LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 @^ap!?.?-loii?«5|tl}n. 
 
 Shelf.,.^.-. 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. \ 
 
\ 
 
GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 FRO M 
 
 A^IRIOUS AUTHORS 
 
 COLLECTED AND ARRAXGED^Y 
 
 NELLIE LEIGH COOK 
 
 FOR THE BENEFIT OF 
 
 SUNDAY SCHOOL, COLLEGE, AND MINISTERS' 
 LIBRARIES, READING CIRCLES, ETC. 
 
 Knotdedge unused for the good of others is more vain 
 than unused gold.'" 
 
 JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 
 
 1890 
 

 Copyright, ISOO, 
 
 BY 
 
 NELLIE LEIGH COOK. 
 
 ARGYLE PRESS, 
 
 Printing and BooKBiNOiNa 
 
 265 <& 267 CHERRY ST., N. Y. 
 
4 
 
 DEDICATED TO ALL LOVERS OF PURE LITERATURE, FOR 
 THEIR MORAL AND ME^TAL ELEVATION. 
 Feb., 1890. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Consider the Lilies. W. H Ellis. 7 
 
 It Is Well. J. H 9 
 
 By the Sea 10 
 
 Release. H. H 12 
 
 Ti'ue Manhood. Emerson 13 
 
 Ripe Wheat 13 
 
 Sixteen and Sixty-five. Elzey Hay 14 
 
 A Mother's Calendar 16 
 
 If He had Lived 18 
 
 If 20 
 
 The Bravest of Battles. Joaquin Miller 22 
 
 Who Stands the Test? Marianne Farningham 22 
 
 Reply to Gray's Elegy. Needham Bryant Cobb 24 
 
 Strength for To-day 25 
 
 Just for To-day 26 
 
 Professor Morse. N. S. Emerson 27 
 
 Rain in the Heart 30 
 
 A CheerfuLCreed. Lester Hollis 30 
 
 They Say 31 
 
 Baby Hands. Clara H. Beirne 32 
 
 Tlie Tongue. Rev. Philip B. Strong 33 
 
 Life. H a. Deming 34 
 
 I am Moriturus. Rev. T. Hempstead 36 
 
 Leona. James G. Clark 39 
 
 Heroism 43 
 
 A Nigb t Storm in February. Joseph Barber 44 
 
 Best. Helen Hunt Jackson 45 
 
 Tired Mothers. May Riley Smith 46 
 
 I Shall Find Rest. Robert Burns Wilson 48 
 
 Twice a Christmas Gift. L . K. Rogers 49 
 
 Summer Dies 51 
 
 Now Comes Autumn. M. Allie Davis 53 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Closing Scene. T. Buchanan Read 54 
 
 Breathe Soft and Low 57 
 
 After 58 
 
 The Gifts of Age 59 
 
 The Mother Wants Her Boy 61 
 
 A Mother's Love 62 
 
 The Three Little Chairs 64 
 
 If I Should Die To-night 66 
 
 God Knows the Best 67 
 
 Thanksgiving 69 
 
 My Little PlajTnate. Dr. Increase N. Tarbox 70 
 
 Her Gift 72 
 
 Good Temper 73 
 
 Our Own. M. E. Sangster 74 
 
 Saturday Evening 75 
 
 The Time is Short. Hezekiah Butterworth 75 
 
 My Sister. Emma Alice Browne 77 
 
 A Love Song. C. H. Spurgeon 78 
 
 At Last. J. G. Whittier 79 
 
 Here and There. Susan Coolidge 81 
 
 Parted, Yet One. H. W. Longfellow 82 
 
 Milton's Last Poem 84 
 
 Lines to a Skeleton 85 
 
 There is no Death 86 
 
GEMS OF POETRY FROM 
 VARIOUS AUTHORS, 
 
 ^'CONSIDEE THE LILIES OF 
 THE FIELD." 
 
 Prize poem, by W. H. Ellis, B. A. 
 
 O weary child of toil and care, 
 
 Trembling at every cloud that lowers, 
 
 Come and behold how passing fair 
 Thy God hath made the flowers. 
 
 From every hillside's sunny slope, 
 From every forest's leafy sh?.de, 
 
 The flowers, sweet messengers of Hope, 
 Bid thee '' Be not afraid." 
 
 The Wind-flower blooms in yonder bower, 
 All heedless of to-morrow's storm ; 
 
 Nor trembles for the coming shower 
 The Lily's stately form. 
 
 No busy shuttle plied to deck 
 
 With sunset tints the blushing Kose ; 
 
 And little dues the Harebell reck 
 Of toil and all its woes. 
 
GE31S OF POETRY 
 
 The Water-lilj, pure and white, 
 Floats idly on the snnnner stream — 
 
 Seeming almost too fair and bright 
 For augiit but Poet's dream. 
 
 The gorgeous Tulip, though arra^^ed 
 
 In gold and gems, knows naught of care ; 
 
 The Yiolet in the merry glade. 
 Of labor hath no share. 
 
 They toil not — yet the Lily dyes 
 Phoenician fabrics far surpass ; 
 
 Nor India's rarest gem outvies 
 The little Blue-eyed Grass. 
 
 For God'sown hand hath clothed the flowers 
 With fairy form and rainbow hue ; 
 
 Hath nurtured tliem with summer showers. 
 And w^atered them with dew. 
 
 To-day a tliousand blossoms fair. 
 
 From sunny slope or sheltered glade, 
 
 With grateful incense fill the air — 
 To-morrow they shall fade. 
 
 But thou shalt live when sinks in night 
 Yon glorious Sun : and shall not Jie 
 
 Who hath the flowers so richly dight, 
 Much rather care for thee ? 
 
 O faithless niurmurer! thou mayest read 
 
 A lesson in the lowly sod; 
 Heaven will supply thine every need ; 
 
 Fear not, but trust in God. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 9 
 
 IT IS WELL. 
 
 "Is it well with thee, and with thy husband, and with 
 tlie child ? And she said, It is well.'— 2 Kings, iv. 26. 
 
 Yes, it is well ! The evening shadows lengtlien ; 
 
 Home's golden gates shine on our ravished 
 
 sight ; 
 
 And though the tender ties we strove to 
 
 strengthen 
 
 Break one by one — at evening time 'tis light. 
 
 'Tis well! The way was often dull and weary; 
 
 The spirit fainted oft beneath its load ; 
 No sunshine comes from skies all gray and dreary, 
 
 And yet our feet were bound to tread that 
 road. 
 
 'Tis well that not again our hearts shall shiver 
 Beneath old sorrows, once so hard to bear ; 
 
 That not again beside Death's darksome river. 
 Shall we deplore the good, the loved, the fair 
 
 No more with tears, wrought from deep, inner 
 anguish. 
 Shall we bewail the dear Hopes crushed and 
 gone ; 
 No more need we in doubt or fear to languish ; 
 So far the day is past, the journey done ! 
 
 As voyagers, by fierce winds beat and broken, 
 Come into port, beneath a calmer sky, 
 
 So we, still bearing on our brows the token 
 Of tempest past, draw to our haven nigh. 
 
10 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 A sweet air conietli from tlie shore immortal, 
 Inviting homeward at the day's decline ; 
 
 Almost we see where from the open portal 
 Fair forms stand beckoning with their smiles 
 divine. 
 
 'Tis well ! The earth with all her myriad voices 
 Has lost the power our senses to enthrall ; 
 
 We hear, above tlie tumult and the noises. 
 Soft tones of music, like an angel's call. 
 
 'Tis well, O friends ! We would not turn — re- 
 tracing 
 The long, vain years, nor call our lost youth 
 back ; 
 Gladly, with spirits braced, the future facing. 
 We leave behind the dusty, footworn track. 
 —J. H. in Chambers's Journal. 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 'Tis twenty years since on this green hillside 
 I sat, as now, and watched the sun go down ; 
 
 And listened to tlie murmur of the tide, 
 
 Breaking among the sea crags, grey and brown. 
 
 So long ! and yet it seems but yesterday ; 
 
 LTndimmed, unchanged, the glowing scene 
 appears. 
 The pebbly shore, the broad and shining bay 
 
 Keveal no trace of all those vanished vears. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 11 
 
 Tlie same wliite gulls seem hovering o'er the 
 heach, 
 
 Chasing each other in their restless flight ; 
 And out beyond the foamy breaker's reach, 
 
 The same glad waters sparkle in the light. 
 
 The same soft radiance fills the summer air ; 
 
 The breezes laden with the breath of balm ; 
 And all around about me, everywhere, 
 
 Breathes the same spell of indolence and calm. 
 
 Nothing is changed ; my very thouglits come 
 back 
 Like ghosts of ships that have gone down at 
 sea. 
 And in the glimmer of their shining track 
 The same bright hopes seem beckoning to me. 
 
 The same bright hopes that lured me on in youth. 
 And fired my fancy with their fervid glare ; 
 
 And draped about the sober form of truth 
 A tinsel garment it could never wear. 
 
 They beckon me again, but cannot cheat, 
 
 Is or lure me from the anchorage I have found ; 
 
 Its rest is grateful to my weary feet, 
 And in content I watch my sun go down. 
 
 And gazing backward o'er the toilsome way 
 To where the hills of youth looked fresh and 
 green, 
 
 I think of all my life once promised me, 
 Of all it is, and all it might have been. 
 
12 amis OF POETRY 
 
 I do not even ask if it were best 
 
 That all I wished for most has been denied ; 
 Nor why, throngh sacrifice and deep unrest, 
 
 My peace has been wrought out and sanctified. 
 
 I only know it will be clear at last, 
 
 And I shall read this riddle of my soul ; 
 
 When there shall be no future and no past. 
 And heaven shall roll together like a scroll. 
 
 ^London Methodist. 
 
 EELEASE. 
 
 If one had watched a prisoner many a year, 
 Standing behind a barred window pane, 
 Fettered with heavy handcuff and with chain, 
 And gazing on the blue sky far and clear. 
 And suddenly he should some morning hear 
 The man had in the night to gain 
 His freedom and was safe, would this bring 
 pain ? 
 Ah ! would it not to the dullest heart appear 
 Good tidings ? 
 
 Yesterday I looked on* one 
 Who lay as if asleep in perfect peace. 
 
 His long imprisonment for life was done, 
 Eternity's great freedom his release 
 Had brought. Yet they who loved him called 
 
 him dead. 
 And wept, refusing to be comforted. 
 
 — H. H. in the Independent. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 13 
 
 TRUE MANHOOD. 
 
 What builds a nation's pillars high, 
 
 And its foundations strong? 
 What makes it mighty to defy 
 
 The foes that round it throng ? 
 
 Not gold, but only men can make 
 
 A people great and strong ; 
 Men who for Truth and Honor's sake 
 
 Stand fast and suffer long. 
 
 Brave men who work while others sleep, 
 
 Who dare while others fly ; 
 They build a nation's pillars deep, 
 
 And lift them to the sky. 
 
 —Emerson. 
 
 RIPE WHEAT. 
 
 We bent to-day o'er a coffined form, 
 And our tears fell slowly down ; 
 We looked our last on the aged face. 
 With its look of peace, its patient grace. 
 And hair like a silver crown. 
 
 We touched our own to the clay-cold hand. 
 From life's long labor at rest ; 
 
 And among the blossoms white and sweet ; 
 
 We noticed a bunch of golden wheat 
 Clasped close to the silent breast. 
 
14 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 The blossoms whispered of fadeless bloom, 
 
 Of a land where fall no tears ; 
 The ripe wheat told of toil and care, 
 The patient waiting, the trusting prayer. 
 The iJ:arnered good of the vears. 
 
 "We know not work his hand had found, 
 
 "What rugged place his feet. 
 What cross was his, w^hat blackness of night, 
 "We saw but the peace, the blossoms white. 
 
 And the bunch of ripened wheat. 
 
 As each goes up from the fields of earth. 
 
 Bearing the treasures of life, 
 God looks for some gathered grain of good 
 From the ripe harvest that shining stood, 
 
 But waiting the reapers knife. 
 
 Then labor well, that in death you go 
 
 Not only with blossoms sweet. 
 Not bent with doubt and burdened with fears. 
 And dead dry husks of the wasted years — 
 But laden with golden wheat. 
 
