduring as the fathers' was of 
 
 old. 
 And the fame of our achievements to posterity be told. 
 — Historical and Pictorial Lititz, 19C5. Express Printing Co. 
 
 LATE PURPLE ASTERS 
 
 They grew along the woodland's edge 
 Where Nature built a tangled hedge, 
 
 [ 196 ] 
 
Blackberries, milkweed, tendrils fine 
 
 Of many a creeping plant and vine, 
 
 Then farther on I saw them grow 
 
 Where chestnut trees stood in a row, 
 
 At last a perfect bed I found 
 
 Upon a piece of rising ground 
 
 Where wandering sunbeams met no bar 
 
 Of interlacing woodland trees. 
 
 Nor did they fail to catch each breeze, 
 
 Spice-laden wanderer from afar. 
 
 From golden rod and tufts of fern. 
 Snapdragons too aside I turn. 
 The lovely asters' purple store 
 Has caught my eye. I see no more. 
 My eager haste is not controlled 
 Until my hands no more can hold. 
 And then they go to light the gloom 
 And brighten up the darkened room, 
 With welcome breath of wildwood sweet 
 Of one whom illness keeps confined 
 From all the haunts of Nature kind 
 And footprints of her magic feet. 
 
 A VISION 
 
 There's an image haunts my fancy 
 W^ith that mystic necromacy 
 
 Bard nor prophet can explain. 
 'Tis a little blue-eyed maiden 
 Wreathed with smiles, with flowers laden, 
 
 Flitting lightly through my brain. 
 
 With the birds she hailed the morning, 
 All the charms of Morpheus scorning. 
 
 Chasing golden butterflies. 
 With the birds she sang at even, 
 Sending grateful prayers to hea\en 
 
 In harmonious lullabies. 
 
 \ >9- ] 
 
Mother thought her face more sunny 
 And her lips more full of honey 
 
 Than the butterflies' and bees', 
 Mother thought her voice was sweeter 
 Than the birds', her feet were fleeter 
 
 Even than the dancing breeze. 
 
 But the shadows long have darkened 
 Blue eyes, for the ears have hearkened 
 
 Harsher sounds than song of bird, 
 And the dancing feet are weary 
 Of the road so long and dreary 
 
 Where they stumbled, slipped and erred. 
 
 Would you ask me of the vision, 
 Image of a land Elysian, 
 
 Of the far-off childish days? 
 'Tis myself I see before me. 
 And a longing oft comes o'er me 
 
 For the old familiar ways. 
 
 Gone the glamor, gone the glory 
 Of life's wondrous fairy story. 
 
 Still its echo reappears. 
 But alas for those who bear not 
 With them childhood's scenes and hear not 
 
 Childhood's voices in their ears ! 
 
 THE BROOK 
 
 The brook came down from the mountain side 
 And sought the ocean so far and wide. 
 All hindrances it cast aside 
 As on its way it hastened. 
 
 There were rocks and boulders in its path. 
 But it tumbled o'er them in righteous wrath, 
 And gave them all a thorough bath 
 Before it was through with them. 
 
 [198] 
 
There were flowers and grasses along the way, 
 But neither for them would it stop or stay, 
 It rested neither by night nor day. 
 There was no time to be wasted. 
 
 Children played in its waters cool, 
 Fish disported in eddy and pool, 
 As it frolicked on without chart or rule, 
 And none asked where it was going. 
 
 The trees contested every foot 
 But it found a way around the root. 
 No forest monarch so mighty but 
 The brook could undermine it. 
 
 Barns, houses and fences tried in vain 
 To hem its course though they were fain. 
 It was on its way to the distant main 
 And trifles could not detain it. 
 
 Once too it came to a city gate. 
 Was ever an unkinder fate? 
 Would it reach the ocean at this rate? 
 It seemed a thing unlikely. 
 
 At last it was lost in a sandy dune 
 Its chatter drowned in a choking swoon. 
 Sure it would die in the glare of noon. 
 And that would be the end on 't. 
 
 But out it crept and crawled once more, 
 And its trials and troubles all were o'er, 
 For the great calm ocean lay before 
 And its journey now was ended. 
 
 Strive on, oh Spirit, never fear ! 
 Though far it seems, the goal is near. 
 Each hindrance faced will disappear, 
 And he who strives o'ercometh. 
 
 199 
 
THE SAINTED DEAD 
 
 In azure depths of yonder sky 
 There dwell the blessed dead, 
 
 In robes of white they walk for aye, 
 The golden streets they tread. 
 
 Ah, could we lift the sapphire vail 
 
 That now and then divides 
 Our fainting spirits would not quail 
 
 To see them leave our sides. 
 
 At set of sun the gates ajar 
 
 One golden moment seem, 
 We see them as we stand afar. 
 
 Fair phantoms of a dream. 
 
 And when the dawn with rosy glow 
 O'erspreads the blushing East 
 
 We somehow feel the zephyrs blow 
 From regions of the blest. 
 
 Again we stand when solemn Night 
 Hangs out her pall of peace, 
 
 The sombre depths with stars alight. 
 And day's loud noises cease. 
 
 While brilliant stars like windows shine, 
 And seem to look right hrough 
 
 Into those mansions all divine 
 Barred to our human view. 
 
 Then turn we to the common task. 
 
 The work of yesterday. 
 For visions only we may ask, 
 
 For glimpses only pray. 
 
 Like lost Perii we stand without 
 
 The gates of Paradise 
 Though spirit-worlds are all about 
 
 Our blinded, earthly eyes. 
 
 [ 200 ] 
 
Not only through the golden bars 
 
 That sunsets fair unfold, 
 Not only through the calm bright stars 
 
 May we their forms behold, 
 
 The comrades of our quiet hours 
 
 The blessed dead we find, 
 They keep at bay the evil powers 
 
 That threaten heart and mind. 
 
 The echo of their pleasant talk, 
 The memory of their deeds. 
 
 Still linger with us as we walk, 
 A solace in our needs. 
 
 Ah yes, they never cease to speak. 
 Though scarcely understood. 
 
 We need not climb the mountain peak 
 To reach them, if we would. 
 
 But should the hosts of sin o'ertake 
 
 Our spirits — not till then — 
 They sadly vanish and we wake 
 
 To solitude and pain. 
 
 THE CROWN OF THE YEAR 
 
 Fair is Springtime's budding beauty 
 
 Summer's brilliant reign is dear, 
 But for Nature's crowning glory 
 
 Seek the Autumn of the year. 
 There's a glamor in the woodland, 
 
 There's a halo on the hills, 
 And a spell of sweet enchantment 
 
 All the air Avith rapture fills. 
 
 May can weave a mesh of emerald, 
 June is lavish wtih her flowers, 
 
 But October is a master 
 
 That can mock at all their powers, 
 
 [201 1 
 
And his colors float triumphant, 
 Like the banners of a king, 
 
 That from every wayside tree-top 
 In the lambent air do swing:. 
 
 ^te- 
 
 There is wealth of royal scarlet, 
 
 There is little dearth of gold, 
 And a glitter that no Solomon 
 
 E'er conceived in days of old. 
 Would you see the mighty pageant. 
 
 Would you view the grand array 
 You must hie you to the forest 
 
 On a glorious Autumn day. 
 
 Do you see the purple mountains 
 
 How like sentinels they stand 
 In their gold lace and their trappings 
 
 Guarding all the pleasant land? 
 Autumn too can boast her flowers 
 
 Of the woodland, garden, field. 
 And the corn-field and the orchard 
 
 XAHiat a bounteous store they yield ! 
 
 Not a month of all the dozen 
 
 With October can compare, 
 He must bear the crown of beauty. 
 
 He's the fairest of the fair. 
 If inclined to doubt my story 
 
 Go and hie you to the hills 
 Till the witchery of his presence 
 
 All your inmost being thrills. 
 
 Would you see the splendid picture, 
 
 Go to-day. It will not last. 
 Even now the show is passing. 
 
 Let your memory hold it fast. 
 And when Winter's snow-white mantel 
 
 Hides the wreck decay hath wrought 
 Let the spell of gay October 
 
 Brighten e'en your saddest thought. 
 
