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■PHE LIEjRARY of 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 Two Copies- R«c«iveri 
 
 m n 1903 
 
 Ccpyngnl Entry 
 
 CLASS^ CC XXc. No. 
 
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 COPY B. 
 
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 COPYRIGHTED 19OJ. 
 
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OUR MARTYRED PRESIDENTS. 
 
 When great men die, the nations mourn, 
 
 And, with impassioned eloquence. 
 Describe the honors they have borne 
 
 And grieve that God should call them hence. 
 But, with the lapsing of the years 
 
 And clamoring calls of new events, 
 They dry their unavailing tears — 
 
 Forget ere while the Providence. 
 
 But when our bravest and our best 
 
 The murderer's hand is made to feel, 
 It wakens in each patriot breast 
 
 A grief which doth more slowly heail. 
 Stricken from pinnacle of fame, 
 
 Down to death's stern and cold embrace! 
 We bow our heads in grief and shame, 
 
 And pray for pity on our race. 
 
 The highest office in our land 
 
 We ever give the good and great, 
 And three times by the assassin's hand 
 
 That high place hath been desolate. 
 Let statesmen deal with cause and curse. 
 
 For this we give them recompense, 
 /give the tribute of my verse 
 
 Unto our martyred presidents. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 When slavery cursed our Southern mains 
 
 Near half a century ago, 
 And coveted our Western plains, 
 
 Our loyal statesmen answered, "No, 
 You shall not curse our sacred soil. 
 
 Though you may strew it thick with graves, 
 North, East and West will gladly toil. 
 
 But never buy and sell your slaves." 
 
 Anon the war-cloud rose, and then 
 
 We felt the sting of Southern hate, 
 And sought Vv'ith faith's unerring ken 
 
 A man to guide the ship of State. 
 Up from the plains of Illinois 
 
 Arose our Lincoln staunch and true. 
 And when we made of him our choice 
 
 We builded better than we knew. 
 
 Before him hostile armies came, 
 
 Behind him traitors scoffed and sneered, 
 But calm and patient just the same. 
 
 Nor tongue of fiesh or fire he feared. 
 The South armed all her valiant men 
 
 And fought full well till sixty-three, 
 When with a stroke of Lincoln's pen 
 
 Her slaves were made forever free. 
 
 Thus time rolled on and Sherman's men 
 Had marched in triumph to the sea, 
 
 A.nd Grant had braved the lion's den 
 
 And snatched the sword from General Lee. 
 
 A second time had Lincoln filled 
 The honored presidential chair, 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 5 
 
 But seeming adverse fate had willed 
 That he must sureh^ perish there. 
 
 One m.oment full of hope and cheer, 
 
 The next the fatal bullet sped, 
 And soon the man we loved so dear 
 
 Was numbered with the silent dead. 
 Victim of slavery's cruel might. 
 
 Its faltering hand had aimed the blow ; 
 For, to avenge its lasting blight, 
 
 Its brave destroyer was laid low. 
 
 Then panic reigned in Washington 
 
 And, as the news flashed to and fro, 
 Telling the bloody deed now done. 
 
 All loyal hearts were filled with woe. 
 Historic pages tell the tale — 
 
 How widespread was the sore lament 
 And how the nation's cheek grew pale 
 
 Beside its martyred president. 
 
 Outward expressions were in vain 
 
 To symbolize its bitter grief ; 
 So deep the wound, so real the pain, 
 
 No finite power could bring relief. 
 He^nds folded o'er lifeless breast, 
 
 Eyes closed in peaceful dreamless sleep ; 
 Rest, loyal spirit, sweetly rest — 
 
 Thy vigil's long, thy slumber sweet. 
 
 The years passed on, the North and Soutn 
 Joined hands in close fraternal grip ; 
 
 From war's red page and cannon's mouth 
 They learned a truer fellowship. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Among Ohio's loyal sons 
 
 Was one by special gifts endowed, 
 One of her great and gifted ones 
 
 Of whom she might be justly proud. 
 
 James Abram Garfield — he who reads 
 
 Today that fair and honored name 
 Recalls the burning words and deeds 
 
 Which wTote it high on scrolls of fame. 
 From humble parentage he rose . 
 
 A selfmade man in every sense ; 
 Generous alike to friends and foes 
 
 He charmed them by his eloquence. 
 
 College and pulpit felt his power, 
 
 Lawmakers hung upon his word. 
 And in our land's imperilled hour 
 
 He won new laurels by his sword. 
 At last the people came to see 
 
 His fitness for the Whitehouse chair. 
 And he, though most reluctantly, 
 
 Allowed their love to place him there. 
 
 Then came the ofifice seeking craze, 
 
 When spoils of office tempted men ; 
 Oh ! those were dark, disgraceful days 
 
 And may they never come again. 
 One of those disappointed men 
 
 Who signed his name Charles J. Gitteau, 
 To whose appeals by voice and pen 
 
 Our hero could but answer, *'No," 
 
 Conceived the diabolic plot 
 
 To murder him with ruthless hand. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 And straightvv'ay fired the fatal shot 
 
 Which sent dismay through all the land. 
 
 Faulty had been the coward's aim 
 And many weeks his victim lay 
 
 In utter helplessness and pain, 
 
 While strength and life fast ebbed away. 
 
 Surgeons of national renown 
 
 Watched by his bedside day and night, 
 As lower drooped the shadows down 
 
 And fiercer waged the unequal fight. 
 Churches of differing name and creed 
 
 United prayers to heaven sent, 
 That God would hear the nation plead 
 
 And heal its wounded president. 
 
 Far from the city's dust and heat 
 
 They bore him to the seaside, where 
 He heard the ocean's rythmic beat 
 
 And saw its sights divinely fair. 
 Vain was the surgeon's wondrous skill. 
 
 Vain seemed the sacred breath of prayer ; 
 In spite of human love and will, 
 
 Death set his sable signet there. 
 
 The constant years glide slowly on. 
 
 Grief's night is past, hope's morn is fair, 
 Ohio gives another son 
 
 To fill the presidential chair. 
 William McKinley, cherished name. 
 
 Shining resplendent as the sun. 
 He earned a never dying fame 
 
 Before his earthly race was run. 
 
8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 When Sumter's flag was rent in twain 
 
 By firey Southern shot and shell, 
 When treason sought to stab and stain 
 
 The Union we all loved so well, 
 McKinley heard war's stern demand 
 
 x\nd, giving to the winds his fears, 
 For God, and home, and native land 
 
 He joined the Ohio volunteers. 
 
 For gallant service on the field, 
 
 Honors and swift promotion came ; 
 The boy, a veteran's might revealed, 
 
 Beginning of a world-wide fame. 
 Onward and upward still he went 
 
 Climbing the ladder round by round, 
 Until at last as president. 
 
 The highest place, his genius found. 
 
 Under his wise and faithful hand 
 
 Hard times decreased and disappeared. 
 And peace and plenty through the land 
 
 Thousands of weary toilers cheered. 
 The unemployed found work to do 
 
 Outside the poorhouse or the jail, 
 And workmen in their blouses new 
 
 Carried the well-filled dinner pail. 
 
 The shops and factories through the land 
 With smoking chimneys seemed to say 
 
 "Trade is no longer at a stand, 
 
 Good times again have come this v;ay." 
 
 An angry cloud of war arose 
 
 In which we met the pride of Spain 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 And triumphed o'er our haughty foes, 
 Although they basely sunk the Maine. 
 
 Alas for Spain ! her two great fleets 
 
 Were quickly swept from oft* the waves, 
 And with their sails for winding sheets 
 
 Went dow^n to sleep in watery graves. 
 The gloomy war clouds drifted by, 
 
 The dove of peace came back once more, 
 And 'neath a fair and cloudless sky 
 
 Our country smiled from shore to shore. 
 
 The gates of progress open wide 
 
 As onward press the thronging years. 
 One century has waned and died, 
 
 The new-born century appears. 
 McKinley takes his place again 
 
 As pilot of the ship of state, 
 In our long list of brilliant men 
 
 Standing alone, supremely great. 
 
 With starry banner waving o'er 
 
 New countries gained beyond the seas, 
 With rank and wealth on wave and shore, 
 
 What prospect could more truly please? 
 But now a darkness dims the light, 
 
 The nostrils scent a sulphurous smell, 
 And anarchy in secret might 
 
 Slow rises from its native hell. 
 
 At different times in by-gone years 
 The nations felt its venomed sting, 
 
 Whose history wTit in blood and tears 
 Describes a desperate deadly thing. 
 
lo POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Not like a fearless enemy 
 
 Willing to meet in open strife, 
 
 But silently and secretly 
 
 Plotting to strike the nation's life. 
 
 Dark days we all remember well 
 
 And wonder that they should be so, 
 But listen while I sadly tell 
 
 Of that dark day at Buffalo. 
 The nation's products gathered there, 
 
 The city opened wide its arms 
 And welcomed all the brave and fair 
 
 To come and view its countless charms. 
 
 There went our honored president 
 
 And with him went his fair, frail wife, 
 None dreaming anarchy had sent 
 
 To rob him of the gift of life. 
 To Music Temple he repairs 
 
 And 'neath its dome so vast and grand. 
 Disdaining crowned and kingly airs. 
 
 He gives to all a friendly hand. 
 
 A fiend in human form draws near 
 
 Like Judas with his traitor kiss, 
 And listening thousands plainly hear 
 
 The leaden serpent's deadly hiss. 
 The victim's gathering paleness shows 
 
 How fatal was the miscreant's aim, 
 While his dark face amidst his foes 
 
 Betrays no sense of fear or shame. 
 
 The days go by, a week or more 
 
 The nation stands wnth bated breath, 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS ii 
 
 With mind appalled and heart made sore 
 
 Watching the tides of life and death. 
 At last o'er all the land we hear 
 
 The measured strokes of tolling bell, 
 In glory ends the life so dear; 
 
 Farewell, great kindly heart, farewell. 
 
 In closing, let us not forget 
 
 Our heroes numbered with the slain ; 
 Their blood hath freedom's altars wet, 
 
 God grant it may not be in vain. 
 Nobly they lived, bravely they died. 
 
 And while we note these sad events. 
 With tender love and grateful pride 
 
 We'll crown Our Martyred Presidents. 
 
12 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 TWENTY YEx\RS TO COME. 
 
 I can't help thinking day by day 
 
 How time is rolling on 
 And of the changes there will be 
 
 When a few short vears are g^one. 
 I've thought of twenty years ago, 
 
 Perhaps I'll change it some 
 By writing down a thought or two 
 
 On twenty years to come. 
 
 As for myself I'm forty-five, 
 
 Turning a little gray, 
 But feel about as young as when 
 
 I was a boy at play. 
 But when you talk of comfort, though 
 
 'Tis but a meagre crumb, 
 To think of hair as white as snow 
 
 In twenty years to come ! 
 
 To think of walking with a cane. 
 
 With feeble step and slow. 
 With body full of ache and pain 
 
 And poor back bending low ; 
 With vision dim and hands ashake, 
 
 Perhaps both deaf and dumb, 
 A pretty picture I shall make 
 
 In twenty years to com.e. 
 
 But I am not the only one 
 
 Whom twenty years will change. 
 
 For tim.e v/ill greedy riot run 
 With marvels new and strange ; 
 
 New voices vvill salute the ear 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 13 
 
 And new machinery hum, 
 And hfe will sing its songs of cheer 
 In twenty years to come. 
 
 I wonder how the temperance cause 
 
 Will be progressing then, 
 When our yotmg girls are women grown 
 
 And our small boys are men. 
 Will liquor still be leading them 
 
 Down into filth and slum. 
 Or will our land be free again 
 
 In twenty years to come? 
 
 I prophesy that you and I, 
 
 If still on earth, w^ill see 
 Those brighter days and better ways 
 
 We've prayed so long might be. 
 The days when right instead of might 
 
 Shall reign from sun to sun, 
 And love and truth lead age and youth 
 
 In twenty years to come. 
 
 Yet, w^hile this change is going on 
 
 Each one should do their best ; 
 Toil now, and in the coming years 
 
 There will be time for rest. 
 It wall not do for us to sit 
 
 With folded hands and mum. 
 Thinking that tim.e will settle it 
 
 In twenty years to come. 
 
 The present we can call our own, 
 
 The future may not be ; 
 Great problems we can let alone 
 
14. POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 For brighter minds you see. 
 But there is work for one and all 
 
 And work that must be done, 
 Or grand results be few and small 
 
 In twenty years to come. 
 
 Some tilings 'tis true old Time will do 
 
 Without the help of man, 
 And twenty years of smiles and tears, 
 
 Though but a narrow span, 
 Will show his power from hour to hour 
 
 Till of what he has done 
 The marble pale will tell the tale 
 
 In twenty years to come. 
 
 Dear faces that we see today 
 
 Will be forever missed, 
 Hidden from mortal sight away 
 
 By Death's dark angel kissed. 
 Yes, many hands will folded lie 
 
 And many lips be dumb. 
 Gone from this life of toil and strife 
 
 In twenty years to come. 
 
 Let us be up and doing then 
 
 While it is called to-day, 
 Remembering the old refrain : 
 
 "Time speeds away, away." 
 Let us be full of cheerfulness 
 
 And neither sour or glum, 
 But be resigned to what we find 
 
 In twenty years to come. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 15 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 First we would all our faults confess, 
 Our many sins and tresspasses, 
 Imploring Thee in sovereign grace 
 To turn from them Thy righteous face. 
 And now dear Father we implore, 
 Deal with us still as heretofore 
 And think upon our sins no more. 
 
 Though countless as the ocean's sands 
 Or stars that gem the brow of night, 
 
 Bear them away with loving hands. 
 Away forever out of sight. 
 
 Then hear, O Lord, our thankful prayer 
 For all Thy faithful, watchful care, 
 From mom*s first streak of rosy light 
 Till twilight deepened into night, 
 Each day of all the passing year 
 Was filled with blessing and good cheer. 
 
 The seasons in their annual round 
 
 Have brought their precious gifts along, 
 
 The spring with light and beauty crowned 
 And vocal with the wild bird's song. 
 
 The summer with its fragrant breath 
 
 Of roses in the ambient air. 
 Its emerald robes the poet saith 
 
 Are fit for king or queen to wear. 
 
 The autumn with its changing hues. 
 Its landscapes wrapt in dreamy haze, 
 
1 6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Its silent soul-subduing views 
 Wherever mortal vision gaze. 
 
 The winter with its snowy veil, 
 
 Its frost-gems sparkling in the light, 
 
 Its low hung clouds, its winds weird wail 
 And solemn voices of the night. 
 
 For home and friends to us so dear, 
 For tender words and fond caress. 
 
 And for Thy love through all the year 
 We offer sincere thankfulness. 
 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 17 
 
 "THE CHURCH FAIR." 
 
 Said the Pastor to the Deacons, I am sorry, but I find, 
 That the salary which you promised is about three 
 
 months behind ; 
 I have tried my best to earn it, and, as it is rather small, 
 If you could but pav it promptly 'twould be better for us 
 
 all. 
 
 Then the Deacons held a council and they said our Pas- 
 tor's right. 
 
 He works hard enough to earn it, he should have it, hon- 
 or bright; 
 
 But the crops are poor this season and the taxes run so 
 high, 
 
 It will be a job to raise it, but of course we'll have to try. 
 
 *'Now," said Deacon Jones, *'I tell ye, my wife's quite a 
 
 financier. 
 And she says the way to dew it is to have a fair this year. 
 I don't know so much about it, but she says its really 
 
 grand, 
 That thev're having 'em all over, — finest churches in the 
 
 land." 
 
 "But," replied old Deacon Goodwin, as he shook his 
 
 saintly head, 
 "I'm afraid we shall not prosper, for the Book of books 
 
 has said, 
 God will have our tithes and offerings carried to His 
 
 temple there. 
 But in all that grand old Bible not one word about a fair. 
 
i8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 I suppose that I'm old-fashioned for I started long ago, 
 And the progress I am making I admit is rather slow. 
 I have always tried to travel in the straight and narrow 
 
 way, 
 Taking for my daily motto, 'we must watch as well as 
 
 pray.' 
 
 Now I see by watching closely Vv^e are drifting, drifting 
 
 far. 
 And I fear lest our ship Zion strike an ugly reef or bar. 
 We are getting weak and worldly, but I didn't mean to 
 
 scold. 
 Go ahead without me brethren, heed me not, I'm getting 
 
 old." 
 
 Then he walked away and left them and a younger Dea- 
 con said, 
 
 "Deacon Goodwin's failing brethren, it's a trouble in his 
 head. 
 
 He has been a faithful brother but his mind is getting 
 dim. 
 
 And if we make up the salary we can't stop to humor 
 him." 
 
 So they called a general council and they argued pro 
 
 and con, 
 And they came to the conclusion that the fair was going 
 
 on. 
 For the Pastor and the Deacons and the new financial 
 
 board. 
 Decided that a blessing could be just as well outpoured — 
 
 On the aprons and the bonnets and the miscellaneous 
 
 trash 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 19 
 
 They would get as a donation to be bartered off for cash, 
 As upon the tithes and offerings which they could so ill 
 
 afford, 
 To make ready for the temple as an offering to the Lord. 
 
 Then they reasoned very shrewdly, we will advertise it 
 
 well, 
 What a heap of useful articles we are going to have to 
 
 sell, 
 And a tenor and contralto from the city will be there 
 With the best of local talent as attractions to the fair. 
 
 So they bought and begg'd and borrowed and they 
 
 rushed it night and day 
 'Til they got so interested that they hadn't time to pray. 
 They held services every Sunday but the Spirit wasn't 
 
 there. 
 For the hearts of most the members were just set upon 
 
 the fair. 
 The Pastor saw the trouble and he tried to hurry through. 
 Preaching twenty minute sermons — 'twas the best thing 
 
 he could do, 
 For the members were not in it, that was just as plain as 
 
 day, 
 And the efforts of the pulpit were entirely thrown away. 
 
 After weeks and weeks of working with an all consuming 
 
 zeal, 
 After pushing late and early with their shoulders to the 
 
 wheel, 
 They finally decided on the all important night. 
 When the harvest should be gathered and the debt be 
 
 paid outright. 
 
20 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 'Twas the night of the prayer meeting (as it used to be 
 
 of old) 
 "But the ashes on the ahar had for many weeks been 
 
 cold." 
 A mighty crowd assembled and the church was all aglow, 
 With the "booths" and fancy articles, the "costumes" 
 
 and the show. 
 
 But the babel of loud voices crying out the different 
 wares 
 
 Seemed confusion to a stranger who had entered una- 
 wares ; 
 
 And he stood a moment gazing with a look of sad sur- 
 prise, 
 
 And no wonder, 'twas an angel who had entered in dis- 
 guise. 
 
 From the upper sanctuary he had hastened to be there 
 With God's people as they gathered in the church for 
 
 praise and prayer ; 
 But the "costumes" and the "business" of the sainted 
 
 sisterhood 
 Very near upset the angel as we have no doubt it Vv^ould. 
 
 Speechless for a moment stood he, with amazement 
 shocked and dumb, 
 
 When he heard a shrill voice saying, "Stranger we are 
 glad you've come 
 
 Won't you buy this pretty apron, as a bargain it's im- 
 mense, 
 
 It's the very best of gingham and the price is fifty cents." 
 
 "Let us pray," he feebly faltered, and low kneeling on 
 the floor 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 21 
 
 He sent upward such petition as they never heard before; 
 Hushed the organ's tuneful swelling, hushed the din and 
 
 tumult there. 
 Silence as of death fell round thenl as the stranger 
 
 breathed his prayer. 
 
 "Father," cried he, "I entreat thee pardon now this 
 church's sin 
 
 Give it real unfeigned repentance, let the work this night 
 begin ; 
 
 And my Father shield them ever from the tempter's art- 
 ful snare. 
 
 From the sin of raising money through a God dishonor- 
 ing fair." 
 
 As he ceased he vanished from them, no one saw him 
 
 pass the door. 
 No one present could remember ever seeing him before. 
 Said the Pastor to the Deacons and the new financial 
 
 board, 
 "I believe it was an Angel from the presence of the Lord. 
 
 And I move you that this meeting be adjourned without 
 
 delay 
 And hereafter raise our money in a more appropriate 
 
 way." 
 Then a loud "Amen" resounded and a sister filled with 
 
 zeal, 
 OflFered to give ten dollars, "for," she said, "I truly 
 
 feel 
 
 That if we would have God's blessin' poured upon us 
 throu' and throu' 
 
22 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 We must meet onr obligations as His people used to 
 
 dew. 
 I know I have been penurious, grudging graspin', mean 
 
 and small, 
 But I'm sorry, awful sorry, may the Lord forgive us all. 
 
 Others followed with their pledges and confessions by 
 
 the score, 
 And the wind breathed low to listen as it wandered by 
 
 the door. 
 And the spirit came upon them and they promised then 
 
 and there 
 They would never, ;^^z;^r, NEVER, try to hold another fair. 
 
 Deacon Goodwin's spirit struggled with its cumbrous 
 
 load of clay. 
 Like a sunny bird imprisoned that would gladly soar 
 
 away, 
 And the family tiptoed lightly, hushed each sound of 
 
 laugh or song. 
 For they said, and said it sadly, ''Father won't be with 
 
 us long." 
 
 But when some one late returning from that most suc- 
 cessful fair, 
 
 Stopped and gently told the Deacon of the glorious vic- 
 tory there, 
 
 He just shouted "Hallelujah," for his strength came 
 back again. 
 
 And he finished his thanksgiving with a jubilant 
 "Amen." 
 
 ( 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 23 
 
 AN ADIRONDACK PINE. 
 
 Braving the storms of centuries 
 This last and lonely pine 
 
 Had seen the birth of kingdoms 
 And witnessed their decline. 
 
 Fair monarch of the forest 
 It towered in native pride, 
 
 Throwing its lengthened shado\/ 
 Far np the steep hillside. 
 
 On life's vast stage of action 
 Men played their little parts ; 
 
 Amassed collossal fortunes 
 In traffic's busy marts. 
 
 Wrote high their names in honor 
 On fame's illustrious scroll, 
 
 And fainted ere they rested 
 Beside the shining goal. 
 
 And still the old Pine flourished, 
 
 Until in sixty-three 
 The woodman would no longer 
 
 In mercy spare the tree. 
 
 Blow after blow indented 
 The soft and resinous w^ood 
 
 Until in seeming terror 
 
 It trembled where it stood. 
 
 In loud reverberations 
 
 It shook the solid ground. 
 
24- POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 And people heard and wondered 
 For many miles around. 
 
 Attempting then to saw it, 
 (His pardon I should beg) 
 
 But somehow accidentally 
 The woodman sawed his leg. 
 
 So then he left it lying 
 For forty years or more, 
 
 'Til bark and sap had perished 
 And time had scarred it sore. 
 
 Yet strange to say its great heart 
 Was just as sound and good, 
 
 As when in peerless beauty, 
 The King of Pines it stood. 
 
 May we not learn a lesson 
 From this ancestral tree 
 
 Whose heart remained unshaken 
 For half a century ? 
 
 We cannot tell what moment 
 These mortal lives will fade ; 
 
 Nor when these feeble bodies 
 May in their graves be laid. 
 
 But we can make the soul life 
 So sweet and so sublime, 
 
 That death will but embalm it 
 Just as it did the Pine. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 23 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 Grand Lighthouse of the ages, 
 Safe chart for land or sea, 
 
 Its blessing burdened pages 
 Open to you and me 
 
 A mine of priceless treasure, 
 A princely legacy. 
 
 Therein we read the story 
 
 Of God's creative skill. 
 The majesty and glory 
 
 Of His free sovereign will, 
 And how His gracious purposes 
 
 He will in time fulfill. 
 
 Therein of man's transgression 
 We have a strict account, 
 
 Of traitorous secession 
 From mercy's open fount. 
 
 And of the Law God given 
 On Sinai's quaking mount. 
 
 It also tells the story 
 
 Of desert wanderings, 
 Red sea and Jordon crossings, 
 
 Down fall of Caanan's kings, 
 Of Judges and of Prophets 
 
 With the songs that David sings. 
 
 There, too, of free salvation 
 
 We see the wondrous plan, 
 The Infinite redemption 
 
26 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Through Calvary's spotless Lamb ; 
 The healing and the cleansing 
 Of sick and sinful man. 
 
 Its precepts are the wisest, 
 
 Its promises the best ; 
 To weary, wayworn pilgrims 
 
 It gives joy, peace and rest, 
 And incorrupt inheritance 
 
 Among the pure and blest. 
 
 Now to this matchless volume 
 Let us our tribute pay; 
 
 Majestic rock of ages, 
 
 The light of life's dark day. 
 
 The dear old Family Bible, 
 The Life, the Truth, the Wav. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 27 
 
 HONOR TO YOUTH AND OLD AGE. 
 
 I take off my hat to the children, , 
 
 The nice and the naughty ones too ; 
 To me they are all nearly perfect — 
 
 So tell me what else can I do? 
 I love them and they understand it ; 
 
 I just let them have their own way — 
 In summer they ride in my carriage, 
 
 In winter they ride in my sleigh. 
 
 I take off my hat to the children, 
 
 They bring back my childhood again ; 
 Today they are romping and playing, 
 
 Tomorrow grow^n women and men ; 
 Today they are treaaing the pathway 
 
 Their fathers and mothers have trod ; 
 Tomorrow, alas, they may wander 
 
 Afar in the way that is broad. 
 
 So I take off my hat to the children 
 
 And gather them round me and tell 
 To the ears ever ready to listen 
 
 That story the child loves so well ; 
 And as I faithfully tell it 
 
 I pray that when earth ties are riven, 
 Each dear little one may be gathered 
 
 Safe home in the Kingdom of Heaven. 
 
 I take off my hat to the aged, 
 
 I honor the hoary hair 
 Where snowliakes of time have fallen 
 
 And linger forever there ; 
 
28 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Whose faces are scrolled atid letter'd 
 
 By time's impartial pen, 
 Writing out the cares and conflicts 
 
 Of o'er-burdened women and men. 
 
 I take off my hat to the aged 
 
 Whose shriveled and wrinkled hands, 
 Seem beckoning to dear ones who wander 
 
 Afar in the Heavenly lands. 
 They seem to be nearing the river 
 
 Whose waters are deep and cold, 
 And whose pale mist riseth forever 
 
 Between them and the sands of gold. 
 
 Yes, I take off my hat to the aged 
 
 And whisper a word of cheer, 
 And strive to reflect that spirit 
 
 So faintly reflected here. 
 The spirit of love and affection 
 
 For which some are longing, I know, 
 For love melts the heart of the aged, 
 
 As sunshine the crystals of snow. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 29 
 
 IN DREAMLAND. 
 
 The day hath flown by on its pinions of Hght 
 
 And with fervent thanksgiving I welcome the night , 
 
 The shadows that gather, the soft dews which fall 
 
 And the calm sacred silence that resteth on all. 
 
 From the day's fret and worry my soul finds release 
 
 And is filled with the spirit of Infinite peace. 
 
 The darkness grows deeper, my drooping lids close 
 
 And my thoughts narrow down to a sense of repose ; 
 
 To dreamland I'm going, to wander at will 
 
 Where impulse may lead me when reason is still. 
 
 My barque is now launched on the deep waveless sea 
 
 Which borders life's shore and the land of the free. 
 
 Free thought and free fancy, how real it all seems — 
 
 This fair fruitful country, the land of our dreams. 
 
 Afar o'er the waters lights flash to and fro; 
 
 My barque must be nearing the shore, yes, for lo. 
 