 —Anonymous, 
 
 SIXTEEN AND SIXTY-FIYE 
 
 A fair young girl strolls idly over the lawn, 
 A gallant lover bending at her side ; 
 
 I sit upon my threshold alone, 
 
 With none to care what fortune may betide. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 15 
 
 Pier looks are bright ; her curls of living gold 
 Like sunshine fall upon her shoulders fair ; 
 
 Mine eyes are dim ; my brow is wan and old, 
 And lank and faded is my thin gray hair. 
 
 For her a mother's daily prayers arise, 
 And all the kindly joys of home unfold ; 
 
 To her the world looks with admiring eyes, 
 And many flattering tale of love is told. 
 
 But yet, think not, fair girl, I covet aught 
 
 That wins for thee the world's alluring smiles ; 
 
 Thy beauty, youth and grace, I envy not. 
 
 Thy rosy cheeks, nor dark and lustrous eyes. 
 
 But I would have thy fresh and guileless heart, 
 The wealth of hope and trust that in thee dwell ; 
 
 I envy thee thy peaceful happy lot. 
 
 Secured by home affections' tender spell. 
 
 I envy thee thy father's loving kiss. 
 
 Thy mother's voice like music on thine ear ; 
 
 And, O ! I feel how blest thou art in this. 
 Thy Christian name upon their lips to hear. 
 
 My name's a sound forgotten long ago — 
 
 A household word there's no one left to speak, 
 
 My mother's voice is hushed forever more. 
 And father's eyes are closed in endless sleep. 
 
 Three sisters one by one have passed away, 
 My only brother rests beyond the sea — 
 
 The mossy hillside where we used to play, 
 Is all the relic of them left to me. 
 
16 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 But yet, all ! no, I would not call them back, 
 E'en could my vigor and youth then return ; 
 
 I would not tread again the weary track, 
 That I have passed upon my journey home. 
 
 With yonder maid in all her youthful pride 
 I would not change my hoary, wrinkled age; 
 
 I've drifted long upon the shifting tide. 
 But she has yet to feel the tempest's rage. 
 
 For me the race of life is run, 
 
 I stand upon the bright innnortal shore, 
 For her the weary journey's just begun, 
 
 And many a barren desert lies before. 
 
 Thy path, bright girl, is soft and easy now. 
 But many a thorny snare lies hid for thee ; 
 
 I'm standing safe before the shining door, 
 So after all, 'tis thou should'st envy me. 
 
 — Elzey Hay. 
 
 A MOTHEE'S CALE:N^DAE. 
 
 I. Spring. 
 
 New life is stirring in every bough. 
 
 And a flutter of wings is in the air, 
 And my eyes with happy tears are dim. 
 As I watch, in the tall old tree's cleft limb, 
 A busy mother bird, that there 
 Fashions her nest of moss and hair. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 17 
 
 Tlie days go bj, and the leaves grow green 
 On the tall old tree where the nest is made ; 
 The mother bird folds her tireless winofs. 
 And my heart as I watch her, sings and sings 
 Its happy song ; and is not afraid, 
 For the sweetest joy is a joy delayed. 
 
 II.— Summer. 
 
 The patient brooding days are o'er, 
 
 There's a stir of life in the soft brown nest, 
 And I share it too, the mother's joy, 
 When my weak arms hold m}^ tiny boy 
 And gather him closely to my breast, 
 "When he softly murmurs and sinks to rest. 
 
 the round green world, and the clear blue sky, 
 
 How fair they are in these sunny days ! 
 New cares may come, and fresh demands 
 On the weary heart, and feeble hands, 
 
 But strength comes too, and a song of praise 
 Goes up with the bird's sweet morning lays. 
 
 III. — Autumn. 
 The leaves are dying and turning brown, 
 
 The red sun peers through the morning mist; 
 And a mist clouds over my boy's blue eyes, 
 That once were clear as the summer skies, 
 
 O, the throbbing pulse in the tiny wrist ! 
 
 And the fever flush on the cheek I kissed ! 
 
 Outside in the tree, 'mid falling leaves, 
 
 The mother has taught her brood to fly ; 
 They must flee away to a warmer clime, 
 
18 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 From the coming cliill of the winter time. 
 The thought holds back my heart-sick cry, 
 " How can I live if my boy must die ! " 
 
 IV.— Winter. 
 
 An empty nest on a tossing bongh, 
 
 When the eddying snow-Hakes round it 
 sweep, 
 And they fall, I know, on a tiny mound 
 In a corner nook of the church-yard ground, 
 Where my baby lies in his last long sleep. 
 And away to my quiet room I creep. 
 
 For the heart will ache and be numb and cold 
 
 (Frozen by grief like earth's hard clay), 
 Though Our Father careth and knoweth best 
 When each bird must fly from its mother's 
 nest. 
 And we know they are shining far away. 
 In the golden light of a fairer day. 
 
 —Anonymous. 
 
 IF HE HAD LIVED. 
 
 " If he had lived ! " How oft our yearning 
 
 hearts, 
 Far reaching down the labyrinth of time. 
 Indulge the wishful thought, " If he had lived ! " 
 How oft our wayward lips in saddened tone. 
 The words repeat ! If but the tender twig. 
 The sapling lithe, had bourgeoned to the tree. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 19 
 
 Wiiat fruit it iiiiglit have borne ! What state- 
 
 liness, 
 What sjmmetrj of form 'twould liave attained ! 
 And liow onr jaded limbs would have reclined 
 'Keath the umbrageous shelter of its bonghs. 
 " If he had lived ! " we say, " he might have 
 
 been " — 
 And so we picture but the sunny side. 
 
 But what of all the pitfalls and the snares, 
 That so beset " the slippery path " of youth ? 
 Would he have stood aloof, immaculate. 
 When to his ear '' the Tempter's" whisper came: 
 '^ This shall be thine if thou wilt worship me " ? 
 Wonld he have weathered every bitter blast, 
 And swayed not, when the whirlwind and the 
 
 storm 
 Raved wildly round that tenement of clay ? 
 " If he had lived ! '' How many a mother's heart 
 In all the bitterness of mortal woe 
 Has thought instead, " If he had only died ! 
 If in his baby innocence, my eyes 
 Had seen the dust strewn on his guileless breast, 
 And if these hands in love had planted flowers 
 To bud and blossom on his little bed, 
 How happy I had been ; but now, alas ! " 
 Cease, then, impatient lips, your wayward speed]. 
 Say not, " If he had lived he might have been," — 
 But rather thus : 
 
 How sweet to think, to feel, to know, 
 
 When racked our souls with care and strife, 
 
20 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 That he is safe from every woe 
 Which fills our cup of mortal life ; 
 
 That never more shall pain, distress, 
 
 No fever burn upon his brow 
 Where last we left our mute caress, 
 
 And knew that w^e must bear and bow. 
 
 What joy to know, though some may stray, 
 And wander far in brake and wold. 
 
 Our darling is at home alway, 
 
 His feet shall never leave the fold. 
 
 — New York Observer. 
 
 IF. 
 
 This pathetic poem was scut by a mother to her son, 
 who was confiued in Alkiuta jail, awaiting execution for 
 murder. 
 
 If sitting witli this little worn-out shoe 
 
 And scarlet stocking lying on my knee, 
 I knew the little feet had pattered through 
 The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt Heaven 
 and me, 
 I could be reconciled, and happy, too, 
 
 And look with glad eyes toward the jasper 
 sea. 
 
 If in the morning, when the song of birds 
 
 Reminds us of a music far more sweet, 
 I listen for his pretty broken words 
 
FR03I VARIO US A UTHORS. 21 
 
 And for the iiuisic of liis dimpled feet, 
 I conld be almost liappj, though I heard 
 No answer, and saw but his vacant seat. 
 
 I could be glad if, when the day is done, 
 And all the cares and heartaches laid away, 
 
 I could look westward to the hidden sun, 
 •And with a heart full of deep yearniiig say : 
 
 " To-night I'm nearer to my little one 
 By just the travel of a single day." 
 
 If I could know those feet were shod 
 
 In sandals wrought of light in better lands, 
 
 And that the foot-prints of a tender God, 
 Kan side by side with his in golden sands, 
 
 I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod. 
 Since Benny was in wiser, better hands. 
 
 But, oil ! to know the feet once pure and 
 white 
 The haunts of vice have boldly ventnred in ! 
 The hands that should have battled for the 
 right 
 Have been wrung crimson in the paths of 
 sin ! 
 And should he knock at Heaven's door to-night, 
 I fear my boy could hardly enter in ! 
 
 — Constitution. 
 
 " How empty learning, and how vain is art. 
 But as it mends the life and guides the heart." 
 
2^ GE3iS OF POETRY 
 
 THE BEAVEST OF BATTLES 
 
 The bravest battle tliat ever was fought, 
 Shall I tell you where and when ? 
 
 On the maps of the world you'll find it not ; 
 'Twas fought by tlie mothers of men. 
 
 ]^ay, not with cannon or battle shot, 
 
 With sword, or nobler pen ; 
 Nay, not with eloquent word or tliought 
 
 From moutli of wonderful men. 
 
 But deep in a walled-up woman's heart — 
 Of woman that would not yield — 
 
 But bravely, silentl}^ bore her part — 
 Lo ! there is the battle-field. 
 
 No marshalling troop, no bivouac song, 
 No banner to gleam and wave ! 
 
 But, oh, these battles ! they last so long 
 From babyhood to the grave ! 
 
 — Joaquin Miller. 
 
 WHO STANDS THE TEST? 
 
 "By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, 
 if ye have love one to another." — Jesus, 
 
 There are keen eyes around, which read 
 Between the lines of every creed, 
 To see if men are Christ's indeed. 
 
 It is the life, and not the speech. 
 
 That tells the truth ; and this will reach 
 
 The heart before the words we preach. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 23 
 
 Who are disciples? Those who prove 
 Tlieir likeness to tlie Lord above 
 By generous, free, unselfish love. 
 
 "Wliat is discipleship ? To weep, 
 For Jesus' sake, with those who weep, 
 And help them till their sorrows sleep. 
 
 If for the sake of his own gain 
 He makes his fellows poor remain, 
 Or cares not for another's pain — 
 
 Who prates about his heavenly birth 
 And claims to be the salt of earth, 
 Provokes not reverence, but mirth. 
 
 Less talk, and more of kindly grace ; 
 Less thirst for wealth, or fame, or place, 
 More of the Christian heart and face ; 
 
 Less selfish grasp of land and gold. 
 Less of desire to get and hold 
 For self, the blessings that unfold, 
 
 And more of living w^ithout greed. 
 And keeping nought that others need. 
 Will prove us to be Christ's indeed. 
 
 If Christians like their Lord will be. 
 All men will lose their doubts and see 
 How real is Christianity. 
 What do tlieij see in you and me f 
 
 —Marianne Farningham. 
 
24 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 EEPLY TO GEAY'S ELEGY. 
 
 " Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
 
 The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear, 
 Full many a flower is born to blush uuseeu 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air." 
 
 — Gray. 
 
 No ocean '^ gem of purest ray serene " 
 Is planted in the deep to perish tliere ; 
 
 No flower on earth " is born to blush nnseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air." 
 
 The eye of man may ne'er behold that gem 
 " The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear" ; 
 His keenest sense ne'er note the sweet perfume 
 That rose distils upon '' the desert air." 
 
 Still not one sparkle of that gem is lost, 
 
 And not one breatli of fragrance from the 
 rose ; 
 
 For round about them are a countless host. 
 Who in their splendor revel or repose.. 
 
 Those "dark unfathomed caves" of ocean 
 deep 
 Are not so dark as poets sometimes write ; 
 There myriads moving, mingling monsters 
 creep, 
 And doubtless to them all that " gem " is 
 bright. 
 
 Within the caverns of the grains of sand 
 That lie around that desert rose's feet, 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. ^5 
 
 A thousand living things fed by God's hand, 
 Find joyous homes. To them that rose is 
 sweet. 
 
 And still, if not a creature wandered where 
 
 That rose is blooming or that " gem " is laid, 
 The great Creator, God, who placed them 
 there. 
 Would take delight in works His hands had 
 made. 
 
 Think not thy worth and works are all un- 
 known 
 Because no partial penman paint thy praise ; 
 Man may not see nor mind, but God will own 
 Thy worth and work and thoughts and 
 words and ways. 
 
 The desert rose, though never seen by man, 
 
 Is nurtured witli a care divinely good ; 
 The ocean gem, though 'neath the rolling 
 main. 
 Is ever brilliant in the eyes of God. 
 