 [ 202 ] 
 
REGRET 
 
 There is never a sound of laughter, nor ever a sound of 
 
 tears 
 Throudiout the awful silence of the so itary years. 
 I could bear passion or anger, the words that cut and try. 
 But not the awful stillness from which I cannot fiy. 
 
 I had spoken oh, so gently had I known that we must part 
 And I must bear in my bosom forever this aching 
 
 heart. . , 
 
 I'd bear the worst injustice nor murmur nor rebel 
 To o-et rid of a guilty conscience that suffers the pangs ot 
 
 hell. 
 
 Ah no she was not faultless, but I can now forget 
 The faults of the beloved while my own are with me yet. 
 The errors of a lifetime before grim Death will pale. 
 And 'tis only the living sinners that tremble and shrink 
 and quail. 
 
 Couldst thou return, beloved, I would blot out all the past 
 And we would love each other with a love that aye would 
 
 last 
 But for me ihere is no answer through all the silent years 
 S^ve an echo of reproaches and a burden of unshed tears. 
 
 THE LAND OF ROMANCE 
 
 Once there gleamed a land enchanted 
 
 Tore my fancy. I was haunted 
 
 By a vision bright and golden. 
 
 Yet my eyes were strangely holden. 
 
 Never could I see it clearly, 
 
 Never could I grasp it nearly. 
 
 As I grew the dream receded, 
 
 All my inmost being needed 
 
 Was contained within that vision, 
 
 Walls of pearl and fields Elysian. 
 
 Then there came an end to dreaming, 
 
 [ 203 1 
 
And my life had all the seeming 
 
 Of a well deprived of water, 
 
 Of a beast prepared for slaughter. 
 
 But I still lived on and living 
 
 Soon I found life not all grieving. 
 
 Then the Lord gave back my vision, 
 
 But, as if in mild derision, 
 
 It had changed its place. Behind me 
 
 Now it stood. It did not blind me 
 
 As of yore. I see it clearly, 
 
 And I love it yet more dearly. 
 
 A JUNE SONG 
 
 Under the trees with birds and flowers 
 Passing away the gladsome hours. 
 Away with study and work and care ! 
 They are the food that feeds despair. 
 
 Under the trees where shadows play 
 Bopeep with sunbeams all the day. 
 Never a thought of hateful things. 
 Only the whirr of gauzy wings. 
 
 Under the trees where songs are heard. 
 Chirp and twitter and trill of bird, 
 Never a sound of trade's annoy. 
 Only the myriad sounds of joy. 
 
 Under the trees I lie and sleep 
 Out in the world the toilers weep. 
 In dust and grime, in pain and woe 
 Children of Nature do not know. 
 
 Under the trees I sit and dream. 
 The forms of men but phantoms seem. 
 A truce with love, ambition, gain ; 
 They only fetter, heart and brain. 
 
 204 
 
Under the trees ah, what care I 
 
 For the things for which men strive and die. 
 
 Under the trees no blood is spilt 
 
 To win brief fame or cover guilt. 
 
 Under the trees I have no lack. 
 
 Ye woo in vain. I come not back, 
 
 For life hath charms I may not tell 
 
 Where sap flows deep and sweet buds swell. 
 
 Under the trees full deep I drink 
 From Nature's spring; upon the brink 
 Of men-hewn cisterns I have known 
 A quenchless thirst. Let me alone! 
 
 AFTER CHRISTMAS 
 
 The Christmas bells have ceased to ring, 
 
 The Yule-tide fires are out, 
 No more the children laugh and sing, 
 
 And silence reigns about. 
 On the last guest we close the door. 
 
 The gifts are laid aside. 
 The feasting and the games are o'er. 
 
 Farewell, sweet Christmas-tide ! 
 
 Now comes the sober second thought, 
 
 And conscience-struck we ask, 
 Were all the gifts we should have bought 
 
 Bestowed? Was it a task. 
 Or was there love behind the deed? 
 
 And of the gifts we got 
 How many fill a real need 
 
 Or find a vacant spot? 
 
 Why wait until the Christmas chimes 
 
 Remind us we should give? 
 There are no seasons and no times 
 
 \Mien friends have ceased to live. 
 
 [ 205 ] 
 
Why should the Christmas spirit dwell 
 
 In closets all the year 
 Until the annual carols tell 
 
 That Christmas time is here? 
 
 What does it mean, our joyous feast, 
 
 But that a Child was born. 
 His bed a manger by a beast 
 
 Forsaken and forlorn? 
 And what the lesson this should teach ? 
 
 Sure every child can guess. 
 He came the humble poor to reach, 
 
 And we dare do no less. 
 
 Not when the yearly bells are rung, 
 
 The yearly songs resound, 
 But we should go His poor among 
 
 Through the whole year around. 
 He went not on a single day 
 
 To heal the sick and take 
 The Word of Life but on the way 
 
 He died for their dear sake. 
 
 Day in day out the Savior went, 
 
 The toilsome path He trod, 
 And in His foot-steps we are sent 
 
 To smooth the road to God. 
 Let hearts and purses feel the touch 
 
 Of need at every turn. 
 Nor stint our offerings overmuch 
 
 When Christmas tapers burn. 
 
 ELAINE, THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER 
 
 The round red moon rose over the hill. 
 The eve was calm and cool and still 
 When soft she stepped across the sill, 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter. 
 
 She dared not go abroad by day, 
 The dogs barked at her by the way, 
 
 r 206 1 
 
The boys threw stones and all would say, 
 " Oh fie, the witch's daughter! " 
 
 Since that dark day, she scarce knew when, 
 Her mother came from prison pen 
 To die she shunned the haunts of men, 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter. 
 
 Yet she was fair and shy and sweet, 
 Her form was slender, supple, neat, 
 Nor was the hunted hare more fleet 
 Than w^as the witch's daug^hter. 
 
 She glided by the woodland dark. 
 She shivered at the distant bark 
 Of watch dogs or the shadows stark, 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter. 
 
 When out upon the road she came 
 Fresh terror shook her slender frame 
 At sound of her own hated name, 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter. 
 
 Beside her stood the farmer's son 
 At whose behest the deed was done 
 That made her orphaned, sad and lone, 
 Elaine, the Avitch's daughter. 
 
 H^ad her time too noAv come to die? 
 She turned with hasty step to fly. 
 " Elaine, you shall not pass me by. 
 You are no witch's daughter! " 
 
 He laid his hand upon her arm. 
 *' Elaine, I'd give my father's farm 
 To show you that I mean no harm 
 Unto your mother's daughter." 
 
 She raised her shy glance to his face 
 And read there not a single trace 
 Of aught but honor and manly grace, 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter. 
 
 [ 207 ] 
 
The blue eyes looked into the brown 
 Till the long lashes swept adown 
 The cheeks from which the blood had flown. 
 Beware, oh witch's daughter! 
 
 ''And will you be my wife?" he said. 
 She sadly shook her little head. 
 "Ah no," she said. " How dare you wed 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter?" 
 
 " Elaine," said he. He said, " Elaine, 
 O, let me wipe that awful stain 
 From our name, nor plead in vain. 
 You are no witch's daughter ! " 
 
 " Your father, how can he endure 
 His son should wed a maiden poor? 
 He drove my mother from his door. 
 And I'm Elaine, her daughter!" 
 
 " My father till the day he dies 
 Will rue the deed, and oft he cries 
 To God for pardon, groans and sighs 
 In pity for that daughter. 
 
 " If you in mercy will forgive 
 He'll make amends the while you live. 
 And to his heart and home receive 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter." 
 
 The long lash swept the rose-leaf cheek. 
 Her tears fell fast, she could not speak, 
 She staggered, suddenly grown weak, 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter. 
 
 The young man caught her to his breast. 
 Like hunted deer she lay at rest. 
 Or like a bird within its nest, 
 Elaine, the witch's daughter. 
 
 [208 1 
 
And as she walked a happy bride, 
 Her stalwart husband by her side, 
 No more the village curs decried 
 Elaine, the farmer's daughter. 
 