 Faint sounds o'er the waters are borne to my ears 
 
 And dimly, yet surely, the outline appears. 
 
 The moments flit by, ah my voyage is o'er 
 
 For the keel of the boat is now kissing the shore. 
 
 In dreamland, sweet dreamland, I wander as free 
 
 As the waters in winding their way to the sea. 
 
 Hark ! voices familiar I now recognize, 
 
 And forms as familiar before me arise. 
 
 My father and mother, who died long ago, 
 
 In dreamland I meet them and greet them, and know 
 
 The bliss of reunion, and sweet it doth seem. 
 
 Though reason would tell me, 'twas only a dream. 
 
 Other loved ones are coming, a numerous throng ; 
 
 Their welcomes are hearty, their hand-clasps are strong, 
 
 Their eyes are agleam with the same tender glow 
 
 Which melted my heart in the dear long ago. 
 
so POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 I enter the home of my childhood again, 
 All things are the same as in infancy when 
 The old roof-tree sheltered an unbroken band 
 And a rose-tinted future our hopeful hearts planned. 
 The old-fashioned furniture, cozy and bright, 
 The fireplace dififusing its soft mellow light, 
 The old pictures hanging upon the same walls, 
 The carpeted stairways and wide spacious halls. 
 The footfalls, the voices, the stir without strife 
 Bringing out the harmonious rhythm of life. 
 I look and I listen, so real doth it seem. 
 It surely is more than a swift passing dream. 
 Ah, no, for 'tis only in dreamland that we 
 Wander back to the Eden of youth, hear or see 
 The sights and the sounds of that dim distant shore 
 Whose outline once faded returns never more. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 31 
 
 WINTER IN THE ADIRONDACKS. 
 
 Deep lies the snow upon the ground, 
 And here and there a snowy mound 
 Tells where shrub, evergreen or rock 
 Lies shrouded in its fleecy frock. 
 
 Afar the mountain tops are seen, 
 Snow crowned, o'erlooking wide ravine 
 And forests frosted white with snow, 
 Through which the biting north winds blow. 
 
 Still water streams are frozen o'er 
 But still we hear the muffled roar 
 Of rapids running day and night. 
 Foam crested torrents creamy white. 
 
 Mist shrouded waters, on they go 
 Till buried 'neath the ice below 
 They take their less conspicuous way 
 In darkness veiled from light of day. 
 
 The marshlands where the rabbits play 
 And where at times the wild deer stray 
 Are trodden by unnumbered feet 
 'Til many firm trod paths are beat. 
 
 Skirting the lowlands far and wide 
 Are upland plains or sloped hillside, 
 Where sprtice and hemlock, balsam, ash, 
 Birch, elm and maple wave and flash 
 
 Their jeweled plumes in wind and sun 
 As constant as the streamlets run. 
 
32 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 'Till pioneer or lumberman, 
 Infringing on the primeval plan, 
 
 Proceeds with saw and ax to raze 
 Those landmarks of primeval days, 
 Crowding the stern and stately ranks 
 Unto the frozen river banks. 
 
 When April rains melt ice and snow 
 And free again the waters f^ow. 
 The harv^ests of those plains and hills 
 Will float to feed the lumber mills. 
 
 The woods are still today and seem 
 Like pictures in a midnight dream, 
 The pall like snow, the frosty air. 
 And silence reigning everywhere. 
 
 Hark ! what is that blood curdling sound, 
 The baying of a hunter's hound, 
 He follows on the red deer's track, 
 Nor threat nor force can turn him back. 
 
 Nearer they come and now we see 
 The hunted stag bound wearily 
 With tongue protruding looking back 
 At fierce pursuer on its track. 
 
 Now steps the hunter into view 
 With gleaming riile aiming true, 
 A loud report, the ball has sped, 
 The noble game has fallen dead. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 33 
 
 No more to seek the lakelet's side 
 Where lily pads float far and wide, 
 While stars shine faint and moon is dim 
 And fireflies flashing startle him. 
 
 No more to snift the scented air 
 Or heed the danger signals there ; 
 Helpless and lifeless there he lies 
 The hardy hunter's well earned prize. 
 
 The shades of night are falling now 
 And shadows wreathe the mountain's brow, 
 The hunter hangs the deer close by 
 On bended sapling swinging high. 
 
 Then tramps away fearless of harm 
 To where his shanty snug and warm 
 Gives shelter from the stinging blast 
 Or wolf or panther prowling past. 
 
 Lighting his fire he cooks and dines, 
 Then on his bough-strewn couch reclines, 
 Health and contentment here alone, 
 Happy as king upon his throne. 
 
 His fire bums low, he falls asleep, 
 
 Nor dreams nor wakes in slumber deep, 
 
 He hears not hoot of wakeful owl 
 
 Nor panther's scream nor bear's low growl. 
 
 The hound well fed seeks sweet repose, 
 But restless feet and quivering nose 
 Tell that in dreams afar or near 
 He still pursues the panting deer. 
 
34- POE TICAL FOR TRAITS 
 
 The hours pass on, the morning breaks, 
 The Hght is dimmed by falling flakes, 
 The wind howls wrathful far and wide 
 Through wild ravine o'er mountain side. 
 
 The hunter cannot leave his lair 
 To follow wolf or deer or bear. 
 So spends his time as best he may 
 Until the storm shall pass away. 
 
 Next morn a striking change is seen, 
 The sky is clear, the air less keen. 
 The hunter seeks the crystal spring 
 For nature's free-will offering. 
 
 He chains the hound to shanty post 
 Lest he may leave his generous host 
 To wander through the woods at will, 
 To scent, to run, to wound or kill. 
 
 After his plain repast is o'er 
 The hunter tidies up the floor. 
 Puts things to rights in general way 
 Then plans his pastime for the day. 
 
 Gull pond lies to the south and west 
 And, though in snowy vestments dressed, 
 Beneath its robes of snow and ice 
 The trout are floating, and the price 
 
 Of getting some will be the tramp 
 Down to the lake and back to camp ; 
 At noon the lake is reached, and then 
 He rests and eats and smokes again. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS S5 
 
 Ignoring theories found in books 
 He cuts his holes and baits his hooks, 
 Drops in and waits for hungry trout 
 To bite so he may pull him out. 
 
 Not long he waits, a line descends. 
 The pole attached as swiftly bends ; 
 Now is the time to pull it out. 
 He pulls and lands a fine, large trout. 
 
 Others soon bite, he pulls them out ; 
 The pond seems full of hungry trout ; 
 Enough he takes to fill his pack, 
 Picks up his things and trudges back. 
 
 The next day he must make the round 
 Of some wolf traps, and takes the hound 
 Led by a cord, for fear lest he 
 May somehow a deserter be. 
 
 He tramps until the sun is high 
 When suddenly he hears a cry — 
 A wailing cry — as if of pain. 
 Followed by rattling of a chain. 
 
 "A wolf, a wolf, ha ! ha ! old chap, 
 What are you doing with my trap ?" 
 The savage beast makes no reply. 
 His time has come to do or die. 
 
 With foaming mouth and glaring eye 
 He sends forth one defiant cry, 
 Leaps hither, thither, to and fro, 
 But held by chain he cannot go. 
 
36 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Meanwhile the hunter taking aim 
 Fires one true shot and takes the game, 
 The wolf is vanquished on the spot 
 By that sure aim and deadly shot. 
 
 This picture was of years ago 
 When wolves prowled freely to and fro, 
 And bears and panthers found it play 
 Less fiercer game to catch and slay. 
 
 Today but few of them are found 
 In all the south woods hunting ground ; 
 Sometimes old bruin void of sense 
 Puts his black form in evidence. 
 
 And children of the pioneer 
 
 Betake them hom.eward filled with fear. 
 
 And '*0 my, papa, we have seen 
 
 A big black bear up the ravine." 
 
 Then word is sent to neighbors near. 
 And soon well armed the men appear. 
 Deploying quickly left and right 
 To intercept his bearship's flight. 
 
 Soon sharp reports disturb the air, 
 Suggesting they have found the bear, 
 'Tis true, and killed as soon as found — 
 A bear 'twill weigh four hundred pound. 
 
 Now gentle reader, I must say 
 "Farewell" — perhaps some future day 
 I'll tell you something (more or less) 
 Of summer in the wilderness. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 37 
 
 ROUND AND ROUND. 
 
 Round and round the great sun 
 
 Planets large and small, 
 Laws of gravitation 
 
 Hold them one and all ; 
 Mighty unseen forces 
 
 Working night and day 
 Keep them facing sunward, 
 
 Guide them in their way. 
 
 Round and round the seasons 
 
 Slowly come and go, 
 Stimmer brings the flowers, 
 
 Winter brings the snow; 
 Spring is bright with promise. 
 
 Autumn tinged with gold — 
 Thus it hath been ever 
 
 From the days of old. 
 
 Round and round we wander 
 
 Seemingly astray 
 From the light of ages. 
 
 From the perfect way; 
 But our Father keepeth 
 
 Watch above us all. 
 And His love will hold us 
 
 Should we faint or fall. 
 
SS POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 THE MONTHS OF THE YEAR. 
 
 JANUARY. 
 
 The snow lies heavy o'er hill and vale, 
 
 The earth is buried in snovv% 
 And the streamlets covered with icy mail 
 
 In silence and darkness flow. 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 This is the month when the sleeping bear 
 
 Comes out of his hollow tree 
 To judge if the weather be foul or fair, 
 
 What the coming days may be. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 The month of storms ; the north wind howls 
 
 Eike spirits in mortal pain, 
 The clouds float high in an angry sky, 
 
 But spring is coming again. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 The buds and blossoms are starting forth 
 
 Kissed by the April showers, 
 And the wind tho' still in the wintry north 
 
 Is perfumed by the breath of flowers. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 The winter is over, the birds have come 
 
 Back from the southern land. 
 The skies are clear in the May time dear 
 
 And Nature is sweet and grand. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 39 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 The heart of the summer breathes in June 
 
 With a fragrant hopeful breath, 
 The roses scatter their sweet perfume, 
 
 Then fade into mist and death. 
 
 JULY. 
 
 The cornblades rustle and whisper low, 
 
 The wild bird soars and sings, 
 And Nature's minor chords we know 
 
 Are the sound of growing things. 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 The people are beating a swift retreat 
 
 To the beaches and lakesides fair 
 To get away from the dust and heat 
 
 Of the sweltering summer air. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 The heat is over, the zephyrs sigh 
 
 Where the golden pippins swing, 
 There's a restful calm in the fair blue sky 
 
 And beauty in everything. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 The leaves are turning from green to gold 
 
 Through the fine October days. 
 And the sun seems sad as the year grows old, 
 For it veils its face 'neath the silken fold 
 
 Of the shimmering Autumn haze. 
 
io POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 The leaves have fallen, the trees are bare, 
 Some mornings the ground is white, 
 
 Jack Frost is busy in earth and air 
 Changing the bloom to blight. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 We cannot mourn for the dying year, 
 
 For hope exultant swells. 
 As on the frosty air we hear 
 
 The joyous Christmas bells. 
 
 Beautiful months and beautiful years 
 Of shine and shadow, of smiles and tears, 
 Of love and yearning, of hopes and fears, 
 I weave them together and now it appears 
 A chaplet of gold for the brow of the years. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 4.1 
 
 STAR LAKE. 
 
 Far, far away from the cities' din, 
 
 The cities' filth and the cities' sin, 
 
 In the northern part of the Empire State, 
 
 Where the snow falls early and lingers late ; 
 
 Where the Ice King comes from his northern zone — 
 
 When flowers have withered and birds have flown — 
 
 And binds the rivers and lakes and springs 
 
 With his icy chains and his frosty rings — 
 
 There lieth a mighty wilderness, 
 
 A picture of primitive loveliness. 
 
 In solemn grandeur its mountains rise 
 
 Till their mist-veiled tops seem to touch the skies. 
 
 In summer time, when the days are bright, 
 
 A blue haze covers each misty height — 
 
 To lovers of beauty a glorious sight. 
 
 Far over the valleys that lie between, 
 
 A vision of emerald bloom is seen, 
 
 Broken here and there by the silver sheen 
 
 Of shimmering lakes where the wild deer play 
 
 On their pebbly shores, at the close of day. 
 
 Here numerous rivers have their source. 
 
 And from here they start on their seavv^ard course, 
 
 Deepening and widening till far below 
 
 They charm eye and ear with their murmuring flow. 
 
 On the northern side of this wilderness, 
 
 W^here nature and art now hold sacred tryst, 
 
 Lies a body of water, as calm and blue 
 
 As the sky above ; and its outlines true 
 
 Of a beautiful star have served to make 
 
 A name for this water : We call it Star Lake. 
 
42 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Inclosed by the forest, its holy calm 
 
 Is rivaled alone by its healing balm. 
 
 As we ripple its waters with paddle or oars, 
 
 Or sit, or stand on its quiet shores. 
 
 Gazing afar at its fair outlines, 
 
 As the hours go by and the day declines, 
 
 And the stars come out for their nightly show 
 
 And mirror themselves in the depths below, 
 
 We heed them not, for a vision appears. 
 
 And the veil is drawn from the long dark years. 
 
 Now, I take my pen and briefly trace 
 Some scenes in the lives of a vanished race. 
 Though they paddle no more o'er waters blue, 
 Or to wooded shore moor their light canoe. 
 Or listen again to the wind harp's wail — 
 The Great Spirit's voice in the fitful gale — 
 They have left their record of hopes and fears, 
 Of pride and passion, of smiles and tears. 
 And the Red men's history, we may know, 
 Though the actors lived in the long ago. 
 
 Here the Indian lover, with heart as true 
 As the Great North Star in the changeless blue, 
 To the Indian maid told his sweet love-tale 
 By the campfire's glow, or the moonlight pale. 
 Here the Indian hunter went in and out, 
 Shot the panting deer, caught the agile trout, 
 Built his tall tepee by the lakelet's side. 
 As a rough rude home for his dusky bride ; 
 Brought in the feathers of duck and goose 
 For a nice soft bed for his young papoose. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 43 
 
 Here the Indian warrior, trained to strife, 
 Knowing not the value of human life. 
 With his tomahawk and scalping knife, 
 Made the forest ring with his fearful yell. 
 And scenes that rivaled the white man's hell. 
 But his star of destiny rose and fell ; 
 For time rolled on and the white man came. 
 And the Indian left his wilds and game 
 And the bones of his fathers, at Fate's behest. 
 For new, strange scenes in the far, far west. 
 
 Still the forest lay, in its virgin pride, 
 A world by itself — a world so wide, 
 So beautiful, wonderful, rich and grand — 
 To the hunter and settler, the promised land. 
 Here the tall pines grew in their native grace. 
 And the spruce and hemlock found a place ; 
 The beech, and maple, and cherry, and ash, 
 And birch, and balsam, would bring the cash, 
 When made into paper or lumber ; and so. 
 The pride of the forest must be laid low. 
 
 Then the hills were rich with shining ore. 
 
 So the rocks must be blasted, and rent and tore; 
 
 And mills be builded upon the streams 
 
 And active life take the place of dreams. 
 
 Afar, in the distance, the Iron Horse blew 
 
 His trumpet of warning ; the clearings grew ; 
 
 And farms, and buildings, and centers of trade, 
 
 Were signs of progress the white man made — 
 
 Signs fulfilling from day to day, 
 
 As the old scenes faded and passed away. 
 
U POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Then the people came from the cities' din, 
 
 The cities' filth and the cities' sin, 
 
 And they saw our beautiful lakelet here, 
 
 Bordered with evergreens far and near ; 
 
 Inhaled the fragrance of fir and pine, 
 
 Drank copious draughts of nature's wine ; 
 
 And they made them camps on its sunny shores, 
 
 And tarried, and rested on idle oars ; 
 
 And some of them, lifting their hearts in prayer. 
 
 Thanked God for a picture so pure and fair. 
 
 Some came, in the strength of youth and prime, 
 For fun and frolic and real good time ; 
 To explore the region, and see the sights, 
 And paddle for deer in the foggy nights ; 
 To climb the mountains, so grand and tall, 
 And wish, it may be, that they owned them all. 
 Some came, with fevered and sunken cheeks. 
 To camp by the lake for a few short weeks, 
 To drink pure w^ater, and breathe pure air. 
 And find relief from their anxious care. 
 
 Then they all went back to the towns again. 
 
 With a homesick feeling akin to pain, 
 
 And vowed when another year rolled round. 
 
 To return to the Star Lake camping ground. 
 
 And they came again as they prophesied, 
 
 And built them cottages, side by side. 
 
 Some being wealthy, discreet, and wise, 
 
 Erected hotels of enormous size, 
 
 For thousands of people were fully awake, 
 
 And anxious for quarters, up there, at Star Lake. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS ^5 
 
 And still they are coming, and still they go ; 
 
 While steam-whistles shriek in the vales below, 
 
 And railtrains travel with rush and roar. 
 
 Round steep sharp curves, where the speed is slower. 
 
 Till the whistle blows, and the brakes are down, 
 
 At Oswegatchie, the Side Hill Town. 
 
 Here an elegant 'bus the passengers take 
 
 For a two miles ride to the great Star Lake. 
 
 And the train moves on, and we then see signs 
 
 Of what they are doing at Benson Mines. 
 
 Still onward, and soon the conductor calls : 
 
 **A11 passengers out ! This is Newton Falls." 
 
 Here they make paper of finest degree, 
 
 And here they make money, abundant and free. 
 
 Now reader, in closing, I wish you success, 
 
 And pray the All Father your portion to bless ; 
 
 But should life's burdens prove heavy to bear 
 
 And bov/ down your spirit with weakness and care, 
 
 Come up to Star Lake, for this sparkling gem 
 
 Has always a balm for the spirits of men. 
 
4-6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 WALKING THE PLANK. 
 
 Across the high seas in the days long agone, 
 
 Bold Pirate ships floated with black flags thereon ; 
 
 A skull and cross-bones, at their mast-head portrayed, 
 
 Were sure tokens of death to the prisoners they made. 
 
 After stripping them clean of all treasures possessed, 
 
 With no thought of mercy in any black breast, 
 
 Regardless alike as to age, sex or rank. 
 
 The prisoners were murdered by walking the plank. 
 
 Surrounded by Pirates, no succor was near, 
 But hopeless and helpless, and trembling with fear, 
 With hands tied behind them they waited the will 
 Of those who delighted to plunder and kill. 
 A long plank was laid on the ship's deck, and then 
 Pushed out o'er the water by strong willing men ; 
 Then guarded by Pirates in rear and on flank. 
 The prisoners were murdered by walking the plank. 
 
 There are Pirates today on life's treacherous sea, 
 
 Blood-thirsty and cruel as demons could be, 
 
 They live at their ease, like the Pirates of old. 
 
 And plunder and murder for silver and gold. 
 
 I refer to the men who engage in the trade 
 
 By which beggars and paupers and drunkards are made, 
 
 For after the rum seller's poison they've drank, 
 
 They finish the drama by walking the plank. 
 
 We pity the victims who fell long ago, 
 
 And try to imagine the sad scenes of woe. 
 
 As with vain plea for mercy they sank neath the wave, 
 
 And living, went down to a watery grave. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 4-7 
 
 We truly thank God that such horrors are o'er, 
 And Pirates sail over the high seas no more ; 
 The gallows and gibbet thinned out the black rank 
 And stopped the dread torture of walking the plank. 
 
 But the bold whiskey Pirates in endless array, 
 
 Unhindered are doing their dark work today. 
 
 In the palace hotel, in the fiery saloon. 
 
 In the blackness of midnight or glare of the noon, 
 
 In tempest or sunshine, in peace or in strife, 
 
 Devoid of all feeling for love or for life, 
 
 They strip their weak victims 'til hope becomes blank, 
 
 And nothing is left them but walking the plank. 
 
 We pray for the drunkard, we pity his fall, 
 And yet for his rescue do nothing at all. 
 We license the Pirates to follow the trade, 
 Bv which he a drunkard and outcast is made ; 
 Then pretend to be shocked at the sound of the knell 
 Which warns that he sleeps but to 'waken in hell. 
 Oh, sad was the day when he stumbled and sank. 
 While good Christian voters were holding the plank. 
 
 Oh, cruel the mockery of sermons and prayers, 
 While we leave the saloon with temptations and snares, 
 To allure men away from the Saviour of men. 
 And bhnd them and bind them and curse them again. 
 Either muffle the bells of our churches today, 
 And shroud every Bible in darkness away, 
 Or strike off the fetters which dismally clank, 
 Where rum's countless victims are walking the plank. 
 
48 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 My friends, it is time that with Jericho shout, 
 We put alcohol to inglorious rout. 
 Let its minions be shown that the set time has come, 
 To emancipate men from the bondage of rum. 
 Yes, rise in your manhood, ye sons of the brave, 
 Your imperilled brothers to rescue and save. 
 Crush out the vile traffic, then God w^e may thank 
 That no more poor victims are walking the plank. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 49 
 
 HATE. 
 
 Fierce unholy passion, 
 
 Accursed art thou, 
 To write of thee justly 
 
 I hardly know how ; 
 Thy spirit no mortal 
 
 Can treasure, but lo ! 
 His cup runneth over 
 
 With sorrow and woe. 
 
 Thou offspring of evil, 
 
 Thou waif of the night, 
 Ever choosing the darkness. 
 
 And shunning the light ; 
 Thou turnest life's pleasures 
 
 To bitterest gall, 
 By mixing and pouring 
 
 And poisoning all. 
 
 Give thee but an entrance 
 
 To mind or to heart. 
 And love, peace and joy spread 
 
 Their wings and depart. 
 Let come dire misfortune, 
 
 We bow to our fate. 
 But oh ! do not leave us 
 
 The victims of hate. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Magic enthrallment, 
 Tender and sweet, 
 
 Bringing the bravest 
 Low at thy feet. 
 
fo POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Vision of Eden, 
 
 Fadeless and pure, 
 All else may wither, 
 
 Love will endure. 
 
 Out on life's pathway 
 
 Lonely we roam. 
 Seeking- a fortune. 
 
 Friends and a home. 
 Love in compassion 
 
 Touches the heart, 
 Home, friends and fortune 
 
 It doth impart. 
 
 Wonderful presence, 
 
 Never in vain, 
 Soothing our sorrows. 
 
 Easing our pain ; 
 Sharing our burdens. 
 
 Smoothing the road, 
 Leading us gently 
 
 Upward to God. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 Say not that Heaven lieth yonder. 
 
 Beyond the mist and spray ; 
 We may walk in Heaven's golden splendor, 
 
 Happy pilgrims, day by day. 
 
 Even here Edenic joys are given, 
 
 The gates of life ope' wide ; 
 The pure in heart see God, and this is Heaven, 
 
 Reflect Him, and are satisfied. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 51 
 
 Beneath the cross the crown is shining, 
 
 Take up thy cross today ; 
 Spend not an hour in vain repining, 
 
 Time speeds away, away. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The calm and restful time has come, 
 Of all the year the sweetest, best ; 
 Nor wild birds' song, nor wild bees' hum, 
 Disturbs my rest. 
 
 The clouds of morn have sailed away 
 
 'Til none in the wide heaven I view ; 
 The sunlight smiles this autumn day, 
 Through cloudless blue. 
 
 In peace I sleep, in peace I wake ; 
 Of nature's holy calm possessed. 
 Naught can I give, I simply take, 
 God's boon of rest. 
 
 WHY? 
 
 Afar in the shining heavens 
 
 The cloud fleets dreamily drift, 
 And the changing panorama's 
 
 Invisible fingers shift. 
 No warning of storm is in them, 
 
 No token of war or strife ; 
 They only portray the brightness 
 
 Of a pure and peaceful life. 
 
52 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 The snnlig^ht falls in blessing 
 
 Far over the glad green earth, 
 And sounds harmonious mingle 
 
 As though heaven had given them birth. 
 The air is filled with a fragrance 
 
 As rare as the sweetest balm, 
 And the pulse of nature is beating 
 
 To the hush of a Sabbath calm. 
 
 The discords of earth no longer 
 
 Grate harshly upon my ear ; 
 I seem to have risen above them. 
 
 And the music that now I hear 
 Is like to the low-toned zephyrs 
 
 That murmur when storms are o'er, 
 Or the ripple of silver wavelets 
 
 That break on a stormless shore. 
 
 I gaze on the matchless beauty 
 
 Of the earth, and air, and sky. 
 Till I seem to see in their splendor 
 
 The dawn of the "by and by." 
 Why is it that visions so perfect 
 
 Must pass away, like a breath. 
 And over each rainbow of promise 
 
 Bend ever the gloom of death? 
 
 Why is it that loved and loving 
 
 Must fade like the flowers away, 
 And go from our sight as quickly 
 
 As the bloom of a summer day ? 
 Oh ! that out of the sunny silence 
 
 That reigns in the cloud-flecked sky, 
 Might fall on my listening spirit, 
 
 God's answer, — telling me Why. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 53 
 
 THE FIRST SNOWSTORM. 
 
 From the sky with clouds a frown 
 Fell the feathery snowflakes down, 
 Silent fell on roof and street, 
 Slowly melting 'neath our feet. 
 Hundreds, thousands, millions there 
 Filling all the dampened air, 
 Melting, lingering, 'til at last. 
 Falling thick and falling fast, 
 All the earth is veiled from sight, 
 'Neath a fieecy robe of white. 
 
 Leafless trees by frosts laid bare, 
 Shivering in the wintry air. 
 Seem to breathe a silent prayer 
 Of thanKsgiving to the snow 
 Spreading out its mantle so; 
 Clothing them in spotless dress 
 Peerless in its loveliness. 
 Lower droop the branches down, 
 Fairer grows their crystal crown, 
 'Til they seem like fairy bowers 
 Blossoming with magic flowers. 
 
 Evening comes with sombre pall. 
 Still the pearly snowflakes fall ; 
 And the late pedestrian. 
 Through the darkness trudging on, 
 Hails with joy the cheerful light 
 Of his home this cheerless night. 
 
54 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 May the one who sends the snow 
 Every needed gift bestow, 
 Giving to the helpless poor, 
 Treasures from His bounteous store, 
 'Til the poorest one shall know 
 God is good who gives the snow. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT THUNDER PEAL. 
 
 Let the lightning flash around me, and the thunder mut- 
 ter loud, 
 
 Let the monarchs of the forest by the tempest's breath 
 be bowed ; 
 
 I can stand the test by daylight, and no mortal terrors 
 feel, 
 
 But avert from me the horrors of the midnight thunder 
 peal. 
 
 Were you ever rudely wakened from some soul entranc- 
 ing dream, 
 
 By the thunder's solemn booming and the lightning's 
 lurid gleam ; 
 
 When the sky above seemed burning and the solid earth 
 to reel 
 
 'Neath the loud reverberations of the awful thunder peal ? 
 
 Though we may not stay the lightning as it rushes 
 
 through the air 
 On its bright electric pinions, hither, thither, everywhere ; 
 O, that Franklin's ghost w^ould rally, and some gracious 
 
 plan reveal 
 To reduce the roar and rattle of the midnight thunder 
 
 peal! 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS S5 
 
 I'M GROWING OLD. 
 
 I'm growing old, as day by day 
 My mortal life speeds on its way, 
 And, though my tears unbidden flow, 
 To think, alas, it must be so ; 
 Through summer's heat and winter's cold 
 I read the truth — I'm growing old. 
 
 I'm growing old ; the flight- of years 
 Each year more startlingly appears; 
 My birthdays nearer seem to be. 
 Their hurried passing w^arning me 
 That life's brief tale will soon be told 
 And I shall be infirm and old. 
 