 — Needham Bryant Cobb. 
 
 STKENGTII FOE TO-DAY. 
 
 Strength for to-day is all that we need, 
 As there never will be a to-morrow ; 
 
 For to-morrow will prove but another to-day, 
 With its measure of joy and sorrow. 
 
26 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 Tlien why forecast tlie trials of life 
 With such sad and grave persistence, 
 
 And watch and wait for a crowd of ills 
 That as yet have no existence ? 
 
 Strength for to-day — what a precious boon 
 
 For the earnest souls that labor 
 For the willing hands that minister 
 
 To the needy friend and neighbor. 
 
 Strength for to-day on the downhill track, 
 For the travelers near the valley, 
 
 That up, far up the other side 
 Ere long they may safel}^ rally. 
 
 Strength for to-day — that our precious youth 
 
 May happily shun temptation. 
 And build, from the rise to the set of the sun, 
 
 On a strong and sure foundation. 
 
 Strength for to-day — in house and home, 
 To practice forbearance sweetly ; 
 
 To scatter kind words and loving deeds — 
 Still trusting God completely. 
 
 —Anonymous. 
 
 JUST FOE TO-DAY. 
 
 Lord ! for to-morrow and its needs 
 
 I do not pray ; 
 Keep me, my God, from stain and sin, 
 
 Just for to-day. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. ^ 
 
 Let me both diligently work 
 
 And duly pray ; 
 Let me be kind in word and deed, 
 
 Just for to-day. 
 
 And if to-day my life 
 
 Should ebb away, 
 Give me Thy sacraments divine, 
 
 Sweet Lord, to-day. 
 
 So, for to-morrow and its needs 
 
 I do not pray ; 
 But keep me, guide me, love me, Lord, 
 
 Just for to-day . 
 
 — Anonymous. 
 
 THE LIFE OF PEOFESSOE 
 M O E S E . 
 
 The eighteenth century was waning fast, 
 Its ninety -first long winter closed at last. 
 The spring came slow, as springs are wont to 
 
 come 
 To bleak New England, when in one fair home 
 Two baby eyes looked out with wondering gaze 
 Upon the chilling, changeful, April days. 
 
 No roar of cannon and no trumpet's blare 
 Proclaimed the little stranger's advent there, 
 No clang of bells, no whispered breath of fate, 
 Bore testimony to his mission great. 
 Or told that he was destined from liis birth 
 To "flino- a di'dle round about the earth." 
 
28 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 A score of years went by ! The wee babe grew 
 From cliild to manhood, earnest, brave and true ; 
 Qnick, active brain, and fine perceptions rare, 
 Here all the wealth he counted as his share; 
 But classic Yale her crown of lionors lent, 
 And happy liopes went with him where he went. 
 
 Then two score years he numbered, and behold 
 Our Student is an Artist, winning gold 
 And fame in foreign lands, by cunning skill, 
 With brush or chisel deft, but keeping still 
 His love for home, a holier, brighter flame 
 Than any mere ambition for a name. 
 
 For this he crossed again the " wide salt sea," 
 
 A teacher in his native land to be ; 
 
 But rocking idly on the troubled tide. 
 
 His restless thoughts would wander far and wide, 
 
 And seeming by some magic inflnence drawn, 
 
 They turned to Science and its mystic dawn. 
 
 'No great invention ever sprang entire 
 
 Full flegded and strong, like Phoenix from the 
 
 fire. 
 From any human brain ; but thought by thought, 
 Atom by atom, is the plan outwrought — 
 Failure on failure, hjiits of troubles past. 
 And step by step the goal is reached at last. 
 
 Thus was it with our hero. None can tell 
 The bitter blight that on his spirit fell ; 
 The years of weary toil, the outraged pride, 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 29 
 
 When ever}^ loon was ready to deride 
 A patient faith he could not understand, 
 And ridicule was heard on every hand. 
 
 Oh, Artist heart ! Attuned to finest chords 
 Of harnionj, how must the wrangling words, 
 The hidden sarcasm, the continued strife, 
 Have marred the beauty of thine inner life ! 
 Oh, Prophet eyes! touched with Promethean 
 
 fire, 
 And burning only with thy soul's desire 
 To benefit thy kind ; how couldst thou see 
 Through every shadow, the great light to be? 
 
 But three score years with grand fruition came ! 
 The whole world echoed with a single name ! 
 The time had passed, when one to raise a laugh. 
 Had but to speak of '' Morse's Telegraph." 
 His hour of triumph made his life complete, 
 And but the Indian Summer, long and sweet, 
 Remained to till the closing score of years, 
 " Radiant with joy, and ignorant of fears," 
 
 Therefore we cannot mourn for him to-day, 
 We know his spirit lives with us alway. 
 His patient courage is our beacon light. 
 His great reward, our promise fair and bright, 
 And when the silent angel comes to close 
 Our weary eyes, and bring us sweet repose, 
 May we repeat his words, triumphant then, 
 " My soul is with my God." Amen ! Amen. 
 
 — N. S. Emerson. 
 
30 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 EAI^ IN THE HEAKT. 
 
 If this were all, oh ! if this were all 
 '' That into each life some rain mnst fall," 
 There were fainter sobs in the poet's rhyme, 
 There were fewer wrecks on the shores of time. 
 
 But tempests of woe pass over the soul. 
 Since winds of anguish we cannot control, 
 And shock after shock we are called on to bear. 
 Till the lips are white with the heart's despair ! 
 
 " Into each life some rain must fall," 
 If this were all — oh, if this were all ; 
 Yet there's a refuge from storm and blast ! 
 Gloria Patri — we'll reach it at last. 
 
 Be strong, be strong, to my heart I cry, 
 The pearl in the wounded heart doth lie ; 
 Tho' " into each life some rain must fall," 
 Days of sunshine are given to all. 
 
 — Selected. 
 
 A CHEERFUL CEEED. 
 
 The world it is good ; if only we knew 
 
 How to reach to the heart of our neighbor. 
 We'd find him botli friendly and willing to do. 
 
 For love the hardest of labor. 
 We must meet him half-way and then we will see 
 
 With an impulse of nature divine, 
 He will cheer us in trouble wlmtever it be, 
 
 And make us ashamed to repine. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 31 
 
 The world it is good — no use to deny 
 
 That trials are coming to all ; 
 The wisest plan now is to let them pass by, 
 
 And feel that God's goodness can fall 
 On each of ns here if rightly we live 
 
 And cherish the blessings we own ; 
 'Twill help us if any there be to forgive, 
 
 And lighten our hearts when alone. 
 
 — Lester Hollis. 
 
 THEY SAY. 
 
 They say — Ah ! well, suppose they do, 
 But can they prove the story true ? 
 Suspicion may arise from naught 
 But malice, envy, want of thought; 
 Why count yourself among the " they " 
 Who whisper what they dare not say ? 
 
 They say — but why the tale rehearse, 
 And help to make the matter worse ? 
 No good can possibly accrue 
 From telling what may be untrue ; 
 And is it not a better plan 
 To speak of all the best you can ? 
 
 They say — well, if it should be so, 
 Why need you tell the tale of woe ? 
 Will it the better work redress 
 (3r make one pang of sorrow less ? 
 Will it the erring soul restore, 
 Henceforth to go and sin no more ? 
 
I 
 
 32 GE3IS OF POETRY 
 
 Tliey say — Oh ! pause and look within ; 
 See how thy heart inclines to sin ; 
 Watch, lest in dark temptation's hour, 
 Thou too should sink beneath its power, — 
 Pity the frail, weep o'er their fall, 
 But speak of good or not at all. 
 
 —Anonymous. 
 
 BABY HANDS. 
 
 O little hands that cling within mine own, 
 And clasp yet closer when I feign to go ! 
 Trusting in mother-love to guide aright, — 
 In mother-love to shield from every foe. 
 
 Would I could hold thee thus throughout thy 
 
 life ! 
 When danger threatens near, protect, defend ; 
 Tenderly comfort thee in every fear ; 
 Love thee and cheer thee to thy journey's end. 
 
 Too soon the speeding years will give thee strength 
 To reach for joys in which I have no part ; 
 Another's touch must soothe thy discontent, 
 Another's love than mine will fill thine heart. 
 
 Yet such is mother-lov^e ! I ask no more 
 Than thy full happiness in all to see ; 
 Unworthy of the great, good name I bear, 
 If thought of self could come 'twixt me and 
 thee, 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. i 
 
 But ill tlie golden present tliou art niiiie, — 
 For me alone tliy smile, thy loving kiss ; 
 Let separation in the fntnre hide, 
 To hold thy trusting little hands is bliss ! 
 
 —Clara H. Beirne. 
 
 TEE TONGUE 
 
 " The boneless tongue, so small and weak, 
 Can crush and kill," declares the Greek. 
 
 " The tongue destroys a greater horde," 
 The Turk asserts, " than does the sword." 
 
 The Persian proverb wisely saitli, 
 
 " A lengthy tongue — an early death ; " 
 
 Or sometimes takes this form instead, 
 
 " Don't let your tongue cut off your head." 
 
 '• The tongue can speak a word whose speed," 
 Say the Chinese, " outstrips the steed." 
 
 "While Arabs sages this impart, 
 
 " The tongue's great storehouse is the heart." 
 
 From Hebrew wit the maxim sprung, 
 " Though feet should slip, ne'er let the 
 tongue." 
 
 The sacred writer crowns the whole, 
 " Who keeps his tongue doth keep his soul." 
 — Rev. Philip B. Strong. 
 
34 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 A year was occupied in fittin;^ the lines in this mosaic, 
 froni English and American poets. 
 
 Young: Why all tliis toil for triumphs of an 
 
 hour ? 
 Dr. Johnson: Life's a short summer — man a 
 
 flower. 
 
 Pope: By turns we catch the vital breath and die. 
 Prior: The cradle and the tomb, alas ! so nigh. 
 
 Sewell: To be, is better far than not be, 
 Spencer' Though all man's life may seem a 
 tragedy. 
 
 Daniel: But light cares speak, when mighty 
 
 griefs are dumb, 
 Raleigh: The bottom is but shallow wlience tliey 
 
 come. 
 
 Longfellow: Thy fate is but the common fate of 
 all. 
 
 SoiUhwell: Unmingled joys, here to no man be- 
 fall. 
 
 Congreve: I^ature to each allots his pi-oper 
 
 sphere, 
 Churchill: Fortune makes folly her peculiar care. 
 
 Rochester: Custom does often reason overrule, 
 Armstrong: And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. 
 
FROM- VARIO US A UTHORS. 35 
 
 Mllt07i: Iavq well ; how long or short, permit 
 
 to heaven, 
 Bailey: They who forgive most, shall be most 
 
 forgiven. 
 
 French: Sin may be clasped so close we cannot 
 
 see its face, 
 Somerville: Yile intercourse where virtue has no 
 
 place. 
 
 Thomson: Then keep each passion down how- 
 ever dear, 
 
 Byron: Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and 
 tear, 
 
 Sm.ollet: Her senseless snares, let faithless pleas- 
 ure lay, 
 Crabbe: With craft and skill to ruin and betray. 
 
 Massinger: Soar not too high to fall, but stoop 
 to rise, 
 
 Crowley: We masters grow, of all that we de- 
 spise. 
 
 Beattle: Oh! then renounce that impious self-es- 
 teem. 
 
 Cowper: Riches have wings, and grandeur is a 
 dream. 
 
 Gray: The path of glory leads but to the grave, 
 Willis: What is ambition? It is a glorious cheat, 
 Addison: Only destruction to the brave and 
 great. 
 
36 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 Drydcn: Wliat's all the gaudy splitter of a crown? 
 Qiiarlcs: The way to bliss lies not on beds of 
 down. 
 
 Watklns: How long we live, not years, but ac- 
 tions tell — 
 
 Herrick: That man lives twice who lives the first 
 life well. 
 
 Mason: Make, then, while yet ye may, your God 
 your friend, 
 
 Hill: Whom Christians worship, yet not com- 
 prehend. 
 
 Dana: The truth that's given, guard, and to 
 
 yourself be just, 
 Sha'kesjjcarc: For live how we may, yet die we 
 
 must ! 
 
 — H. A. Demixg, in San Francisco Times. 
 
 I AM MOEITUEUS. 
 