 THE HAUNTS OF THE MUSE 
 
 THE BARD 
 
 I sought her in my quiet moods 
 
 When no one else was nigh, 
 Deep in the woodland solitudes, 
 
 And 'neath the midnight sky. 
 
 I sought her in the twilight dim, 
 
 I sought her face at dawn. 
 And where the feathered songsters hymn 
 
 Their praises on the lawn. 
 
 I sought her 'mid the breakers' roar 
 And 'mid the lightning's glare. 
 
 I found no footprints on the shore 
 In spite of all my care. 
 
 But in the busy haunts of men 
 
 I thought, she cannot be. 
 In battle-field and prison pen 
 
 No man her form may see. 
 
 But lo ! upon the crowded street 
 
 I marked her garments' trail. 
 Where human hearts the loudest beat 
 
 I bade the goddess hail. 
 
 The slave who saw that presence pass 
 
 Of liberty would dream, 
 And prisoners smelled the meadow grass 
 
 And heard the forest stream. 
 
 209 
 
The burdened saw a sure release, 
 
 The sorrowing- took cheer, 
 The guilty dreamed of heavenly peace. 
 
 And pardon now and here. 
 
 And so no more the Muse I seek 
 
 In solitary glade, 
 In Nature's haunts remote and bleak 
 
 No more I seek the Maid. 
 
 I find her where the battle's hot 
 
 And wild the conflict's din. 
 But where the human foot treads not 
 
 She nevermore has been. 
 
 THE MUSE 
 
 'Twas the tragic muse, my friend, 
 That was found on crowded mart. 
 
 Thither ne'er my steps I bend. 
 In such scenes I have no part. 
 
 If my presence thou wouldst seek 
 Close thy mind to all beside. 
 
 Thy devotion was but weak, 
 
 From thy prayers I turned aside. 
 
 I'm enthroned in solitude 
 
 And my atmosphere is peace. 
 
 Thou must come in tranquil mood. 
 From the world must seek release. 
 
 Thy experience is disproved 
 
 By the poets of all time, 
 Poets who have lived and loved 
 
 In my solitude sublime. 
 
 Thou art but a callow youth, 
 
 Frightened by the cataract's roar 
 
 2IO ] 
 
Or thou wouldst have seen, forsooth, 
 Where my footsteps fled before ! 
 
 Flee the lif^ht of garish day, 
 
 Leave the v^^ell-tried haunts of men, 
 And I will not say thee nay 
 
 Shouldst thou seek my face again. 
 
 TOO LOW 
 
 We swarm about this great round earth like bees around 
 
 a hive, 
 We only differ from the clods in that we are alive. 
 The petty things of every day fill all our thought and time. 
 We have no time to think of God, no wish to be sublime. 
 
 Like beasts we only live to eat, to sleep and to destroy. 
 Like children we embrace or spurn this or the other toy, 
 Like butterflies within the sun we sport our little day, 
 Like thistle-down upon the wind our lives are blown 
 away. 
 
 Aleanwhile the everlasting hills encompass. us around, 
 And blessings countless as the sands on every hand are 
 
 found, 
 The heavens of the glory tell of God who reigns above, 
 And every blade of grass proclaims the truth that He is 
 
 love. 
 
 Our lives He would expand and fill as rains the rivulet, 
 For only fragile human hands bars to His power can set. 
 He'd give us wings to fly as doves, to creep we are con- 
 tent. 
 We shut the door when angels bright as visitants are sent. 
 
 Some day our little lives will shrink before the great 
 
 white throne 
 And then o'er all our pettiness we'll make a useless moan. 
 
 [211] 
 
Some day the scales will leave our eyes and then, alas! 
 
 and then 
 We'll wish instead of beasts or fools we'd lived our lives 
 
 like men. 
 
 TO C. K. B. 
 
 ON READING HIS POEMS 
 
 Echoing- from the Golden Gate 
 Came a voice that sang of fate, 
 And all themes that soon or late 
 Flit through poet's brain. 
 
 Sweet as voice of woodland bird 
 E'er at dawn or twilight heard, 
 Sweeter far since it was stirred 
 By man's joy and pain. 
 
 There's a fragrance in thy song 
 Such as south winds bring along 
 From where spicy islands throng 
 Far in sunlit seas. 
 
 There's a color in thy verse, 
 Like that artists might rehearse, 
 Taught by Nature, the fond nurse, 
 Once on bended knees. 
 
 There's a meaning in thy speech 
 Many strive in vain to reach. 
 And but fullest life can teach 
 Open eyes and ears. 
 
 Hast thou caught that glow intense 
 From those skies kind Providence 
 Fashioned for a poet's lense? 
 Sure, it so appears. 
 
 Hath the ocean lent thee tone 
 
 Where her white-capped billows moan 
 
 [212] 
 
On the golden sands upon 
 California's strand? 
 
 Yea, the purple peaks have lent 
 Thee their force. The vigor pent 
 In primeval forests went 
 Forth into thy hand. 
 
 And there lacketh not the light 
 Of the hearth-fire burning bright, 
 Banishing the gloom that might 
 Shroud the poet's rhyme, 
 
 Nor the buoyant faith that bears 
 Winged souls all unawares 
 Through life's labyrinth of snares 
 To the bounds of time. 
 
 Thanks, oh poet of the West, 
 Thou hast given of thy best. 
 May thy future tasks be blest 
 In that sunny clime. 
 
 SOUL, WHY MOURNEST THOU THY YOUTH? 
 
 Soul, why mournest thou thy youth 
 As it held all good in truth? 
 Sure no sweeter joys can be 
 Than the future holds for thee. 
 Forward is the march of Time, 
 Tarrying by the way is crime. 
 Looking back means standing still, 
 Nerveless hand and feeble will. 
 Folded wings and slumbering brain 
 That to nothing can attain. 
 What is past has served its day, 
 Corpses litter up the way, 
 Memories are but meagre fare 
 For the souls that do and dare. 
 
 [ 213 ] 
 
He who lingers with the Past 
 Will but find himself at last 
 Left behind by those that rise 
 To a beckoning Paradise. 
 
 REJOICE 
 
 The meadows are gemmed with blue and gold 
 Where knee-deep stand the cows. 
 
 They know no care, they ne'er grow old, 
 They make and break no vows. 
 
 The birds are swinging on the trees 
 With hearts as light as a feather; 
 
 They fear no tempest in the breeze, 
 They mind not wind and weather. 
 
 The bees are of the toiling kind 
 
 And yet they are content. 
 Their toiling millions love to grind, 
 
 Nor are by factions rent. 
 
 The butterfly flits gaily dight 
 
 Through pastures bright and sunny; 
 
 He marketh not Time's rapid flight, 
 Nor lays up stores of honey. 
 
 'Tis only man, the foolish elf, 
 
 That will not cease to grieve ; 
 He stores up sorrows on his shelf 
 
 Which he is loth to leave. 
 
 Full many a lesson he could learn 
 From creatures 'neath his scorning. 
 
 Who scarce would envy in their turn 
 A soul that walks in mourning. 
 
 Look up, my soul, and fear not joy. 
 
 Sweet messenger divine! 
 Fly all the ills which thee annoy, ^ 
 
 Since earth and heaven are thine. 
 
 [214] 
 
SUSPICION 
 
 Once my lord I loved him well, 
 
 Years and years we loved each other, 
 
 But a shadow came between. 
 And a voice I could not smother. 
 
 And that shadow never left, 
 Left the side of my beloved, 
 
 Walked and eat and slept with him, 
 For without it he ne'er moved. 
 
 When he spoke his voice was kind 
 As of old and quite as tender, 
 
 But I could not answer him 
 
 With love's ancient self-surrender. 
 
 When a kiss upon my lip 
 As of old he fondly planted 
 
 I could feel the icy breath 
 
 Of the shadow that him haunted. 
 
 So that shadow haunted me, 
 
 Even when at night I slumbered ; 
 
 I could feel its ghostly eyes 
 
 W^hen I wakened times unnumbered. 
 
