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MRS. ANNA L. PRICE 
 
THE OLD CHURCH 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. ANNA L. PRICE 
 
 OF 
 MARLINTON. W. VA. 
 
 1850-1921 
 
 TIMES BOOK COMPANY 
 Marlinton, W. Va. 
 

 
 COPYRIGHT 
 
 1921 
 
 TIMES BOOK COMPANY 
 
 FEB 22 1922 
 
 
DEDICATED 
 
 to 
 
 My life long friend 
 
 MRS. EMMA C. WEBB 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 
 "Home Coming Day", August 9, 1919. 
 
 I'm coming home to the dear old Church 
 
 Which is calling us to day; 
 I am thinking of the dear old friends, 
 
 And those that have passed away. 
 
 I come to worship within the Church, 
 Where I have worshipped before; 
 
 My spirit free from age and decay, 
 Is Young as in days of yore. 
 
 I come to mingle with you* my friends, 
 In the sacred grounds to roam. 
 
 And tho' many the changes time has made, 
 I think I shall feel at home. 
 
 In Virginia's loveliest valley, 
 Hill country, beautiful land. 
 
 This Church has long for a witness stood, 
 A servant at God's command. 
 
 May it keep the faith, uphold the truth. 
 Its garments be white and clean. 
 
 Until the Lord in his glory come, 
 Whatever the aight between. 
 
 And the little children of the Church, 
 Whom the Savior loves so well. 
 
 May they gather at his table soon 
 And his praises learn to tell. 
 
 I wish you a splendid gala day, 
 
 Within the Church that you love, 
 
 United in Christ to each other, 
 A type of the Church above. 
 
 (5) 
 
IT IS THE LORD. 
 John 21:7. 
 
 When blessings crowd thy path way and earth seems very glad, 
 When far from thee are banished the things that make men sad, 
 Know thou, it is the Lord. 
 
 When in the shadowy distance some little clouds arise. 
 And fast is disappearing the deep blue of the skies, 
 Oh; still, it is the Lord. 
 
 And when the storm breaks o'er thee in all its fury too 
 And fain thou woiiJdst find comfort but friends are weak and few, 
 Fear not, it is the Lord. 
 
 And when the calm returneth, sweeter than ever now, 
 And tranquil hopes have written a peace upon thy brow, 
 Sing then, it is the Lord. 
 
 Thou laborer jn the vineyard, obedient to the call. 
 Dost wonder at the ceaseless toil and poor success with all, 
 Work on, it is the Lord. 
 
 And thou, frail one, with many cares, the birdlings of thy nest. 
 Loving and weary, murmurest thou. Oh! when shall I find rest? 
 Patience, it is the Lord. 
 
 And so thro' all the scenes of life the duties of each day, 
 However small, however great, O let us teach our heart to say. 
 It is, it is the Lord. 
 
 At last, like Bunyan's pilgrim, we'll reach death's troubled tide, 
 But we may cross it singing until we reach yon side, 
 All's well, it is the Lord. 
 
 And O, methinks in heaven the chorus still shall ring. 
 And with the host of sinners saved, whom Jesus loves, we'll sing. 
 Praise! Praise! it .is the Lord. 
 
 (6) 
 
THAT CITY. 
 
 It lieth beyond our vision, 
 
 That city golden bright, — 
 And I read that no cloud e'er settles there. 
 No fierce winds blow nor quakings terrify, — 
 
 Ah! more — it hath no night. 
 
 Nor Cometh sorrow in that blest place. 
 
 To stir the mournful tear. 
 For the burdens of grief no further are borne 
 Than in sight of those shining gates of pearl? 
 
 Then, oh! what to be near? 
 
 , If sight be lovely and nearness sweet, 
 
 O what to be within? 
 For 'mid the wondeful things I read 
 Is this — the keystone of the arch — 
 That there shall be no sin. 
 
 O that beautiful, that beloved city! 
 
 When shall it come to view? 
 And when by grace shall we be meet 
 For the holy city, the city of God, 
 
 Jerusalem the New. 
 
 A. L. O. E. 
 
 Or Charlotte M. Tucker, who gave the last eighteen years of her long 
 and useful life to missionary work in India. 
 
 They made her a "rest" neath the bulbul tree. 
 In the Hindoos land so fair. 
 For the aged ,in walking to pause awhile, 
 A rude little platform there. 
 
 Under the bulbul tree a quiet "rest," 
 
 'Twas the only thing she asked. 
 
 Who for missions, zenanas, and brown boy's school, 
 
 Her own strength sorely taxed. 
 
 Awaiting the service in native church. 
 She sat 'neath the buJbul tree, 
 And the peace God had written upon her face 
 Was a beautiful sight to see. 
 
 (7) 
 
She sitteth no more 'neath the bulbul tree 
 At morn or calm eventide; 
 Away from the work that she loved so well 
 Up, up to the Saviour's side. 
 