 Almost the final words of Dr. Johnson. 
 
 At last, at last life's fevery voyage is over. 
 
 The shore is gained, the tattered sails are furled. 
 And I, O God ! I feel my spirit hover 
 
 Upon the confines of the unknown world ; 
 What is the mystery of this fearful sailing 
 
 'Midst rocks and shoals, this strife 'twixt right 
 and wrong — 
 This war with winds and waves so unavailing. 
 
 In which these trembling hands have fought 
 so lono- ? 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 37 
 
 Let me be calmed— vain tliouglit ! O, God All- 
 seeing 1 
 Who all things knowest, but whom none may 
 
 know, 
 TJlind, shuddering, fainting on the verge of bemg, 
 
 Thine arm around my homeless spirit throw ; 
 How has my soul in life's fierce battle striven, 
 
 And, bleeding, smothered down its mortal woe, 
 Its bloom to vigils long and fastings given, 
 
 Bidding to iron toil all passions bow.* 
 
 Through scorn and want, and lonely self-denial. 
 
 Submissive have I bowed with patient ear, 
 That I, refined and proved by burning trial. 
 
 From the All-Love one new response might 
 hear. 
 It has been heard. Oft as I stood upraising 
 
 My eye to rove the midnight arch. 
 Whilst with their shields of cloudless silver 
 blazino;. 
 
 The starry bands moved down their soienin 
 
 march; 
 
 Oft as the bell-sound from some moss-gray 
 tower 
 
 Woke, telling that another life was gone ; 
 Oft as I lingered near some moonlight bower. 
 
 Whose funeral ivy to the breeze made moan ; 
 Oft as I mused where some great city's murmur 
 
 Eose stormy, rolling like a troubled sea, 
 Amidst the flush of spring, the fading summer, 
 
 A mighty voice would smite me solemnly : 
 
38 GE3IS OF POETRY 
 
 Arise, sad child of earth — be still, and hearken ; 
 
 The word of the Eternal conies to thee ; 
 Let not the fires of mortal passion darken 
 
 The spirit plnnied for immortality ; 
 Thou that hast been, by liands unseen, anointed 
 
 Neglect and wrong and withering scorn to 
 bear, 
 Through a lost world, to groans and chains ap- 
 pointed. 
 
 Go forth and breathe thy great Evangel there. 
 
 Go preach like him who to the ancient City 
 Preached God's impending bolt and flaming 
 sword ; 
 Performed the hated task, though not in pity. 
 And wept the withering of a senseless gourd ; 
 Frame thy seer's lips to language high and sol- 
 emn 
 As when the desert bands round Sinai stood, 
 "Whose muster'd thunders launched their rend- 
 ing volume 
 Downwards, and smote the pallid multitude. 
 
 Breathe words of lofty cheer to earth's despairing. 
 
 Teach grim revenge the luxury to forgive ; 
 Ilim that through life's stern conflict roves un- 
 caring. 
 
 Tell him it is a fearful thing to live. 
 Go, tell the miser that his glittering treasure 
 
 Will kindle in his breast the torch of hell ; 
 Tell the pale seeker after earthly pleasure 
 
 Her sons: was framed within a wizard's cell. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 39 
 
 Yontli came ; its flowers were yew, its song was 
 sadness, 
 My manhood fell upon an evil time. 
 That rolled in lust, and walked with doubt and 
 madness ; 
 They who embraced me were the sons of 
 crime. 
 I have thrown pearls before the herd of Circe, 
 That seized the treasure but to soil and mar. 
 While knowledge, love, and faith, and white- 
 browed mercy 
 Fled, dove-like, from their brutal noise afar. 
 
 Earth's wild, unhappy dream at last is breaking, 
 
 Her joys and pains are now an idle breath ; 
 Her faces, flowers, and hills, my e^^e forsaking, 
 
 Whisper this sickness at my heart is death ! 
 I have — O, God ! what means this awful feeling. 
 
 Like one who reels upon a sinking bark ? 
 A freezing iron hand is o'er me stealing. 
 
 And my soul shudders as the world grows dark. 
 
 Rev. T. Hempstead. 
 
 LEONA. 
 
 Competent literary critics have pronounced this poem 
 unsurpassed by any other of its class in our language. — 
 Ed. Constitution. 
 
 Leona, the hour draws nigh. 
 
 The hour we've waited so long, 
 For the angel to open a door through the sky. 
 That my spirit may break from its prison and try 
 
 Its voice in an infinite song. 
 
40 GE3IS OF POETRY 
 
 Just now, as the slumbers of niglit 
 
 Came o'er me Avitli peace-giving breath, 
 The curtain half lifted, revealed to my sight 
 Those windows which look on the kingdom of 
 light, 
 That borders the river of death. 
 
 And a vision fell solemn and sweet, 
 
 Bringino^ gleams of a morning-lit land ; 
 I saw the white shore which the pale waters beat, 
 And I heard the low lull as they broke at their 
 feet 
 Who walked on the beautiful strand. 
 
 And I wondered why spirits could clin.g 
 To their clay with a struggle and sigh, 
 When life's purple Autumn is better than Spring, 
 And the soul flies away like a sparrow to sing 
 In a climate where leaves never die. 
 
 Leona, come close to my bed. 
 
 And lay your dear hand on my brow ; 
 
 The same touch that thrilled me in days that are 
 fled, 
 
 And raised the lost roses of youth from the dead. 
 Can brighten the brief moments now. 
 
 We have lived from the cold world apart, 
 And your trust was too generous and true 
 
 For their hate to o'erthrow ; when the slanderer's 
 dart 
 
 Was rankling deep in my desolate heart, 
 I was dearer than ever to you. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 41 
 
 I tliank the Great Father for this, 
 
 That our love is not lavislied in vain ; 
 Each germ in the future blossom to bliss, 
 And the forms that we love and the lips that we 
 kiss, 
 Never shrink at the shadow of pain. 
 
 By the light of this faith am I taught 
 
 That mj labor is only begun ; 
 In the strength of this hope have I struggled 
 
 and fought 
 With the legions of wrong, till my armor has 
 caught 
 The gleam of Eternity's sun. 
 
 Leona, look forth and behold. 
 
 From headhmd, from hillside, and deep, 
 The daj'-king surrenders his banners of gold ; 
 The twiliglit advances through woodland and 
 wold, 
 
 And the dews are beginning to weep. 
 
 The moon's silver hair lies uncurled 
 
 Down the broad-breasted monntains away ; 
 The sunset's red glorj^ again shall be furled 
 On the walls of the west, o'er the plains of the 
 world,— 
 I shall rise in a limitless day. 
 
 Oh ! come not in tears to my tomb, 
 
 Nor plant with frail flowers the sod ; 
 There is rest among roses too sweet for its 
 irloom. 
 
42 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 And life where the lilies eternally bloom — 
 In the balm-breathing gardens of God. 
 
 Yet deepl}' those memories burn 
 Which bind me to yon and to earth, 
 
 And I sometimes have tliought that my being 
 would yearn 
 
 In the bowers of its beautiful home to return 
 And visit the home of its birth. 
 
 ^T would even be pleasant to stay, 
 
 And walk by your side to the last. 
 But the land-breeze of heaven is beginning to 
 
 play- 
 Life's shadows are meeting Eternity's day, 
 And its tumult is hushed in the past. 
 
 Leona, good bye ; should the grief 
 
 That is gathering now, ever be 
 Too dark for your faith, you will long for relief. 
 And remember, the journey, though lonesome, is 
 brief 
 Over lowland and river to me. 
 
 James G. Clark. 
 
 '' Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever. 
 Do noble things, not dream them all day long. 
 So make, life, death, and the great forever- 
 
 One 2;rand, sweet son 
 
 ." ' " 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 43 
 
 II E E O I S M . 
 
 Let others write of battles f ought 
 
 On bloodj, ghastly fields, 
 Where honor greets the man who wins, 
 
 And death the man who yields ; 
 But I will w^rite of him who fights 
 
 And vanquishes his sins, 
 Wlio struggles on through weary years, 
 
 Against himself, and wins. 
 
 He is a hero staunch and brave, 
 
 Who fights an unseen foe. 
 And puts at last, beneath his feet, 
 
 His passions, base and low. 
 And stands erect, in manhood's might. 
 
 Undaunted, undismayed, 
 Th«3 bravest man who drew a sword 
 
 In foray or in raid. 
 
 It calls for something more than brawn 
 
 (3r muscle to o'ercome 
 An enemy who marcheth not 
 
 With banner, plume, or drum — 
 A foe forever lurking nigh, 
 
 With silent, stealthy tread ; 
 Forever near your board by day. 
 
 At night beside your bed. 
 
 All honor, then, to that brave heart, 
 
 Though poor or rich he be, 
 Who struggles with his baser part. 
 
 Who conquers, and is free. 
 
44 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 He may not wear a hero's crown, 
 
 Or fill a hero's grave ; 
 But truth will place his name among 
 
 The bravest of the brave. 
 
 — ANOISrYMOUS, 
 
 A NIGHT STOEM IX FEB- 
 EUABY. 
 
 I am reminded by this poem, of Rev. S. S. Sweet's 
 trip home from England, on which they were overtaken 
 by a storm, during which a baby ou board died, and its 
 body w\as consigned to the waves, until the time "' the sea 
 shall give up its dead." — CoMriLER. 
 
 No moon, no stars, the sky is blind, 
 
 Faint gleams the liglit-ship's distant spark ; 
 Along the shore the savage wind 
 
 Bays like a bloodhound through the dark. 
 God save all seamen everywhere. 
 
 Who face to-night the driving sleet, 
 In ships that 'gainst the sworded air, 
 
 Their frozen pinions vainly beat. 
 
 On rock-bound coasts, in desperate plight, 
 
 Brave hearts this cruel tempest bide, 
 Where mammoth waves with tushes white. 
 
 Tear the black gloom through which they 
 glide. 
 Graves, storm-scooped in the weltering waste. 
 
 Are yawning now on lake and sea. 
 And tombed alive, the tempest-chased 
 
 Go down where the drowned millions be. 
 
FR03I VARIOUS AUTHORS. 45 
 
 To-niglit from blue and quivering lips 
 
 Prayers, lieard of God alone, arise 
 By fireless hearths, in staggering ships, 
 
 Wlierever misery lives or dies. 
 And what am I — that warm and safe 
 
 I sit by friendship's hearthstone bright ? 
 Oh ! God help every human waif, 
 
 Unsheltered from the storm to-night ! 
 
 JosEPn Barcer. 
 
 BEST. 
 
 Mother, I see you with your nursery light. 
 Leading your babies, all in white. 
 
 To their sweet rest ; 
 Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night, 
 
 And that is best. 
 
 I cannot help tears, when I see them twine 
 Their lingers in yours, and their bright curls 
 shine 
 
 On your warm breast ; 
 But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine. 
 
 He can love best ! 
 
 You tremble each hour because your arms 
 Are weak ; 3'our heart is wrung with alarms, 
 
 x\nd sore opprest ; 
 My darlings are safe, out of harms. 
 
 And that is best. 
 
46 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 Yoli know over yours may hang even now 
 Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow 
 
 Naught can arrest ; 
 Mine in God's gardens run to and fro, 
 
 And that is best. 
 
 You know that of j^ours, your feeblest one 
 And dearest, may live long years alone, 
 
 Unloved, unblest ; 
 Mine are cherished of saints around God's throne, 
 
 And that is best. 
 
 You must dread for yours the crime that sears^ 
 Dark guilt unw^ashed by repentant tears, 
 
 And unconfessed ; 
 Mine entered spotless on eternal years, 
 
 O how much the best ! 
 
 But grief is selfish : I cannot see 
 Always wliy I should so stricken be 
 
 More than the rest. 
 But I know that, as well for them, for me 
 
 God did the best ! 
 
 —Helen Hunt Jackson. 
 
 TIRED MOTHERS. 
 
 A little elbow leans upon your knee. 
 
 Your tired knee that has so much to bear ; 
 
 A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
 From underneath a thatch of tanofled hair. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 47 
 
 Perhaps you do not lieed the velvet touch 
 
 Of warm, moist fingers folding yours so tight; 
 
 You do not prize tliis blessing over-much — 
 You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 
 
 But it is blessedness ! A year ago 
 
 I did not see it as I do to-day — 
 We are so dull and thankless, and too slow 
 
 To catch the sunshine till it slips away. 
 And now it seems surpassing strange to me, 
 
 That while I bore the badge of motherhood, 
 I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 
 
 The little child that brought me only good. 
 