 Yea, it filled the whole wide house 
 With the terror of its presence, 
 
 All things yielded to the thing 
 ^^^ith a tacit acquiescence. 
 
 Then I broke the spell and fled 
 From the baleful thing forever, 
 
 But my husband is there yet, 
 
 And the shadow leaves him never. 
 
 A\^ould you know the hated name 
 Of that shadow? 'Tis Suspicion! 
 
 And the wreckage of a home 
 Was the phantom's deadly mission. 
 
 [2151 
 
NATURE'S CALL 
 
 There are voices that call me from afar, 
 There are shadowy hands that beckon me, 
 
 But I am bound by the things that are. 
 
 And the things that I yearn for may not be. 
 
 I am called by the voice of field and wood, 
 
 Of flower and bird and stream and sky. 
 By others they are but half understood. 
 But I know their inarticulate cry. 
 
 The dews of the woodland are on my brow. 
 The breath of the woodland is in the breeze, 
 
 And a hundred voices are calling now 
 
 From the buzzing bees to the waving trees. 
 
 There is freedom and joy and great content 
 Somewhere, I know, if I could but find. 
 
 I am kept in chains and in banishment, 
 I am old and sick, I am lame and blind. 
 
 The noise of the world hath dulled mine ear, 
 The glare of the world hath dimmed my sight, 
 
 I am ruled by the things I hate and fear, 
 I am haunted by visions of the night. 
 
 Ah, spirits bright of the wood and the stream, 
 Ye haunt my spirit by night and by day, 
 
 Ye are but the phantoms of a dream. 
 
 Though it break my heart 1 must say you nay. 
 
 Ah, crested waves, ye must break in vain 
 Upon the long, low line of the shore. 
 
 For I may not look on your forms again 
 Nor listen to you as in days of yore. 
 
 Ye mountains uplift your snow crowned heads 
 All vainly to kiss the stars and the sun. 
 
 I know not what yonder sweet heaven sheds 
 Of its rainbow light your peaks upon. 
 
 [216] 
 
And footprints of her magic feet. 
 All the day do I hear low voices call, 
 
 And beckoning hands all the night I see, 
 But I may not go till the dead leaves fall 
 
 And my body and spirit parted be. 
 
 OLD LETTERS 
 
 It was only a box of letters 
 
 But it carried me back through the years 
 To the dreamy days of girlhood 
 
 Seen through a mist of tears. 
 
 I found old dreams that were shattered, 
 Old hopes that were captive led. 
 
 And I listened to the laughter 
 Of comrades long since dead. 
 
 I dug up lost ambitions 
 
 And plans that had stood no test, 
 Old tasks once more went over 
 
 With the oldtime youthful zest. 
 
 There were kindly words of counsel 
 From wiser heads than mine, 
 
 There were foolish tales and sallies, 
 Of unripe years the sign, 
 
 A wedding invitation, 
 
 A picture, a lock of hair, 
 A bit of silk or a draAving 
 
 Preserved with tenderest care. 
 
 Why waste time with old letters? 
 
 Life is too short you say, 
 To linger along the wayside 
 
 With the things of yesterday. 
 
 Too short for fond remembrance? 
 
 Too short for the dreams of the past? 
 Alas for the barren existence 
 
 That hurries on so fast ! 
 
 [217] 
 
For the heart grows hard and bitter 
 
 That finds no time for tears, 
 And the sweetest things are often 
 
 Found buried within past years. 
 
 So I fingered the letters fondly 
 
 And put them back once more. 
 For I felt refreshed in spirit, 
 
 As a plant when the rain is o'er. 
 
 Linden Hall Echo, November, 1907 
 THE ANSWER 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 
 
 The little rose which thou hadst sent 
 Plucked by thy hand its life has spent. 
 It scarce survived the sunset's breath. 
 Homesickness gave it early death. 
 And now its soul goes out from me 
 And as a song returns to thee. 
 
 EVENING CLOUDS 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 
 
 Clouds I see at eventide 
 
 In the purest lustre glow; 
 
 Clouds that erst so dark did grow 
 
 Are consumed in floods of light. 
 
 My prophetic heart doth say: 
 
 "When the sun sinks at the close 
 
 Of your life in late repose 
 
 Your soul's shadows will be bright. 
 
 218] 
 
DESTINY 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF UHLANd) 
 
 Yea, Destiny, I comprehend. 
 My happiness is not of earth, 
 It blooms but in the poet's dream, 
 Thou sendest sorrows manifold 
 And givest for each woe a song. 
 
 I WANT MY MOTHER 
 
 ]My mother was so cold last night ! 
 
 (I'm looking for my mother!) 
 You see they dressed her all in white. 
 
 I'm looking for my mother!) 
 They put her in a narrow bed 
 With flowers at the feet and head 
 Because, they told me, she was dead. 
 
 (O, say, that's not. my mother!) 
 
 They'll put her in the ground some day, 
 
 (I'm looking for my mother!) 
 And lay her in the dark away, 
 
 (I'm looking for my mother!) 
 And on the top they'll put a stone 
 To tell the people where she's gone, 
 And I am left here all alone! 
 (O say, I want my mother!) 
 
 My papa says that is not so, 
 
 (I'm looking for my mother!) 
 I guess my papa ought to know! 
 
 (I'm looking for my mother!) 
 He says she went beyond the skies 
 To live with God in Paradise, 
 And through the stars her angel eyes 
 Can see me, sweet my mother. 
 
 O, mother dear, why can't I come 
 (O dear, I want my mother!) 
 
 And live with you in Jesus' home? 
 (O dear, I want my mother!) 
 
 [219] 
 
Some night we'll climb a moonbeam stair 
 And go to met you over there, 
 Papa and I. No one will care ! 
 We'll go and find my mother! 
 
 A PARABLE 
 
 I promised fair when I was young, 
 I might have been a stately tree. 
 
 The life-sap from my heart was wrung 
 To cramp my limbs so lithe and free. 
 
 One said that I would grow too tall 
 
 And pierce the clouds, — a foolish thing !- 
 
 Against my nature, therefore all 
 
 Care must be spent my height to bring 
 
 Within the bounds prescribed by law 
 And custom lest the other trees 
 
 Should envious be or stand in awe 
 Of one whom higher than they please 
 
 Need never rise, and so they said 
 
 The higher limbs should all be pruned. 
 
 One said I should no wider spread 
 
 Lest nearer trees my limbs might wound. 
 
 They trimmed and pruned me all around. 
 According to their varied taste. 
 
 Until I took so little ground 
 
 A flower pot I might have graced. 
 
 And then they scorned the puny growth 
 And wondered why I bore no fruit. 
 
 But if I had all men were loath 
 
 To see me bear what none would suit. 
 
 I am a dwarfed and crippled thing 
 With little life and little strength. 
 
 'Tis only fit that men should fling 
 My body in the fire at length. 
 
 [ 220 1 
 
I promised well when I was young, 
 I might have grown a stately tree 
 
 If meddling hands aside I'd flung 
 
 And spread my branches fair and free. 
 
 I might have pierced the opal cloud 
 
 And risen to the heavens blue, 
 Beneath me left the mists that shroud 
 
 The trees that in the lowlands grew, 
 
 I might have floated in the sun 
 
 And held communion with the stars, 
 
 While centuries' march unheeded spun 
 And left upon my trunk its scars, 
 
 I might have stood a monument 
 
 Of majesty and power divine 
 Until the lightning's dart had rent 
 
 My heart and bid my life decline. 
 
 O, foolish tree! why did I bend 
 
 To every knife that pruned and trimmed? 
 
 O, foolish trees, I warn you, lend 
 No ear to those who never climbed. 
 
 But grow to heaven as God wills. 
 For each must live his separate life, 
 
 He only stunts the soul and kills 
 
 Who wields too much the pruning knife ! 
 