 I'm growing old, my hair grows thin, 
 And threads of silver creeping in 
 Give warning of the flight of time ; 
 Marks well the loss of manhood's prime. 
 Speaks out in language stern and cold — 
 Remember you are growing old. 
 
 I'm growing old, deep carelines trace 
 Life's checkered history on my face. 
 Telling of days when life was fair, 
 Telling of days dark gloomed with care. 
 Telling of loves and hates grown cold 
 In heart once young, now growing old. 
 
 I'm growling old ! The friends of youth, 
 Endeared by innocence and truth. 
 Have one by one their farewells said. 
 
36 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Joining the army of the dead — 
 Resting beneath the damp earth mold 
 Where none are weary, none grow old. 
 
 I'm growing old, my sight grows dim, 
 My strength abates ; a spectre grim 
 Waves snowy arms from distant shore 
 And seems to beckon and implore 
 As if it would my life enfold 
 And keep it safe from growing old. 
 
 A PATHETIC INCIDENT. 
 
 Died in our Christian village, 
 
 A man in his manhood's prime. 
 Like a plant prematurely blighted 
 
 And wither'd before its time. 
 One day in the public places 
 
 As a sorrowful looker on, 
 The next from the paths of the living 
 
 His feet had forever gone. 
 
 Died in our Christian village, 
 
 With its churches so grand and fair, 
 With the incense forever rising 
 
 In love and praise and prayer; 
 With members devoutly kneeling 
 
 And praying God's kingdom to come, 
 Then dead to all human feeling, 
 
 Ignoring the curse of rum. 
 
 Died m our Christian village. 
 Died did I say? Yes and no; 
 
 I hold that the victim was murdered, 
 Death followed the rum poison'd blow ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 57 
 
 You lay it of course to his drinking 
 
 Persistently day after day — 
 Ah ! 'tis easy to see that he stumbled, 
 
 But who rolled the stones in his way ? 
 
 Yes, he died in our Christian village 
 
 And now in the churchyard fair 
 Let the kind-hearted give of their substance 
 
 To put up a monument there ; 
 And write on the beautiful marble 
 
 This truthful account of his fate : 
 Here lies a man that was tempted 
 
 And killed bv a law of the state. 
 
58 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 NEWTON FALLS AND BENSON MINES. 
 
 Where the Northern Adirondacks stand in all their state- 
 ly pride, 
 
 And their sloping summits rise like towering walls ; 
 
 Where the forest and the river long have slumbered side 
 by side, 
 
 Stands the little frontier town of Newton Falls. 
 
 Years ago the author wandered down the banks of this 
 
 bright stream, 
 Where the sportsman often roamed with rod and gun, 
 But the future of this section, he had not the faintest 
 
 dream. 
 As he caught the speckled beauties one by one. 
 
 Near to Nature's heart he listened to her tender lullabys, 
 
 As they echoed low and sweet through leafy halls ; 
 
 All around him peaceful forests, all above him cloudless 
 
 skies. 
 But no sight or sound or trace of Newton Falls. 
 
 Now capital and labor have their giant arms entwined 
 
 In a union that is permanent and strong ; 
 
 And the motive power engendered by the union thus 
 
 combined 
 Moves the mighty wheels of progress right along. 
 
 A pulp and lumber company built the village and the 
 
 mills. 
 Putting in approved machinery small and great. 
 The spruces, hemlocks, maples grew abundant on the 
 
 hills. 
 And a railroad came to carry out the freight. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 59 
 
 A hotel was soon erected on a generous modern plan, 
 Which for elegance and comfort is complete, 
 And the very best provisions to supply the outer man. 
 Are served by graceful waiters fresh and neat. 
 
 Though no church adorns the village with its steeple to- 
 ward the skies, 
 
 Yet the word of God is preached in open halls ; 
 
 And the preachers point the people to the life that never 
 dies, 
 
 In the truth endorsing town of Newton Falls. 
 
 Here the alcoholic demon is forever kept at bay. 
 Though his baffled rage the timid heart appalls ; 
 Prohibition is the watchword, and it has the right of way 
 In the temperance loving town of Newton Falls. 
 
 Here the sunny sun-browned workmen come from places 
 
 far and near. 
 For its here it seems to them that duty calls ; 
 And they work for living wages and they work with 
 
 hearty cheer. 
 In this enterprising town of Newton Falls. 
 
 And thus capital and labor walk together hand in hand, 
 Barring out the unseemly sight of strikes and brawls ; 
 Each dependent on the other they make no unjust de- 
 mand, 
 In this pretty, peaceful town of Newton Falls. 
 
 In the sultry days of summer from the cities' toil and 
 
 strife, 
 Parties come and make their pleasant annual calls ; 
 And they get a rest from labor and a truer sense of life, 
 In this care-forgetting tov/n of Newton Falls. 
 
6o POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Just below this Newton hamlet as you face the south and 
 
 west, 
 Where once grew the lordly tamaracks and pines, 
 Where the red deer loved to wander and the eagle built 
 
 his nest, 
 There is now the business town of Benson Mines. 
 
 Here the Little river ore-bed, and large tracts of timber 
 
 land. 
 Were the magnets, which attracted people in, 
 For the prospect of a fortune we can fully understand 
 Was the same with them as it had ever been. 
 
 In this grand balsamic region with pure water and pure 
 
 air, 
 People know but very little of disease, 
 For it's possible with exercise and taking proper care 
 To be about as healthy as you please. 
 
 Still as accidents may happen when you least expect them 
 
 to, 
 Dr. Wiltse keeps an office on Broadway ; 
 And if arms and limbs get broken, the proper thing to do 
 Is to send for him without the least delay. 
 
 In this new commercial center, where the wheels of busi- 
 ness hum 
 
 Just as constant as the tide-wave ebbs and flows, 
 
 They have built two pretty churches where the rich and 
 poor may come, 
 
 And find healing for their mortal griefs and woes. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 6i 
 
 Then their large and handsome schoolhouse is a credit 
 
 to the town, 
 For learning ever strengthens and refines ; 
 And it shows the people prize it, when they pay their 
 
 money dov/n, 
 For the cause of education at the Mines. 
 
 May the work of church and schoolhouse ever prosper 
 
 and abide, 
 While the work of evil steadily declines ; 
 May the buds of virtue blossom where the weeds of vice 
 
 have died, 
 To the everlasting praise of Benson Mines. 
 
 But before my muse gets weary, I must take a backward 
 
 look — 
 Retrospection shows a hunter's camping ground — 
 With bark shanties through the forest close beside a 
 
 spring or brook. 
 Where the clear, cold sparkling water might be found. 
 
 Here the Youngs, Partlows and Greenfields hunted pan- 
 ther, wolf and bear. 
 
 For right well they understood their tracks and signs ; 
 
 And full oft those hardy hunters tracked the wild beast 
 to his lair 
 
 On the site of w^hat was later Benson Mines. 
 
 Oh ! the tales of wild adventure which those stalwart hun- 
 ters told 
 
 Of their hand-to-hand encounters 'neath the pines 
 
 Would unnerve a timid person — make his very blood 
 run cold, 
 
 With the thought of tragic scenes at Benson Mines. 
 
62 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Now those stirring scenes are ended, for the forest is laid 
 
 low, 
 And the clearings and the buildings take its place ; 
 We can see the steam clouds rising, we can hear the 
 
 whistles blow. 
 And the hunter is no longer in the race. 
 
 But it's time to end my poem, and I will not trespass 
 
 more. 
 For I want your kindly judgment on these lines. 
 So I'll close by merely saying what I've otten thought 
 
 before, 
 Success to Newton Falls and Benson Mines. 
 
 WANAKFNA. 
 
 April, 1903. 
 
 What little town of frontier fame 
 Called by a pretty Indian name 
 Is building where the Inlet flows, 
 And day by day more homelike grows? 
 Wanakena. 
 
 What little town whose railroad lines 
 Connect all right with Benson Mines, 
 So passengers can ride at ease 
 And view the scenery as they please ? 
 Wanakena. 
 
 What town with buildings new and neat, 
 Though minus graded road or street, 
 Will soon have them arranged complete, 
 As prosperous as the county seat? 
 Wanakena. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 63 
 
 What town whose people's sense of right 
 Prompt them to treat the stranger white, 
 And by their words and acts express 
 The spirit of true manhness? 
 Wanakena. 
 
 What httle town deserves success 
 For struggUng in the wilderness 
 Its wealth and beauty to disclose 
 And make it blossom like the rose? 
 Wanakena. 
 
 SITTING AROUND. 
 
 Through the mellow haze of the warm spring days, 
 
 When earth is vocal with songs of praise, 
 
 When flowers are budding and blooming fair, 
 
 And all is activity everywhere, 
 
 I hear the hum and the droning sound 
 
 Where a group of idlers are sitting around. 
 
 Sitting around while the toilers toil. 
 
 While the farmer cultivates the soil ; 
 
 While the blacksmith is striking resounding blows, 
 
 When the anvil quivers and forge fire glows ; 
 
 Where life is a thrill with its ceaseless round. 
 
 Shame on the men who are sitting around. 
 
 Sitting around while homes are bare, 
 
 And loved ones with little to eat or wear 
 
 Are dreaming sad dreams of days agone. 
 
 While time and tide are both drifting on 
 
 And the group in the big chairs is still to be found, 
 
 Languidly, lazily sitting around. 
 
64 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 What is the attraction, O pray tell me what, 
 That calls them so oft to this magical spot, 
 Which hardens their hearts to the thought of home 
 And the loved ones waiting for them to come. 
 Is it pleasure or profit or wisdom profound 
 That inclines them so much to be sitting around? 
 
 Is it tasteful surroundings or sense of repose 
 
 Which attracts them and holds them as life ebbs and 
 
 flows ? 
 Whatever it is, it is powerful I know 
 And the lesson it teaches is practical too ; 
 'Tis a poor lot of men that today can be found 
 With nothing to do except sitting around. 
 
 DAY AND NIGHT. 
 A Character Poem. 
 DAY. 
 
 Good evening my dark robed sister ! 
 
 They tell me your name is Night ; 
 My name is Day, and so, sister, 
 
 You see I am robed in white. 
 
 I came to the earth this morning 
 
 Just as you were going away, 
 I am pleased to make your acquaintance 
 
 Though I have but a short time to stay. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 I am sure I am only too happy 
 To meet with you thus. Sister Day, 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 65 
 
 I have known you by name for a long time 
 And I hear you are cheerful and gay. 
 
 'Tis said that you bask in the sunshine, 
 
 In country, in hamlet and town, 
 Giving smiles and good cheer to all people, 
 
 But never a murmur or frown. 
 
 DAY. 
 
 I fear then that my reputation 
 
 Will not stand a critical test ; 
 I am not always sunny and cheerful, 
 
 I murmur sometimes like the rest. 
 
 The truth is I mean to be sunny 
 
 And send forth a radiant light. 
 And would were it not for the shadows 
 
 That veil the bright sun from my sight ! 
 
 They darken about me so sudden. 
 
 So sullen, so gloomy and grey ; 
 Then people find fault with me for it. 
 
 It just takes my courage away. 
 
 Such a dark day, or cold day, or wet day. 
 Oh ! the chill of their censure and frown ; 
 
 All in all it is perfectly dreadful — 
 Do you wonder I'm often cast down? 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Dear sister, please stop this repining. 
 Your trouble I plainly can see ; 
 
66 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Tarry here in the twiHght a moment 
 And learn a short lesson from me. 
 
 I was born for the darkness and shadow, 
 
 Was given no choice in my lot ; 
 Night was my name and my nature 
 
 Whether it pleased me or not. 
 
 So I made up my mind to be grateful 
 For whatever light sHould be mine, 
 
 And Oh ! I remember my rapture 
 
 When one little star chanced to shine. 
 
 And as the dark shadows receded 
 And myriads of stars came in view, 
 
 And I saw bending lovingly over 
 A star spangled heaven of blue, 
 
 And lo ! in the east, smiling faintly 
 
 The beautiful face of the moon, 
 I worshipped the Infinite Giver 
 
 For such an unspeakable boon. 
 
 And when the dark clouds with their shadows 
 Veiled all of their glory from sight. 
 
 My heart kept a joyful thanksgiving 
 And patiently waited for light. 
 
 DAY. 
 
 Dear sister, I fervently thank you. 
 
 Although you have humbled my pride; 
 
 You have taught me a much needed lesson 
 And strengthened my courage beside. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 67 
 
 My station in life is above you, 
 
 My pathway much brighter I know, 
 
 My blessings your own have outnumbered, 
 Our Father hath ordered it so. 
 
 You walk through a lifetime of shadow. 
 Seeing naught but the stars and the moon 
 
 My face is illumed by the morning, 
 I bask in the splendors of noon. 
 
 I watch the white sails in the harbor, 
 I watch the lone ships on the sea. 
 
 And afar o'er the mountains and valleys 
 There is brightness and beauty for me. 
 
 I witness the grand transformation 
 Of forest and field in the spring, 
 
 When nature portrays resurrection 
 And joybells in ecstacy ring. 
 
 And yet I have murmured so often 
 At the sight of a cloud settling down. 
 
 And suffered its shadow to darken 
 The light of my face with a frown. 
 
 Dear sister, right here in your presence 
 
 I would my ingratitude own, 
 My pride and my selfish ambition. 
 
 For which I would gladly atone. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Well, dear one, I know you are pardoned, 
 God's mercy is free for us all ; 
 
6S POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Were it not so, how often the strongest 
 Would falter and stumble and fall. 
 
 But let me suggest to you further 
 
 A mission which you may fulfill, 
 A glorious mission, my sister, 
 
 In line with the Infinite will. 
 
 I have heard through the sweep of the ages, 
 'Bove the pathways where mortals have trod, 
 
 The refrain of a pitiful murmur 
 
 'Gainst the wisdom and goodness of God, 
 
 From many whose bright cups of blessing 
 Would fill to the brim and o'erflow, 
 
 Were it not for some treasure withholden 
 Which they secretly coveted so. 
 
 Or, it may be the loss of some idol 
 Which they as a god had enshrined, 
 
 Forgetting the good God of heaven. 
 Our Father so loving and kind. 
 
 Go tell to such mortals my story ; 
 
 Yes, say that the night, dark and lone. 
 Thanks God for all light, and all blessing, 
 
 That into her face ever shone. 
 
 Tell them to be hopeful and trustful, 
 Whatever their patience may try ; 
 
 And now, my dear sister, God bless you ; 
 I wish you success, and good bye. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 6g 
 
 THE FIRST ROBIN. 
 
 Today I saw a robin 
 
 And heard him sweetly sing, 
 But could not help but pity 
 
 The foolish little thing; 
 To leave the sunny Southland 
 
 For land of frost and snow 
 Before the mayflowers blossom 
 
 Or dainty violets blow. 
 
 And yet I gladly listened 
 
 To hear the robin sing, 
 For was it not a prophet 
 
 And harbinger of spring? 
 And, if an early comer 
 
 To land of frost and snow, 
 He could not tarry longer 
 
 Because he loved it so. 
 
 May heaven bless the birdie, 
 
 So bold and venturesome, 
 And keep his feet from freezing 
 
 'Til warmer days shall come ; 
 'Til balmy April showers 
 
 Shall melt the ice and snow, 
 And far and near the mayflowers 
 
 And dainty violets blow. 
 
 ODE TO THE MOON. 
 
 Queen of the starry night, 
 Reflecting borrowed light, 
 Yet beautiful and bright. 
 Shine on. 
 
70 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 O'er mountains grand and tall, 
 Shrouded in snowy pall, 
 Where silence ruleth all, 
 Shine on. 
 
 O'er leagues of crystal snow. 
 Where winter's breezes blow, 
 O'er plain and moorland low, 
 Shine on. 
 
 Where forests vast and dim, 
 Trembling in leaf and limb, 
 Murmur a ceaseless hymn, 
 Shine on. 
 
 I Where streamlets blithe and free 
 In full toned harmony 
 Flow singing toward the sea. 
 Shine on. 
 
 O'er cities grand and fair. 
 Where high and lowly are, 
 And o'er the ocean far. 
 Shine on. 
 
 Where tombstones glisten white, 
 Bathed in thy silver light, 
 Through all the silent night, 
 Shine on. 
 
 Where e'er our steps may roam. 
 However far from home. 
 Attended or alone, 
 Shine on. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 71 
 
 Blessings on thy sweet face, 
 In all the realms of space 
 Naught can usurp thy place, 
 Dear Moon. 
 
 A SIN OF OMISSION. 
 
 Why not oft'ner write to the dear ones 
 
 Whose faces we seldom see, 
 A letter would give them such pleasure, 
 
 A few lines from you or from me ; 
 The weeks into months are fast turning. 
 
 The months into years roll on. 
 And we are neglecting the letters 
 
 To Bessie or Susie or John, 
 
 Or father, or mother, or uncle, 
 
 Or aunt, or cousin, or friend. 
 While they are so anxious to get them, 
 
 And we are so slow to send. 
 Consider our foolish excuses ; 
 
 "O, I can't write very well," 
 Or, "I am so busy with housework," 
 
 Or, **I am a poor hand to spell." 
 
 When we get a letter, how^ eager 
 
 We hasten to break the seal : 
 Our eagerness fully revealing 
 
 How glad and how grateful we feel. 
 How hastily then we review it. 
 
 Then read it and read it, until 
 Its contents are fairly committed 
 
 And we can repeat them at will. 
 
72 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 One simple request in the letter 
 
 We promise ourselves to heed : 
 "Please write soon," oh ! yes, we will do it, 
 
 Never in vain shall they plead ; 
 But 'tis vain, for truly we write not 
 
 And soon we forget the request, 
 Never dreaming how much we are grieving 
 
 The friend that was dearest and best. 
 
 We may not be able to lavish 
 
 On loved ones our silver or gold, 
 And the promptings of love and affection 
 
 We often are forced to withhold. 
 But a message of love to the absent 
 
 Will cost but a trifle to send. 
 Poorly spelled, poorly written, it may be, 
 
 But still just as dear to a friend. 
 
 Some day as we glance at the paper 
 
 We may read that our friend has died. 
 The friend whose legitimate favor. 
 
 The last one, perhaps, we denied. 
 O, let us be prompt in the future 
 
 And write to our friends while we may, 
 And write good long letters to comfort 
 
 The hearts that are lonely today. 
 
 COME UP TO THE MOUNT OF GOD. 
 
 A summons divine the Prophet heard 
 As he toiled on Sinai's plain — 
 
 Supreme command from the Living Word 
 To Israel's leader came ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 73 
 
 Give over the people to Aaron and Hur, 
 
 Let them hold the guiding rod ; 
 Come thou alone to the unseen throne 
 
 Far up in the Mount of God. 
 
 There is glory here on the holy mount 
 
 That will cause your face to shine ; 
 There is water of life from the opened fount, 
 
 There is joy and peace divine ; 
 You have tarried long in the valley of death 
 
 Where earth born mortals plod ; 
 Waste not another passing breath, 
 
 Haste up to the Mount of God. 
 
 O, soul in the shadow of sin and death 
 
 From the path of life astray, 
 Hear what the angel of mercy saith, 
 
 Come back to the shining way. 
 So long where darkness and night doth brood, 
 
 Akin to the soulless clod, 
 A message has come from the changeless good, 
 
 Come up to the Mount of God. 
 
 Leave far behind thee the tents of men 
 
 And dare to go on alone, 
 Though hidden awhile from mortal ken 
 
 God ever keepeth His own. 
 The angels of blessing have gone before, 
 
 'Tis safe where their feet have trod. 
 Though faint and weary and sad and sore, 
 
 Come up to the Mount of God. 
 
74- POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 I WONDER. 
 
 I wonder if when all my years are fled 
 
 And I lie down upon my dying bed 
 
 If I shall greatly dread to say farewell 
 
 To all that I have known and loved so well — 
 
 The starry sky so strangely beautiful, 
 
 The sweet faced moon, queen of the shining scroll, 
 
 The summer day dawns grand beyond compare, 
 
 The golden noons and eves divinely fair ; 
 
 The flowers so fragrant and the wild bird's song. 
 
 The streamlets murmur as it flowed along, 
 
 Through meadows fair 'neath gnarled and leafy trees 
 
 Whose swaying branches kissed the passing breeze. 
 
 I wonder if my friends in that last hour 
 
 W^ould stay my spirit if they had the power, 
 
 And if all powerless to prevent its flight 
 
 My palid face would hush their laughter light, 
 
 And bring perchance a pang of deep regret 
 
 To some dear face with grief's hot tear drops wet ; 
 
 And would the efforts of my feeble pen 
 
 Be called to mind and treasured fondly then, 
 
 Or freely added to affections store 
 
 Because the hand that wrote could write no more, 
 
 I wonder, but the mystery deepens still, 
 Death holds the answers and no human will, 
 Or power, or might, can break the mystic seal ; 
 And in advance its shadowy scenes reveal. 
 It will not matter, when my end is near. 
 How many shed for me the parting tear. 
 Or whether words express a vain regret 
 That mv life's sun should thus in darkness set. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 75 
 
 This all my prayer that I that hour may be 
 Sweetly composed and from earth longings free, 
 Saying when my earthly race is fully run 
 ''Farewell, dear earth, dear Lord, Thy will be done." 
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR THOUGHTS. 
 
 Since I have joined the Endeavor band 
 And given to it my heart and hand. 
 The question often comes to me. 
 Now, how can I most useful be. 
 
 I think *tis better to be used 
 Than make this plea, have me excused ; 
 For workers God has sympathy 
 And so I would a worker be. 
 
 I hope, and as I hope, I pray 
 That we may labor every day 
 In harmony with His sweet will 
 
 Who doth our cups of blessing fill. 
 
 ■I 
 
 As spring, the seed time of the year 
 Has come to us with life and cheer. 
 With springing blades and opening flowers, 
 With sunshine and with genial showers. 
 
 With misty eves and dewy dawns. 
 And birds that sing their summer songs, 
 A part of nature's minstrelsy 
 To furnish us with music free. 
 
 O may we ever bear in mind 
 That we may many lessons find 
 
y6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 In this best season of the year 
 To make our paths of duty clear. 
 
 The seed we sow in Hfe's fair spring 
 Will have its time of blossoming, 
 Then grow at length to ripened grain, 
 A harvest growth of joy or pain, 
 
 According to the seed we sow ; 
 Surely the fact we all should know 
 And sow our sweetest and our best, 
 And to God's mercy leave the rest. 
 
 A kindly word, a Christly deed 
 To those who for our pity plead, 
 Forgotten soon as said or done. 
 But noted by the All Knowing One, 
 
 Like bread upon the waters cast 
 
 May come to us when earth is past. 
 
 Transformed into a jewel rare 
 
 To make life's crown more bright and fair. 
 
 THE SALOON. 
 
 Down where the toughs are drinking 
 And the red beer flows free, 
 
 Down where the glasses clinking. 
 Speaks of wild revelry. 
 
 Down where the toughs are singing 
 
 Snatches of ribald song. 
 And curse on curse out-ringing. 
 
 Tells of a godless throng. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 77 
 
 Is that a place to gather 
 
 When the red sun goes down 
 And darkness droopeth gently 
 
 Over the silent town? 
 
 No, shun that place forever, 
 
 For oh ! the dead are there, 
 And the foaming beer can never 
 
 With love and life compare. 
 
 Oh ! shun that place forever, 
 
 'Tis a desperate haunt of sin 
 Where they take your wealth and manhood, 
 
 When once you have entered in. 
 
 Where all bad passions within you 
 From their foundations are stirred. 
 
 And manlike or Godlike emotion 
 Is scoffed at as weak aind absurd. 
 
 Then go not anear it, my brother. 
 Better enter a rattlesnake's den ; 
 
 Let villains or fools be its patrons, 
 But surely not sensible men. 
 
 DIVINE DELIVERANCE. 
 
 All the night had Christ's disciples 
 
 Rowed upon dark Gallilee, 
 And the grey dawn found them toiling, 
 
 Helpless on the stormy sea. 
 
 Meanwhile Christ upon a mountain 
 Spent the same dark hours in prayer, 
 
y8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Knowing the while that death and danger 
 Walked unhindered everywhere. 
 
 Now, as day is slowly breaking 
 
 Over land and over sea, 
 And the hearts of the disciples 
 
 Fail in hopeless misery, 
 
 There appears a form before them 
 Walking o'er the treacherous wave. 
 
 And they cried out, 'tis a spirit, 
 We shall find a watery grave. 
 
 But straightway the faithful Master 
 Spake and said, "Be of good cheer ; 
 
 It is I, be not affrighted — 
 
 There is now^ no cause to fear." 
 
 Peter said if it be thou. Lord, 
 Speak and bid me come to thee ; 
 
 And the Master answered quickly 
 Saying to Peter, "come to Me." 
 
 Then upon the angry waters 
 Peter ventured undismayed. 
 
 But the heaving, tossing billows 
 Made him once again afraid. 
 
 Down he sank and wild with terror 
 He just cried out, "Lord save me," 
 
 And the outstretched hand of Jesus 
 Saved him from the hungry sea. 
 
 "O, thou faithless one," said Jesus, 
 
 "Wherefore did'st thou fear and doubt," 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 79 
 
 But his trembling lips were silent, 
 As at once he turned about. 
 
 And they walked into the vessel 
 As the wind ceased its complaint, 
 
 And they worshipped Him rejoicing 
 With their hearts no longer faint. 
 
 O, Thou Christ of earth and heaven, 
 We are out upon life's sea, 
 
 And the darkness deepens round us, 
 And the winds blow threateningly. 
 
 In Thine infinite compassion. 
 Come to us we humbly pray ; 
 
 Walk with us across the billows. 
 Hush the winds and waves today. 
 
 Chide us if thou wilt, but save us, 
 Hold us by Thy loving hand 
 
 Till we reach the peaceful harbor 
 Of Thy precious promised land. 
 
8o POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 ON BEING ASKED BY MISS EMMA W. TO 
 WRITE HER A POEM. 
 
 July I, 1899. 
 
 You ask me to write you a poem, 
 But really I shrink from the task, 
 
 Although it would be a great pleasure 
 To give you whatever you ask. 
 
 In the first place my genius is faulty. 
 But the greatest excuse that I plead 
 
 Is this, that your own life, friend Emma, 
 Is about all the poem you need. 
 
 I have read a few stanzas, and truly, 
 
 Its spirit I greatly admire ; 
 If the world were but full of such poems, 
 
 Of reading I never should tire. 
 
 May your life when the last line is written 
 Be a volume all fragrant and bright, 
 
 For friends to peruse when death's fingers 
 Have hidden its author from sight. 
 
 THE CLOUDS RETURN AFTER THE RAIN. 
 
 I am sad today, for my thoughts alway 
 
 Fall into this gloomy refrain, 
 My pathway of life is through toiling and strife, 
 
 For the clouds return after the rain. 
 
 I could bide the showers, if in after hours 
 
 The sunshine would smile again, 
 But this is my fate that early or late 
 
 The clouds return after the rain. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 8i 
 
 So let others be gay, and glad while they may, 
 I would not their gladness restrain, 
 
 But I know as for me, it never can be. 
 For the clouds return after the rain. 
 
 Poor heart, be thou still, why wish thee, or will, 
 
 Since wishing and willing are vain? 
 Toil on through the tears, of the careburdened years. 
 
 And the clouds that come after the rain. 
 
 It may be at last when the shadows are past 
 
 And we shall lost Eden regain. 
 On that bright balmy shore that the clouds nevermore 
 
 Will return again after the rain. 
 
 AN EVENING REVERIE. 
 