 And if, some night when you sit down to rest, 
 
 You miss this elbow from your tired knee — 
 This restless curling head from off your breast — 
 
 This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; 
 If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped. 
 
 And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; 
 If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 
 
 I could not blame you for your heartache then. 
 
 I wonder so that mothers ever fret 
 
 At little children clinging to their gown ; 
 Or that the footprints, when the days are wet. 
 
 Are ever black enough to make them frown. 
 If I could find a little muddy boot. 
 
 Or caps or jackets on my chamber floor. 
 If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot. 
 
 And hear it patter in my house once more — 
 
48 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 If I could meDd a broken cart to-daj, 
 
 To-morrow make a kite to reacli the sky, 
 There is no woman in God's world could say 
 
 Slie was more blissful 1}^ content than I. 
 But ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 
 
 Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
 My singing birdling from its uest has flown — 
 
 The little boy I used to kiss, is dead ! 
 
 —May Riley Smith. 
 
 I SHALL FIND HEST. 
 
 A little farther on — 
 There will be time — I shall find rest anon : 
 Thus do we say, while eager youth invites 
 Young hope to try her wings in wanton flights, 
 And nimble fancy builds the soul a uest 
 On some far crag ; but soon youth's flame is 
 
 gone — 
 Burned lightly out — while we repeat the jest 
 With smiling confidence — I shall find rest 
 
 A little farther on. 
 
 A little farther on, 
 I shall find rest; half fiercely we avow 
 When noon beats on the dusty field, and care 
 Threats to unjoin t our armor, and the glare 
 Throbs with the pulse of battle, while life's best 
 Flies with the flitting stars ; the frenzied brow 
 Pains for the laurel more than for the breast 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 49 
 
 Where love, soft nestling, waits. Not now, not 
 
 now, 
 With feverish breath we cry, I shall find rest 
 A little farther on. 
 
 A little farther on, 
 I shall find rest ; half sad, at last, we say. 
 When sorrow's settling cloud blurs out the gleam 
 Of glory's torch, and to a vanished dream 
 Love's palace has been turned, then — all de- 
 pressed. 
 Despairing, sick of heart — we may not stay 
 Our weary feet, so lonely then doth seem 
 This shadow-haunted world. We, sounblest, 
 AVeep not to see the grave which waits its guest ; 
 And feeling round our feet the cool, sweet clay, 
 We speak the fading word farewell and say : 
 Not on this side— alas !— I shall find rest 
 A little farther on. 
 —Robert Buk^s Wilson, in the Century. 
 
 TWICE A CHRISTMAS GIFT. 
 
 Su ingested by the death of Miss Berta Rogers, who 
 died ou Christmas moruiug, 1886. 
 
 She came on snowy wings of peace and love. 
 Just seventeen years ago, from bowers above— 
 A tender flower to bloom awhile on earth, 
 
 As a token pure and rare 
 
 Of all thafs bright and fair. 
 Impressed with heaven's own true, immortal birth. 
 
50 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 'Tvvas near the Christmas-tide, and brighter still 
 Grew amber rays upon the Eastern hill, 
 When this sweet home was made complete 
 
 With all tlie magic wiles 
 
 Of childhood's sunny smiles, 
 A Christmas Gift the parents deemed most meet. 
 
 To God, the Giver, rose their grateful prayer. 
 
 As merry bells resounded on the air. 
 
 And ne'er before the Christ Child seemed so near 
 
 As on this blessed Day, 
 
 When His eternal ray 
 Illumed their thankful hearts with love and cheer. 
 
 Time onward sped. Some new attractive grace 
 Beamed every day on Berta's lovely face, 
 And all the gifts of sunny-hearted youth 
 
 Breathed round her everywhere — 
 
 A charm so sweet and fair, 
 One could but love such purity and truth. 
 
 Yet not for earth alone her beauty bloomed. — 
 There is a fairer Land beyond the tomb. 
 And there, where living waters ceaseless flow, 
 
 The loved ones glorified 
 
 Called Berta to their side. 
 Revealing to her sight its radiant glow. 
 
 'Twas Christmas Morn ! Upon the Eastern hill. 
 The same bright, golden sun was shining still — 
 But hushed the home, where youthful feet had 
 trod. 
 
 As angels from afar 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 51 
 
 Sped from tlie gates ajar, 
 And bore the precious gift again to God. 
 
 O, stricken hearts 'tis well ; for safely there, 
 Tliy sainted cliild in glorious mansions fair 
 Has changed her earthly crown of pearly white"^ 
 
 For that of burnished gold ; 
 
 And ecstasy nntold 
 Thrills all her soul forever with delight. 
 
 — L. K. lioGERS, BarnesviUe, Ga. 
 
 S U ^I M E E DIES. 
 
 And now sweet Summer dies ; 
 
 Ah, me ! to think of all the golden hours 
 We passed, wlien first to life she sprung, 
 
 And strewed our pathway with her choicest 
 flowers. 
 And lulled us with the magic of her tongue 
 That whispered in the breeze ; or louder sung 
 As Philomel, till every fibre swung 
 In rapturous pleasure known but to the young. 
 
 Such happy rememb'ring, who but sighs 
 
 For Summer vanishing ? Too soon she dies. 
 
 But some say, wherefore weep ? 
 Summer returns. True,- but not this, not this ; 
 
 Granted, the earth may wake again 
 To life and beauty, 'neath the ardent kiss 
 
 *Among the floral offerings was a beautiful crown of 
 pearly mistletoe. 
 
53 GE3IS OF POETRY 
 
 Of yet another, which sliall doubtless reign, 
 Lavish of fruits and flowers, and blessed grain, 
 Now nurtured w^ith her smile, now witli her 
 
 rain ; 
 But for this Summer we shall grieve in vain. 
 Once dead, forever dead ; the days of yore. 
 To hearts that ache with longing, come no more, 
 
 'No sides will be so bright ; 
 At least to us, who gazed on those of June ; 
 
 Beheld the West with light aflame ; 
 Then waited for the rising of the moon. 
 
 That later like a saintly spirit came. 
 
 No fairer morns the glowing East will claim, 
 
 Nor rouse the lark to spread Aurora's fame ; 
 
 What future Summer days can be the same? 
 Of all that wait our mortal path to cheer. 
 What equal to the past, what half so dear ? 
 
 And therefore do we mourn. 
 Out of our life the sweetest chapter done ; 
 
 The very fairest page gone by. 
 There could not be a happier one 
 
 Though w^e are aged ere we come to lie 
 In Death's embrace ; be he far or nigh, 
 We always must remember, you and I, 
 These halcyon days departed, brief as bright — 
 This Summer wdiich is dying as I write. 
 
 —September, 1877 Anonymous. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 53 
 
 ITOW COMES AUTUMN. 
 
 The gay, glad voices of the summer-tide are gone, 
 The last fair rose, with all her sisterhood has 
 flown, 
 And Autumn flings her banners round ; 
 The mock-bird's song is hushed, the katydid 
 No longer w^akes the silence with her '' didn't, 
 did," 
 For dark and dead the brown leaves strew the 
 ground. 
 
 Low hang the clouds above the barren hills. 
 Soft sing the low-voiced mountain rills, 
 
 The Summers dying song. 
 Ah, me ! ah, me ! my summer, too, is past ; 
 The autumn of my life is coming fast. 
 
 As old Time's chariot whirls along. 
 
 The dreams of youth have long since fled. 
 Its fair hopes blighted fore'er and dead ; 
 
 The sere and yellow leaf is mine, 
 The snows of winter 'gin to fleck my hair ; 
 These lines athwart my brow, are lines of care — 
 
 Ah, age, the pencil's thine ! 
 
 Farewell, fair Summer, blithe and gay, 
 
 Thy hand with garlands rare lias decked my way. 
 
 But now death claimeth thee ; 
 He bows thy flower-crowned head, my slender 
 
 form ; 
 We're too frail to stand the winter's storm, 
 
 We'll go together, you and me. 
 
54 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 But, ah, thy step will tread the earth again, 
 Thy roses bloom with Spring's refreshing rain, 
 
 And all tliy wanderers return ; 
 But from the dust, this body'll rise no more ; 
 These feet must find a path on stranger shores, 
 
 Beyond the traveler's bourne. 
 
 — M. Allie Davis. 
 
 THE CLOSIIvrG SCENE. 
 
 This poem is pronounced by the Westminster Review to 
 be tlie iinest American poem ever written. 
 
 Within this sober realm of leafless trees 
 The russet year inhaled the dreamj^ air, 
 Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, 
 Wlien all the fields are lying brown and bare; 
 The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, 
 O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 
 Sent down the air a greeting to the mills. 
 On the dull thunder of the alternate flails ; 
 All sights are mellowed, and all sounds subdued, 
 The hills seemed further, and the streams sang 
 
 low, 
 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
 His winter log, with many a muffled blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, 
 Their banners bright with every martial hue, 
 Now stood like some sad beaten host of old, 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue ; 
 On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight, 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 55 
 
 The dove scarce heard his singing mate's com- 
 plaint, 
 And, like a star slow drowning in the light, 
 The village church vane seemed to j)ale and 
 
 faint ; 
 The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew — • 
 Crew twice, and all was stiller than before — 
 Silent, till some replying wanderer blew 
 His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 
 
 Where erst the ja}-, within the elm's tall crest, 
 Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged 
 
 young; 
 And where the oriole hung her swinging nest. 
 By every light wind like a censer swung ; 
 Where sang the noisy n:as3ns of the eaves, 
 The bus}^ swallows circling ever near — 
 Foreboding as the rustic mind believes. 
 An early harvest and a plenteous year ; 
 Where every bird which charmed the vernal 
 
 feast 
 Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. 
 To warn the reapers of the rosy east ; 
 All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 
 
 Alone from out the stubble, piped the quail. 
 And croaked the crow through all the dreary 
 
 gloom ; 
 Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
 Made echo to the distant cottage loom ; 
 There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers. 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by 
 
 nio:ht. 
 
56 GEMS OF POETHV 
 
 The thistle down, the only gliost of flowers, 
 
 Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 
 
 Amid all this, in the most cheerless air. 
 
 And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 
 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there 
 
 Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; 
 
 Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 
 
 The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, 
 
 Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien, 
 
 Sat liKe a fate, and watched the flying thread. 
 
 She had known sorrow — he had walked with her, 
 Oft supped and broke with her the ashen crust. 
 And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
 Of his black mantle, trailing in the dust. 
 While yet her cheek was bright with summer 
 
 bloom. 
 Her country summoned and she gave her all ; 
 And twice war bowed to her his sable plume — 
 Re-gave to her the sword to rust upon the wall ; 
 He-gave the sword, but not the hand that drew 
 And struck for liberty the dying blow ; 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
 Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on. 
 Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
 Long, but not loud, the memor3^of the gone 
 Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous 
 
 tune. 
 At last the thread was snapped — her head was 
 
 bowed ! 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 57 
 
 Life dropped the distaff tlirongh his hands 
 
 serene ; 
 And loving neighbors smoothed lier careful 
 
 shroud, 
 While death and winter closed the antnmn scene. 
 
 — T. BuciiANxiN Read. 
 
 BUEATIIE SOFT AND LOW. 
 
 Breathe soft and low, O whispering wind. 
 
 Above the tangled grasses deep. 
 Where those who loved me long ago 
 
 Forgot the world and fell asleep. 
 No towering shaft, or sculptured urn, 
 
 Or mausoleum's empty pride, 
 Tells to the curious passer-by 
 
 Their virtues, or the time they died. 
 
 I count the old familiar names, 
 
 O'ergrown with moss and lichen gray, 
 Where tangled briar and creeping vine 
 
 Across the crumbling tablets stray. 
 The summer sky is softly blue ; 
 
 The birds still sing the sweet old strain, 
 But something from tlie sunnner time 
 
 Is o-one, that will not come again. 
 
 So many voices have been hushed— 
 So many songs have hushed for aye— 
 
 So many hands I used to touch 
 Are folded os^er hearts of clay. 
 
58 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 The noisv world recedes from nie 
 
 I cease to hear its praise or blame ; 
 Tlie mossy marbles echo back 
 No hollow sound of em}3ty fame. 
 