 — February, 190 a 
 
 THE VEILED STATUE AT SAIS 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF SCHILLER) 
 
 A youth in whom the love of wisdom burned 
 And to Egyptian Sais brought the priestly 
 And mystic learning to acquire, having 
 Passed many a degree with ready wit. 
 Felt himself no less driven by the passion 
 Of investigation. The hierophant 
 Could scarce appease the impatient aspirer. 
 
 f 221 1 
 
"What have I if I have not all?" the stripling 
 Questioned. " Do you reckon by more and less? 
 Is your truth, like the joy the sense affords, 
 But a sum which one can possess in larger, 
 Smaller portions and yet always possess? 
 Is it not one undivided unity? 
 Take but one tone out of a melody, 
 Take a single color out of the rainbow 
 And all that may remain is naught to you 
 As long as the beautiful whole is wanting. 
 
 The while they thus conversed they stood within 
 
 The bounds of a rotunda's solitude 
 
 Where a veiled figure of colossal stature 
 
 The youth's attention drew. Filled with amazement 
 
 He looked upon his guide and said : " What is't 
 
 That seeks to hide itself behind this vail?" 
 
 "The Truth," the answer came. — "What?" cried the for 
 
 mer, 
 'Tis Truth alone I seek and yet this very 
 Thing it is that you strive to hide from me?" 
 
 " That you may with the Deity decide," 
 
 Returned the hierophant. " No mortal man. 
 
 Says she, shall lift this vail until I raise it. 
 
 And who with guilty hand unconsecrate 
 
 The sacred vail shall raise before that time, 
 
 He, s2Lys the Deity"— "Well?"— "He shall see truth." 
 
 "A curious oracle ! So you yourself 
 
 H^ave never yet made the attempt to raise it?" 
 
 " I ? No, indeed ! And never yet thereto 
 
 Was tempted." — " That I cannot grasp. If only 
 
 " This thin partition me from truth divided " — 
 
 "And a commandment," interposed his guide, 
 
 " More weighty than you comprehend, my son. 
 
 Is this thin gauze — light in your hand indeed 
 
 But heavy as a millstone on your conscience." 
 
 Deep buried in his thoughts the youth went homeward. 
 Wisdom's burning passion robbed him of sleep. 
 Upon his couch he tossed about with fever 
 W^ell nigh consumed. He rose in haste at midnight, 
 
 [ 222 ] 
 
To the temple led his unwilling step. 
 The wall to scale he found a task most easy, 
 And a spirited leap the rash youth landed 
 W^ithin the centre of the rotunda. 
 
 So there he stood and awfully the dead 
 
 Stillness the solitary one surrounded, 
 
 Broken only by the hollow echo 
 
 His footsteps in the secret chambers made. 
 
 The moon sent his pallid silver blue beam 
 
 Through the cupola's opening from above 
 
 And dreadful, like a very present God, 
 
 There gleamed from out the gloomy vaults' thick darkness 
 
 The statue through the folds of its long vail. 
 
 He went toward it wnth uncertain step. 
 
 Already his bold hand is raised the holiest 
 
 To touch when he grows hot and cold through all 
 
 His limbs, an arm unseen hath thrust him backward. 
 
 Unhappy man, wdiat wouldst thou do? so speaks 
 
 A faithful voice to him within his spirit. 
 
 The All Holy Avouldst thou presume to tempt? 
 
 No mortal man, the oracle hath said, 
 
 Shall lift this vail until myself shall raise it. 
 
 But did not the self-same voice add thereto: 
 
 Whoe'er this vail of truth shall raise shall see it? 
 
 *' Behind it be what may raise it I Avill." 
 
 He cries in a loud voice : *' I want to see it ! 
 
 See it! 
 Repeats an echo mockingly and shrill. 
 
 He spoke and, as he did so, raised the vail. 
 
 Well, do you ask, and what did the man see? 
 
 I do not know. Unconscious he was found 
 
 And pale lying out-stretched in front of Isis' 
 
 Pedestal by the priests upon the morn. 
 
 Wliat he there might have seen and what exj^ericnce 
 
 There made his tongue not once confessed. Life never 
 
 Could be a source of joy to him again. 
 
 He was brought to an early grave by sorrow. 
 
 [ 223 1 
 
" Woe unto him," these were his warning words, 
 When eager questioners pressed him too closely, 
 " Woe unto him who reaches truth through guilt ! 
 It nevermore can be a joy to him." 
 
 —Linden Hall Echo, April, 1903 
 
 CHANGED 
 
 Yes, it is he, the man I loved 
 
 A score of years ago, and yet 
 I see the real man has proved 
 
 So different from the image set 
 Within my inmost heart that I 
 Will fling it out and let it lie. 
 
 That stalwart form is bowed with care, 
 
 Those locks are blanched with age's frost. 
 
 Yet I might still have found him fair 
 Were only youth and beauty lost. 
 
 Rut something from that face is gone 
 
 That once I loved to gaze upon. 
 
 The world accounts him rich and great, 
 A generous man — he bears that name ! — 
 
 A frugal too, who sits up late 
 
 To win his millions like a game 
 
 Then scatter with a lordly hand 
 
 'Mong those erst robbed at his command. 
 
 Though shrunk the form, the soul within 
 A smaller compass e'en might hold. 
 
 Lean victim of the monster sin 
 Men call the sordid love of gold. 
 
 The curse of Midas blasts his brain, 
 
 The curse of Judas and of Cain. 
 
 Men honor him when they should spurn 
 The wretch who sold for gold his all, 
 
 Youth, manhood, health, bright hopes that burn 
 In every soul before its fall. 
 
 Once I adored that lofty brow. 
 
 The curse of Esau brands it now. 
 
 [224] 
 
I loved him once, or loved a man 
 That I had fondly hoped he'd be. 
 
 My dream is gone, yet it began 
 So long ago it seemed to me 
 
 A part of life. 'Tis better so. 
 
 One last long look and let it go. 
 
 It had been harder vv^ere I tied 
 
 To yonder sordid thing as wife, 
 Had seen his slow decay and tried 
 
 In vain to win him from the strife 
 That sapped his heart's blood day by day 
 ^And quenched his soul's bright light for aye, 
 
 The dream is gone and I awake. 
 
 It was a pleasant dream, I own. 
 He never missed me; with his rake 
 
 Stooped to the earth he saw no crown 
 Of love above his temples held. 
 For him there is no dream dispelled. 
 
 NOT IN VAIN 
 
 O human frame, all racked with pain, 
 O human heart all scarred with sin, 
 Your sufferings cannot be in vain ^ 
 Since One there died a path to win 
 To yonder mansions bright and high _ 
 Where sin and suffering come not nigh. 
 
 O great round earth so beautiful, 
 
 So blotted and obscured by wrong, 
 
 We must be very blind and dull 
 
 Unless we see 'tis not for long 
 
 A serpent crowned shall hold the throne 
 
 Where One is potentate alone. 
 
 O ages dim and ages dark. 
 In all the history of the race, 
 
 [225] 
 
It takes no sage's eye to mark 
 And throug-h them all the hand to trace 
 That shapes them to a perfect end, 
 That light and form complete shall lend. 
 
 O coming- days, or dark or bright, 
 No prophet's power need lift the vail 
 To show the growing of the Might 
 That shall make evil shrink and quail. 
 Or tell with dauntless hardihood 
 The triumph of Eternal Good. 
 
 THE LONG ROAD 
 
 The long road, the lone road, 
 
 It leads a-past my door.; - 
 But where it leads I cannot tell. 
 
 It tempts me evermore. 
 
 It leads between the wide, green fields 
 And seems to meet the sky, ,; 
 
 Sometime I'll follow where it leads, 
 And be it far or nigh. ' , 
 
 And then I'll wander back again 
 And ask, why did I roam? i 
 
 But if I come or if I go 
 I never feel at home. 
 
 The long road, the lone road. 
 That leads a-past my door. 
 
 The lone road, the long road; 
 It tempts me evermore. ' 
 
 But if I wander back again 
 
 I may not care to stay. 
 And if I follow where it leads 
 
 I'll sorrow all the way. 
 
 [ 226 ] 
 
MATTHEW STEIN 
 
 (a true story) 
 
 Like all the old my mother loved to dwell 
 
 Upon past times and friends she knew in youth. 
 
 The records of full many a house she knew 
 
 To trace through generations three at least. 
 
 A moral oft her tales contained, showing 
 
 How virtue is its own reward and sin its punishment. 
 