 Nine o'clock, the darkness reigneth, 
 While the weird night wind complaineth. 
 
 And I sit 
 Where the cheerful lamps are burning. 
 All the shadows backward turning. 
 Listening to the winds complaining. 
 Silent sit, my thoughts restraining, 
 
 Though they flit 
 Through the dreams, my spirit dreameth, 
 Till to my wrapt soul it seemeth 
 
 That the past. 
 Marching in review before me, 
 Throws a veil of sadness o'er me, 
 Which no hopeful word can brighten. 
 Which no thoughtful hand can lighten. 
 
82 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Now these memories sad are fleeing, 
 And the mystery of being 
 
 Takes their place ; 
 And I wonder is it treason 
 Thus to sit and calmly reason 
 On the sinful, sad condition, 
 On the weak and vain ambition. 
 On the constant mute petition 
 
 Of our race. 
 Like a shadow that declineth, 
 Like a cloud-dimmed star man shineth 
 
 For a day — 
 'Til the night around him falling 
 And a voice beyond him calling. 
 Suddenly life's chord is riven 
 And the consciousness is driven 
 
 From the clay. 
 Into the unknown he goeth 
 Nor of the great future knoweth, 
 
 It may be ; 
 All his trustful spirit painted, 
 Beautious, blissful, sacred, sainted. 
 It may be that death will sever 
 Men from life and love forever — 
 
 Few agree. 
 Then why practice self denial. 
 Bearing bravely every trial 
 
 That we meet? 
 Why not live alone for pleasure, 
 Seeking in abundant measure 
 Earthly joy and earthly pleasure, 
 
 Sip the sweet — 
 All the bitterness ignoring. 
 All the gathering and the storing 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 83 
 
 For a future so uncertain, 
 Far beyond death's sable curtain, 
 Incomplete. 
 
 Thus did doubt repine and cavil, 
 Then there fell an unseen gavel — 
 
 Silence reigned, 
 Soon to be abruptly broken 
 By these words distinctly spoken, 
 "Though you reason on forever 
 You can solve the problem never — 
 
 What is gained? 
 Man we know seems truly mortal, 
 And he stands before a portal, 
 
 Dim and strange ; 
 Subject here of joy and sorrow 
 He may live or die tomorrow. 
 
 But the change, 
 Though it seems in mystery shrouded, 
 Is not left by doubt beclouded ; 
 
 God has said, 
 Though in mortal weakness dying, 
 Andf within the grave low lying. 
 Yet his prison shall be shaken, 
 Yet a voice his sleep shall waken 
 
 And the dead. 
 As on earth their lives accorded 
 Shall so justly be rewarded 
 That no soul may murmer ever 
 'Gainst the goodness of the Giver ; 
 Better then be up and doing 
 Paths of peace and love persuing 
 
 Every day. 
 
84- POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 By an angel power defended 
 'Til life's humble mission ended, 
 Heaven's sweet mysteries beholding, 
 We shall see God's plans unfolding, 
 
 And the way 
 Once so dark to mortal vision, 
 Luminous with light elysian.'' 
 
 SONG— TEMPERANCE CRANKS. 
 
 The world today is full of cranks, 
 
 I'm sure I don't know why, 
 Yet on the thronging paths of life 
 
 We often pass them by. 
 But out of all the multitudes 
 
 Of high or low degree 
 The jolly temperance crank, my boy, 
 
 Is just the crank for me. 
 
 CHORUS : 
 
 Then show them ever due respect 
 
 Wherever they may be, 
 For the solid ranks of temperance cranks 
 
 Are just the cranks for me. 
 
 These cranks are turning night and day 
 
 With all their might and main. 
 And when the temperance light gets dim 
 
 They turn it up again. 
 Because they hold the light of truth 
 
 Where all the world may see — 
 These jolly Prohibition cranks 
 
 Are just the cranks for me. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 85 
 
 CHO. — Then show them ever, etc. 
 
 For God and home and native land 
 
 They freely sacrifice; 
 They work with open heart and hand 
 
 And never wear disguise. 
 They stand up straight for principle 
 
 Whatever the cost may be, 
 And that is why these temperance cranks 
 
 Are just the cranks for me. 
 
 CHO. — Then show them ever, etc. 
 
 King Alcohol upon his throne 
 
 May tremble when he sees 
 These cranks who dare to stand alone 
 
 Go down upon their knees ; 
 Since they believe in prayers and votes, 
 
 They pray and vote you see, 
 And that is why these temperance cranks 
 
 Are just the cranks for me. 
 
 CHO. — Then show them ever, etc. 
 RETOUCHED. 
 
 I brought to the artist a picture 
 
 Faded and dim and old. 
 But, because of precious memories. 
 
 Dearer to me than gold. 
 "O, artist tell me, hast thou skill 
 
 These faded lines again to fill." 
 
86 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 The artist gazed for a moment, 
 
 Then kindly he repHed, 
 "I will lavish my skill upon it 
 
 And think you'll be satisfied ;" 
 Then given to the artist's care 
 
 I turned away and left it there. 
 
 At length my picture was finished 
 
 And sent to my address, 
 Fully restored by the artist 
 
 To its former loveliness — 
 All missing points he had supplied 
 
 I could not but be satisfied. 
 
 God gave me a soul as perfect 
 
 As his skill could create, 
 Peerless, and sinless, and deathless — 
 
 A glorious estate. 
 Alas, I proved a wayward child 
 
 And soon my sinless soul defiled. 
 
 The years went by, and its beauty 
 Was marred and spoiled by sin, 
 
 Until to my cherished picture 
 It truly seemed akin. 
 
 Oh ! Thou who formed the souls of men, 
 Canst Thou restore my soul again? 
 
 One moment He looked upon me, 
 
 Then tenderly replied, 
 "If you will but fully trust me. 
 
 You shall be satisfied." 
 There is no limit to my skill. 
 
 All faded traces I can fill. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 87 
 
 'Twas easy enough with the picture 
 
 To trust in superior skill, 
 But my soul, it was hard to yield it, 
 
 So strong was my pride and will ; 
 But his love soon conquered my will and pride, 
 
 And I joyfully laid them both aside. 
 
 Ah ! wonderful heavenlv artist. 
 Since Thou hast assumed control, 
 
 Fair outlines of grace and beauty \ 
 
 Thou art giving each day to my soul — 
 
 Thy perfect likeness once supplied 
 I know I shall be satisfied. 
 
 GREETING TO COUNTY LODGE, I. O. G. T. 
 
 From the Adirondack region, where the mountains, 
 
 grand and tall, 
 Stand like grim and faithful sentinels keeping watch 
 
 above us all. 
 From the famous Little River where the giant hemlocks 
 
 grow, 
 And the pine and spruces murmur as the north wind 
 
 drifts the snow. 
 
 Where the red deer love to wander, when the stars shine 
 over head, 
 
 And the wakeful owl gives warning, as he hears the hun- 
 ter's tread. 
 
 We have come to greet our brothers and our sisters, true 
 and tried. 
 
 Comrades in the temperance army, altho scattered far 
 and wide. 
 
88 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 'Tis with pleasure that we greet you, for we fully realize 
 That Good Templars are united by the holiest of ties ; 
 By the pledges we have taken, by the cause for which we 
 
 plead, 
 We are one in thought and action, we are one in word 
 
 and deed. 
 
 By one common foe confronted, creeds and isms we ig- 
 nore. 
 
 Sinking all for home and country and the God whom 
 we adore; 
 
 Firm as our eternal mountains, we have pledged our- 
 selves to stand, 
 
 'Til the demon of intemperance shall be driven from our 
 land. 
 
 'Til the homes by rum imperilled shall be free from its 
 sad blight, 
 
 And the shadows round them deepening scattered by the 
 morning light ; 
 
 'Til the loved ones now in bondage to the power of alco- 
 hol 
 
 Shall be freed from its dominion, never more to drink or 
 fall. 
 
 Veteran Templars of St. Lawrence, are we doing all we 
 can 
 
 For the cause we love so dearly, for our fallen fellow 
 man? 
 
 There are many more waste places that we ought to cul- 
 tivate — • 
 
 Comrades, let us hasten to them ; by and by 'twill be too 
 late. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 89 
 
 There are drinking men around us, vainly waiting to be 
 
 free, 
 Waiting for a Templar's welcome, just a word from you 
 
 or me. 
 Are we not our brother's keeper? Yes, and we are kith 
 
 and kin 
 To the poor degraded drunkard, stained and bruised by 
 
 drink and sin. 
 
 Man can have no nobler mission than to us the Lord 
 
 hath given, 
 Bringing rum's degraded victims back to friends and 
 
 home and heaven; 
 Let us labor in the spirit of the loving Christ of yore, 
 Who unto the weak and tempted sweetly said, "Go, sin 
 
 no more." 
 
 GOD'S WILL AND WAY. 
 
 I cannot help but approve His wisdom, 
 
 His goodness all my senses thrill ; 
 Day by day He bestows His blessings. 
 
 And yet I fail in doing His will. 
 
 Perhaps you think it a weak confession — 
 
 I know it is, but it is true — 
 His will is right, I can see it clearly, 
 
 And yet it seemeth so hard to do. 
 
 The fact is I am intensely human. 
 
 And human nature is so strong 
 It overthrows my good resolutions. 
 
 And the first thing I know I am going wrong. 
 
po POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 A spotless life is indeed a treasure 
 
 But oh ! we find it so very rare — 
 Fruit of the spirit in fullest measure, 
 
 With never, ah, never an ugly tare. 
 
 For such a life I have had deep yearning, 
 Have watched and prayed but all in vain — 
 
 My will was weak and I found it turning 
 Fondly, swiftly to earth again. 
 
 I hear His order for full surrender, 
 
 I make it meekly as other men, 
 But find in service that I should render 
 
 I am a rebel in arms again. 
 
 I do not murmur against the Giver, 
 His will and ways are right and just, 
 
 But He is holy, first, last, forever ; 
 He is spirit and I am. dust. 
 
 To you who have climbed to your high places, 
 
 Nor ever pity those below. 
 Who revel in fancied gifts and graces 
 
 Which only the wise and good may know. 
 
 Some time the light of His truth may reach you, 
 Shining inwardly through and through, 
 
 And sad experience sternly teach you 
 Some lessons you never, never knew. 
 
 If not, I fear when you reach life's portal 
 And find thief, beggar and magdalen, 
 
 Robed and crowned and become immortal, 
 Saved for ever from taint of sin, 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 91 
 
 With many more that on earth were fated 
 
 To grovel and grapple helplessly, 
 Some whom you sneered at, jeered at, and hated, 
 
 Too low and vile for your company, 
 
 You will be sadly, sorely confounded 
 And may even miss your chosen place. 
 
 In that infinite mercy abounded. 
 
 And these poor outcasts were saved by grace ! 
 
 ISAIAH 53-6. 
 
 All we like sheep have gone astray, 
 Turning every one to his own way. 
 
 And our iniquity 
 The Lord upon himself hath laid ; 
 His precious blood our debt hath paid 
 And full and free atonement made 
 
 From sin to set us free. 
 
 No more need we be slaves to fear 
 Nor wander in a desert drear, 
 
 Our pardon Christ hath given. 
 Wide open swings the golden door. 
 Welcome to all both rich and poor. 
 Welcome, though scanty be thy store. 
 
 To harmony and heaven. 
 
 THE OFFICE SOUGHT THE MAN. 
 
 The times are very different now 
 
 From what they used to be. 
 And men who wear the silver hair • 
 
 The change can plainly see. 
 
92 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 The officeseeker was unknown, 
 His actions none could scan, 
 
 For long ago 'twas true, you know, 
 The office sougfht the man. 
 
 'fc>' 
 
 The people wanted officers 
 
 As faithful as the sun 
 To do the business for them then 
 
 Just as it should be done. 
 A volunteer for office ! why, 
 
 Imagine it, who can? 
 'Twould be no use for one to try — 
 
 The office sought the man. 
 
 But now, what with "official rings," 
 
 And "deals" and "bribes" and "cUques," 
 We see strange sights and hear strange things 
 
 In modern politics. 
 The third class politician rides. 
 
 Bows, shakes and buttonholes, 
 Beseeching all, both great and small, ^ 
 
 To help him at the polls. 
 
 O, would old time might backward turn 
 
 To happy days of yore, 
 When principle instead of cheek 
 
 Would oftener get the floor ; 
 When right instead of might was seen 
 
 In that diviner plan. 
 When a man sought not the office, 
 
 But the office sought a man. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS pj 
 
 I HAD RATHER BE GOOD THAN GREAT. 
 
 There are many men in the world today 
 
 CHmbing the ladder of fame 
 By the deeds they do and the words they say, 
 
 Earning a deathless name. 
 But I am not anxious enough to rise, 
 
 To struggle early and late ; 
 I never envy the wealthy or wise — 
 
 I had rather be good than great. 
 
 The gold and silver of earth we know 
 
 Is liable to corrode, 
 And a kingly crown would weigh us down 
 
 With a heavy and tiresome load. 
 Give me a cheerful and honest heart 
 
 And health for my estate, 
 I ask no better or brighter part — 
 
 I had rather be good than great. 
 
 It is not having, but being, that tells 
 
 The story of life and love ; 
 It is goodness that touches the sweet joy bells 
 
 That find their echo above. 
 So let others labor for wealth or fame 
 
 And for the world's glory wait. 
 It's little I care for its praise or blame — 
 
 I had rather be good than great. 
 
 THE BURNING QUESTION. 
 
 What shall we do with the traffic, 
 
 The traffic in whiskey and beer? 
 The question is up for discussion, 
 
 And being discussed far and near. 
 
9^ POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Some good men and wise men are talking 
 Just now of a wonderful plan, 
 
 A sort of compromise measure 
 To try for a while if they can. 
 
 In regard to the selling of liquor, 
 
 Which we always thought a disgrace, 
 
 They propose that the town shall assume it, 
 And they claim that will alter the case. 
 
 Instead of a citizen making 
 
 Some profit on whiskey or beer, 
 
 And selling too much for the credit 
 Of those who are residents here. 
 
 They say, let the town make some money 
 
 To help pay its taxes, and so 
 Get something out of the traffic 
 
 To offset its burden of woe. 
 
 Then, too, under these regulations 
 No minor his liquor could buy, 
 
 And every old guzzler and toper 
 Would certainly have to go dry. 
 
 The town would appoint a committee 
 Of some good respectable men 
 
 To see to the business entirely 
 And give a report now and then. 
 
 The best man in town would be chosen 
 
 To sell it to A, B or C, 
 And make sure that no man got drunker 
 
 Than a gentleman ought to be. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 95 
 
 ANTICIPATION. 
 
 When the apple blooms are drifting from the orchards 
 fair and white, 
 Falling like a snowy curtain all around, 
 When the air is filled with fragrance and the summer 
 days are bright. 
 And nature with an emerald wreath is crowned. 
 
 Then existence is a blessing, spite of all the mad'ning din, 
 That oppresses, and distresses us so sore, 
 
 For it builds a sacred temple where the soul may enter 
 in, 
 And be safe until the fiercest storm is o'er. 
 
 In the freshness of the springtime, in the fragrance of its 
 breath, 
 In the bloom of early summer we can see 
 T^hat which sweetens everv^ sorrow and illumes the gloom 
 of death 
 With the thought of life and beauty yet to be. 
 
 Oh 'tis precious to remember as the days so swiftly fly 
 Rounding out the mystic circle of the years. 
 
 That they only bring us nearer to that golden by and by, 
 Where the eye shall never smile through blinding tears. 
 
 When the feet will never weary and the heart will never 
 ache. 
 When the blossom and the fruitag*e are allied 
 On that bright and balmy shore where the silver ripples 
 break 
 And the longing of the soul is satisfied. 
 
96 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 A RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 I used to wonder that, with so much preachinp;-, 
 So many pray'rs that all conditions fitted, 
 
 A missionary spirit far and wide outreaching, 
 That all mankind to God had not submitted. 
 
 It seemed so strange that, with so many reapers, 
 Bright golden sheaves should all ungathered lie ; 
 
 That earth should hold so many careless sleepers, 
 While time on rapid wing went hurrying by. 
 
 But now *tis plain — I can no longer wonder 
 Why speeds "Salvation's car" so very slow, 
 
 Nor why, in spite of all our pulpit thunder, 
 Sin does not meet its final overthrow. 
 
 The reason is, and mark it well, my brother. 
 We are too much in love with sect and creed ; 
 
 The royal beauty of the Cross we cover, 
 And hold our church to be the light indeed. 
 
 If we would see the glorious morning breaking, 
 In dawn of peace, like free, good-will's bright gem, 
 
 We must arise, and, creed and name forsaking, 
 Build God a temple on the ruins of them. 
 
 We must unite and use God's own sweet leaven 
 To leaven earth's lump of ignorance and sin, 
 
 And with one Faith, one Church, one Lord, one Heaven, 
 Work with a will to bring poor wanderers in. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 97 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 No artist's skill have I to sketch 
 
 The scenes of bygone years, 
 And yet on memory's magic walls, 
 Where shine and shadow o'er them falls, 
 
 One picture oft appears. 
 
 The old brown school-house on the green 
 
 Still dawns on memory's sight, 
 Brightened with morning sunlight's glovv, 
 Or later, when the sun was low, 
 
 Baptised in golden light. 
 
 The playground there I see once more. 
 
 With playhouse built of rails, 
 Where oft in childhood's happy days 
 We played at will our childish plays. 
 
 And told our thoughtless tales. 
 
 I see our teacher, noble girl. 
 
 Arrayed in plain attire, 
 As patiently she paced the room 
 And wielded rule, or book, or broom, 
 
 Or stirred the green wood fire. 
 
 The benches, too, rude carvings bore. 
 
 And on the low, dark walls 
 The nails were driven where, day by day. 
 By childish hands were hung away 
 
 Our bonnets, caps and shawls. 
 
 How well I mind the parting hour, ' 
 
 Roll-call, rewards and kiss, 
 
98 POE TICAL POR TRAITS 
 
 A lingering look, a flood of tears, 
 A shadow stealing down the years, 
 Darkening life's transient bliss. » 
 
 The old school-house has given place 
 
 To new one, painted red, 
 And many of the girls and boys 
 That shared with me the old one's joys, 
 
 Are numbered with the dead. 
 
 Our teacher now, with silvery hair, 
 
 And step less light and free, 
 Looks o'er the lapse of twenty years. 
 And, smiling swxetly through her tears. 
 Recalls the past with me. 
 
 No more on earth shall we all meet, 
 
 As in the days of yore ; 
 But memory gilds with halo light 
 Those scenes, fast fading from our sight. 
 
 To be recalled no more. 
 
 Roll on, swift years, and shroud the past 
 ' Beneath thy mystic veil ; 
 
 Our life barques soon will drift at will 
 Into the harbor, calm and still, 
 Safe from the wave and gale. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Grieve not for me, for I am not forsaken. 
 
 Though earthly friends should seem to be unkind ; 
 
 Time will reveal that they have been mistaken, 
 And though my heart aches I will be resigned. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 99 
 
 The Lord knoweth best. His wisdom never faileth, 
 His love is boundless, and His grace is sure. 
 
 Faith in His mighty name alone prevaileth, 
 Earth has no sorrow that He cannot cure. 
 
 If He sees best to lead me through the shadows, 
 Through rough defiles where roaring waters run, 
 
 'Twill be as safe for me as verdant meadows — 
 His precious love will be my shield and sun. 
 
 Then to my soul I say, pine not in sadness. 
 Arise and let the world by thee be blest. 
 
 Go to thy daily toil with joy and gladness. 
 Do well thy part, and God will do the rest. 
 
 POEM. 
 
 (Composed and read at a Fourth of July picnic in a 
 grove in the Township of Hollywood, July 4, 1880.) 
 
 Once more upon the old camp ground, 
 With green arch o'er us bending, 
 
 With grateful hearts we gather round, 
 Our songs with nature's blending. 
 
 Some that a year ago today. 
 
 Gave us kindly greeting. 
 Have gone to other lands away, 
 
 And will not grace our meeting. 
 
 Others, who met a year ago, 
 
 Have passed away forever; 
 Death's arrow laid the dear ones low ; 
 
 God took them, o'er the river. 
 
 ■LofC. 
 
loo POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 But let ns, with a gentle hand, 
 
 Lay veil upon our sadness, 
 And use the time at our command. 
 
 To speak with hope and gladness. 
 
 The songbirds trilling overhead. 
 The fragrant zephyrs blowing, 
 
 Unite with us in praising God 
 For what He is bestowing. 
 
 On this glad day we can rejoice. 
 Despite a proud world's scorning; 
 
 And with loud shout and cannon voice, 
 Give every tyrant warning. 
 
 Though all the world in arms combine, 
 Our flag would be victorious ; 
 
 True emblem of our liberty, 
 All battle scarred and glorious. 
 
 Today, this liberty is ours, 
 
 Given with unstinted measure. 
 
 Requiring all our noble powers 
 To guard this sacred treasure. 
 
 But not by force of arms alone. 
 
 Can Ave defend our nation ; 
 The Bible is the corner stone, 
 
 The only sure foundation. 
 
 Our fathers took it for their guide. 
 
 In their deliberations ; 
 Its moral precepts form the law 
 
 Of all enlightened nations. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS loi 
 
 And yet the world seems strangely stirred, 
 Against this sacred treasure; 
 
 And to defame God's holy word 
 Affords the skeptic pleasure. 
 
 Bob IngersoU, with loud harangue, 
 
 His brilliant wit exposes, 
 By holding forth in idle slang, 
 
 The great mistakes of Moses. 
 
 For shame, that any living man, 
 In this great Christian nation, 
 
 Should raise aloft his puny hand 
 'Gainst Bible inspiration. 
 
 But let men hurl their fiery darts, 
 
 And sin's delusion cherish, 
 God's truth, embalmed in human hearts, 
 
 Will never, never, perish. 
 
 Now, to the gents and ladies fair. 
 Who hear this humble ditty, 
 
 I pray you, shun the tempter's snare, 
 In country, town or city. 
 
 Be true to God and country dear, 
 
 And wheresoe'er you stray. 
 Unfurl our flag and give a cheer. 
 
 In honor of this day. 
 
I02 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 "SPRING AND ITS TEACHINGS." 
 
 Softly the zephyrs sigh today, 
 
 Sweetly the wild birds sing, 
 Inviting to poetic lay, 
 
 The bard of lovely spring. 
 
 She came with zephyr's cheering balm — 
 No ''March winds" biting blast, 
 
 But like the sweet and holy calm, 
 When Sabbath days are past. 
 
 The brooklets blessed the gentle ray 
 Which touched their prison door, 
 
 Then bounded on their seaward way, 
 Joyous and free once more. 
 
 When nature's priest her censer waves, 
 
 Scenting the fragrant air, 
 The flowers from death-like winter graves 
 
 Arise in beauty rare. 
 
 O'er leafless forests, brown and sere. 
 
 She waves her magic w^and. 
 And now their emerald robes appear, 
 
 In transformation grand. 
 
 Here flit the birds on tireless wing, 
 Hymning their notes of praise, 
 
 And we in gladness hear them sing 
 The songs of other days. 
 
 Oh ! what a joy the spring imparts 
 To souls bowed down with care ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 103 
 
 It brings a balm to wounded hearts, 
 Sweet as a mother's prayer. 
 
 There is a language in the breeze, 
 
 A whisper in the air, 
 That tells of flowers and fadeless trees, 
 
 And bird-songs ever there. 
 
 It speaks of dear ones robed in white. 
 Who throng the shining shore, 
 
 Where we, in Heaven's enchanted light, 
 May bask forever more. 
 
 It teaches us to sow our seeds 
 Whose fruitage God will bless. 
 
 If we but imitate the deeds 
 Of Christ's tmselfishness. 
 
 And w^hen on life's great battle plain. 
 By doubts and fears oppressed, 
 
 We long to 'scape from earthly pain 
 And enter into rest. 
 
 It bids us place our hopes above. 
 And wait till God shall bring 
 
 Our ransomed souls, through Jesus' love, 
 To Heaven's eternal spring. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL SUNLIGHT. 
 
 The poet may write' of the pale moonlight. 
 
 Or the stars that shine for aye. 
 But lovelier, far, than moon or star. 
 
 Is the beautiful orb of dav. 
 
104. POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Like a monarch's rise under eastern skies, 
 
 Invading- the gloom of night, 
 It heralds the day on its joyous way, 
 
 Flooding the world with light. 
 
 The birds that have slept while the nightdews wept, 
 
 Break forth in tuneful song, 
 While in joyous notes from a thousand throats. 
 
 The chorus rolls along. 
 The flowers in the glades, that bowed their heads, 
 
 When the twilight shadows fell, 
 In the sunlight gold, their leaves unfold. 
 
 Perfuming the dewy dell. 
 
 But the morning light, in its beauty bright, 
 
 Equals not the close of day, 
 When the shadows are long, and the voice of song 
 
 Is fainting and dying away. 
 We then see the gleam on the murmuring stream, 
 
 Ere the twilight shadows fall ; 
 And the last beams rise on the western skies, 
 
 Like a glorious golden wall. 
 
 Then let poets dream of the midnight queen. 
 
 As her w^hite robes deck the night, 
 Or the Orient stars, with their crimson bars. 
 
 Flashing in silver light. 
 But I will write of the fair sunlight. 
 
 As it wanders, glad and free, 
 From its eastern crest to the far, far west, 
 
 To its home bevond the sea. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 105 
 
 "IT IS BETTER IN THE SUNSHINE." 
 
 "It is better in the sunshine," 
 
 Said my Httle boy one day, 
 As we stood where forest branches 
 
 Cast their shadows o'er our way ; 
 And he left my side and wandered 
 
 Where the golden sunlight shone — 
 Left me sitting, thinking, thinking. 
 
 In the chilling gloom alone. 
 
 "It is better in the sunshine !" 1 
 
 It was but a childish thought. 
 But it came to my lone spirit 
 
 With a wondrous meaning fraught; 
 And I reasoned : Yes, 'tis better 
 
 In the sunshine warm and bright, 
 Than to sit where ghostly shadows 
 
 Darken all the rosy light. 
 
 i 
 
 "It is better in the sunshine" 
 
 Of our Heavenly Father's smile, 
 Than to wander unforgiven 
 
 In the darkness all the while. 
 Danger lurketh in the darkness, 
 
 Danger that no heart can brave, 
 But the light of hope is shining, 
 
 Held by Him whose hand can save. 
 
 "It is better in the sunshine" 
 
 Of a perfect hope and trust, 
 Showing others by submission 
 
 That God's ways are true and just ; ^ 
 
io6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Showing, also, by a courage 
 
 Born of faith perfumed by love, 
 
 That our hearts are filled with sunshine 
 From the fount of light above. 
 
 ''It is better in the sunshine" 
 
 Of a life of praise and prayer. 
 Where the Rose of Sharon bloometh, 
 
 And its fragrance lingers there ; 
 Where the white robed angel campeth, 
 
 And the foe is kept at bay ; 
 Where the night is light about you, 
 
 Shining ever as the day. 
 
 ''It is better in the sunshine !" 
 
 Oh, believe it, every one, 
 And so live that your example 
 
 May be like a moral sun ; 
 Then the darkness lying round you 
 
 Like a mist will pass away. 
 And a golden glory crown you 
 
 In the evening of life's day. 
 
 THE GOLDEN STAIR. 
 
 Far from the busy haunts of men, a settler's home was 
 made, 
 
 Where flowerets bloomed and wild birds sang, and mur- 
 muring streamlets played. 
 