 I only know that calm and still 
 
 They sleep beyond life's woe and wail, — 
 Beyond the lleet of sailing clouds, 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the vale ; 
 I only feel that, tired and worn, 
 
 I halt upon the highway bare. 
 And gaze with yearning ej^es beyond 
 
 To fields that shine supremely fair. 
 
 — Anonymous. 
 
 A F T E P. . 
 
 After the shower, the tranquil sun ; 
 
 After the snow, the emerald leaves • 
 Silver stars when the day is done ; 
 
 After the harvest, golden sheaves. 
 
 After the clouds, the violet sky ; 
 
 After the tempest, the lull of waves ; 
 Quiet wood, when the winds go by ; 
 
 After the battle, peaceful graves. 
 
 After the knell, the wedding bells ; 
 
 After the bud, the radiant rose ; 
 Joyful greetings from sad farewells ; 
 
 After weeping, sweet repose. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 59 
 
 After the burden, the blissful meed ; 
 
 After the flight, the downy nest ; 
 After the furrow, the waking seed ; 
 
 After the shadowy river — rest. 
 
 — Anonymous. 
 
 THE GIFTS OF AGE. 
 
 How wilt thou cheer me, age, when, year by year. 
 The grace and joy of youth are passed away, 
 And thou hast turned the bonnie brown liair 
 gi-ay. 
 Dimmed the clear eyes, hast bid the red lips 
 fade, 
 And the soft motion of the lithe soft limbs 
 Into slow creeping, like the snail's, hast made ? 
 
 How shall I cheer thee ? I will crown thy head 
 With gleaming silver ; for youth's timid sips 
 Of power give thee the best of all — the 
 power 
 To comfort ; seam thy softly faded face 
 
 With deep experience ; make thy faltering 
 step 
 Music most dear within thy dwelling place. 
 
 What wilt thou bring me, age, when from my 
 
 lieart 
 Thou tak'st the light of youth, who gives the 
 
 hours 
 Sucli brilliant, rapid flight ; where all my 
 
 powers 
 
60 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 Sliall, one by one, lose the fresh, vigorous pLay 
 
 That makes their exercise a pure delight? 
 Oh ! how I dread to see youth pass away. 
 
 What shall I bring thee ? I shall bring to thee 
 Long hours of pure companionship, whose 
 wide 
 
 And perfect happiness shall with thee bide 
 
 Long after earth has passed. I'll bring to thee 
 Fair memory's afterglow, thy liusband's trust. 
 
 Thy children's love, thy friend's fidelity. 
 
 What canst thou give me, age, to make a life 
 With thee endurable ? Then shall I know 
 The embers of the passions that now glow 
 
 And burn within my fervid heart. Canst thou. 
 The forerunner of death, find aught to ease 
 
 The dread descent foreshadowed on thy brow ? 
 
 What can I give thee I O thou doubting heart ! 
 I'll lead thee gently to the welcome grave. 
 Where thou shalt leave thy body, passion's 
 slave. 
 Worn out and useless, lapped in dreamless rest, 
 
 Thy glowing spirit, as it bursts its cell, 
 Shall own, exultant, age's gifts are best. 
 
 — Philadelphia Times. Anonymous. 
 
 " God grant through all the heritage of time 
 To you ordained, 
 Tlie sweet fruition of a life well spent 
 And honors gained." 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 61 
 
 THE MOTIIETw WANTS II E K 
 BOY. 
 
 There's a homestead waiting for j'oii, my boy, 
 
 In a cpaint, old fashioned town ; 
 The gray moss clings to the garden wall, 
 
 And the dwelling is low and brown, 
 But a vacant chair by the fireside stands, 
 
 And never a grace is said. 
 But a mother prays that her absent son 
 
 Soon may be homeward led, 
 
 For the mother wants her boy. 
 
 She trains the vines and tends the flowers, 
 
 For she says, "' My boy will come ; 
 And I want the quiet, humble place 
 
 To be just like the dear old home 
 That it seemed, when he, a gentle lad, 
 
 Used to pluck the orchard's gold, 
 And gather of roses and lilies tall. 
 
 Far more than his hand could hold ; 
 And still I want my boy." 
 
 How well she knows the very place 
 
 Where you played at bat and ball ; 
 And tlie velvet cap you wore to school 
 
 Still hangs on its hook in the hall ; 
 And when the twilight hour draws near. 
 
 She steals adown the lane 
 To cosset the lambs you used to pet. 
 
 And dream you were home again ; 
 For the mother wants her boy. 
 
GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 She is £:rowinoj old, and her eves are dim 
 
 With watching, day by day, 
 For the children nurtured at her breast 
 
 Have slipped from her arms away ; 
 Alone and lonely she names tlie hours 
 
 As the dear ones come and go ; 
 Their coming she calls, " The time of flowers," 
 
 Their going, " The hours of snov/ ; " 
 And ever she wants her boy. 
 
 Walk on, toil on ; give strengtli and mind 
 
 To the task in your chosen place ; 
 But never forget the dear old home, 
 
 And the mother's loving face ! 
 You may count your blessings score on score, 
 
 You may heap the golden grain, 
 But remember when her grave is made, 
 
 Your coming will be in vain : 
 'Tis noio she wants lier hoy. 
 
 — Christian at Work. 
 
 A MOTIIEE'S LOYE. 
 
 Some day, 
 When others braid your thick brown hair, 
 
 And drape your form in silk and lace. 
 When others call you '' dear " and ". fair," 
 
 And hold your hands and kiss your face. 
 You'll not forget that far above 
 All others is a motlier's love. 
 
FR03I VARIOUS AUTHORS. 63 
 
 Some day, 
 'Mons: straiiirers in far distant lands, 
 
 In your new home beyond the sea, 
 "When at yonr hps are baby hands, 
 
 And children playing at yonr knee — 
 O then, as at your side they grow, 
 How 1 have loved you, you will know ! 
 
 Some day. 
 When you must feel love's heavy loss. 
 
 You will remember other years, 
 AVhen I, too, bent beneath the cross. 
 
 And mix my memory with tliy tears. 
 In such dark hours be not afraid ; 
 Within their shadow I have prayed. 
 
 Some day. 
 Your daughter s voice, or smile, or eyes. 
 
 My face will suddenly recall ; 
 Then you will smile in sweet surprise, 
 
 And your soul unto mine will call 
 In that dear, unforgotten prayer, 
 Wliich we at evening used to share. 
 
 Some day, 
 A flower, a song, a word may be 
 
 A link between us, strong and sweet ; 
 Ah, then, dear child, remember me ! 
 
 And let yonr heart to " mother " beat 
 My love is with you everywhere — 
 You cannot get beyond my prayer. 
 
G4 GE3IS OF POETRY 
 
 Some day, 
 At longest it cannot be long, 
 
 I shall with glad impatience wait, 
 Amid the glory and the song, 
 
 For yon, before the Golden Gate, 
 After earth's parting and earth's pain, 
 Never to part ! JN^ever again ! 
 
 —Anonymous. 
 
 THE THREE LITTLE CHAIRS 
 
 Tliey sat alone by the bright wood fire, 
 The gray-haired dame and the aged sire. 
 
 Dreaming of daj'S gone by ; 
 The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled clieek, 
 They botli had thoughts they could not speak, 
 
 And each heart uttered a sigh. 
 
 For their sad and tearful eyes descried 
 Three little chairs placed side by side 
 
 Against the sitting-room wall, 
 Old-fashioned enough as there they stood, 
 Tlieir seats of flag and their frames of wood. 
 
 With their backs so straight and tall. 
 
 Then the sire shook his silvery head, 
 And, with trembling voice, he gently said, 
 
 " Mother, those empty cliairs ! 
 They bring us such sad thoughts to-night. 
 We'll put them forever out of sight 
 
 In the small, dark room up stairs." 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 65 
 
 But she answered, '' Father, no ; not yet ; 
 For I look at them and forget 
 
 Tliat the children are away ; 
 Tlie boys come back, and our Mary, too, 
 With her apron on of checkered blue. 
 
 And sit tliere every day. 
 
 " Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts. 
 And Willie his leaden bullets casts, 
 
 AYliile Mary her patchwork sews ; 
 At evening the three childish prayers 
 Go up to God from these little chairs 
 
 So softly that no one knows. 
 
 " Johnny comes back from the billow deep ; 
 Willie wakes from the battle-tield sleep 
 
 To say ' good-night ' to me ; 
 Mary's a wife and mother no more. 
 But 'a tired child whose play-time's o'er. 
 
 And comes to rest at my knee. 
 
 " So let them stand there, though empty now, 
 And every time when alone we bow 
 
 At the Father's throne to pray, 
 We'll ask to meet the children above 
 In our Saviour's home of rest and love 
 
 Where no child goetli away." 
 
 — xiNONYMOUS. 
 
 '' Though dried shall be earth's deepest river, 
 And the waves of the sea rest^in time — 
 A mother's love is forever and ever, 
 Immortal, unchanging, sublime." 
 
66 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. 
 
 If I slioukl die to-niglit, 
 My friends would look upon my quiet face, 
 Before they laid it in its resting place, 
 And deem that death had left it ahnost fair ; 
 And laying snow-white flowers against my hair, 
 Would smooth it down witli tearful tenderness, 
 And fold my hands with lingering caress, 
 Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night ! 
 
 If I should die to-night, 
 My friends w^ould call to niind with loving 
 
 thought 
 Some kindly deed the ic}^ hand had wrought. 
 Some gentle word the frozen lip had said ; 
 Errands on which the willing feet had sped — 
 The memory of my selfishness and pride. 
 My hasty words would all be put aside ; 
 
 And so I should be loved and mourned to- 
 
 niglit. 
 
 If I should die to-night. 
 Even hearts estranged would turn once more to 
 
 me. 
 Recalling other days remorsefully, 
 The eyes that chill me with averted glance, 
 "Would look npon me as of yore, perchance, 
 And soften in the old familiar way, 
 For who would war with dumb unconscious clay ? 
 So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 67 
 
 Oh, friends, I pray to-night, 
 Keep not yonr kisses for my dead cold brow ; 
 The way is lonely — let me feel tliera now. 
 Think gently of me ; I am travel worn, 
 My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. 
 Forgiv^e ! oh, hearts estranged forgive, I plead ! 
 When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need 
 The tenderness for which I long to-night. 
 
 — LitteU's Living Age. 
 
 GOD KNOWS THE BEST. 
 
 Sometime, when all life's lessons have been 
 learned. 
 And snns and stars forevermore have set, 
 The things which our weak judgment here has 
 spurned. 
 The thino^s o'er which we i^-rieve with lashes 
 wet. 
 Will flash before us out of life's dark night 
 
 As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue ; 
 And we shall see how all God's plans are right, 
 ^Vnd how, what seemed reproof, was love most 
 true. 
 
 And we shall see that while we frown and sigh, 
 
 God's plans go on as best for you and me ; 
 How when we called. He heeded not our cry, 
 
 Because His wisdom to the end could see ; 
 And e'en as prudent parents disallow 
 
 Too much of sweets to craving babyhood, 
 So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now 
 
 Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. 
 
68 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 And if sometime, commingling with life's wine, 
 
 We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, 
 Be sure a wnser hand than yours or mine 
 
 Pours out tliis potion for our lips to drink ; 
 And if some friend we love is lying low. 
 
 Where human kisses cannot reach his face, 
 Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, 
 
 But bear your sorrow with obedient grace. 
 
 And you shall shortly know that lengthened 
 breath 
 
 Is not the sweetest gift God gives His friends, 
 And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death 
 
 Conceals the fairest boon His love can send ; 
 If we could pusli ajar the gates of life. 
 
 And stand within, and all God's workings see, 
 We could interpret all this doubt and strife, 
 
 And for each mystery, could find a key. 
 
 But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart ! 
 
 God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold ; 
 We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart — 
 
 Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 
 And if, through patient toil, we reach the land 
 
 Where tired feet with sandals loose may rest. 
 When we shall clearly know and understand, 
 
 I think that we shall say that "God knew best." 
 — Charleston Journal of Commerce. 
 
 " We'er beaten back in many a fray. 
 Yet newer strength w^e borrow ; 
 And where our van-guard rests to-day. 
 Our rear shall camp to-morrow ! " 
 
FR03I VARIOUS AUTHORS. 60 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 For all thy gifts to me, my gracious Lord, 
 My heart outpours its wonted thanks to-day ; 
 
 But now there comes an unaccustomed word, 
 Falling from lips unused such words to say ; 
 
 More than for all thy gifts, most rich, most fair, 
 
 To-day, I thank Thee for ungranted prayer! 
 