 The tale of Matthew Stein 
 A strong impression made upon my mind 
 Which time cannot efiface. When Matthew came 
 Across the ocean from the Fatherland 
 With his young wife they both were poor but strong 
 And brave to face the poor man's lot. Their sole 
 Ambition was to have a little house 
 And acres few that they might call their own 
 When they were old and could no longer toil. 
 So late and early toiled the honest pair. 
 The husband was a mason famed for skill, 
 The wife no labor scorned in house or field. 
 And e'en her resting rnoments found her well 
 Employed with socks for all the country round, 
 The product of her nimble, tireless hands. 
 One grief they had, no children came to bless 
 Their humble lot. But ere they had attained 
 Their heart's desire a little son was born. 
 The darling of their age and ere he was 
 'To manhood grown the cot was theirs, the land 
 Their own. Now all was happiness and sweet 
 Content. 
 
 Time passed. At length young Matthew chose 
 A wife. His parents were well pleased; she was 
 A likely maid, hard-working too and kind. 
 Young Matthew learned his father's trade and still 
 The old folks helped along as much as age 
 Allowed. 
 
 But now there came a change as sad 
 x\s unforseen. As one by one the boys, 
 Six boys there were, came trooping in the house 
 
 [227I 
 
Soon grew too small. Cumbered with numerous cares 
 
 Young- IMatthew's wife no time had left to wait 
 
 Upon the aged pair. Sour looks gave way 
 
 To muttered discontent, until at length 
 
 The son in shameless wise suggested "that 
 
 The county almshouse was the place for such 
 
 As could no longer work nor help themselves. 
 
 And so it came that in his crippled age 
 
 Old Matthew Stein came to the very place 
 
 He toiled a lifetime to avoid. 
 
 The last 
 Time that my mother saw him was when she 
 Was driving with her father and they met 
 The worn, decrepit man with aid of two 
 Stout canes wending his toilsome way once more 
 Toward the cot he once called his to see 
 The well beloved spot before he died. 
 Full thirteen miles the distance. How he fared 
 My mother never heard. Grandfather pressed 
 Some money in his hand and touching was 
 The old man's gratitude. No doubt he found 
 More help among the farmers by the Avay. 
 His wife was dead and little time elapsed 
 Between that journey and his journey home 
 To yonder land where sorrow is no more. 
 
 Now comes the sequel to the tale. The boys 
 
 Grew up and girls came too, and once again 
 
 The house was grown too small. When Matthew's wife 
 
 Was dead and he was old he wandered 'round 
 
 Among the children, never staying long ^ 
 
 With any lest they tire of him too 
 
 And send him to that almshouse where he sent 
 
 His father long ago. Haunted by that 
 
 Dim fear he had no peace until he died. 
 
 The curse is on them to this day, for not 
 
 A man or woman by the name of Stein 
 
 Is noted for that thrift and industry, 
 
 That honest virtue, simple piety 
 
 That came with Matthew from the Fatherland. 
 
 228 
 
IN THE CONFLICT 
 
 Not to the drowsy sentry asleep upon his post, 
 Not to the idle dreamer to life aloof and lost, 
 But to the fighting warrior, where bullets thickest fly, 
 Comes the muse's inspiration, the thought sublime and 
 high. 
 
 From Israel's soldier-poet, not from his wiser son. 
 Come the melodious measures that through the ages run, 
 And England's master singer 'mid war of tongue and pen 
 Sent forth the sweetest music heard by the sons of men. 
 
 The words that help the weary, the words that spur or 
 
 please 
 Are forged in blood and fire, not born in slothful ease. 
 For life is endl'ess conflict and they who rest are dead. 
 What we want are songs of battle by the warrior born and 
 
 bred. 
 
 We may wish for pleasant leisure, of peaceful moments 
 
 dream. 
 Yet the current bears us onward, like fagots on a stream. 
 The voice that charms our spirit and makes us long for 
 
 rest 
 Is born amidst the conflict, and we love that singer best. 
 
 TO A DOG 
 
 WAITING FOR HIS MASTER OUTSIDE OF A SALOON 
 
 Poor dog! thine is a sorry fate 
 
 That thou hast found so poor a mate, 
 
 Or, master must I say? 
 Ah, sure, he is a woeful wight 
 Who cannot master appetite 
 
 AMien tempted by the way. 
 
 The street is cold, the rain is w^et. 
 Thou likst it ill, poor beast, and yet 
 Thou will not leave him there. 
 
 [ 229 1 
 
Mayhap he'll pay thee with a curse, 
 A blow, or even something worse, 
 • For all thy loving care.-., 
 
 I see tholi hast a gentle face, 
 A noble air, a nameless grace 
 
 That show a lineage high. 
 Perhaps thou art of better blood 
 Than he who gives thee daily food 
 
 And bed wherein to lie. 
 
 Thine eye is large and bright and clear, 
 Undimmed by passion, lust or fear, 
 
 'Tis not the case with him. 
 His eyes before thine own must shrink 
 When reason is dethroned by drink 
 
 And brain begins to swim. 
 
 Still waiting, friend? Thy patience sure 
 Outweighs his own, thy love so pure 
 
 Deserves a better cause. ^' 
 
 Thy shivering limbs, thy wistful glance 
 Make me desire I had the chance 
 
 To change old Nature's laws. . 
 
 I'd m^ke thee master, him thb~ beast, 
 For he'd not suffer in the least. 
 
 But find his level true. 
 While thou wouldst honor thy degree 
 And get naught from humanity 
 
 But what was long thy due. 
 
 ■ ,^ . MARY DYER , - 
 
 have you read the cruel s'tory in the annals of bur land 
 How Mary Dyer, the Quaker, was called for her faith to 
 
 stand, 
 And how she sealed on the scaffold her witness unto the 
 
 same. 
 To the honor of her country and its lasting scorn and 
 
 shame? 
 
 [230] 
 
It was when the jails of Boston with her Quaker friends 
 were filled, 
 
 Like a sweet angel of mercy, she came, as the good Lord 
 willed. 
 
 From her home in fair Rhode Island, wdiere she lived in 
 blessed peace. 
 
 To comfort the prisoned sufferers and to pray for their re- 
 lease. 
 
 They drove her twice from the city, but again she entered 
 
 in. 
 And they bound her and condemned her to the scafifold 
 
 for her sin. 
 Tw^o others there w^alked beside her in the pride and bloom 
 
 of youth, 
 ^^^^o were, like the gentle Mary, to die for love of the 
 
 truth. : , ' 
 
 They mounted the fatal ladder and swung dead before her 
 eyes,,; ':'-:_ ■ ■ ■ ' : : ^ <. ',,;'• 
 
 And the hounding crowd watched breathless when the 
 shock of glad surprise ■ ■ 
 
 Sent the red blood leaping backward to her pallid cheek 
 once more. : " - ' • 
 
 There came reprieve from the Governor and the fierce or- 
 deal w^as o'er. " . 
 
 Her son had won pardon for her and bore her back to her 
 
 home. 
 Like one returned from the portals of the dark mysterious 
 
 tomb. 
 But Mary could not be happy while she knew that others 
 
 lay 
 And suffered in distant Boston. So thither she found her 
 
 w^ay. 
 
 Again she received her sentence and now it was all in vain 
 That her husband w^ept and pleaded. The judge was deaf 
 
 to his, pain. 
 And there upon Boston common under God's free blue 
 
 sky 
 \\^as Mary Dyer, the Quaker, led forth once more to die. 
 
 [ 231 1 
 
Two centuries have been numbered and the land where 
 
 Quakers bled 
 Is now the wide world's asylum, to which the oppressed 
 
 have fled 
 From every land and nation and have found a welcome 
 
 e'er. 
 There is room for all but bigots, yea, room for all and to 
 
 spare ! 
 
 MY ROSES 
 
 The last rose of summer ! 
 
 Ah, tell me not so, 
 Though late be the comer. 
 