 A loving wife the settler had, who kept his home with 
 care. 
 
 Besides two sons of tender years, and two young daugh- 
 ters fair. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 107 
 
 And as they gathered night by night around the social 
 hearth, 
 
 Their humble cabin seemed to them a paradise on earth. 
 
 And thus the dreamy days wore on until a change was 
 seen, 
 
 And Autumn's crimson glories took the place of sum- 
 mer's green. 
 
 Then one by one the sweet wild flowers their parting fra- 
 grance shed, 
 
 And Atitumn's chilling breezes sang a requiem for the 
 dead; 
 
 The storm-king from his northern home came on with 
 snow and hail, 
 
 And shrouded nature's blushing face 'neath winter's spot- 
 less veil. 
 
 The murmuring brook no longer sang its song of joy 
 and praise, 
 
 And wild birds sought its banks no more as in the warm- 
 er days. 
 
 The snow-clad mountains far away in silent grandeur 
 rose, 
 
 While at their base the valleys lay all wrapt in deep re- 
 pose. 
 
 And still the settler's cabin stands just where it stood 
 
 before. 
 And from its roof the blue smoke curls as in the days 
 
 of yore ; 
 But sorrow in the forest home usurps the place of joy, 
 For death has laid his icy hand upon their youngest boy. 
 
/ocV POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 The settler's eyes are dim with tears, as silently he stands, 
 And looks upon that sweet pale face and little purple 
 
 hands. 
 The mother meekly bows her head and says God's will 
 
 be done, 
 For in the deathless Edenland she hopes to meet her 
 
 son. 
 
 Now ye who doubt a future life, dismiss your idle fears, 
 For better proof need not be sought than that which now 
 
 appears ; 
 For as the film of death o'erspreads those eyes of lustrous 
 
 grace, 
 A halo of unearthly light steals o'er his dying face. 
 
 One little finger upward points to tell that weeping 
 
 throng 
 That he has seen the angel choir and heard the angels' 
 
 song ; 
 Those feeble hands are beckoning now, his eyes grow 
 
 radiant bright. 
 And memory whispers, God has said at eve it shall be 
 
 light.' 
 
 And now the lamp of life grows dim, his face in death 
 
 grows pale ; 
 His life-barque nears the Heavenly shore, furled in the 
 
 storm-worn sail. 
 The churchyard holds a little grave, and oft we linger 
 
 there. 
 Thinking of him whose weary feet have climbed the 
 
 golden stair. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS log 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE AIR. 
 
 As I listen to the breathing of the wild wind wandering 
 free, 
 
 There is something in its presence that is almost heaven 
 to me ; 
 
 As it parts the clouds above me and reveals the bright 
 blue sky, 
 
 Fancy paints the golden outlines of sweet forms that nev- 
 er die. 
 
 I remember that our Saviour, as He taught the sons of 
 
 earth, 
 Took the wind as illustration of the power of spirit birth ; 
 Then I think about the peril of that night upon the deep, 
 When His voice amid the tempest hushed the stormy 
 
 winds to sleep. 
 
 It may thunder through the valleys louder than the 
 ocean's roar. 
 
 Breaking down the forest monarchs, strewing wrecks 
 along the shore. 
 
 Or breathe forth in gentle zephyrs playing with the hang- 
 ing vines, 
 
 "Fanning in its flight the dying," "moaning softly 
 through the pines." 
 
 Rolling up the white capped billows, speeding on the 
 snowy sail. 
 
 Rising in its wrath and causing storm-browned cheeks 
 to blanch and pale. 
 
 Murmuring in the twilight gloaming, singing in the day- 
 light fair, 
 
 Still to me the sweetest music is the music of the air. 
 
no POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 BE PATIENT WITH THE CHILDREN. 
 
 Oh ! how much of God-like patience, 
 
 We, as parents stand in need, 
 While we have, as household shepherds, 
 
 These, our tender lambs to feed. 
 
 God has kindly given them to us. 
 To disperse the chilling gloom. 
 
 That about our pathway lingers, 
 As we journey toward the tomb. 
 
 Death may hush the childish prattle, 
 
 Put the little hearts to rest. 
 Drag the happy, joyous birdlings, 
 
 Shortly from the parent nest. 
 
 "When we see the little aprons, 
 And the dresses that they wore, 
 
 Laid away in musty drawer, 
 Never to be ruffled more, 
 
 Or the tiny shoes and stockings, 
 That once cased their little feet, 
 
 Given to some other darling, 
 Or some outcast on the street," 
 
 Oh, how sadly we shall murmur. 
 
 That a careless word of ours. 
 Should have fall'n like Autumn frost-blight 
 
 On the frail and fragrant flowers. 
 
 Do we oft complain of labor. 
 That on children we bestow? 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS iii 
 
 We forget the obligations, 
 Which to them we justly owe. 
 
 O'er our lives they throw an influence, 
 Like the rain on sunburned sod, 
 
 Lifting upward our afifections, 
 Toward the loving heart of God. 
 
 All the sorrow that they bring us. 
 All the trouble and the care, 
 
 Are like summer storms, that, passing, 
 Cleanse and purify the air. 
 
 Then be patient w4th the children. 
 For the fount of youth must flow, 
 
 And its streams will bless the deserts 
 Of our hearts and homes below. 
 
 "THE CURSE OF RUM." 
 
 My theme today is the curse of rum, 
 
 What say you one and all. 
 Do you earnestly pray for the time to come 
 
 When its power must wane and fall? 
 
 Keep quiet, our politicians say. 
 
 But my lips will not be dumb, 
 For the greatest curse in the world today, 
 
 Is the fiery curse of rum. 
 
 And I will speak of this great wrong. 
 
 And I will vote, and pray. 
 And assert the rights that to me belong, 
 
 To put it down, and away. 
 
112 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 We dread the touch of war's red hand ; 
 
 We shrink from its bhghting breath, 
 For we know that its shadow o'er the land, 
 
 Is hke to the gloom of death. 
 
 We tremble in fear of the earthquake's shock, 
 
 Or the simoon's deadly blast ; 
 And we flee to the cleft of the solid rock. 
 
 When the mighty storm goes past. 
 
 We hide away from the plague that flies 
 
 On cruel death-charged wings ; 
 And we guard our persons as best we may, 
 
 From venomous bites and stings. 
 
 But oh ! the foe that we meet today. 
 
 Is king over every ill ; 
 O'er body and soul it holdeth sway, 
 
 And over the mind and will. 
 
 It appealeth not to a good desire. 
 
 It seeketh no heart to bless. 
 And its only light is a terrible fire 
 
 Of greed and selfishness. 
 
 A subtle serpent night and day, 
 
 It lurks in the fairest flowers ; 
 And its trail is ever an evil Avay 
 
 Through this beautiful world of ours. 
 
 It knows no north, and it knows no south. 
 
 It knows no east or west ; 
 And it pours the slime from its greedy mouth 
 
 Over our fairest and best. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 113 
 
 The tears of orphans that rum has made 
 
 Have long bedewed the sod, 
 And the widow's prayers, have winged their way, 
 
 Up to the throne of God. 
 
 Surely 'twould seem that all good men 
 
 Against it would unite. 
 And using vote, and voice, and pen. 
 
 Assert their lawful right, 
 
 To put away this giant wrong. 
 
 To march w^ith manly tread, 
 And with a stately step, and strong. 
 
 To crush the serpent's head. 
 
 And they are coming at last, thank God ; 
 
 A brave and fearless band, 
 And they're sending the light of His truth abroad, 
 
 All over this rum-cursed land. 
 
 To hovel and palace the message goes, 
 
 And figures that w^ill not lie 
 Are startling men from their blind repose. 
 
 More and more, as the days go by. 
 
 And my prayer is still, that the truth may smite. 
 
 Like a sharp two-edged blade, 
 Till all the world may feel the blight 
 
 And ruin that rum has made. 
 
 Till every Christian in this fair land 
 
 Shall open his sleepy eyes, 
 And work w^ith a willing heart and hand 
 
 Its power to pulverize. 
 
114- POE TICAL POR TRAITS 
 
 We have stood the strain of a great campaign, 
 
 And our banner is unfurled, 
 And the truths we hold are as bright as gold ; 
 
 Yea, they are the light of the world. 
 
 They shine today with a hopeful ray, 
 
 In many a lonely spot, 
 Where the shadows fall like a funeral pall, 
 
 And the sunshine enters not. 
 
 Oh ! let us then like temperance men, 
 Work on till the time shall come. 
 
 When land and sea shall hold jubilee, 
 Over the death of rum. 
 
 COME TO ME, BEAUTIFUL ANGELS. 
 
 Come to me,beautiful angels, 
 
 As you come to me in my dream.s, 
 And I list to the sound of your voices, 
 
 Like the musical murmur of streams. 
 How sweetly your voices echo. 
 
 In cadences soft and low, 
 Like the whispers that haunt my memory 
 
 Coming back from the long ago. 
 
 Come to me, beautiful angels, 
 
 Down from the mansions of light, 
 And bring to my care-weary spirit, 
 
 A heart-cheering message tonight. 
 My loved ones have passed from my vision. 
 
 Gone to the land where you dwell ; 
 Oh, come to me, beautiful angels. 
 
 And say that with them all is well. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 115 
 
 Come to me, beautiful angels, 
 
 And lull my sad spirit to rest 
 With songs that they sing in full chorus 
 
 In the bright fadeless home of the blest. 
 Patient, I wait for your coming, 
 
 And sweet is the balm that it brings. 
 For I hear in the sigh of the zephyrs 
 
 The rush of invisible wings. 
 
 THE SUMMER BLOOM IS FADING. 
 
 The summer bloom is fading. 
 
 Bright fragrant summer bloom ; 
 And autumn's steps invading, 
 
 Sound like the knell of doom. 
 The sky is deeper-tinted. 
 
 The clouds the change betray 
 By settling down upon us 
 
 At evening cold and grey. 
 
 The summer bloom is fading, 
 
 The woodlands, brown and sere, 
 Have lost their emerald lading; 
 
 And as they thus appear 
 Bereft of half their glory. 
 
 By autumn's blighting breath, 
 They tell the mournful story 
 
 Of ruin and of death. 
 
 The summer bloom is fading, 
 
 We read it everywhere ; 
 In dark and gloomy shading, 
 
 In pictures bright and fair ; 
 
ii6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 In shadows on the river 
 Where faded leaflets lie, 
 
 And leafless branches quiver, 
 As chilling winds go by. 
 
 The summer bloom is fading, 
 
 The birds their farewells sing; 
 Their old haimts serenading 
 
 Before they spread the wing 
 For sunny southern meadows. 
 
 Where summer lingers long. 
 And all the air is vocal 
 
 With notes of sweetest song. 
 
 The summer bloom is fading, 
 
 Ah ! little do we know 
 How soon above our grave mounds 
 
 Shall sift the winter's snow ; 
 How soon life's transient summer 
 
 And autumn will be fled, 
 And all, like blighted blossoms. 
 
 Rest with the sleeping dead. 
 
 The summer bloom is fading. 
 
 Well, it is God's own way. 
 Death followeth life as faithfully 
 
 As night succeedeth day. 
 But just as sure as morning 
 
 Dispels the gloom of night. 
 Death, too, will be succeeded 
 
 By endless life and light. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS iiy 
 
 IN GREEN PASTURES. 
 
 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, 
 He leadeth me beside the still waters. — Psalm 
 xxiii, 2d. 
 
 I am safe on the uplands eternal, 
 
 Where meadows and pastures are green, 
 Where flowers bloom unfadingly vernal, 
 
 And the King in His beauty is seen. 
 Where song birds are evermore singing 
 
 In harmony thrilling and sweet, 
 Where joy bells are constantly ringing 
 
 And bright streamlets sing at my feet. 
 
 Below me lies buried the sorrow 
 
 That once o'er my heart held its sway. 
 And the light of life's golden tomorrow 
 
 Has driven the shadows away; 
 Oh, beautiful life on the mountains, 
 
 Beyond where the storms ever roll. 
 Where daily I drink from those fountains 
 
 That quenches the thirst of the soul. 
 
 How often I think of the many 
 
 Who walk in the valleys below, 
 With faces forever turned earthward, 
 
 How little of Heaven they know. 
 They hang their bruised harps on the willow. 
 
 And sit where the shadows are long, 
 BHnd to the beauties around them, 
 
 Deaf to the voices of song. 
 
 Ah ! well the dark days I remember 
 When I, too, walked onward alone. 
 
ii8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 When into my heart's cold December 
 Faith's bright summer sun never shone. 
 
 The past was unfruitful behind me, 
 The future so hopeless before, 
 
 The present Avas joyless around me. 
 And heavy the burden I bore. 
 
 But while in the darkness I waited, 
 
 Nor dreamed that the dawn was so near. 
 The storm in its fury abated. 
 
 And angels of mercy drew near, 
 Peace came to my heart like a river. 
 
 The dark night of doubt passed away, 
 I worshipped the Infinite giver. 
 
 And heard Him most tenderly say : 
 
 You are walking alone in the shadows. 
 
 In sorrow and sighing and tears ; 
 Come up to the flower-scented meadows, 
 
 Where love crowns the swift passing years. 
 Where all hearts are firmly imited 
 
 In bonds of affection so pure. 
 That vows of fidelity plighted, 
 
 Forever and ever endure. 
 
 I listened attentive, then answered. 
 
 Dear Saviour my faith is so small. 
 And I am so weak and so wear}^, 
 
 I fear I shall stumble and fall. 
 My grace, said the Lord, is sufficient, 
 
 My wisdom will guide you alway ; 
 Oh, come from the night of your sorrows. 
 
 Out into the clear shining day. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 119 
 
 So then I could tarry no longer, 
 
 I rose in the strength of His might, 
 Up out of the mazes of darkness. 
 
 Up into His marvellous light. 
 Now I walk in a glory unclouded, 
 
 I bask in the sunlight of love. 
 The world with its woe is beneath me, 
 
 And Heav'n with its bliss is above. 
 
 THE SAINTED DEAD. 
 
 How fares it now with the sainted dead 
 
 That left us long ago. 
 Have they gone to a world of life and light ? 
 Are they clad in beautiful robes of white? 
 
 Ah, me ! how I long to know. 
 
 Or do they rest in the silent grave, 
 
 Sleeping a dreamless sleep, 
 Deaf to the joyous seraph's strain, ' 
 Deaf to the sobs of the lost in pain 
 
 Dead in their graves so deep. 
 
 I gaze in tears at the dewy sod. 
 
 In tears at the star-gem'd sky, 
 I listen above the sinking mound, 
 But all is still and I hear no sound 
 
 Save a zephyr's mournful sigh. 
 
 No tidings come of the mariners 
 
 Afloat on death's dark sea ; 
 We hear the murmur of wave and gale. 
 But catch no glimpse of the snowy sail, 
 
 'Tis hidden in mystery. 
 
I20 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 They drifted away in the waning Hght 
 
 Of Hfe's eventful day. 
 By the tide of death they were borne afar, 
 And we trust have passed o'er the harbor bar 
 
 To that city over the way. 
 
 THE BALM OF MUSIC. 
 
 I heard a soft band playing, 
 
 I heard a sweet voice sing ; 
 I did not know the voice that sang 
 
 Nor hand that touched the string, 
 And yet I gladly welcomed 
 
 That vocal offering. 
 
 As down life's path we wander 
 
 How many notes arise. 
 Sweet as y^olean whispers 
 
 Or chorus from the skies, 
 Yet as entranced we listen. 
 
 The far off music dies. 
 
 We know not whence it cometh, 
 We know not whither bound, 
 
 We only know our sad hearts 
 Are gladden'd by the sound, 
 
 And so we pray devoutly, 
 God speed the music round. 
 
 How many a soul is pining 
 
 In sorrow lone and chill. 
 Whose ear no music reaches. 
 
 Whose heart no sweet notes thrill, 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 121 
 
 The music floats beyond them 
 And leaves them sorrowing still. 
 
 One little note of gladness, 
 
 One simple song of praise 
 Might lift the veil of sadness 
 
 And set the heart ablaze 
 With gleams of golden sunshine, 
 
 And light of fairer days. 
 
 The happy scenes of childhood 
 Might be revived once more, 
 
 The pleasant fields and wildwood — 
 Dear ones they loved of yore, 
 
 Whose feet have crossed Death's river 
 And touched a deathless shore. 
 
 And tho' the tears might gather 
 
 And fall like summer rain. 
 After the stormy weather 
 
 Bright days would come again. 
 And all would work together 
 
 To ease the heart's dull pain. 
 
 Then go ye, sweet voiced singers, 
 To those who droop and pine, 
 
 Sing till the arms now drooping 
 Shall with your own entwine, 
 
 'Til eyes now sad and hopeless 
 
 With hope's glad light shall shine. 
 
122 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 A CHRISTMAS POEM. 
 
 I. 
 Out of the refuse and slime of the pit, 
 Boihng and pouring and poisoning it, 
 Satan concocted a horrible stew 
 And named it Revenge, and named it right, too ; 
 Then said he to the servant who stood by his side, 
 ''This is a grand potion, go scatter it wide, 
 Not here among Devils, but up among men ; 
 It's too rank for us, but it's just right for them. 
 Don't force them to drink it — of that there's no need — 
 They'll drink it themselves when they're thirsty indeed ; 
 They won't take a taste and thereafter go dry. 
 But drink more and more, aye, they'll drink till they die." 
 
 Then away at his bidding he instantly flew. 
 
 Inspired by the cheers of the sulphurous crew. 
 
 Far, far away from the regions infernal. 
 
 Where birds sang serene and flowers bloomed vernal. 
 
 Where joy bells rang sweetly, nor discord nor strife 
 
 Had ever embittered the pleasures of life, 
 
 The servant of Satan directed his flight 
 
 And scattered his beverage by day and by night. 
 
 Continually chuckling and thinking w^hat fun 
 
 He would have looking on when his mission was done. 
 
 II. 
 Two neighbors together had lived many years 
 Unselfishly sharing their joys and their fears. 
 Rejoicing in sunshine and grieving in rain, 
 But always good natured and simple and plain. 
 One day neighbor Goodspeed unthinkingly went 
 To town 'cross the fields of his neighbor Content ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 123 
 
 'Twas Slimmer and haying was well under way 
 And a spark from his pipe chanced to light in the hay ; 
 Now, old farmer Goodspeed unconscious of ill, 
 Tramped on and smoked on to the village and mill. 
 Whence returning at last he was shocked to behold 
 A smoke as it were like a furnace of old. 
 
 Alack and alack, what an unlucky day 
 
 When he smoked that old pipe in his neighbor's dry hay ! 
 
 Great damage was done ere the fire was subdued 
 
 And farmer Content in unneighborly mood 
 
 Assailed his old neighbor in language severe, 
 
 And said in due time, "Sir, from me you shall hear." 
 
 Going into the stable that very same night 
 
 His eye caught the sight of a vial corked tight, 
 
 Sitting up on a girt and not far from the door ; 
 
 *'I wonder," quoth he, ''I've not seen it before." 
 
 The vial w^as labeled Revenge, and he took it, 
 
 Held it up to the light and then shook it and shook it. 
 
 Uncorked it, drank from it, then said with a leer, 
 
 "I'll be even with him if it takes a whole year." 
 
 HI. 
 Farmer Goodspeed went home and his grief it was great. 
 But he said, "Never mind, when his wrath doth abate, 
 I'll settle with him to the fullest extent ; 
 Then on with his labors he cheerfully went ; 
 The summer went by and the autumn days came, 
 And the trees of the wood waved their banners of flame, 
 Defiantly waved till afar from the north 
 A cyclonic wind in its fury went forth, 
 And batter'd and scatter'd the banners so gay. 
 Till at last on the ground in confusion they lay. 
 
12^ POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Meanwhile the two neighbors worked on as before, 
 But neither would darken the other one's door. 
 Content was just waiting" some favorable day 
 To pay neighbor Goodspeed for burning his hay ; 
 One day farmer Goodspeed returned from the town 
 With a letter in hand which he held upside down, 
 As he said to his wife in a tone of good cheer 
 "This letter reminds me that Christmas is near. 
 Joe wants us to come — he won't take a denial — 
 And give his wife's cooking an impartial trial." 
 So the day before Christmas, all things being ready, 
 They hitched up a horse that was faithful and steady, 
 And while the bells jingled in mad merry glee, 
 Drove off to spend Christmas with Joe, don't you see. 
 
 IV. 
 That evening at chore time, as farmer Content 
 Was just coming out of his stable, there went 
 Through his being a thrill, for he saw in amaze 
 His enemy's barn just beginning to blaze ; 
 There were horses and cattle and grain, hay and all, 
 Besides farming utensils that surely must fall, 
 Unless — "but, no never, I'll not lift a hand 
 If it burn house and barn up and all of his land. 
 I'll drink from the vial and then I shall feel 
 As cool as an iceberg, as heartless as steel." 
 He drank but a swallow, then ran with a will. 
 Crying, "help, neighbors, help, there's a fire on the hill." 
 
 The conflict was fearful, but victory was gained. 
 The fire was subdued and but slight loss sustained ; 
 The news spread abroad and the farmer returned, 
 Rejoiced that his buildings had not all been burned. 
 They all were astonished, but most so Content, 
 As back to his stable he hurriedlv went. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 123 
 
 Saying-, ''Wonder of wonders, it seemeth so stran?"e 
 
 How that very same drink could produce such a change ; 
 
 Whenever I drank from that vial before, 
 
 I felt like a demon, I cursed and I swore, 
 
 But since that last drink, why, my heart is as free 
 
 From all wicked thoughts as a child's heart could be.'' 
 
 V. 
 Thus musing, he entered the stable, and lo ! 
 In its place stood the vial as usual, but no, 
 'Tis not the same vial ; he reads in surprise 
 That sweet word Forgiveness — he doubts his own eyes ; 
 Hark ! some one is speaking ; he listens in pain. 
 For the words fairly burn to his heart and his brain : 
 You drank from the beverage which Satan prepared, 
 And Satanic feelings you instantly shared; 
 Deep down in your heart where forgiveness should dwell 
 You cherished the cowardly spirit of Hell ; 
 You stifled each whisper which came from above 
 Forever ignoring the sweet law of love ; 
 You scattered the thorns and the briars for all 
 And sowed the black tare seed where good seed should fall; 
 You joined hands with Satan in making this earth 
 Akin to that region where brimstone has birth. 
 But God in His mercy considering your case, 
 That you were but one of a weak fallen race 
 And tempted by one who was subtle and strong 
 To cherish a spirit so sinful and wrong. 
 Sent down a bright angel to substitute then 
 A spirit of peace and of good will to men. 
 Now go to your neighbor — you cannot do less — 
 And faithfully all your wrong feelings confess. 
 Be reconciled truly this sweet Christmas morn. 
 Rejoicing that ever the Christ child was born." 
 
126 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 VI. 
 
 The strange voice was silent ; he kneeled on the floor ; 
 He wept and he prayed and for grace did implore ; 
 He went to his neighbor, confessed all his sin, 
 And both of them promised anew to begin. 
 
 My story is long, but the morals are plain — 
 
 Moral y?r5/^ let us ever from smoking abstain, 
 
 'Twas the fire in the pipe and the coal in the hay 
 
 Which caused all the trouble that bright summer's day. 
 
 Moral second, beware of what Satan has brewed, 
 
 Whatever 'tis labeled, with death 'tis endued. 
 
 In vial or bottle, in jug, glass or bowl, 
 
 'Twill poison the body and ruin the soul. 
 
 Moral third^ is a lesson all people should know 
 
 Who would harbor revenge in their hearts here below : 
 
 If we would be workers together with God 
 
 We must scatter the seeds of forgiveness abroad. 
 
 Altho' not real angels of Heavenly birth 
 
 It is possible still to be angels on earth. 
 
 God has them, earth needs them, so let us all try 
 
 To sow precious seed for the sweet by and by. 
 
 COUNTY LODGE POEM, I. O. G. T. 
 
 Good Templars of Russell — 
 
 Good people I know. 
 For looks, words and actions 
 
 Interpret you so — 
 We gather tonight 
 
 With our friends far and near 
 To speak words of comfort, 
 
 Of hope and of cheer. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 127 
 
 We are marching along 
 
 In this Temperance reform 
 With full expectations 
 
 Of standing the storm. 
 The lightning may flash 
 
 And the thunder may roll, 
 And wild be the tempest 
 
 From pole unto pole, 
 
 But, with firm convictions 
 
 Of duty and right, 
 Good Templars are fearless — 
 
 Unmoved by the sight. 
 Our ranks are in order, 
 
 Our hearts are serene, 
 Oiir speech is in earnest. 
 
 We say what we mean. 
 
 No compromise measure 
 
 Will satisfy now; 
 Prohibit, prohibit. 
 
 Or there'll be a row. 
 The tree that bears nothing 
 
 But license or tax 
 Is billed for a bonfire — 
 
 Come on with the ax ! 
 
 Wake up then my brothers 
 
 With stroke true and strong, 
 The old license monarch 
 
 Will tumble ere long; 
 And hark you, ye tradesmen 
 
 Who sell alcohol. 
 We won't let you know 
 
 When it's going to fall. 
 
128 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Methinks I can hear it 
 
 Go thundering down, 
 While the earth fairly trembles 
 
 For leagues and leagues round; 
 The trunk peeled and broken, 
 
 The limbs scattered wide, 
 Bereft once for all 
 
 Of its glory and pride. 
 
 But mourn not my brothers, 
 
 Nor grieve at its fall ; 
 Its shadow was baneful, 
 
 Its blight was on all. 
 Let it lie as it fell 
 
 On the desolate spot, 
 Its mission was murder 
 
 Come away, let it rot. 
 
 There is a green rootlet 
 
 At present but small, 
 'Twill make a fine tree 
 
 When it grows grand and tall. 
 Prohibition we call it 
 
 And smile as it grows, 
 As fair as a lily. 
 
 As sweet as a rose. 
 
 O, brothers and sisters. 
 
 Thank God for this tree 
 And its mission so holy 
 
 In days yet to be. 
 No widows or orphans 
 
 Will weep 'neath its shade, 
 But for its prosperity 
 
 Prayers will be made. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS i2g 
 
 The drunkard will come 
 
 To this Temperance tree, 
 And its beautiful leaves 
 
 For his healing will be. 
 The poor and the needy 
 
 Will smile as of yore, 
 Ere the wolf of Intemperance 
 
 Howled at their door. 
 
 This tree is a lighthouse, 
 
 Imposing and fair, 
 Whose white light will brighten 
 
 The gloom of despair. 
 Like the flag we adore, 
 
 May its branches long wave 
 **0'er the land of the free 
 
 And the home of the brave." 
 
 LONGING. 
 
 There is a world beyond the tomb 
 
 Whose mist-veiled heights we dimly see; 
 
 From age to age in silent gloom 
 It proves life's deepest mystery. 
 
 Between us and that world beyond 
 
 Death's sullen stream flows deep and wide ; 
 
 No voice across it doth respond 
 Or signal from the other side 
 
 Gives warning that a mortal barque 
 
 Has safely reached the farther shore, 
 Beyond the river lone and dark 
 
 Which murmurs onward evermore. 
 
ijo POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 And yet across this mystic tide, 
 
 Freighted with human hopes and fears, 
 
 Unnumbered fragile Hfe barques gUde 
 As constant as the march of years. 
 
 O, that some strong and helpful hand 
 Would push the gates of Death ajar, 
 
 And bring to view that sacred land 
 
 Where faith still holds, our dear ones are. 
 
 In vain our wish, our longing vain. 
 