 Ungranted prayer ! I cried to Thee for health, 
 Tlien lay on bed of pain for untold hours ; 
 
 Ungranted prayer ! I prayed to Thee for wealtli 
 For one I loved ; and still with all his powers 
 
 Of thought and will he fights with sordid care ; 
 
 And yet I thank Tliee for ungranted prayer. 
 
 Tlion wouldst not give me health; but then the 
 pain 
 Brought an enforced silence in my life 
 When, freed from its strong restlessness and 
 strain, 
 I felt Tliy love, forgotton in the strife. 
 Stillness of darkened room ! Thou camest there, 
 My Lord ! I thank Thee for ungranted prayer ! 
 
 Thou hast not given him wealtli ; not the success 
 Which seems his due ; bitter to see him passed 
 
 By men whose courage, strength, are so much less; 
 But one learns fast through failure ; oh, so fast ! 
 
 Ah ! when I see him grown so strong to bear, 
 
 I thank Thee, too, for this ungranted prayer ! 
 
 Ungranted prayer ! With all my being's might 
 I cried unto Thee one weary year ago, 
 
70 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 To save my darling's life ; tlirongli dark, sad 
 
 night 
 I watclied her breathings grow more faint, 
 
 more slow, 
 Until it ceased ; oh, wildness of despair ! 
 Oh, desolation of unanswered prayer ! 
 
 And yesterda}^ beside her grave I stood, 
 
 The grass, the flowers were blackened by the 
 cold ; 
 The dreary wind roamed through the leafless 
 wood ; 
 The world looked very gray, and tired, and old. 
 I thought — my darling knows a kinder air. 
 And thanked Thee even for that ungranted 
 prayer. 
 
 — Christian Union. 
 
 MY LITTLE PLAYMATE. 
 
 I am a grandsire, journeying close 
 
 On threescore years and ten ; 
 And when my daily tasks are done, 
 
 And laid aside my pen, 
 I call my little playmate in, 
 
 ]^ow passing on to three 
 For I have need as much of her 
 
 As she has need of me. 
 
 She draws me from the world of fact, 
 
 With all its selfish strife. 
 She breaks the prosy lines of thought 
 
 That make up common life ; 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 71 
 
 Slie lures me to lier little world. 
 
 Where airy creatures dwell, 
 Where all things dance in joy and light, 
 
 Beneath some magic spell. 
 
 Her roundelays and jingles make 
 
 Such music in my ear, 
 With all her tricksy words and ways, 
 
 I cannot choose but hear ; 
 We leave all other verse aside, 
 
 For that small classic lore 
 Which Mother Goose has garnered up 
 
 In her undying store : 
 
 The naughty ways of Johnny Green, 
 
 The virtuous Johnny Stout ; 
 The boy in blue, who lay asleep 
 
 When cow and sheep were out ; 
 The robin sitting in the barn. 
 
 With head beneath his wing, 
 Because tlie snow is on the ground, 
 
 And he is cold, poor thing. 
 
 The accident to Jack and Jill, 
 
 The hurrying little Jane, 
 The man who scratched out both his eyes, 
 
 And scratched them in again ; 
 The active cow that jumped the moon, 
 
 The bull that tolled the bell, 
 These are a few — but many more. 
 
 Too numerous to tell. 
 
GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 And then we play at coop and seek, 
 
 The mystery is small, 
 We hide behind the nearest chair, 
 
 Or in tlie open hall ; 
 And every time tliat search is made 
 
 Within this same small ronnd, 
 A happy shout of joy goes np, 
 
 Because the lost is found. 
 
 Oh, let me never grow too old 
 
 To join in merry glee 
 With any bright and laughing child 
 
 That climbs npon my knee ; 
 Let me still keep the sportive mind 
 
 Until my dying day, 
 For what is life, in all its lenjrth, 
 
 Without the children's play? 
 — Dr. Increase N. Tarbox in Companion, 
 
 HER GIFT. 
 
 O precious heart of hearts, that bled for me ! 
 May I not bring some offering to lay 
 Upon Thy altar ? 'Tis the close of day, 
 
 Yet liave I brought no gift, dear Lord to Thee ! 
 
 No offering ! O true heart, hush thy moan ; 
 
 Look on those hands, grown hard witli toil for 
 those 
 
 You love. Look with the eyes that others' woes 
 Have caused to weep, but wept not for thine own! 
 
FR03I VARIOUS AUTHORS. 78 
 
 O great unselfish heart, that for the sake 
 Of others, hid the pain it still must bear, 
 The sharp, quick pang of grief, the wasting 
 care. 
 
 All hidden lest some other's heart should break ! 
 
 And is this naught ? Ask Him who died for 
 thee. 
 Ask Him who lives for thee and wlio has said, 
 '* And inasmuch as ye have given bread 
 To these, my little ones, ye ga\'e to me ! " 
 
 — Wesley an Christian Advocate. 
 
 GOOD TEMPEE. 
 
 There's not a cheaper thing on earth, 
 
 Nor yet one half so dear ; 
 'Tis worth more than distinguished birth, 
 
 Or tiiousands gained a year. 
 
 It maketh poverty content. 
 
 To sorrow whispers peace ; 
 It is a gift from heaven sent, 
 
 For mortals to increase. 
 
 A charm to banish grief away, 
 To free the brow from care — 
 
 Turns tears to smiles, makes dullness gay, 
 Spreads gladness everywhere. 
 
 And yet 'tis cheap as summer's dew 
 That gems the lily's breast — 
 
GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 A talisman for love as true 
 As ever man possessed. 
 
 Good temper — 'tis the clioicest gift 
 That woman homeward brings, 
 
 And can the poorest peasant lift 
 To bliss unknown to kings. 
 
 —Southern Presbyterian. 
 
 OUR OWN. 
 
 If I had known in the morning 
 How wearily all the day 
 The words unkind 
 Would trouble my mind 
 I said when you went away, 
 I had been more careful, darling, 
 !Nor given you needless pain ; 
 But we vex " our own '' 
 With look and tone 
 We may never take back again. 
 
 For though in the quiet evening 
 
 You may give me the kiss of peace, 
 
 Yet it might be 
 
 That never for me 
 The pain of the heart should cease. 
 How many go forth in the morning 
 That never come home at niglit ! 
 
 And hearts have broken 
 
 For liarsh words spoken 
 That sorrow can ne'er set right. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 
 
 We have careful thoughts for tlie stranger, 
 And smiles for the sometime guest ; 
 But oft for " our own " 
 The bitter tone, 
 Though we love " our own " the best. 
 Ah, lips with the curve impatient ! 
 Ah, brow with that look of scorn ! 
 'Twere a cruel fate 
 Were the nio-ht too late 
 
 To undo the work of morn. 
 
 -M. E Sangster. 
 
 SATUEDAY EVENING. 
 
 How sweet the evening shadows fall, 
 
 Advancing from the west ; 
 As ends the wearj week of toil. 
 
 And comes the day of rest. 
 
 Rest, man, from labor, rest from sin. 
 The world's hard conflict close ; 
 
 The holy hours with God begin ; 
 Yield thee to sweet repose. 
 
 — Anonymous. 
 
 THE TIME IS SHOET. 
 
 I sometimes feel the thread of life is slender ! 
 
 And soon with me the labor will be wrouglit ; 
 Then grows my heart to other hearts more tender. 
 
 The time, 
 
 The time is short. 
 
76 amis OF POETRY 
 
 A shepherd's tent of reeds and flowers decaYing, 
 That night winds soon will crumble into 
 naught ; 
 So seems my life, for some rude blast delaying. 
 The time. 
 The time is short. 
 
 Up, up, my soul, the long spent time redeeming; 
 Sow thou the seeds of better deeds and 
 tiiought ; 
 Light other lamps, while yet thy light is beaming. 
 The time, 
 The time is short. 
 
 Think of the good thou might' st have done, when 
 brightly 
 The suns to thee life's choicest seasons brought, 
 Hours lost to good in pleasures passing lightly. 
 The time. 
 The time is short. 
 
 Think of the drooping eves that might have 
 lifted 
 To see the good that Heaven to thee hath 
 taught ; 
 Ihe nnhelped wrecks that past life's bark have 
 drifted. 
 
 The time. 
 
 The time is short. 
 
 Think of the feet that fall by misdirection. 
 Of noblest souls to loss and ruin brought, 
 Because their lives are barren of affection. 
 The time, 
 The time is short. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 77 
 
 The time is short. Then be thy lieart a brother's 
 
 To every heart that needs thy help in auglit ; 
 
 Soon thou may'st n.^ed the sympathy of others. 
 
 The time, 
 
 The time is short. 
 
 If thou hast friends, give them thy best endeavor. 
 Thy warmest impulse and thy purest thought. 
 Keeping in mind, in word and action ever. 
 The time. 
 The time is short. 
 
 — Hezekiah Butterworth. 
 
 MY SISTER. 
 
 Lost and forgotten, as the wave that moans 
 Its mellow music to a lonely shore, 
 
 Is the sweet utterance of the vanished tones 
 That I shall hear no more. 
 
 Gone with the violets of the April's dead. 
 Is the calm radiance of unshadowed eyes, 
 
 That once athwart my toilsome pathway shed 
 The light of paradise. 
 
 Yet sometimes, shaken with the balmy wings 
 Of errant winds, a perfume-breathing sigl 
 
 Wakes, with the rapturous joy of other sprin 
 A dream of years gone by. 
 
 The hollow rustle of a falling leaf- 
 Strange footsteps echoing in familiar ways. 
 
 Strike the complaining key-note of my grief. 
 In the sad gamut of departed days. 
 
 1 
 
 o'S. 
 
78 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 And often in the holy morning hours, 
 The falling shadow of an angel's wing, 
 
 Bearing her sheaves of twilight-garnered flowers, 
 Sweet comfort seems to bring. 
 
 — Emma Alice Browne. 
 
 A LOYE SONG. 
 
 By Rev. C. H. Spurgeox, addressed to liis wife from Hull. 
 
 Over the space which parts us, my wife, 
 
 I'll cast me a bridge of song ; 
 Our hearts shall meet, O joy of my life, 
 
 On its arch, unseen but strong. 
 
 E'en as the stream for^rets not the sea. 
 
 But hastes to the ocean's breast, 
 My constant soul flows onward to thee, 
 
 And finds in thy love its rest. 
 
 The swallows must plume their wings to greet 
 
 New summers in lands afar, 
 But dwelling at home with thee, I meet 
 
 No winter my year to mar. 
 
 The wooer, his new love's name may wear, 
 
 Engraved on a precious stone ; 
 But in my heart thine image I wear. 
 
 That heart has been long thine own. 
 
 The glowing colors on surface laid 
 
 Wash out in a shower of rain ; 
 Thou needest not be of rivers afraid. 
 
 For my love is dyed in the grain. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 79 
 
 The glittering dewdrops of dawning love 
 
 Exhale as the day grows old ; 
 And fondness, taking the wings of a dove, 
 
 Is gone like a tale that is told. 
 
 But mine for thee, from the chambers of joy, 
 With strength comes forth as the sun ; 
 
 Nor life, nor death shall its force destro3% 
 Forever its course shall run. 
 
 All earth-born love must sleep in the gi-ave, 
 
 To its native dust return ; 
 What God hath kindled shall death out-brave. 
 
 And in Heaven itself shall burn. 
 
 Beyond and above the wedlock-tie. 
 
 Our union to Christ we feel. 
 Uniting bonds which were made on high, 
 
 Shall hold us when earth shall reel. 
 
 Though He who chose ns, all worlds before, 
 
 Must reiffn in our hearts alone. 
 We fondly believe that we shall adore 
 
 Together before His throne. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 When on my day of life the night is falling. 
 And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, 
 
 I hear far voices out of darkness calling 
 My feet to paths unknow^n, 
 
80 GE3IS OF POETRY 
 
 Thou, who hast made my home of life so 
 pleasant, 
 Leave not its tenant when its walls decay ; 
 
 Love Divine, O Helper ever present, 
 Be Thou my strength and stay ! 
 