 My roses still blow. 
 My roses bloom even 
 
 'Neath frost and snow. 
 They're blooming in heaven, 
 
 No blight shall they know. 
 No spendthrift shall gather 
 
 Then throw them aside. 
 Ah, no, I would rather 
 
 Their sweetness should bide 
 Forever and ever 
 
 Past time and tide. 
 
 TONES OF THE SOUL 
 
 Have you heard the ancient legend 
 
 About a buried town? 
 It stood on the old French border 
 
 Where once the shore sank doAvn. 
 
 Where rang the laughter of childhood. 
 Of toil-worn men the tread. 
 
 Are now the roar of the ocean, 
 And white-capped waves instead. 
 
 [232] 
 
Though tower and high church steeple 
 Have long found watery graves 
 
 The sailors hear the distant 
 Bells ring beneath the waves. 
 
 Above the roar of the tempest, 
 
 Above the breaker's roll 
 We may hear the bells of conscience 
 
 Within the human soul. 
 
 Though the currents of life's ocean 
 
 Engulf the human heart 
 Yet the muffled voice of conscience 
 
 Fulfills its destined part. 
 
 Give ear to that inner music 
 No storms of earth can drown. 
 
 Ah, list to the bells of warning 
 
 Where the ships of the lost go down. 
 
 WAITING 
 
 He stood at the door last night, 
 And he said, "Where do you stay? 
 
 'T've been waiting for you these twenty years. 
 Why do you linger, pray?" 
 
 And I said, " I may not come." 
 
 I said it with tears and pain. 
 " I've been longing to come these twenty years, 
 
 But my longing has been in vain. 
 
 " There is work for me to do. 
 
 And I may not lay it down, 
 Though my hands and heart are w^eary enough 
 
 To change the cross for the crown. 
 
 So sadly he turned away. 
 
 And it almost broke my heart. 
 He has come for me full many a time 
 
 To be bidden again depart. 
 
 [ ^^?> ] 
 
If the time seems long to him 
 Small wonder indeed that I 
 
 Grow weary upon this changing earth 
 Where all things good must die. 
 
 WOULD YOU? 
 
 They that slay the body are slain again, 
 
 They that slay the soul are guarded with might. 
 
 O, hearts of women, and minds of men, 
 Say, speak on your oath, is it right? 
 
 There are wrongs that are punished blood for blood, 
 There are wrongs for which there is no redress. 
 
 Ye men so upright, and women so good, 
 Who is to blame? Can you guess? 
 
 This world is so full of food and of drink, 
 This world is rich, with plenty to spare, 
 
 And yet there are those (what do you think?) 
 Who have nothing to eat nor to wear. 
 
 There's a God above whose kindness and love 
 Sends his rain to shine on the good and the bad, 
 
 And yet there is scarcely a child but can prove 
 That the few would take all that he had. 
 
 There is work in this world for every one. 
 But alas, there are those, it is sad to say, 
 
 ^^'ho would have all the work of the world be done 
 By a fraction in a day. 
 
 There are those who eat from plates of gold, 
 There are those indeed who are glad for a crust. 
 
 There are those whom early toil makes old, 
 There are those who in idleness rust. 
 
 O, hearts of women, and minds of men. 
 In justice tell me, what would you do? 
 
 A\^^uld you make this old world over again. 
 If you could? On your oath, is it true? 
 
 [234 1 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD AT WILLIAMS- 
 PORT 
 
 First the soft white flakes fell lightly covering all things 
 
 dark unsightly 
 With a dazzling robe of ermine, gemmed with jewels rich 
 
 and rare. 
 Then the rain came pouring, pouring, till like raging tor- 
 rents roaring 
 Gutters seemed the thoroughfare. 
 
 Still it rained and kept on raining and the swollen currents 
 
 draining 
 All the city's dark pollution swept away the spotless snow. 
 How they swelled the foaming river (even now it makes 
 
 me shiver!) 
 In its calm majestic flow! 
 
 Did we hear the roar of ocean, battling in its wild com- 
 motion. 
 
 Tearing through the doomed city, like a wild beast for its 
 prey? 
 
 'Twas the river ! " Jesu ! " prayed we. For no praying 
 stopped or stayed he 
 Through another baleful day. 
 
 Higher rose the water, higher, closer crept the cold flood, 
 
 nigher. 
 All the streets were filled with water, all the doors were 
 
 barred in vain. 
 Who resists the cruel water, so relentless in its slaughter, 
 Deaf and blind to human pain? 
 
 Then he left the house, my brother. W^ould we ever see 
 
 each other 
 On the hither side of heaven? thought we as we said 
 
 adieu. 
 He must save his horses yonder lest the cruel flood draw 
 
 them under. 
 They meant bread and butter too. 
 
 [ 235 ] 
 
Ill in bed la}^ sister Mary with her baby. Though as wary 
 As r could I found it useless e'en to try the truth to hide. 
 "Something's wrong," she said. 'T know it, for your anx- 
 ious brow doth show it. 
 No, it cannot be denied ! " 
 
 Whn I told her she turned moaning to the wall and whis- 
 pered groaning, 
 
 '' Oh, my husband, well-loved, where, my darling, may you 
 be?" 
 
 While the little babe lay sleeping peacefully the flood was 
 creeping 
 Through the hall, as I could see. 
 
 AVith a strength born of disaster, as the water followed 
 
 faster, 
 All things portable I carried where the flood had not yet 
 
 come. 
 But in vain w^as all my trouble, for the water's haste was 
 
 double, 
 And my hands were cold and numb. 
 
 Once again the night fell dimly while the spectre flood 
 
 crept grimly 
 Through the smallest cleft and crevice cold and still and 
 
 pitiless. 
 Oh, the awful dark and quiet, save the ceaseless roar and 
 
 riot 
 Of the river's storm and. stress ! 
 
 John came not, and care and fever haunted Mary. ''Would 
 
 I leave her? " 
 No, I would not, but my straining eyes were glued to 
 
 3a:tnder door. 
 As the long, slow hours went crawling on their course the 
 
 sight appalling 
 Which I dreaded on the floor 
 
 Of a dark pool trickling slowly o'er the threshhold more 
 
 unholy 
 To my heated mind than purple gore of murdered man 
 
 could seem 
 
 [ 236 1 
 
Did not come, but through the dawning of that long ex- 
 pected morning 
 Hope once more began to gleam. 
 
 " God be thanked, the water's going ! " and I rose with 
 courage growing. 
 
 It had never reached the window, never reached my sis- 
 ter's room. 
 
 Soon the street was full of motion, boats sailed on the 
 mimic ocean 
 Half concealed amid the gloom. 
 
 Now one stopped right down below me and the boatman 
 
 seemed to know me. 
 Yes, thank God, it was my brother, and he shouted, "Are 
 
 you there ? " 
 " Yes," I answered, " We are living." With a jubilant 
 
 thanksgiving 
 Then I met him on the stair. 
 
 All his horses were in cover and the crisis too was over, 
 For the river was receding and the danger now was past. 
 In that great and gloomy city there were others (more's 
 the pity!) 
 In that flood had seen their last. 
 
 And that awful night of terror (I could see it in the mir- 
 ror) 
 
 On my hair so black and glossy left the whitened tracks 
 of age, 
 
 While my well-beloved sister, though it seems death kind- 
 ly missed her, 
 Kept not baby from its rage. 
 
 But those pale lips knew no laughter, cheeks no roses un- 
 til after 
 We had left the fated city and its troubles all behind 
 \A'here the purple airs of even blew unhindered from sweet 
 heaven 
 And we knew that God was kind. 
 
 [ 237 1 
 
BEREAVED 
 
 Art sleeping my beloved say? 
 
 I cannot tear myself away 
 
 From that sweet face that lies so still. 
 
 What harm has come to thee? What ill? 
 
 You say she's dead ! It cannot be ! 
 
 She will arise and speak to me. 
 
 Twas only yester eve she spake. 
 
 The horrid spell she'll surely break. 
 
 It cannot be. She is not dead. 
 
 Her lovely spirit has not fled. 
 
 She was so fair, so young to die 
 
 And join the multitude on high. 
 
 A beam of light from earth has strayed 
 
 And left our souls in darker shade. 
 