 The Father sayeth, no, amen. 
 Life's silver chord must rend in twain 
 
 E'en we may see our loved again. 
 
 THE PITY OF IT. 
 
 *'Hev ve heerd of the trouble in Churchville, 
 How ther' commentin' pro and con? 
 
 Well, I tell ye, it just beats the dickens — 
 Sech talk and sech goin's-on. 
 
 Ye see, they had a minister — 
 
 No matter 'bout his name — 
 He weren't very much of a pusher, 
 
 But he got there just the same. 
 
 The church was a prosperin' middlin', 
 
 Gainin' a little each year, 
 But they wanted a big revival 
 
 Their droopin' hearts to cheer. 
 
 The pastor didn't git up one. 
 
 Which they thought wuz ruther strange. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 131 
 
 An' so they got tired and restless 
 An' clamor'd loud fer a change. 
 
 Meanwhile the pastor wuz workin' 
 
 An' doin' his level best, 
 With a half a dozen o' his members, 
 
 But he couldn't stir th^ rest. 
 
 He urged them to 'tend prayer meetin', 
 An' some of 'em say thet he said, 
 
 "Brethren and sisters, I tell ye, 
 Thet faith without works is dead." 
 
 He started some extra meetin's, 
 That is, meetin's ev'ry night, 
 
 An' he preached some stirrin' sermons, 
 But they didn't stir a mite. 
 
 He tried ev'ry plan he could think on 
 
 To git 'em to testify — 
 Told 'em their oppertunities 
 
 Wuz rapidly driftin' by; 
 
 Took up the Bible and quoted 
 The sayin's of Christ and Paul, 
 
 An' threw in a hull lot o' comments. 
 But he couldn't move 'em at all. 
 
 They jest didn't seem to mind it, 
 
 But came in few and late, 
 An' sat down 'way back in the corner 
 
 To silentlv meditate. 
 
132 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Well, the pastor got discouraged, 
 Of course, after tryin' and tryin', 
 
 An' said, "We will close the meetin's 
 Fer it's plain to be seen their dyin'. 
 
 I hed hoped fer a great outpourin'. 
 
 Fasted and prayed fer it, too. 
 But you, brethren, won't co-operate 
 
 An' so what am I to do? 
 
 They were mightily disappointed 
 
 An' told the pastor so, 
 An' why he hed made sech a failure 
 
 They didn't seem to know. 
 
 The pastor was grieved with their murmuring 
 
 Reviewed the situation. 
 An' after his mornin' sermon 
 
 He read 'em his resignation. 
 
 'fe' 
 
 This wuz jest what some of 'em w^anted. 
 But some were sad and sore, 
 
 An' grieved fer the outgoin' pastor 
 Whose face they might see no more. 
 
 But the pulpit surely wuz vacant, 
 The committee must now arise, 
 
 And see to the regular bizness 
 Of gettin' a few supplies. 
 
 They got 'em without any trouble, 
 
 Fer one an' another came 
 An' read 'em a beaiutiful essay, 
 
 A sermon at least in name — 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 133 
 
 'Til the fathers and mothers in Israel 
 Got sick of sech dainty bread 
 
 An' sighed fer the solid Gospel, 
 
 The 'old-fashioned Word,' they said. 
 
 They hed no pastoral visitin', 
 
 No one to talk an' pray 
 From house to house with the members 
 
 An' pint to the shinin' way ; 
 
 To go to the sick and aged, 
 
 Scatter'd here an' there, 
 An' speak of thet grand renewin' 
 
 In the mansions bright an' fair. 
 
 But they kep' up formal service, 
 An' the members who took a part 
 
 Kep' prayin' the Lord to send 'em 
 A man after His own heart. 
 
 An under-shepherd to lead 'em 
 
 In pastures green an' new, 
 A faithful and willin' servant 
 
 A glorious work to do. 
 
 Well, heow it wuz ever accojjiplished 
 
 I'm sure I couldn't tell, 
 But they finally settled a pastor. 
 
 An' most of 'em thought they did well. 
 
 He carried himself so graceful, 
 
 Hed such an air of command, 
 The sisters said over and over, 
 
 "I tell ye, our pastor is grand." 
 
134- POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 He wnzn't as young as the last one, 
 
 An' he wuzn't so very old ; 
 The church sed, with few exceptions, 
 
 "This man is a nugget of gold." 
 
 Thus things went on for a short time, 
 An' then (don't mention it 'loud), 
 
 But somehow it got to be rumor'd 
 That Rev. McStyler was proud. 
 
 Then Rev. McStyler was worldly,'^ 
 Didn't 'tend to the prayermeetin's well. 
 
 Made **too many visits at meal time," 
 Hed too many stories^ to tell." 
 
 Didn't always "preach orthodox sermons," 
 An' most of his sermons wuz "dry," 
 
 He "mumbled his v;ords indistinctly" 
 And hed a "queer twitch to his eye." 
 
 His temp'rance wuz "so complicated," 
 His friends couldn't tell where he stood. 
 
 The outsiders dropped off, declarin' 
 "We won't hear him preach; he's no good." 
 
 An' as fer that hoped for revival 
 
 The heavens were brassy an' bright, 
 
 An' the church became weary with waitin' 
 For the cloud that came never in sight. 
 
 Not even a single addition 
 
 By letter or baptism came 
 To offset the whispers and rumors 
 
 An' add to the pastor's small fame. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS J35 
 
 The pulpit committee grew anxious, 
 The year wuz fast passin' away, 
 
 An' every one saw that McStyler 
 Wuz fully intendin' to stay. 
 
 He wuz deef to the whispers an' rumors 
 That thickly pervaded the air, 
 
 Or, if not, he wuz hully indiff'rent 
 An' seemed not to notice or care. 
 
 At last the committee determined 
 
 To wait on the Rev. AIcS. 
 An' give 'im a square ultimatum. 
 
 State plainly the facts (more or less). 
 
 Well wa' n't he surprised at their visit? 
 
 An' didn't his dignity rise? 
 An' didn't he inform that committee 
 
 That they wuz more hasty than wise ? 
 
 But he couldn't frighten those veterans, 
 Or make 'em feel sorry or sore. 
 
 They felt right at hom.e in the matter — 
 They had seen jest sech service before! 
 
 Next Sunday they took an expression. 
 An' most of 'em freely expressed 
 
 The thought that McStyler wuz weary 
 An' voted to give him a rest. 
 
 So now they are waitin' and watchin', 
 
 An' prayin' the Lord again 
 To send 'em another pastor. 
 
 An' they hope to be satisfied then. 
 
136 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 But if He should send 'em an angel, 
 
 Or even His earthly Son, 
 They wouldn't succeed in Churchville 
 
 Fer I tell ye it can't be done. 
 
 THE PASSING OF A DECEMBER DAY. 
 
 The sky is veiled and hidden 
 
 By sombre clouds of grey, 
 And sunshine is forbidden 
 
 This dark December day. 
 
 The snow is swiftly falling 
 
 Upon the frozen ground, 
 But the wind uplifts and deftly shifts 
 
 And scatters it around. 
 
 A snow mist hides the landscape, 
 
 Converging earth and sky, 
 And barren trees bend to the breeze 
 
 They would in vain defy. 
 
 Thankful for food and raiment 
 And shelter from the storm. 
 
 With mind serene we view the scene, 
 Safe from all sense of harm. 
 
 Now the brief day is dying, 
 Twilight droops into night. 
 
 The wind no longer crying- 
 Sinks with the waning light. 
 
 And only fitful moanings 
 
 Disturb the sleepy sense, 
 Until at last, sensation past. 
 
 In dreams we wander hence. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 137 
 
 COUNTY LODGE POEM, I. O. G. T. 
 
 Once again with banners waiving 
 And with badg'es new and bright, 
 
 We have gathered as an army 
 In the sacred cause of right ; 
 
 May the dear Lord see and prosper 
 Our Good Templar force tonight. 
 
 We are not a warhke people — 
 
 Keeping step to fife and drum. 
 We are only Home Guard soldiers 
 
 Fighting 'gainst the Demon Rum ; 
 And to strengthen our equipment 
 
 Is the reason we have come. 
 
 We are not a warlike people — 
 
 We prefer the peaceful arts — 
 But a cause is now imperilled 
 
 That is dear to patriot hearts ; 
 So we band ourselves together. 
 
 Better to enact our parts. 
 
 Is it not a thrilling drama 
 
 That is passing day by day, 
 Wherein all are truly actors 
 
 Though so many turn away, 
 While the alcoholic monster 
 
 Fattens on his helpless prey ? 
 
 "All the world's a stage," said Shakespeare, 
 
 Men and women come and go. 
 Standing out before the footlights, 
 
138 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Some in joy and some in woe, 
 Prompted by an unseen prompter 
 Be it friend or be it foe. 
 
 There's a mighty stage, my brothers, 
 Draped in mourning wide and deep, 
 
 Where the victims of intemperance 
 Stand and drink and shout and leap, 
 
 Till the footlights burning dimly 
 One by one they fall asleep. 
 
 And I hear the mournful music 
 
 Stealing sadly over all. 
 Wailing of the broken hearted 
 
 And the lost beyond recall ; 
 But the prompter bows and beckons 
 
 And the sable curtains fall. 
 
 Then amid the awful silence, 
 While the heart beats painfully, 
 
 We discover what so many 
 Somehow always fail to see — 
 
 That the scenes we sadly witnessed 
 Bore the seal of tragedy. 
 
 I would have it discontinued 
 Spite of all that men might say, 
 
 I would save the desperate actors, 
 I would take the stage away; 
 
 And for man's sake and for God's sake 
 I w^ould stop the bloody play. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 139 
 
 THE PRODIGAL SON. 
 
 Heir of a princely fortune, 
 
 Son of a worthy sire, 
 There yet remained unto him 
 
 One unfulfilled desire; 
 The great wide world about him 
 
 He so longed to explore. 
 To leave his native country 
 
 And seek a foreign shore. 
 
 Home life had grown so tiresome, 
 
 So dull and commonplace ; 
 There seemed so little beauty 
 
 In each familiar face ; 
 So little that he cherished 
 
 About his childhood's home, 
 That he resolved to leave it, 
 
 The wide, wide world to roam. 
 
 Accordingly, one evening 
 
 He sought his father's side. 
 And said to him : ''My father. 
 
 The world is fair and wide ; 
 I cannot be contented 
 
 With youth's bright banner furled, 
 The longing groweth stronger 
 
 To see more of the world." 1 
 
 "Now, father, I beseech you, 
 
 My portion give to me ; 
 For when thou hast it given 
 
 There'll still be much for thee. 
 
I4.0 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 I know thou hast a plenty 
 For many years in store, 
 
 Give but my legal portion, 
 I will not ask for more." 
 
 **My son," replied the father, 
 
 "I warn you to beware, 
 The world is dark and sinful. 
 
 Beset by many a snare ; 
 Thus far you have been shielded 
 
 From dangers manifold. 
 Secure from those temptations 
 
 That tempt the young and old." 
 
 "The world is full of pleasures 
 
 That never satisfy ; 
 And all its sparkling fountains 
 
 In due time will run drv ; 
 The friends that in fair weather 
 
 Would fain your fortune share, 
 When shadows deeply gather 
 
 Will leave you in despair. 
 
 "And, as for your fair portion, 
 
 Remember what I say : 
 The world will wrest it from you, 
 
 And waste it all awav. 
 Yet would I not detain you, 
 
 Nor keep you from your right ; 
 I will divide my living 
 
 With you this very night." 
 
 Not many days thereafter 
 This foolish younger son 
 
 Gathered all he had together. 
 His race of life to run ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 141 
 
 Then taking his departure 
 
 He went far, far away 
 Into an alien country, 
 
 And journeyed many a day. 
 
 But in that foreign country 
 
 From all restraint set free, 
 His substance soon was wasted 
 
 In sinful revelry ; 
 And now from wealth and honor 
 
 He sank into disgrace, 
 'Til want and hunger met him 
 
 And stared him in the face. 
 
 For in that land of strangers, 
 
 To add to other woes_, 
 The sacred record tells us 
 
 ''x\ mighty famine rose." 
 Broken in purse and spirit. 
 
 He wandered to and fro, 
 By every friend forsaken, 
 
 Sad type of grief and woe. 
 
 The father's solemn warning 
 
 Comes to him once again. 
 Comes as a bitter memory 
 
 To fill his soul with pain. 
 Dark shadows gather round him. 
 
 Want doth his heart appall, 
 And with prophetic finger 
 
 Seems ''writing on the w:all." 
 
 One day the glad news reached him 
 
 That in a neighboring town 
 Employment would be given ; 
 
 A wealthv man was found 
 
1^2 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Who would accept his service, 
 His herd of swine to feed, 
 
 x\nd so to him he hastened 
 In sore and urgent need. 
 
 Out in the fields he sent him 
 
 Beneath a tropic sun, 
 To scatter husks among them 
 
 From morn till day was done. 
 Friendless, alone, and starving, 
 
 His ruin now complete, 
 He coveted the tasteless husks 
 
 The filthy swine did eat. 
 
 • But even these were precious, 
 
 And no one gave him leave — 
 A more forlorn condition 
 
 One could not well conceive. 
 Now came the past before him ; 
 
 In vision clear and plain. 
 He saw his father's mansion — 
 
 The dear old home again. 
 
 "How many hired servants 
 
 My father hath," he said, 
 "Who feast upon his bounty, 
 
 And never lack for bread ; 
 While I with hunger perish 
 
 Among these greedy swine. 
 My father hath a plenty — 
 
 Alas ! it is not mine." 
 
 "For I have had my portion — 
 A fair and generous one ; 
 
 And am, I know, unworthy 
 Now to be called his son ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 143 
 
 Yet will I hasten to him, 
 
 Presuming on his grace, 
 And say to him : 'My father. 
 
 Give me a servant's place/ " 
 
 And so the helpless prodigal 
 
 (Despoiled of all his pride, 
 Grateful that in his weakness 
 
 He had not starved and died) 
 Arose, and started homeward 
 
 With feeble step and slow, 
 So little like the young man 
 
 That left it long ago. 
 
 His garments hung in tatters ; 
 
 His shoes worn off his feet ; 
 Footsore, and wan, and weary, 
 
 He passed along the street. 
 No thought of welcome greeting 
 
 His drooping spirits cheered, 
 His courage sank within him. 
 
 His father's wrath he feared. 
 
 "I'll tell him I have sinned," said he, 
 
 "'Gainst heaven, and in his sight, 
 That I am all unworthy 
 
 And ask no son's birth-right. 
 Make me a hired servant, 
 
 Clothe me in such attire. 
 And I will serve thee faithfully. 
 
 My deeply injured sire." 
 
 And now what of the Father? ,< 
 
 How fares it with him now ? 
 Has age and sorrow deepened 
 
 The care-lines on his brow? 
 
JU POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Pines he in gloom and sadness 
 
 Over his absent son, 
 Or has he (jiiite forgotten 
 
 That wayward wandering one? 
 
 No, he has not forgotten — 
 
 Parents do not forget, 
 Though children prove ungrateful. 
 
 They fondly love them yet — 
 This father's heart was tender, 
 
 And oft he yearned to see 
 The wayward lad that long ago 
 
 He held upon his knee. 
 
 ''Where is my boy?" he murmured, 
 
 ''Ah ! how the months have fled 
 Since from my side he wandered 
 
 With proud defiant tread. 
 Far, far away with strangers, 
 
 Into temptation led, 
 Sinning and sufif'ring it may be, 
 
 And it mav be, is dead." 
 
 But the Orient day is fading. 
 
 The shadows longer grow. 
 And sunset's crimson glories 
 
 Set all the sky aglow. 
 Far ofif, the father gazeth 
 
 With fixed and constant gaze ; 
 What object greets his vision? 
 
 What meaneth this amaze? 
 
 "It is ! it is !" he crieth, 
 "It is my long lost son ! 
 
 Sure as I live, he cometh. 
 My own, my precious one." 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 14s 
 
 Waited he not a moment 
 
 To send the good news round — 
 That he once dead is Hving; 
 
 That he once lost is found. 
 
 But, straightway as an arrow 
 
 Speeds on its noiseless flight, 
 The aged father hastened 
 
 To meet his son that night. 
 With arms outstretched, the father 
 
 Embraced his erring child ; 
 Repentance and forgiveness — 
 
 Heaven saw the scene and smiled. 
 
 "O, Father, I have greatly sinned 
 
 'Gainst Heaven and in your sight." 
 Loudly the father shouted 
 
 To serv^ants left and right : 
 "Bring forth the best robe for him, 
 
 Put shoes upon his feet, 
 A ring upon his finger, — 
 
 The change shall be complete." 
 
 "And spare you not the fatted calf. 
 
 But let his blood be shed ; 
 'Tis meet that we should kill it. 
 
 For this my son was dead ; 
 But now he is alive again — 
 
 Was lost, but now is found. 
 Hail ! and all hail ! let all unite 
 
 To send the news around." 
 
 But now the elder brother. 
 
 Working all day afield, 
 Comes in the twilight's gloaming. 
 
 And lo ! the sight revealed, 
 
1^6 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Lights flashing from the windows ; 
 
 Music upon the air; 
 And sounds of mirth, and dancing, 
 
 And feasting everywhere. 
 
 "What means this strange commotion 
 
 From basement up to dome?" 
 The servant quickly answered : 
 
 ''Your brother has come home ; 
 Your truant, younger brother 
 
 Is with us once again. 
 Hence all this mirth and merriment 
 
 Like sunshine after rain." 
 
 Then was the elder brother 
 
 By angry feelings stirred, 
 The green-eyed vi\ov^^\^r jealousy 
 
 His clearer vision blurred ; 
 He could not, would not, enter, 
 
 Nor did he care to see 
 The brother thus returning 
 
 In rags and poverty. 
 
 Now word came to the father, 
 
 Who sought the elder son, 
 And earnestly entreated him 
 
 To spare the erring one. 
 But he replied : *'Thou knowest, 
 
 I served thee many years, 
 Nor ever wandered from thee 
 
 To cause thee grief and tears." 
 
 "And as to disobedience. 
 Never have I transgressed ; 
 
 But keeping thy commandments 
 Have tried to do mv best ; 
 
POE TICAL POR TRAITS 1^7 
 
 And, yet, thou never gavest me 
 
 Even a fatted kid. 
 That I might call my friends in, 
 
 And feast as others did." 
 
 "And now thy son returning 
 
 Who hath thy living spent 
 With harlots — thou art joyful. 
 
 And seemingly content. 
 With music and rejoicing 
 
 The house is quickly filled, 
 And for this hungry prodigal 
 
 The fatted calf is killed." 
 
 '*'My son," replied the father, 
 
 "Ever art thou with me. 
 And all I have about me 
 
 Belongs as well to thee. 
 'Tis meet we should make merry, 
 
 And let good cheer abound, 
 In that the dead is living — 
 
 In that the lost is found." 
 
 HONOR TO THE BRAVE. 
 
 A Memorial Day Poem. 
 
 Again we are marshalled, a "weaponless" army. 
 With badges and banners and soul-stirring song. 
 
 To scatter Spring flowers over loved ones of ours 
 Who died for their country in days long agone. 
 
 In marshland and moorland, by lakelet and river. 
 
 In Northland and Southland, the Blue and the Grey, 
 
 Discharged from life's service, now sleep on forever. 
 Awaiting the call of the great judgment day. 
 
148 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 The earthquake may jar, and the cyclone may shatter, 
 The comet may blaze in the blue heavens at night, 
 
 The light rain may fall, or the white snowflake scatter. 
 They hear not, they heed not, they see not the light. 
 
 Heroic their death, and serene is their sleeping. 
 For freedom they suffered, for freedom they bled ; 
 
 And sentinel angels are strict vigils keeping 
 'Round about all the graves of our patriot dead. 
 
 Today as we tell to our children the story 
 Of treason o'ermastered by valor and might, 
 
 We'll teach them to weave into garlands of glory, 
 
 Bright wreaths for the brave who went down in the 
 fight. 
 
 Then bring the sweet flowers, in their fragrance and 
 beauty. 
 
 And tenderly strew them each hero above ; 
 They gave up their lives at the stern call of duty, 
 
 And thus earned the right to our tributes of love. 
 
 Rut while you thus scatter these beautiful flowers, 
 Forg"et not the soldiers who sleep far and lone. 
 
 Who fought as these fought for this fair land of ours, 
 Who fell and were numbered among the unknown. 
 
 Down into deep trenches how many wxre hurried, 
 Their bodies yet warm with the life barely flown, 
 
 On blood-reddened battle fields hastily buried. 
 The pride of our nation, "our sainted unknown." 
 
 And some died, you know, with but bare walls around 
 them. 
 Their weary limbs worn on a carpetless floor ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 14.9 
 
 Slain by starvation, the death angel found them, 
 And bore them away from life's shadowy shore. 
 
 Dear friends, it is well that we cherish forever 
 The memory of patriots so loyal and true. 
 
 That nothing could tempt them their grand vows to 
 sever, 
 And thus prove them false to the Red, White and Blue. 
 
 Shut in from the conflict by foemen surrounded, 
 Their sad eyes saw never a stripe or a star, 
 
 But with courage divine, and with faith firmly grounded, 
 They waited for death or the end of the war. 
 
 And friends, while we speak of the absent and near ones. 
 The known and the unknown who fell far away ; 
 
 We have in our midst just a few of the dear ones 
 Who stood by our banner as loyal as they. 
 
 They carried our banner where cannons did thunder. 
 And bayonets gleamed in the light of the sun, 
 
 Where death's gleaming knife severed life's cords asun- 
 der. 
 And war's swollen tide in its ghastliness run. 
 
 Brave soldiers ! brave heroes ! we give you warm greet- 
 ing. 
 
 In darkness and danger your hearts were all true ; 
 Our Great Nation's sentiments only repeating. 
 
 May heaven's richest blessings be given to you. 
 
 On the transfigured mount of our National glory, 
 Your names shine as fair as the stars of the night ; 
 
I50 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 While tongues touched with fire thrill our heart with the 
 story 
 Of freedom's great struggle for God and the right. 
 
 To our Grand Army Posts — mighty bulwarks of power — 
 
 Imbedded so firm in American soil ; 
 May their campfires burn brightly till life's closing hour 
 
 Brings reward for their valor and rest from their toil. 
 
 And now let us scatter these beautiful flowers, 
 With hearts keeping time to love's tender refrain, 
 
 Then breathe a farewell to those heroes of ours. 
 
 And leave them to sleep 'neath the dew and the rain. 
 
 "AT EVENTIDE." 
 
 Daylight fadeth o'er the landscape, 
 And the curtains of the evening 
 Gently droop and fold about me ; 
 Overhead the bright stars twinkle, 
 Shining brighter as the shadows 
 Denser grow, until they sparkle 
 Like a crown of flashing diamonds 
 In the azure vault of Heaven ; 
 Hark ! there comes a far faint echo 
 Of a song upon the night breeze, 
 Not a sound can I distinguish. 
 Nor an outline of the singer, 
 But the notes are sweet and tender. 
 Like the sighing of a zephyr, 
 Like a strain from harp ^olian, 
 Rising, falling, growing fainter, 
 Dying in the shadowy distance, 
 Silence reigns supreme, unbroken. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 151 
 
 Fleet winged flit the flying moments, 
 'Till from some lone village steeple 
 Eight o'clock is tolled, then silence 
 Once more mingles with the darkness, 
 And the night dews thicker falling 
 Warn me to forego my musing; 
 Still I linger for the pale moon 
 O'er the eastern hills is rising, 
 Higher, higher in the heavens, 
 Slowly up its star strewn pathway, 
 Till its face above the mountains. 
 Smiles upon the trembling shadows, 
 Lighting all the darkened places 
 With the glory of fair Eden, 
 , When her sinless bowers were radiant 
 With the smile of God's approval. 
 
 ONE TALENT. 
 
 •'Only one talent," the servant said, 
 And his brow was clouded o'er. 
 
 "So many talents the Master had 
 In his precious golden store, 
 
 And he has given me only one. 
 
 When He might have given me more." 
 
 **Only one talent, and that so small 
 That it seems of little w^orth, 
 
 I do not value the gift at all, 
 I care not who gave it birth; 
 
 I'll fold it up in a napkin 
 And bury it in the earth." 
 
 So the servant hid the talent fair, 
 
 Buried it low in the dust. 
 Turned quickly away and left it there. 
 
152 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 The Master's most sacred trust, 
 Left it with never an iitter'd prayer, 
 To He in the ground and rust. 
 
 Alas ! how many there are today 
 Who're doing the self same thing; 
 
 Hiding their one lone talent away. 
 Spurning the gift of their King, 
 
 Saying, as plain as words can say, 
 "I'm ashamed of God's offering. " 
 
 They reason if He had given me more. 
 They would have been faithful then ; 
 
 Would have labored hard to increase their store, 
 Perhaps would have gained him ten, 
 
 So strong are pride and vanity 
 In the hearts of fallen men ! 
 
 Is it not better to do our best, 
 Than to fold our hands and say : 
 
 "We will spend our time in idleness 
 And throw our talent away ;" 
 
 Knowing the while that God will come 
 To reckon Avith us some day? 
 
 O, it is better to work and trust 
 
 Though our talent indeed be small ; 
 
 For the Master is ever kind and just 
 And he will reward us all, 
 
 If in His word forever we trust, 
 And honor his loving call. 
 
 And we shall find in the eventide 
 
 Of our life's eventful day 
 That faith was better than doubt and pride. 
 
 And work was better than play; 
 And we shall then be satisfied 
 
 With the Master's own sweet way. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 153 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 Dear Lord, upon my bed of pain, 
 
 Through all the lonely night I lie, 
 While slow the hours come and wane, 
 'Til breaks the blessed dawn again 
 
 Along the Eastern sky ; 
 Night after night, day after day, 
 So steals this transient life away. 
 
 Dear Lord, if I should die tonight. 
 
 While shadows wrap the earth around, 
 Should life's fair morn break on my sight, 
 With its sweet soul entrancing light, 
 
 And heart subduing sound, 
 Mv thankful heart to thee would raise 
 An everlasting song of praise. 
 
 Dear Lord, if thou shouldst deem it best 
 
 To raise me from this bed of pain, 
 To light once more the darkening west. 
 To hear for life my faint request 
 
 And make me well again; 
 Still will I glad and grateful be. 
 And consecrate that life to Thee. 
 
 "THE TIDE OF THE YEARS." 
 
 Flowing ever amain is this wonderful tide, 
 Now narrow and deep, and now shallow and wide ; 
 Now lashed into foam by the wild winds at war ; 
 Then calm and unrufifled anear and afar. 
 Sometimes in the shadow, sometimes in the sun. 
 Yet westward forever its current doth run. 
 
154 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 There are many frail barques on this out-going tide, 
 
 And many disasters their courses abide. 
 
 Some float on serenely thro' shallows and deeps, 
 
 On, on without signal, past lowlands and steeps; 
 
 Unmindful of shoals, unappalled by the gale, 
 
 By sunlight, by starlight, right onward they sail. 
 
 Others tremble and toss on a wave warring main, 
 With sails and masts groaning like spirits in pain; 
 Driven out of their course by the hurricane's might, 
 'Til in the dim distance they vanish from sight. 
 I stand on the shore of this wonderful stream, 
 And oft of the fate of the mariners dream ; 
 I watch the white sails drifting constantly by, 
 I give friendly hail, but there comes no reply ; 
 Silent, and phantom-like, onward they glide. 
 Borne steadily on by this magical tide. 
 