 Be near me when all else is from me drifting, 
 Earth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and 
 shine, 
 
 And kindly faces to my own uplifting 
 The love which answers mine. 
 
 1 have but Thee, my Father! let Thy Spirit 
 Be with me then to comfort and uphold ; 
 
 No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit, 
 Nor street of shining gold. 
 
 Suffice it if — my good and ill unreckoned, 
 
 And both foro-iven throus-h Thv aboundino: 
 grace — 
 
 I find myself by hands familiar beckoned 
 Unto my fitting place, 
 
 Some humble door among Thy many mansions, 
 Some sheltering shade where sin and striving 
 cease, 
 And flows forever through lieaven's green ex- 
 pansions 
 The river of Thy peace. 
 
 There, from the music round about me stealing, 
 
 I fain would learn the new and holy song ; 
 And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing, 
 
 The life for which I long. 
 
 -John G. Whittier. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 81 
 
 IlEEE AND THEEE. 
 
 These consoling lines recall to " Memory's Picture Gal- 
 lery," the face of a sweet cousin who died 3-ears ago, but 
 whose grave still casts a shadow over the lives of her loved 
 cues,— N. L. C. 
 
 We sit beside the lower feast to-day — 
 
 She at the higher. 
 Our voices falter as we bend to pray ; 
 
 III the oTcat choir 
 Of happy saints she siiigs, and does not tire. 
 
 We break the bread of patience, and the wine 
 
 Of tears we share, 
 She tastes the vintage of that glorious vine, 
 
 Whose branches fair 
 Set for the healing of all nations are. 
 
 I wonder is she sorry for our pain, 
 
 Or if, grown wise, 
 She, wondering, smiles and counts them idle, 
 vain, 
 
 Tliese heavy sighs. 
 These longings for her face and happy eyes. 
 
 Smile on then, darling, as God wills is best, 
 
 We loose our hold, 
 Content to leave thee to the deeper rest. 
 
 The safer fold. 
 To joy's immortal youth, while we grow old ; 
 
 Content the cold and wintry day to bear, 
 The icy wave. 
 
82 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 And know thee in immortal summer there, 
 
 Beyond the grave, 
 Content to give thee to the Love that gave. 
 
 —Susan Coolidge. 
 
 PAKTED, YET ONE. 
 
 Written after the sad death of the poet's wife. 
 
 Alone I walked the peopled city 
 
 Where each seems happy with his own ; 
 O friends, I ask not for your pity — 
 I walk alone. 
 
 No more for me yon lake rejoices, 
 
 Though moved by the loving airs of June ; 
 Oh, birds, your sweet and piping voices 
 Are out of tune. 
 
 In vain for me the elm tree arches 
 
 Its plumes in many feathery spray ; 
 In vain the evening's starry marches 
 And sunlit day. 
 
 In vain your beauty, Summer flowers; 
 
 Ye cannot greet these cordial eyes ; 
 They gaze on other fields than ours. 
 On other skies. 
 
 The gold is rifled from the coffer, 
 
 Tlie blade is stolen from the sheath ; 
 Life has but one more boon to ofler, 
 And that is — death. 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 83 
 
 Yet well I know the voice of diitj, 
 
 And therefore life and health must crave. 
 Though she who gave the world its beauty 
 Is in her grave. 
 
 I live, O lost one, for the living 
 
 Who drew their earliest life from thee, 
 And wait, until with glad thanksgiving 
 1 sliall be free. 
 
 For life to me is as a station 
 
 Wher»iin a23art a traveler stands — 
 One absent long from home and nation, 
 In otlier lands : 
 
 And I, as he who stands and listens. 
 
 Amid the twilight's chill and gloom, 
 To hear, approaching in the distance. 
 The train for home. 
 
 For death shall bring another mating, 
 
 Beyond the shadows of the tomb ; 
 On yonder sliore a bride is waiting 
 Until I come. 
 
 In yonder field are children playing, 
 
 And there — oh, vision of delight ! — 
 I see the child and mother straying 
 In robes of white. 
 
 Thou, then, the longing heart that breakest. 
 
 Stealing the treasures one by one. 
 I'll call Thee blessed when Thou makest 
 The parted — one. 
 
 —Henry W. Longfeli^ow. 
 
84 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 MILTON'S LAST POEM. 
 
 I am old and blind ! 
 Men point at me as smitten with God's frown, 
 Afflicted, and deserted by my kind ; 
 
 Yet I am not cast down. 
 
 I am weak ; yet, dying, 
 I murmur not that I no longer see ; 
 Poor, old and helpless, I the more belong. 
 
 Father supreme, to Thee. 
 
 merciful One ! 
 
 When men are farthest, then Thou art most 
 
 near ; 
 When men pass coldly by, my weakness shun. 
 Thy chariot I hear. 
 
 Thy glorious face 
 Is leaning towards me, and its holy light 
 Shines upon my lowly dwelling-place. 
 
 And there is no more night. 
 
 On bended knee 
 I recognize Thy purpose clearly shown ; 
 My vision Thou hast dimmed that I might see 
 
 Thyself —Thyself alone. 
 
 1 have naught to fear ; 
 
 This darkness is a shadow of Thy wing ; 
 Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here 
 Can come no evil thing. 
 
FE03I VARIOUS AUTHORS. 85 
 
 LINES.TO A SKELETON. 
 
 The manuscript of a poem entitled "Lines to a Skele- 
 ton" was, according to " Bryant's Library of Poetry and 
 Song," first printed during the first quarter of the present 
 century, and was said to have been found in the Museum 
 of the Royal College of Surgeons in London near a perfect 
 human skeleton. It is said also to have been sent by the 
 curator to the Morning Chronicle for publication. It ex- 
 cited so much attention that every effort was made to dis- 
 cover the author, and a responsible party went so far as to 
 offer a reward of fifty guineas for information that would 
 discover its origin. The author pres(n-ved his incognito. 
 
 Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull 
 Once of ethereal spirit full, 
 This narrow cell was Life's retreat, 
 This space was Thought's mysterious seat. 
 What beauteous visions filled this spot, 
 What dreams of pleasure long forgot ? 
 Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear 
 Have left one trace of record here. 
 
 Beneath this moldering canopy 
 
 Once shone the briglit and busy eye ; 
 
 But start not at the dismal void ; 
 
 If social love that eye employed, 
 
 If with no lawless fire it gleamed. 
 
 But through the dews of kindness beamed. 
 
 That eye shall be forever bright 
 
 When stars and sun are sunk in night. 
 
 Within this hollow cavern hung 
 
 The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue ; 
 
 If Falsehood's honey it disdained. 
 
 And when it could not praise was chained ; 
 
 If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, 
 
86 OEMS OF POETRY 
 
 Yet gentle concord never broke — 
 Tjiis silent tongne shall j^lead for thee 
 "When Time nnveils Eternity. 
 
 Say, did these fingers delve the mine ? 
 Or with the envied rubies shine ? 
 To liew the rock or wear a gem 
 Can little now avail to them. 
 But if the page of Trutli tliey sought, 
 Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
 These hands a richer meed shall claim 
 Than all that wait on Wealth or Fame. 
 
 Avails it whether bare or shod 
 These feet tlie path of duty trod ? 
 If from the bowers of evil they fled 
 To seek Affliction's liumble shed ; 
 If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned. 
 And home to Virtue's cot returned — 
 These feet with angel's wings shall vie, 
 And tread the palace of the sky. 
 
 THEKE IS NO DEATH. 
 
 Wonders will never cease, especially in the literary 
 world. For years past the tender and beautiful poem, 
 "There is no Death," has been going the rounds of the 
 press witli the name of Bulwer, the great English novel- 
 ist, as its author. No one, so far as The Cultivator knows, 
 has ever questioned this authorship. But now Mr. J. L. 
 McCreery, of Washington, D. C, who is a Avriter of some 
 merit, lays claim to having written the poem, and here is 
 what he says by way of explanation : * 
 
 * I have always been of the impression that this poem 
 was written by E. Bulwer-Lytton, though I have not a 
 volume of his at hand to assure me of the fact. — N. L. C. 
 
FBOM VARIO US A UTHORS. 87 
 
 " This poem has been the subject of considerable con- 
 troversy. It was written late in the fall of 1863, and the 
 next spring was sent to Arthur's Home Magazine, Phila- 
 delphia, appearing therein in the number for July, 1863. 
 One E. Buhner, of Illinois, copied it, signed his own name 
 to it, and sent it (as his own) to the Fanner's Advocate, 
 Chicago. The editor of some Wisconsin paper (whose 
 name I have forgotten, if ever I knew) clipped it from the 
 Farmer's Advocate for his own columns ; but supposing 
 there was a misprint in the signature, changed the ' m ' 
 therein to ' w,' and thus the name of ' Bulwer ' became 
 attached to the poem. An immense accession of ]iopular- 
 ity immediately followed. Copies of papers containing it 
 — credited to Bulwer — have been sent me from nearly 
 every State in the Union, and from England, Scotland and 
 Ireland. It is to be found in orthodox and spiritual hymn 
 and song books, in at least one school reader in wide use, 
 and in a score of bound volumes and selections. It has 
 been quoted from in speeches in the Legislatures of several 
 States, and several times in the Congress of the United 
 States. On the last of January, 1880, I had the pleasure 
 of sitting in the Stranger's Gallery of the House of Bepre- 
 sentatives, in Washington, D. C., and hearing the Hon. 
 Mr. Coffroth, member of Congress from Pennsylvania, in 
 his oration on the death of Hon. Rush Clark, member of 
 Congress from Iowa, quote a portion of this poem, which 
 thus became embalmed (credited to Bulwer, as usual) in 
 the Congressional Record (see 46th Cong., 2d Sess., Part 
 I., p. 688). Every reader can decide for himself whether 
 this wide-spread popularity has its basis in the merits of 
 the poem or in the celebrity of its supposed author." 
 
 There is no death ! the stars go down 
 To rise upon some otlier shore, 
 
 And bright in heaven's jewelled crown 
 They shine for evermore. 
 
 There is no death ! the forest leaves 
 Convert to life the viewless air ; 
 
 The rocks disorganize to feed 
 The hungry moss they bear. 
 
 There is no death ! the dust we tread 
 Shall change, beneath the summer showers 
 
88 GEMS OF POETRY 
 
 To golden grain, or mellow fruit, 
 Or rainboAV-tinted flowers. 
 
 Tliere is no death ! tlie leaves may fall, 
 Tlie flowers may fade and pass away — 
 
 They only wait, through wintry hours, 
 The warm, sweet breath of May. 
 
 There is no death ! the choicest gifts 
 That heaven hath kindly lent to earth 
 
 Are ever flrst to seek again 
 The country of their birth ; 
 
 And all things that for growth or joy 
 Are worthy of our love or care. 
 
 Whose loss has left us desolate. 
 Are safely garnered there. 
 
 Though life becomes a desert waste, 
 We know its fairest, sweetest flowers, 
 
 Transplanted into Paradise, 
 Adorn immortal bowers. 
 
 The voice of bird-like melody 
 
 That we have missed and mourned so long. 
 Now mingles with the angel choir 
 
 In everlasting song. 
 
 There is no death ! although we grieve 
 When beautiful, familiar forms, 
 
 Tliat we liave learned to love, are torn 
 From our embracinof arms — 
 
FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 89 
 
 Altlioiigli witli bowed and breaking heart, 
 Witli sable garb and silent tread, 
 
 "VYe bear their senseless dust to rest, 
 And say tliat they are " dead," 
 
 They are not dead ! tliey have but passed 
 Bej^ond the mists that blind us here, 
 
 Into the new and larger life 
 Of that serener sphere. 
 
 They have but dropped their robe of clay 
 To put their shining raiment on ; 
 
 They have not wandered far away — 
 They are not " lost." nor " gone." 
 
 Thouo^h disenthralled and e:lorified, 
 They still are here and love us yet ; 
 
 Tlie dear ones they liave left behind 
 They never can forget. 
 
 And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint 
 Amid temptations fierce and deep. 
 
 Or when tlie wildly raging waves 
 Of grief or passion sweep. 
 
 We feel upon our fevered brow 
 
 Their gentle touch, their breath of balm. 
 Their arms enfold us, and our hearts 
 
 Grow comforted and calm. 
 
 And ever near us, though unseen. 
 The dear, immortal spirits tread — 
 
 For all the boundless universe 
 Is Life : There are no dead I