 O Death, thou art a cruel foe 
 
 So fair an object to lay low! 
 
 What can she be to thee, oh Death? 
 
 Back to her form restore the breath ! 
 
 Back to her eyes its violet light! 
 
 Back to her hair the sunbeams bright ! 
 
 Into those cheeks the rose bring back ! 
 
 Into her lips the glow they lack! 
 
 Alas ! I rave. Forgive me, mine. 
 
 Yea, dost thou care, or canst divine 
 
 My loss, my grief, my bitter pain? 
 
 Questions and tears are all in vain. 
 
 Long years ago an empty tomb 
 
 For idle doubts left little room. 
 
 Before me lies an empty cell, 
 
 Before me lies a lifeless shell 
 
 Left voiceless on the dreary shore 
 
 Of life where I walk evermore 
 
 Alone until my time is come 
 
 To leave my body's shell as dumb 
 
 To loving questions, sobs and tears. 
 
 Eternity will answer theirs 
 
 And mine. I go. My love, adieu, 
 
 Auf wiedersehen where all is new. 
 
 238 
 
ELIJAH'S TRIUMPH 
 
 Jehovah's prophet stood 
 Single that crowd among, 
 
 But Baahm's cause was good. 
 Four hundred prophets strong. 
 
 Jehovah's reign seems o'er 
 And Israel need not fear, 
 
 For Sinai's thunders roar 
 No more in mortal ear. 
 
 The heathen gods are kind. 
 And Ahab serves them well. 
 
 The heathen gods are blind, 
 Their power no man can tell. 
 
 "\Miy are ye fickle still? 
 
 To God or Baal bow." 
 The crowd is weak of will, 
 
 It may not answer now. 
 
 The altars are prepared, 
 The fatted bulls are slain. 
 
 And Baal's priests have dared 
 To call their god — in vain! 
 
 "Call louder yet!" A sneer 
 
 Elijah's tone revealed. 
 " Your Baal cannot hear, 
 
 His ears in sleep are sealed. 
 
 "A journey or a chase 
 
 His godlike powers demand ! " 
 The shadow of disgrace 
 
 Rests on the frenzied band. 
 
 The morn and noon have passed. 
 The even time has come. 
 
 The trial is his last. 
 
 Baal hath met his doom. 
 
 Elijah came and built 
 The altar of his God, 
 
 [ 239 1 
 
And in the trenches spilt 
 The water in a flood. 
 
 The fire from the sky 
 A ready answer came 
 
 Till beast and water die 
 In the devourinf^ flame. 
 
 The people saw the sign, 
 The presence of the Lord, 
 
 They bowed to power divine, 
 The one true God adored. 
 
 With Baal's prophets slain, 
 Jehovah's worship grows, 
 
 Once more the blessed rain 
 Returning favor shows. 
 
 SOLD 
 
 My Muse is dead. She died last night 
 Upon the mart where slaves are sold. 
 I buried her quite out of sight 
 And sold myself for good red gold. 
 
 Red gold, I say, for it is red 
 
 With heart's blood, warm and flowing still, 
 
 I might as well myself be dead 
 
 Since I have sold my living wall. 
 
 Ah, yes, she made a lovely corse! 
 So beautiful in life, in death. 
 If aught could bring her back remorse 
 Would surely now restore her breath. 
 
 I think I slew the Maid myself. 
 No other cause can I assign. 
 She could not bear the clink of pelf 
 Because her soul was all divine. 
 
 [ 240 ] 
 
But she is dead and there is left 
 But little more that I can do 
 But mourn that I am so bereft 
 And plant her grave with rue. 
 
 My life is barren now and lone, 
 So barren that I scarce can live, 
 And I cannot the deed atone 
 Nor even ask her to forgive. 
 
 I am a slave. Slaves have no right 
 To mourn or even to repent. 
 I would that I had died last night, 
 If death can end my punishment. 
 
 THE HAND OF GOD 
 
 REBELLION 
 
 Blind! I shall be blind! 
 
 How the long years of darkness stretch before 
 
 \ly path of life. O, I can see myself 
 
 A trembling, piteous thing led by a dog, 
 
 Or by a child, perhaps, at its sweet .will 
 
 Begging the alms of human sympathy! 
 
 And I am young, so young to die the death. 
 
 In life ! If I were old I'd think the time 
 
 Was short at best that I could see the light 
 
 Of day and all the beauty, all the bloom 
 
 Of this fair earth. I'd think I've seen my fill. 
 
 'Tis time I close my eyes and leave behind 
 
 What I have loved so long. But now the time 
 
 Is long, so long. I cannot bear to think 
 
 How long!' I thought to do so much ere night 
 
 Fell on my darkened eyes. I say it's cruel ! 
 
 Better to die than live this death in life ! 
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 The time seems long since I have seen the light. 
 I once had thought I could not live without 
 The beauty of the world I. loved so well. 
 
 [2411 
 
Too well. I did not know that it was but 
 
 The garment fair of Him who dwells in light 
 
 Too bright for human eyes to bear. I had 
 
 But touched that garment's hem and thought it was 
 
 The sum of happiness. Ah, blind indeed 
 
 I was but now no longer am. I see 
 
 That light before whose brightness once had failed 
 
 My proud earth-sight. In darkness now I walk 
 
 And solitude profound that I may see 
 
 And hear Thee as once Moses in the Mount. 
 
 'Tis well. The noises I once loved now jar 
 
 My inner sense. The sights I loved seem like 
 
 The painted scenes upon the mimic stage. 
 
 The life that now I live is real; the past 
 
 A dream. The long dark years that once stretched out 
 
 In cavernous gloom are now a shining path 
 
 That brightens more and more from day to day. 
 
 THE HEROES 
 
 It was in far Poltava 
 
 That famine stalked through the land 
 And the cruel landlords cared not 
 
 ^^'hile plenty they had on hand. 
 
 Their barns were overflowing, 
 Their larders, they were filled. 
 
 But the starving peasants had nothing 
 Wherewith their pangs could be stilled. 
 
 So the peasants came together 
 
 And started an army strong 
 To take the corn and fuel 
 
 That should to them belong. 
 
 They had.no weapons but only 
 
 The tools with which they wrought. 
 
 And the sense of a great injustice 
 
 AA^as the cause for which they fought. 
 
 . [ 242 1 
 
Then the White Czar knew his snbjects 
 
 And sent his armed men 
 To drive the famished Hon 
 
 Back to his wretched den. 
 
 But not a man w^ould fire 
 
 And never a soldier obeyed 
 And not a gun was leveled 
 
 At man or child or maid. 
 
 Were they not born in hovels? 
 
 Were they not near of kin? 
 To shoot their fathers and brothers, 
 
 Ah, sure, that were a sin ! 
 
 Too well they knew the guerdon 
 
 Of heroes of their mold, 
 Too well they knew destruction 
 
 Was theirs instead of gold. 
 
 The blood of these noble soldiers 
 W^as drunk by the Russian soil, 
 
 Or in Siberia's prisons 
 
 They waste in servile toil. 
 
 But the tale of lofty manhood 
 
 And Christ-like sacrifice 
 Has traveled the wide world over 
 
 And its memory never dies. 
 
 AT EVENTIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT 
 
 All day the rain came pouring down 
 
 And the wild winds swept the street. 
 The heavens were dull w^ith a ceaseless frown. 
 And the bare trees shook from trunk to crown 
 In the wake of the Storm King's feet. 
 
 My heart was weary and sick and sad 
 And my eyes w^ith tears were dim. 
 For the Lord had taken the best I had. 
 And I thought to myself I should go mad, 
 T^or I would not trust in Him. 
 
 [ 243 1 
 
Came even and the skies grew red, 
 
 Flushed with the sunset's glow, 
 The sad clouds parted, a glory shed 
 From the golden streets the angels tread 
 
 Illumined all below. 
 
 I looked, and into my heart there stole 
 
 A beam of light divine. 
 And He said to me: "O, sin-sick soul, 
 I will heal thy sorrow and make thee whole." 
 
 So He entered this heart of mine. 
 
 — The Moravian, April 5, 1899 
 
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