 A feeling of sadness steals over my soul, 
 
 A deep settled grief that I cannot control ; 
 
 For I know that the sails speeding down this wide main 
 
 Will never, no never, turn backward again. 
 
 They will carry their tribute of love and of tears 
 
 Forever, away down the tide of the years. 
 
 Whither drifteth this fleet that forever floats past ? 
 
 And where will the anchor be finally cast? 
 
 Where in the dim distance that stretcheth away 
 
 Under low arching skies, thro' the mist and the spray, 
 
 Will the sky and the water be blended in one. 
 
 The tide reach the shore and the voyage be done? 
 
 O, far, far away lies a harbor serene, 
 And many white sails in that haven are seen ; 
 In summer and winter, by night and by day. 
 This refuge lies open to welcome alway 
 The ships that appear on the inflowing tide. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 155 
 
 Seeking anchorage where they must ever abide. 
 
 'Tis the harbor of age, where the worn sail is furled, 
 
 And the mariner breathes a farewell to the world. 
 
 Where the cross he has carried thro' sunshine and rain 
 
 Is taken from him with its burden of pain. 
 
 And he rests evermore from the doubts and the fears 
 
 Which took passage with him down the tide of the years. 
 
 "ALONE WITH MY SAVIOR." 
 
 When I am alone with my savior, 
 
 In secret communion with him, 
 And earth like the stars in the dawning 
 
 In the light of His light groweth dim, 
 Then the cares of the world that freighted 
 
 My life with their burdens of woe. 
 Are soothed into rest, like a babe on the breast 
 
 Of the mother who loveth it so, 
 Then peace like a mystical river, 
 
 Flows into my soul, 'til to me 
 There cometh a vision of Heaven, 
 
 The throne and the clear crystal sea. 
 
 When I am alone with my Savior, 
 
 My doubts they all vanish away ; 
 I plead with the faith of a prophet, 
 
 Rejoicing in Him night and day ; 
 I wonder that ever the tempter. 
 
 Could cause me one moment to doubt; 
 The way grows so bright, and the burden so light 
 
 That for joy my glad heart crieth out. 
 O, its precious to be with my Savior, 
 
 To feel his sweet presence near. 
 That even when danger menaces, 
 
 I have no occasion to fear. 
 
156 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Well, I shall soon dwell with my Savior, 
 
 My pathway is leading to Him, 
 I have walked a long way in the valley, 
 
 Where the light has shone feeble and dim. 
 But I see that my way groweth brighter, 
 
 The uplands are coming in view, 
 To the sights and the sounds of the valley, 
 
 I shall soon bid a final adieu. 
 The river of death once so mighty, 
 
 Now a mere little rivulet seems. 
 Bordering earth's shadowy lowlands, 
 
 And the land of the soul's sweetest dreams. 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 When the evening shadows gather 
 
 And the gentle night dews fall, 
 When the birds in thrilling chorus, 
 
 Sound their sweet and plaintive call, 
 When the angels of the evening 
 
 Trim the lamps in Heaven's blue dome. 
 Then the sweetest song of mortals 
 
 Is the song of "Home, sweet home." 
 
 Out upon the air it floateth 
 
 And its echoes linger long. 
 While we gather inspiration 
 
 From the spirit of the song ; 
 Day may bring us care and sorrow, 
 
 As with weary feet we roam, 
 Evening brings a balm and blessing 
 
 With the tho't of ''Home, sweet home." 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS i^y 
 
 "Home, sweet home !" alas for many 
 
 These dear words are meaningless, 
 And the glad refrain outwelling 
 
 Has no power to soothe or bless ; 
 Once to them it sounded sweetly 
 
 At the closing of the day, 
 Like the notes of angels singing 
 
 In their bright home far away. 
 
 But there came a subtle tempter 
 
 Creeping through love's fairest bowers, 
 Clouding all the golden sunshine, 
 
 Casting blight upon the flowers, 
 Floating in the jeweled wine cup. 
 
 Sparkling in the liquid foam. 
 Like a bird of evil omen. 
 
 Ever cursing "Home, sweet home." 
 
 One by one the roses faded 
 
 From the wife and mother's cheek. 
 And the children, sorrow shaded, 
 
 Day by day grew pale and weak ; 
 And the husband, and the father 
 
 Late at night the streets would roam 
 Knowing nothing, caring nothing 
 
 For the love of "Home, sweet home." 
 
 This is not a fancy picture. 
 
 Neither is it overdrawn ; 
 Hearts are breaking all around us. 
 
 Waiting, watching for the dawn ; 
 All around them droopeth darkness. 
 
 Not one star bedecks the dome ; 
 Bitter memories only waken 
 
 When we sing of "Home, sweet home.'' 
 
IS8 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 And, my friends, I blush to tell you 
 
 That this nation, proud and great, 
 Shields by law this awful monster 
 
 That has made them desolate ; 
 But the light of justice shineth 
 
 From God's lighthouse evermore 
 And an angel hand is kindling 
 
 Beacon lights along the shore. 
 
 Hark ! I hear the distant tramping 
 
 Of a brave and fearless band 
 Who have written on their banner 
 
 "God, and Home, and Native Land ;" 
 And I hear an anthem ringing, 
 
 Faint and far the echoes roam, 
 And the song that they are singing 
 
 Is the song of "Home, sweet home." 
 
 ELIJAH'S TRANSLATION. 
 
 Long had the prophet prophesied 
 
 Unheeded by his race. 
 Warning the people of their sins 
 
 With persevering grace. 
 Long had he waited, wept and prayed, 
 
 And sorrowed sad and sore, 
 Yet hopefully and undismayed 
 
 He labored more and more. 
 
 Youth's sunny morn had passed away; 
 
 Manhood's bright years had fled ; 
 Yet strong in faith from day to day 
 
 His soul was comforted. 
 The world had clamored for his life, 
 
 Because he testified 
 Against the violence and strife. 
 
 He saw on everv side. 
 
POETICAL PORl RAITS 159 
 
 "O Israel, thou art defiled, 
 
 Thy sins like mountains rise, 
 By idol gods thou art beguiled, 
 
 Why wilt thou not be wise? 
 O Israel, obey thy God, — 
 
 Jehovah, Lord of all — 
 Lest 'neath his swift avenging rod. 
 
 Thy glory fade and fall." 
 
 Thus cried the prophet, till at last 
 
 From Heaven came this decree. 
 Thy pain and peril now are past, 
 
 Elijah, thou art free; 
 No more the hills of Palestine, 
 
 Thy weary feet shall roam ; 
 No more on earth shalt thou be seen 
 
 For thou art going home. 
 
 Then as near Jordan's sacred tide, 
 
 The weary prophet strayed; 
 Elisha walking by his side, 
 
 With heart most sore afraid ; 
 There came a noise of chariots, 
 
 A sound of rushing wings, 
 A fiery whirlwind swooping down 
 
 On sublunary things. 
 
 Farewell, thou Prophet of the Lord, 
 
 Breathe thou to earth farewell ! 
 Go and receive thy great reward. 
 
 Go with thy God to dwell. 
 A momentary flash of light 
 
 Through Heaven's open'd door. — 
 The vision vanishes from sight, 
 
 Elijah's work is o'er. 
 
i6o POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 THE SNOW. 
 
 O the snow, the terrible snow, 
 Coming to earth in a whirl and a blow. 
 Drifting the lanes with its billows of white, 
 Hiding the fences and highways from sight, 
 Biting the fingers and stinging the toe ; 
 Rolicsome, frolicsome, troublesome snow. 
 
 O the snow, the venturesome snow, 
 
 In to all places determined to go. 
 
 In thro' the windows and doors left ajar. 
 
 Into the crevices, near and afar, 
 
 In like a raider, no quarter you show, 
 
 Lightfooted, whitefooted, swiftfooted snow. 
 
 O the snow, the unwelcome snow, 
 Like a white winding sheet lying so low, 
 Clothing the earth in a symbol of death ; 
 Nature oppressed by thee, holdeth her breath. 
 Helpless she waiteth for spring gales to blow. 
 Bringing release from the bonds of the snow. 
 
 O the snow, the beautiful snow, 
 
 Why do I mock thee, and slander thee so, 
 
 As earthward in grandeur thy white flakes descend. 
 
 Dost thou not come as a servant and friend? 
 
 Type of that purity God's angels know — 
 
 Beautiful, dutiful, wonderful snow. 
 
 "ALONE." 
 
 I'm lonely, and I know not why ; 
 
 The sun shines bright in cloudless sky; 
 Dear friends are near with open hand 
 
 To aid me if I help demand. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS i6i 
 
 The autumn blight is not yet here 
 
 To stamp on all its impress drear; 
 The flowers in gay and festive dress 
 
 Still bloom in springtime loveliness. 
 
 The birds in plumage bright and gay, 
 
 Carol the fleeting hours away; 
 Now restfully, now on the wing, 
 
 Their happy songs I hear them sing. 
 
 All nature seems in joyous mood, 
 
 Seeking and giving only good ; 
 Bright, sunnyfaced, and shadowless, 
 
 A counterpart of Heaven's own peace ; 
 
 And yet my heart is sad today, 
 
 And shadows steal across my way ; 
 The south wind hath a plaintive tone, 
 
 And seems to say alone, alone. 
 
 My thoughts go wandering far and wide. 
 Backward adown life's troubled tide. 
 
 And forms and faces, bright and fair. 
 Precious to me beyond compare. 
 
 Appear and disappear at will. 
 
 Most strangely real and life-like still ; 
 
 Though many years a veil hath drawn 
 Between me and those dear ones gone. 
 
 Oh loved for whom my soul doth yearn. 
 
 Could you in fleshly shape return? 
 Could I but clasp your hands once more, 
 
 As in the sainted days of yore? 
 
i62 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Could I but press your lips again, 
 
 Whose pressure eased my heart's dull pain ; 
 
 No greater pleasure would I crave 
 This side of Jordon's chilly wave. 
 
 But no, the hands I clasped of yore 
 Will touch my own on earth no more ; 
 
 The lips I kissed in love's own trust 
 Have turned again to scentless dust. 
 
 And thus my heart is sad today; 
 
 And shadows steal across my way ; 
 The low wind hath a plaintive tone, 
 
 And seems to say, alone, alone. 
 
 AN APPEAL TO AUTUMN. 
 
 Dearest Autumn do not crowd upon the Summer, 
 
 Let it linger just a little, if it will ; 
 Might thou not be for once a tardy comer, 
 
 And later on thy mission work fulfill? 
 
 Let the fragrant flowers awhile enjoy their sweetness, 
 Do not touch them just at present with decay, 
 
 So beautiful and bright in their completeness, 
 We'll sorrow when they fade and pass away. 
 
 And the maples and the beeches so inviting 
 Cozy shelter from the sun and from the rain ; 
 
 The hearts of both the young and old delighting, 
 Let their green robes untarnished yet remain. 
 
 Thou canst deck them by and by with gold and crimson. 
 Thou canst paint each leaf in colors bright and gay. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 163 
 
 Then gently loose the hold with which they're clinging, 
 And let them in their glory pass away. 
 
 After thee will come the Winter stern and hoary, 
 To bury all the leaves and blossoms fair, 
 
 To take from Nature's head her crown of glory, 
 
 And leave the fields and woodlands brown and bare. 
 
 There's so little brightness in this world of sorrow, 
 
 It is very sad to see it fade and die, 
 Sweet flowers that bloom today may by tomorrow 
 
 Low at our feet in hopeless ruin lie. 
 
 Then dear Autumn do not crowd upon the Summer, 
 
 Let it linger just a little if it will ; 
 Be thou to us for once a tardy comer. 
 
 And later on thy sad, sad task fulfill. 
 
 A WOODLAND STREAM. 
 
 Near where I dwxll, a tiny stream, 
 
 With many deeps and shallows, 
 Winds on and on, a silver beam 
 
 Through alder clumps and willows. 
 
 I mark its murm'ring waters fall 
 Through golden sunHght glancing; 
 
 Its silver wavelets over all • ' 
 
 Among the white stones dancing. 
 
 O, how I love that little brook, 
 
 So quiet and so lowly; 
 In sunlight fair or shady nook. 
 
 Its presence seemeth holy. 
 
164. POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Dear little stream ! flow on and on ; 
 
 Thy clear voice ever ringing, 
 As though the angels had come down, 
 
 And stood beside me singing. 
 
 The frost chain soon will bind thy breast 
 "With cords of crystal brightness ; 
 
 And winter soothe thy voice to rest 
 'Neath robe of snowy whiteness. 
 
 "SHADOW AND SUBSTANCE." 
 
 "O mother," cried Effie, ''please come to the door 
 And see these bright clouds in the sky, 
 
 I never saw any so pretty before 
 They look like a city on high." 
 
 ''There are towers and domes, I can see them so plain, 
 
 Like sentinels stately and tall. 
 And there where the sun sets the shadows aflame 
 
 I can see the outline of a wall." 
 
 "O the picture is lovely, as lovely can be ; 
 
 What a pity it cannot be true ! 
 But, mother, the clouds are departing, and see 
 
 What a wonderful background of blue." 
 
 Then her mother said, "Effie, the picture is true ; 
 
 There is a great city on high. 
 And oftimes at evening its shadows we view. 
 
 In the beautiful clouds in the sky. 
 
 "When the Savior was here, as a mortal on earth, 
 
 He told of that city so fair. 
 And told of bright mansions of mfinite worth, 
 
 That He for His loved would prepare." 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 165 
 
 *'And it will not be long if we trust in his word, 
 When the clouds far away shall be rolled ; 
 
 The saints shall ascend with their glorified Lord 
 To reign in that city of gold." 
 
 "And, EfBe, the children will be with them there, 
 Among tlie blood washed and forgiven. 
 
 For Jesus in love to them all did declare : — 
 'That of such was the Kingdom of Heaven.' " 
 
 PLANTING THE TREES. 
 
 Planting the trees, 'tis the season for planting, 
 God has ordained it and taught us the need. 
 
 And if with bright sheaves we would come with rejoicing, 
 We must go forth planting and sowing the seed. 
 
 Planting the trees in the beautiful May-time, 
 
 Tender and fragrant and fair to behold. 
 Fresh from the virgin soil, just as God gave them, 
 
 Planting them deep in the rich earthern mould. 
 
 Planting the trees, what a lesson it teaches, 
 Of sowing the seed in the minds of the youth ; 
 
 Upward and onward the influence reaches. 
 Borne by the spirit of virtue and truth. 
 
 Planting the trees that w411 send out their rootlets 
 
 Further and firmer as time rolls away. 
 Lender the grassy turf, secretly, silently, 
 
 Subjects of nature and prompt to obey. 
 
 Planting the trees that will shoot forth their branches. 
 Kissed by the sunlight, the dew, and the rain, 
 
 Harps for the touch of invisible fingers, 
 
 Cheering our sadness and soothing our pain. 
 
1 66 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Planting the trees where the wild birds will carol 
 Through the glad hours of the days yet to be, 
 
 Warbling the songs that "Our Father" hath taught them. 
 Morning and evening so blithesome and free. 
 
 Planting the trees that will stand in their beauty, 
 Long after we shall have passed to our rest, 
 
 Sentinels faithful to love and to duty 
 Ever and forever doing their best. 
 
 Planting the trees, may God speed our endeavors. 
 Blessing the work of our "Arbor day" bands. 
 
 Till sunshine and shade blending sweetly together. 
 Our country becometh the pride of all lands. 
 
 LONG AGO. 
 
 IvOng ago the earth seemed brighter 
 
 Than it does today, 
 Pain less sharp, and crosses lighter. 
 
 In the far away. 
 Spring morns had a sweeter fragrance 
 
 In the days of yore. 
 And the sun threw richer radiance 
 
 Over wave and shore. 
 
 Long ago my friends seemed dearer. 
 
 Truer than today ; 
 To my heart, they gathered nearer. 
 
 In familiar way ; 
 I could tell them all my sorrow. 
 
 As it came to me, 
 And the needed comfort borrow 
 
 From their sympathy. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 167 
 
 Long ago, alas that ever, 
 
 All its light should fade, 
 And its joys, forgotten never. 
 
 In the grave be laid ; 
 That those sacred scenes and places 
 
 Are beyond my ken, 
 And the sweet and sainted faces 
 
 Never smile again. 
 
 A MORNIXG IN SPRING. 
 
 Night's vigils o'er ; their duty done, 
 The stars of Heaven, one by one. 
 Grow pale before the coming sun. 
 
 The shadows that have veiled the night. 
 Alarmed at the increasing light. 
 Begin to plume their wings for flight. 
 
 A solitary bird-note falls 
 
 Like music through the leafy halls. 
 
 Then seems to wait for answering calls. 
 
 Only a moment, then a song 
 
 Of thrilling sweetness rolls along. 
 
 As though it would its notes prolong, 
 
 'Til other sleeping birds should wake, 
 And their part in the chorus take, 
 Vocal the sweet spring morn to make. 
 
 O sacred hour, — the dawn of day, — 
 When robins sing their roundelay, 
 And shadows shift and flee awav, 
 
1 68 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 When later from its secret place, 
 The mild sun shows its genial face, 
 In blessing on the realms of space, 
 
 When to his toil the workman goes. 
 Brave-hearted from his night's repose. 
 To grapple with life's cares and woes. 
 
 O precious morns of early spring, 
 In bursting buds, and blossoming, 
 In birds that flit on tireless wing, 
 
 In songs they warble sweet and low ; 
 We wander back to long ago, 
 To happy days we used to know, 
 
 When life was like the balmy spring, 
 And spirit voices seemed to sing 
 Their songs of love's own welcoming. 
 
 RECLAIMED. 
 
 He was simply a common drunkard, 
 
 One of a numerous throng. 
 Facing toward death and destruction, 
 
 And recklessly hasting along. 
 The neighbors said, ''Oh, what a pity, 
 
 Just think of his children and wife, 
 No mortal can tell how they suffer, 
 
 And he is the curse of their life." 
 
 But none of them pitied the dnmkard. 
 Not at all, the miserable sot, — 
 
 He was but a curse to creation, 
 A stench in its nostrils, a blot ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS i6g 
 
 He would doubtless drink and keep drinking, 
 'Til death put an end to his race, 
 
 Then leave for his friends and relations 
 A fortune — of shame and disgrace. 
 
 And what of the victim thus walking 
 
 So near to the verge of despair ; 
 Sighed he for the blessings of freedom, 
 
 For the love of the pure and the fair? 
 Or was he so fully degraded, 
 
 So low burned the bright altar fires, 
 That he had no more high aspirations, 
 
 Or knew any holy desires? 
 
 No, into the mind of that outcast, 
 
 Came flashes of light and of love. 
 And yearnings and hopes for the future. 
 
 As pure as the stars up above. 
 Full many a strong resolution 
 
 He formed to reform, but alas. 
 It only resulted in failure, 
 
 So great was the power of the glass. 
 
 None knew of his struggles for freedom. 
 
 His efforts so useless and vain. 
 Save God, the all knowing and loving, 
 
 Who saw him go wandering amain. 
 He saw him, and pitied his weakness, 
 
 And send to him friends in his need, 
 Who labored and prayed for the drunkard, 
 
 And sowed in his heart precious seed. 
 
 Soon a wonderful change came o'er him. 
 The scales from his eyes fell away. 
 
 The shadows of night turned to morning, 
 The morn of a bright, peaceful day ; 
 
ijo POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Strong fetters of appetite broken, 
 No longer a slave, but a son. 
 
 He kneeled at the cross, crying, "Jesus, 
 Not my will, but Thy will be done." 
 
 Some heard him, and smiled in derision. 
 
 Some heard him, and held him in doubt. 
 And said, ''He begins well, but surely 
 
 Such a weakling can never hold out ; 
 He will run for a time very nicely. 
 
 But will-power with him is so small, 
 As soon as he faces temptation, 
 
 You see he will stumble and fall." 
 
 But some said, "To God be the glory. 
 
 Let us do the best that we can. 
 To shield him, and save him from falling. 
 
 And make of him once more a man." 
 So time hurried on, but the weakling. 
 
 Grew stronger, and stronger, each day. 
 And sought far and near for the lost ones. 
 
 Whose feet had been tempted to stray. 
 
 Ah ! many and many a victim. 
 
 He rescued from rum's vile embrace, 
 And brought him in triumph to Jesus, 
 
 To tell of His infinite grace. 
 And still he works on for the Master, 
 
 A faithful and dutiful son, 
 And we trust will work on till he heareth. 
 
 That grand commendation "well done." 
 
 Around us today there are drunkards, 
 Who walk very near to the grave. 
 
 Appealing to us, and beseeching 
 To pity, and rescue, and save. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 171 
 
 I plead with you loyal Good Templars, 
 Look out for the wrecks on the strand, 
 
 And with the great life boat of temperance. 
 Work faithful to bring them to land. 
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS. 
 
 The dear, dead days of my childhood 
 
 Are only a memory now; 
 Yet dreams of the farm and the wildwood — 
 
 The sweet blossoming apple bough, 
 The house and the barn, grey and olden. 
 
 The brook with its waters so bright, 
 The meadows with buttercups golden 
 
 The pastures with daisies so white. 
 
 The walks in the moonlight together, 
 
 With friends that my heart loved so well ; 
 So happy I hardly knew whether 
 
 'Twas Katie, or Susie, or Nell, 
 Who set the most joy bells to ringing, 
 
 Or gave me the purest delight, 
 As to the soft hand I was clinging. 
 
 On a musical midsummer nig-ht. 
 
 But the memory is all that is left me 
 
 Of days that will come nevermore, 
 For time in its flight hath bereft me 
 
 Of friends and companions of yore. 
 Youth and its bright scenes are behind me. 
 
 Sweet springtime of life, thou art gone, 
 Grey hairs 'mid the gold oft remind me 
 
 That old age is fast creeping on. 
 
172 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 A CHILD'S QUESTION. 
 
 *'Mamma," said a fair-hair'd darling, 
 As the shadows round them fell, 
 
 "Couldn't it be always daytime, 
 Wouldn't it be just as well?" 
 
 "When the sun is shining brightly, 
 And the birds are on the wing. 
 
 Then my heart is full of music, 
 Then I love to sit and sing." 
 
 "But when evening comes, dear mamma, 
 With its dark and gloomy shade. 
 
 And I cannot see the sunshine. 
 Then I feel almost afraid." 
 
 "If the sun would shine forever, 
 As it shines from morn till night 
 
 Earth would seem so much like Heaven, 
 Where God says 'tis always light." 
 
 "Darling," said the tender mother, 
 As she kissed the troubled face, 
 
 "God knows best about the darkness, 
 We must trust his love and grace." 
 
 "If we trust our Heavenly Father, 
 And are sure to do the right, 
 
 There is nothing that will harm us 
 In the dark or in the light." 
 
 "Could the sunlight smile forever, 
 We should weary of the sight. 
 
 Pining for the welcome shadows 
 And the glory of the night." 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS lys 
 
 A BIT OF ADVICE. 
 
 In this mortal life with its toil and its strife, 
 
 Its rough thorns and briers far reaching, 
 Its sad doubts and fears running on thro' the years, 
 
 I pray you give heed to my teaching ; 
 Remember my friends, we are all in the flesh, 
 
 And each one by Adam a brother. 
 So let charity fall like a mantle on all. 
 
 And don't be too hard on each other. 
 
 Our aches and our pains, while the mortal remains, 
 
 There may be no way of escaping, 
 The physical man lieth under the ban, 
 
 Its laws the Creator is shaping ; 
 But the ills of the mind, how often we find 
 
 Are easy to fan or to smother, 
 We add or subtract by a word or an act, 
 
 Then don't be too hard on each other. 
 
 Show kindness to all, both the great and the small, 
 
 Be manly in word and in action, 
 And never go round like a knave or a clown 
 
 To stir up contention or faction. 
 A task we shall find our own business to mind. 
 
 So let us not burden a brother. 
 But give each one a chance his cause to advance, 
 
 And be not so hard on each other. 
 
 THE NEW CRUSADE. 
 
 With giant strides there cometh 
 
 A glorious crusade ; 
 Not by brave knights in armor. 
 
 Or war-decked cavalcade; 
 
17^ POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 No fiery steeds shall trample 
 The weak and helpless down, 
 
 Or bugles sound their warning, 
 Where sentried earthworks frown. 
 
 No blood-stained banners waving, 
 
 Shall loyal hosts inspire, 
 Nor cannon's dumb lips speaking, 
 
 Belch forth in sheeted fire ; 
 No blood of fallen heroes 
 
 Shall earth's fair bosom stain, 
 Or moon or stars light dimly 
 
 The faces of the slain. 
 
 The conflict now impending 
 
 Is not for wealth or fame. 
 Or coveted possessions. 
 
 Or throne, or titled name ; 
 The forces swiftly gathering. 
 
 Have heard God's clarion call, 
 To lift the hand for native land 
 
 Against King Alcohol. 
 
 For weary years we've waited, 
 
 In grief of hope deferred. 
 For some heroic champion 
 
 To speak the magic word 
 That should arouse the people 
 
 To bravely dare and do, 
 And give this cruel monster, 
 
 A second Waterloo. 
 
 A Joshua or a Gideon, 
 With iron will and hand ; 
 
 A Moses leading rum's poor slaves. 
 Unto the promised land. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 175 
 
 But vain thus far our waiting, 
 
 God's ways are not our own, 
 He will inspire the people. 
 
 And He will lead, alone. 
 
 The nation's liquor interest. 
 
 Has been allowed to grow, 
 Until today it threatens 
 
 Our speedy overthrow; 
 It is a deadly enemy, 
 
 Relentless, fierce and strong; 
 Its poison breath betokens death. 
 
 Where ere it moves along. 
 
 A foe of truth and justice, 
 
 And honest government. 
 It feeds the rich on avarice. 
 
 The poor on discontent ; 
 Look at the past and present, 
 
 As you have light to see. 
 Then tell me, I beseech you, 
 
 What will our future be ? 
 
 The days when honest statesmen. 
 
 Were always in demand. 
 Sought out to fill the offices, 
 
 And rule our honored land, 
 Are past, and politicians 
 
 Go down on bended knee. 
 And plead and pray for offices, 
 
 With good round salary. 
 
 Not now by worth and fitness. 
 
 Are high positions won. 
 But rum, and brass, and boodle, 
 
 Elect their favorite son ; 
 
176 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 So strangely mixed is politics, 
 Good men retire and say, 
 
 Too vile a den for decent men. 
 Let boodlers rule the day. 
 
 In dynamite explosions 
 
 Fine buildings upward go. 
 Death and destruction mingling 
 
 In comedies of woe ; 
 Gigantic combinations 
 
 In many marts of trade 
 Like greedy vultures fatten 
 
 On wrecks their power have made. 
 
 Meanwhile the toiling masses, 
 
 Ruled by monopoly, 
 In leagues and labor unions, 
 
 Unite for mastery; 
 The Homestead's bloody riots, 
 
 The strike at Buffalo, 
 Are samples of the conflicts 
 
 That fill the land with woe. 
 
 And now while law and order 
 
 Are everywhere assailed. 
 And all strict party remedies 
 
 To help the case have failed, 
 Where shall w^e look for succor, 
 
 Or where for aid apply, 
 Where find a friendly refuge 
 
 Until the storm rolls by? 
 
 We know that prohibition 
 Would cure a host of ills 
 
 In closing up forever 
 
 The baneful murder mills ; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 177 
 
 That with our fair land rescued 
 
 From rum's destructive bhght, 
 Both capital and labor 
 
 Would cease their useless fight. 
 
 That shadowed homes would brighten 
 
 And fainting hearts grow strong, 
 And right obtain the mastery 
 
 Over oppressive wrong ; 
 That temperance and religion, 
 
 United heart and hand. 
 Would bring back Eden glory 
 
 To this devoted land. 
 
 That rum-bribed politicians ; 
 
 Would superceded be 
 By patriotic statesmen, 
 
 And politics be free 
 From falsehood, fraud and drunkenness, 
 
 And laws to punish crime 
 Would be sustained, and justice gained. 
 
 As in the olden time. 
 
 With keen prophetic vision 
 
 I glance beyond the ken 
 Of selfish politicians 
 
 And weak-kneed temperance men, 
 Far o'er the shining uplands. 
 
 Where temperance hosts shall meet 
 King Alcohol's proud army. 
 
 And give it sore defeat. 
 
 Though appetite and avarice 
 
 Unite both heart and hand, 
 The zeal and might of truth and right 
 
 They cannot long withstand. . 
 
lyS POE TICAL FOR TRAITS 
 
 Though sore may be the conflict, 
 
 Yet glorious it will be 
 When from the curse of Alcohol 
 
 Our country shall be free. 
 
 I know the weak and faithless 
 
 Will plod their wonted ways, 
 Blind to the light that shines so bright 
 
 Deaf to the cry we raise. 
 The rallying notes of victory 
 
 Their deaf ears will not hear. 
 Long years of leagued oppression 
 
 Have made them slaves to fear. 
 
 So long the liquor traffic, 
 
 In arrogance and pride, 
 Has held control o'er mind and soul. 
 
 And God and man defied, 
 That thousands in submission 
 
 Have bowed the suppliant knee 
 And dare not aid the "new crusade" 
 
 To gain supremacy. 
 
 But though some fear and falter, 
 
 And many sneer or frown, 
 Heroic hosts are rising 
 
 To put intemperance down. 
 The pointers on the dial 
 
 Are at the hour of noon, 
 And God's great clock is tolling 
 
 The doom of the saloon. 
 
 The Prohibition party 
 
 Were early in the fight. 
 And hurled against its ramparts 
 
 Their ballots clean and white. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 179 
 
 This grand cold water army, 
 
 A vanguard true and brave, 
 Will press the fight in loyal might, 
 
 A temperance tidal wave. 
 
 The "Woman's Temperance Union," 
 
 Two hundred thousand strong, 
 Are in the field, and will not yield 
 
 While right is slave to wrong. 
 The histories of nations, 
 
 Down from Earth's morning time, 
 Record no holier sacrifice 
 
 Or courage more sublime. 
 
 With pure and true devotion. 
 
 As love and faith inspires, 
 The women of America 
 
 Will guard their altar fires ; 
 There their afifections center, 
 
 There their best joys have birth, 
 And there the dearest treasures 
 
 That come to them on earth. 
 
 Too long the cruel riim fiend. 
 
 With deep satanic hate. 
 Has sought home's sacred altars. 
 
 And made them desolate. 
 Where flowers in peerless beauty 
 
 Should woo celestial forms. 
 And love and peace together 
 
 Bar out all strifes and storms 
 
 The fairest flowers have withered, 
 
 As frost blight withers all, 
 And woe and strife, embitter'd life, 
 
 And spread a shadowy pall. 
 
i8o POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 To palace as to hovel, 
 
 In city as in town, 
 By day and night, rum's awful blight 
 
 Forever settles down. 
 
 No wonder then that women 
 
 Have joined the new crusade, 
 Or, that they pray, by night and day. 
 
 That God our cause would aid. 
 All honor should be given 
 
 These soldiers brave and true — 
 This band who come to fight for home — 
 
 The W. C. T. U. 
 
 And there are other forces 
 
 Whose banners float in air ; 
 The great ''Good Templar" army 
 
 Is mustering everywhere ; 
 Like golden grain upspringing. 
 
 Their numbers multiply. 
 Bound to be in ''the good time" 
 
 That's coming by and by. 
 
 There are so many forces 
 
 I cannot name them all, 
 They come from north, south, east and west, 
 
 To fight 'gainst Alcohol. 
 The grand Endeavor movement 
 
 Is marvelous we know. 
 And helps to swell the numbers 
 
 That seeks its overthrow. 
 
 But while the temperance army 
 
 Grows stronger day by day, 
 As new recruits haste to it, 
 
 All eager for the fray, 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS i8i 
 
 My soul asks this great question. 
 
 Where do the churches stand ? 
 Do they all aid the new crusade 
 
 With loyal heart and hand? 
 
 Where are the chosen watchmen 
 
 Who stand on Zion's wall, 
 And blow the Gospel trumpet 
 
 And sound the warning call ? 
 Each herald of salvation, 
 
 With strongest faith and zeal, 
 Should sound from every pulpit 
 
 A mighty trumpet peal. 
 
 O brother ! I entreat you, 
 
 Look o'er this rum-cursed land 
 And see the sin and misery 
 
 And death on every hand ; 
 Behold the shadows deepen, 
 
 Hear sorrow's plaintive cry ; 
 Feel if yoii can the anguish 
 
 Where sad hearts pine and die. 
 
 Are you the truth withholding. 
 
 That God would have men hear, 
 Or of your high-toned brethren 
 
 Do you yet stand in fear? 
 Does some time-honored party 
 
 Your vote and influence crave. 
 Say, are you God's bold freeman. 
 
 Or are you man's weak slave ? 
 
 You have it in your power 
 
 To stem this purple tide. 
 And get a glorious victory. 
 
 To turn on Israel's side. i 
 
i82 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 The sharp sword of the Spirit, 
 If wielded left and right, 
 
 Would cut down every barrier 
 And put the foe to flight. 
 
 brothers ! brothers ! brothers ! 
 You know your duty well ; 
 
 You know that souls, blood-ransomed, 
 Are drifting down to hell ; 
 
 Yes, they are drifting past you, 
 Some in their manhood's prime. 
 
 Some in the dismal gloaming 
 Of life's sad evening time. 
 
 Come, stand with me, my brother, 
 
 And watch that wreck-strewn tide ; 
 Hear you no shrieks of anguish, 
 
 Where hope has waned and died? 
 See you no dim eyes peering 
 
 Into the future dark, 
 Hear you no cry for succor, 
 
 From some frail sinking bark ? 
 
 By ail your dreams of Heaven 
 
 And hopes of rich reward. 
 When you your sheaves shall ofYer 
 
 Unto your King and Lord, 
 When you account shall render 
 
 Of earthly stewardship, 
 "When from your soul God's justice. 
 
 All covering shall strip, 
 
 1 warn you, O ! I warn you. 
 
 To give God's truth free course ; 
 To lift His mighty hammer. 
 And bring it down with force, 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 183 
 
 Not on the heads, but on the hearts 
 
 And consciences of men, 
 Till the Spirit's inward burning, 
 
 Revive them once again. 
 
 Tell them that God would have them 
 
 Begin to fall in line, 
 And let the light of temperance 
 
 In all its glory shine ; 
 The light of total abstinence, 
 
 Of vote, and voice and pen, 
 Then earth will soon hold jubilee. 
 
 And heaven w^ill say Amen. 
 
 CRITICISED. 
 
 I was sitting one day in my study, 
 
 The children were out at their play, 
 And wife at a newly cut garment. 
 
 Was busily stitching away. 
 No sound broke the silence around me. 
 
 Save a bird whose sweet song I could hear, 
 As it sw^ung to and fro on the lilacs. 
 
 And poured out its notes, full and clear. 
 
 I was writing a sermon, and clearly 
 
 The outlines appeared one by one. 
 And I thought to myself, by tomorrow. 
 
 This sermon will surely be done. 
 Just then the study door opened, 
 
 "A caller to see you," wife said ; 
 And in walked a dignified lady, 
 
 With a smile and a nod of her head. 
 
184. POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 '*I hope, sir, I'm not intruding." 
 
 "No, not in the least," I replied, 
 "Be seated, and if I can serve you. 
 
 Your wishes shall not be denied." 
 "Oh, its nothing so very important, 
 
 No favor which you can bestow, 
 I called in regard to some rumors, 
 
 That really I think you should know." 
 
 "I hope you won't take it unkindly, 
 
 Nor feel for a moment cast down, 
 Of course you can't keep folks from talking. 
 
 Nor stories from going around." 
 "Oh, no !" I replied, "as for anger, 
 
 I always did mean to be slow. 
 And as for my feelings, why, bless you. 
 
 They were crucified long, long ago." 
 
 "Well then," said the lady, "your preaching 
 
 I am sure we can all understand, 
 And yet they do say 'twould be better 
 
 To preach without paper, off-hand. 
 That is, some are in favor of that way. 
 
 And others are sure you do best 
 When you write out your sermons, and give them 
 
 More studied and pleasing address." 
 
 "Of course they all should be suited. 
 
 For you know they attend church and pay, 
 And so you should manage it somehow. 
 
 To let them all have their own w^ay. 
 Then too, in regard to your manners, 
 
 Some think you a little too plain, 
 They would have you a little more stylish, 
 
 Though of course not conceited or vain." 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 185 
 
 "A little more dignified bearing, 
 
 A sprightlier step on the street, 
 Your head elevated a trifle, 
 
 And not looking down at your feet." 
 ''Some think you are not very cheerful, 
 
 They think it's a minister's place, 
 Tho' he carries a grief in his bosom, 
 
 To carry a smile on his face. 
 
 But I see that the subject annoys you, 
 
 I am sorry my words should give pain, 
 I am sure I hope you will prosper. 
 
 And your labor not prove to be vain." 
 ''But I tell you the truth, it's expected 
 
 That ministers everywhere, 
 Should be about as near perfect. 
 
 As perfect can be, I declare ! 
 
 I think it is better to give them 
 
 A list of the faults now and then. 
 For it serves to humble their spirits ;" — - 
 
 To this I responded, "Amen !" 
 "It does serve to keep a man humble 
 
 To give him a lash or a goad, 
 And if his burdens are heavy, 
 
 It's not best to lighten the load. 
 Or help him a little, but, madam. 
 
 Allow me to say in reply, 
 That, as to a state of perfection. 
 
 It belongs to the 'sweet by and by.' " 
 
 "And if ministers really were perfect, 
 As many would have them to be, 
 
 They'd ascend to that beautiful Eden, 
 Where all from earth's frailties are free. 
 
1 86 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 "And now," said I, *Xady, well knowing 
 Your kindness and kindly intent, 
 
 Allow me to counsel you briefly, 
 And do not my counsel resent." 
 
 "A minister is only human ; 
 
 As long as he clings to this life 
 Perfection won't come to him wholly, 
 
 Nor yet to his children or wife." 
 "The sooner you cease to expect it 
 
 The better it surely will be. 
 The more you will pity his weakness 
 
 And the less of his faults you will see. 
 
 Let him work every day in the harness 
 
 That seems to befit the best, 
 Be patient and kind and forbearing, 
 
 And God will attend to the rest." 
 Tears came to her eyes as she faltered, 
 
 "Fm sorry I talked in that way, 
 I feel just like begging your pardon" — 
 
 "Don t do it," said I, "Good day." 
 
 THE RAINDROP. 
 
 It lay upon the drooping vines, 
 
 Unseen by mortal eyes, 
 A little fairy visitor 
 
 Descended from the skies. 
 But suddenly a sunbeam kissed 
 
 The sleeping raindrop there, 
 And instantly it was transformed, 
 
 And sparkled fresh and fair. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 187 
 
 No treasure from a golden mine, 
 
 More beautiful could be ; 
 It rivaled e'en the jewel'd stars, 
 
 Or pearls from 'neath the sea, 
 A moment thus it shone so fair, 
 
 Then with the sunbeam's flight, 
 Its glory faded quite away; 
 
 The raindrop sank from sight. 
 
 What was it brought that tiny thing 
 
 From out its secret place. 
 Invested it so suddenly 
 
 With such superior grace? 
 The sunbeam, say you, "Yes, my friend, 
 
 Your lips have spoken right; 
 The raindrop owed its beauty 
 
 To that wand'ring beam of light." 
 
 And is there not a lesson here. 
 
 Dear friend, for you and me? 
 Most forcibly the raindrop speaks 
 
 Of what a soul may be. 
 In sin and darkness long it lies, 
 
 TJnseen, unknown, when lo 
 A sunflash from truth's cloudless skies. 
 
 Sets the dark soul aglow. 
 
 Transformed in truth's eflfulgent light, 
 
 It's glory shines afar. 
 Precious in the Creator's sight, 
 
 *'A bright and morning star," 
 And best of all this wond'rous Hght 
 
 Will never fade away. 
 But shineth more, and yet more bright 
 
 "Unto the perfect day." ,| 
 
i88 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 RUM'S DOING. 
 
 'Twas in the city of Brooklyn, 
 
 That city of churches grand, 
 Whose name and whose fame are sounded, 
 
 Abroad throughout all the land — 
 That a tragedy was witnessed, 
 
 That would touch a heart of stone; 
 So horrible in its nature, 
 
 It stands by itself alone. 
 
 The city was bathed in sunshine 
 
 Of a fine autumnal day, 
 And the streets were filled with people 
 
 Hurrying along the way, 
 When suddenly came a horseman, 
 
 Riding at furious speed. 
 Unmindful of all about him, 
 
 Urging his trembling steed. 
 
 A shout went up from the people 
 
 Of wonder and horror — there. 
 Held high on the horseman's shoulder, 
 
 Was a child both frail and fair ; 
 And above the wild commotion. 
 
 Which the horseman's act had stirred, 
 And above all other voices, 
 
 Its piteous screams were heard. 
 
 On dashed the drunken rider, 
 
 As for destruction bound ; 
 When swift as lightning falling. 
 
 Both man and child went down; 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 189 
 
 On pressed the frantic people, 
 
 The maniac to secure, 
 But instantly he rallied, 
 
 And his escape made sure. 
 
 On, on, he rushed, not knowing 
 
 Or caring whither bound. 
 But now the child is silent. 
 
 The white lips give no sound ; 
 The little head hangs helpless. 
 
 The vital spark has fled, 
 And some poor mother's idol 
 
 Is numbered with the dead. 
 
 We lift our hands in horror, 
 
 'Gainst gladiatorial strife. 
 Where men in wide arenas. 
 
 Fought boldly, knife to knife ; 
 Or 'gainst the wild beasts battled. 
 
 While flowed their blood amain. 
 To please the proud nobility 
 
 Of Italy, or Spain. 
 
 But in beloved America, 
 
 In this enlightened day. 
 Where art and science scatters 
 
 Star gems along our way. 
 Where faith rears her bright altars. 
 
 And rings her steeple bells, 
 And peals her deep-toned organs, 
 
 And in charity excels ; 
 
 Where sails of commerce whiten 
 
 Our rivers, lakes, and seas. 
 And freedom's starry banner 
 
 Unfurls to every breeze; 
 
I go POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 In this, our blood-bought heritage, 
 "Home of the brave and free," 
 
 All lands and times are rivaled 
 In wild brutality. 
 
 To palace, home and hovel. 
 
 The rum fiend finds its way, 
 Cruel, malignant, merciless. 
 
 And tireless, night and day; 
 Firing men's baser passions, 
 
 With wild Satanic fire, 
 'Til on the weak and innocent 
 
 They vent their savage ire. 
 
 'Gainst woman's tearful pleading. 
 
 And childhood's helplessness, 
 That should awaken sympathy. 
 
 Kind word and fond caress. 
 Rough blows, and kicks, and curses, 
 
 Fall like, the leaden hail, 
 'Til hearts in grief are broken. 
 
 And cheeks in death grow pale. 
 
 O pitying God ! from Heaven 
 
 Look on this awful curse. 
 This desolating plague spot. 
 
 That shames Thy universe. 
 O come ! before in darkness 
 
 Hope's radiant light expires, 
 Break down rum's bloody altars, 
 
 And quench its altar fires. 
 
 Then shall this mighty nation. 
 In deed, and truth, be free; 
 
 And rum's poor slaves and victims 
 Hold glorious jubilee ; 
 
POETICAL FORI RAITS igr 
 
 Then shall the bow of promise 
 
 From shore to shore expand, 
 Crowned with this fair inscription — - 
 
 "God, Home, and Native Land." 
 
 LINES. 
 
 (Written for the second anniversary of the Rose, 
 W. C. T. U.) 
 
 Twice the flowers have bloomed and withered, 
 
 Since we organized this band, 
 Twice the reaper's song has sounded 
 
 Jubilant throughout the land, 
 Twice the rulers of creation, 
 
 And the guardians of home, 
 Have had leave to cast their ballots, 
 
 'Gainst the demon power of rum. 
 
 Are we coming any nearer 
 
 To the grand prophetic day, 
 When the black cloud of intemperance 
 
 From the skies shall roll away? 
 Hear you any cheerful answer 
 
 From the watchman on the tower? 
 Does he cry, "The morning cometh 
 
 Dawning brighter every hour?" 
 
 Are the prayers of tearful millions 
 
 Being answered day by day. 
 Do the signs of promise thicken 
 
 All along our weary way? 
 "No," you answer by your silence, 
 
 "Daylight doth not yet appear, 
 And the watchman doth not give us, 
 
 One sweet word of hope or cheer." 
 
ig2 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Earnest prayers from waiting millions, 
 
 Seem to bring no answer yet ; 
 And the echo of our wailings 
 
 With a mocking curse is met. 
 Now, my sisters, shall we waver 
 
 In this long and fearful fight ? 
 Shall we furl our silken banner 
 
 That has waved so long for right? 
 
 Shall we hush our sad heart's pleading 
 
 For the cause we love so well, 
 While our dear ones wander helpless 
 
 Down the drunkard's path to hell? 
 "No," ten thousand voices answer 
 
 "Never shall our flag be furled, 
 'Til the tem.perance dawn in splendor 
 
 Re-illuminates the world." 
 
 God we know has heard our pleading, 
 
 'Tis the promise of His Word, 
 And we will not faint or murmur, 
 
 Tho' the answer be deferred ; 
 Though the darkness be as midnight, 
 
 And the night be drear and lone. 
 We will never loose the armor, 
 
 'Til this curse be overthrown. 
 
 In our very midst the monster 
 
 Rears his cruel hydra head, 
 And along our streets go reeling 
 
 Night by night the living dead. 
 Bitten by this great rum demon. 
 
 How the victims multiply. 
 Poor, and weak, and blind, and helpless, 
 
 See them drink and drink, and die. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 193 
 
 Fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers, 
 
 Meeting there one common fate. 
 While in mourning stand the altars 
 
 Left behind them desolate. 
 O the ruin wrought around us, 
 
 By this withering wind of death ; 
 O the opening buds of promise 
 
 Blighted by its poison breath. 
 
 From the scenes of earthly conflict 
 
 We are soon to pass away. 
 From the sowing to the reaping 
 
 Of the awful judgment day. 
 If we dream of golden harvests. 
 
 We must sow the seed amain, 
 "Cast our bread upon the waters 
 
 That it may return again." 
 
 So, my sisters, may God help you, 
 
 Now to take a firmer stand, 
 'Neath the banner of our order, 
 
 God, and Home, and Native Land. 
 Loving, loyal, trusting ever, 
 
 Christ will hope and strength renew, 
 And with victory crown the efforts 
 
 Of the W. C. T. U. 
 
 THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD. 
 
 Rain, rain, rain, steadily, wearily down; 
 
 Day after day there rested alway 
 A shadow o'er citv and town. 
 
194 POE TICAL FOR TRAITS 
 
 High amid Pennsylvania's mountains, 
 Where the Conemaugh river ran, 
 
 A barrier lay across the way — 
 A ruinous, worthless dam. 
 
 A wild, wierd deluge of waters. 
 
 Imprisoned, yet scarce controlled, 
 
 Increased each hour from the falling shower, 
 And torrents that into it rolled. 
 
 Meanwhile as the straining barrier 
 
 Trembled from shore to shore. 
 And the angry tide rose far and wide. 
 
 With an ever increasing roar. 
 
 The startled watchers made haste to send. 
 This word to each threatened town, 
 
 The dam at the lake will surely break. 
 If you linger, you will be drowned. 
 
 A few were warned of their peril then, 
 
 And fled for their lives away, 
 Nor stayed them there not a moment, where 
 
 Such terrible danger lay. 
 
 An hour passed by and a horseman rode 
 Down the winding river's course, 
 
 With a wild cry, "You must run or die," 
 He shouted till he was hoarse. 
 
 Too late, too late, to avert their fate ; 
 
 For the horrible tide of death 
 Is flowing amain, and they flee in vain, 
 
 And struggle, and gasp for breath. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 195 
 
 In that fierce strife like a thing- of hfe 
 
 Rushed the awful torrent down 
 With a demon's power, and there fell that hour 
 
 Full many a thriving town. 
 
 Full many a thriving town was filled 
 
 With the dead and dying then ; 
 And the air was rent to the firmament, 
 
 With the wails and shrieks of men. 
 
 Bridges and buildings were mingled there, 
 
 Uplifted, and crushed, and driven, 
 While great waves rolled with a strength untold, 
 
 A wonder to earth and heaven. 
 
 A few on the hillsides looked aghast, 
 
 On the fearful scene beneath, 
 Powerless to save from a watery grave, 
 
 Or a violent, tragic death. 
 
 Then the sights they saw, and sounds they heard, 
 
 No mortal could paint or tell. 
 For the fire fiend rose with a train of woes, 
 
 That rivaled the scenes of hell. 
 
 Some dead, some dying, some caught, and held 
 
 In a pyramidal wreck 
 Were cruelly burned, while so many yearned 
 
 The billows of flame to check. 
 
 Fathers, and mothers, and children fair. 
 
 Husbands, and sisters, and wives. 
 Breathed one wild prayer, then in mute despair 
 
 Yielded up their precious lives. 
 
7p<5 POETICAL PORTRAITS 
 
 Just one short hour, and the work was done, 
 
 The ruin was all complete, 
 Every voice was stilled, every form was chilled, 
 
 Every heart had ceased to beat. 
 
 Then news went forth to south and north, 
 
 To the east, and far, far west, 
 And the sad detail of that flooded A^ale, 
 
 Woke pity in every breast. 
 
 From many an eye, that had long been dry. 
 
 Tears flowed like the summer rain, 
 And appeal for aid that was quickly made, 
 
 Was not sent abroad in vain. 
 
 The rich of their hoarded bounty gave. 
 
 The poor of their scanty store. 
 Even foreign lands opened wide their hands, 
 
 Never such was seen before. 
 
 Again was fulfilled the saying old, 
 
 In the midst of life's wild din. 
 One touch of human sympathy maketh 
 
 Forever the whole earth kin. 
 
 Then into that awful graveyard went. 
 
 As soon as the flood was o'er, 
 Brave workers, who toiled where flood had spoiled, 
 
 'Mid wreckage of stream and shore. 
 
 And the good work begun, went bravely on. 
 
 With a strong determined will. 
 So the sad ones left although sore bereft 
 
 Could abide in the valley still. 
 
POETICAL PORTRAITS 197 
 
 But as days went by, and the friends came not, 
 
 As they came in days of yore, 
 And the places that knew them once so well. 
 
 Knew them on earth no more ; 
 
 ! who shall picture the stony grief, 
 And the bitter, stinging pain. 
 
 Of those, whom that fate had made desolate. 
 And desolate must remain. 
 
 So stunned at first by the wild outburst, 
 
 They were dazed and helpless then, 
 In that trying ordeal, they could not feel 
 
 'Til feeling came back again. 
 
 Now some will say, it was God's own way. 
 
 And God's own sovereign will, 
 As it was God they should welcome the rod. 
 
 And calmly trust in Him still. 
 
 1 do not know, but cannot think so, 
 Nor charge Him with the ruin made, 
 
 I lay the cause to some natural laws 
 Which mortals had not obeyed. 
 
 If the dam had been more substantial 
 
 That guarded the lake that day, 
 The Lord wise and good I'm sure never would 
 
 Have swept its foundation away. 
 
 God works above in infinite love. 
 
 And we have our work below, 
 When e'er we shirk any part of our work, 
 
 The fault is our own we know. 
 
Index. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Our Martyred Presidents 3 
 
 Twenty Years to Come 12 
 
 Thanksgiving 15 
 
 The Church Fair 17 
 
 An Adirondack Pine 23 
 
 The Bible 25 
 
 Honor to Youth and Old Age 27 
 
 Dreamland 29 
 
 Winter in the Adirondacks 31 
 
 Round and Round 37 
 
 The Months of the Year 38 
 
 Star Lake 41 
 
 Walking the Plank 46 
 
 Hate and Love 49 
 
 Heaven 50 
 
 Autumn 51 
 
 Why? 51 
 
 The First Snowstorm 53 
 
 The Midnight Thunder Peel 54 
 
 Fm Growing Old 55 
 
 A Pathetic Incident 56 
 
 Newton Falls and Benson Mines 58 
 
 Wanakena 62 
 
 Sitting Around 63 
 
 Day and Night 64 
 
 The First Robin 69 
 
INDEX rgg 
 
 Ode to the Moon 69 
 
 A Sin of Omission 71 
 
 Come Up to the Mount of God 72 
 
 I Wonder 74 
 
 Christian Endeavor Thoughts 75 
 
 The Saloon 76 
 
 Divine Dehverance 'j'j 
 
 On Being Asked by Miss W. to Write Her a Poem 80 
 
 The Clouds Return After the Rain 80 
 
 An Evening Reverie 81 
 
 Song — Temperance Cranks 84 
 
 Retouched 85 
 
 Greeting to County Lodge, I. O. G. T 87 
 
 God's Will and Way 89 
 
 Isaiah 53-6 91 
 
 The Office Sought the Man 91 
 
 I Had Rather be Good than Great 93 
 
 The Burning Question 93 
 
 Anticipation 95 
 
 A Ray of Light 96 
 
 Recollections 97 
 
 Reflections 98 
 
 Poem. (Read at Fourth of July Picnic) 99 
 
 Spring and its Teachings 102 
 
 Beautiful Sunlight 103 
 
 It is Better in the Sunshine 105 
 
 The Golden Stair 106 
 
 The Music of The Air 109 
 
 Be Patient with the Children no 
 
 The Curse of Rum in 
 
 Come to Me, Beautiful Angels 114 
 
 The Summer Bloom is Fading 115 
 
 In Green Pastures 117 
 
 The Sainted Dead 119 
 
^oo INDEX 
 
 The Balm of Music 120 
 
 A Christmas Poem 122 
 
 County Lodge Poem, I. O. G. T 126 
 
 Longing 129 
 
 The Pity of It 130 
 
 The Passing of a December Day 136 
 
 County Lodge Poem, L O. G. T 137 
 
 The Prodigal Son 139 
 
 Honor to the Brave 147 
 
 At Eventide 150 
 
 One Talent 151 
 
 Submission 153 
 
 The Tide of the Years 153 
 
 Alone With My Savior 155 
 
 Home, Sweet Home 156 
 
 Elijah's Translation 158 
 
 The Snow 160 
 
 "Alone." 160 
 
 An Appeal to Autumn 162 
 
 A Woodland Stream 163 
 
 Shadow and Substance 164 
 
 Planting the Trees 165 
 
 Long Ago 166 
 
 A Morning in Spring 167 
 
 Reclaimed 168 
 
 Childhood Days 171 
 
 A Child's Question 172 
 
 A Bit of Advice 173 
 
 The New Crusade 173 
 
 Criticised 183 
 
 The Raindrop 186 
 
 Rum's Doing 188 
 
 Lines. (Written for 2d Anniversary W. C. T. U.). 191 
 
 The Johnstown Flood 193 
 
JUN 13 1903 
 
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 Neutralizing agent: l\^agnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 
 
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