 'Twere pleasant to sit by the bulbul tree 
 And think of God's Servant true, 
 Who strove with devotion to cheer and life 
 The soul of the poor Hindoo 
 
 It is holy ground 'neath the bulbul tree, 
 Where the aged saint did rest, 
 For all who have lived and wrought for God, 
 She was one of the blessed best. 
 
 OUR ROCK. 
 
 There stood a rock on England's soil 
 A mighty work, God's easy toil, 
 And that great rock was riven. 
 From very top throughout its length. 
 The lofty heighth and awful strength, — 
 Fit type of God and heaven. 
 
 Beside the granite mass of stone 
 A sinner paused — he walked alone, 
 A sinner saved by grace. 
 When tempest rose, convulsive shock, 
 And in the fissure of the rock 
 He found a hiding place. 
 
 There 'mid the tempest's hail and din. 
 He sang the church's best loved hymn. 
 As if sent down from heaven; 
 On it how many souls have fed, 
 We wail it o'er the christian dead, 
 O, Christ, thou Rock, once riven. 
 
 Thanksgiving, power, and lofty praise. 
 Both now and through eternal days. 
 And ever adoration: 
 We have a refuge where to hide, 
 From hellish storms, close to His side, 
 The rock of our salvation. 
 
 Toplady, author of "Rock of Ages," and the circumstances of its writing. 
 
 (8) 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 So fleet of foot, the agile one, 
 
 Echo of classic lore: 
 In their soft days, a remnant left 
 
 Of the mighty days of yore. 
 The stalwart youth, yet frail withal, 
 
 A stranger to our soil. 
 Excelsior written in his mind, 
 
 Scorning the deathly toil. 
 
 Alas, his life-race It is o'er, 
 
 A stronger one than he: 
 Outdistanced in the cold, dark night, 
 
 'Tis o'er — eternally. 
 Make him a resting-place just there, 
 
 Ajid keep it ever green, 
 For the eye of kinsmen yet to see. 
 
 Though the ocean rolls between. 
 
 Bleak mountain peak and snow-clad vale, 
 
 Shadow of death to him, — 
 But the path we trust, to a better land, 
 
 Nor weary, cold, nor dim. 
 
 November 1, 1898. 
 
 Lines written in memory of Mr. S. E. L. Grews, who in 1898 won a 
 Marathon race, and a few weeks thereafter we found dead in the forests 
 of West Virginia, after a hunting expedition, his death presumably caused 
 by overtaxed heart. 
 
 DEATH OP AN INFANT. 
 
 Poor little thing, thou wast so young. 
 
 To suffer and to die: 
 Was the cup of life too bitter. 
 
 Life's hill too steep and high? 
 
 That thou didst turn thy head away. 
 
 On tasting of this cup, 
 And nestle down at foot of hills 
 
 That we are climbing up. 
 
 (9) 
 
Ah well, since God hath ordered it, 
 
 Some little ones to die; 
 For then 'tw,ill seem more like our earth, 
 
 That home beyond the sky, 
 Wihere always with us they shall be, 
 
 The children of eternity. 
 
 LEAD ME. 
 
 When journeying in a foreign land 
 
 Across the wide, wide sea, 
 We seek a guide unto our step 
 
 And follow fearlessly. 
 
 That guide we never saw before. 
 
 And may not meet again; 
 His face, his manner, strange to us. 
 
 Nor yet his language plain. 
 
 But on the lofty Alpine height, 
 
 And chasms deep below. 
 How close we cling to our good guide 
 
 And will not let h.im go. 
 
 In after years we think of him 
 
 With grateful thoughts and kind; 
 Perhaps such wishes angels bear 
 
 To them we cannot find. 
 
 There is a journey we call life, 
 
 And who shall guide our way. 
 Ah, Jesus leadeth to a home. 
 
 Which we will reach some day. 
 
 Dangers beset us here and there. 
 
 And death lies just ahead; 
 But surely one will walk with us 
 
 Who all our fathers lead. 
 
 Through the whole journey of this life, 
 
 Dear Savior "lead my hand" 
 As thou did'st lead my little hand. 
 
 Safe to the better land. 
 
 ("Lead my hand") was the frequent remark of a dear little boy, whose 
 earthly journey was only four years long. 
 
 (10) 
 
THE BROKEN BUD. 
 
 I wandered through a garden 
 
 Where flowers grew bright and fair 
 
 On bordered walks and every side 
 Were beauties rich and rare. 
 
 I lingered in that garden 
 
 Till shadows lengthened deep, 
 
 And the sun was sinking slowly 
 Behind the western steep. 
 
 Then turned with steps reluctant, 
 
 But paused awhile to gaze, 
 Upon the splendor of a rose 
 
 Lost even might give praise. 
 
 Just there, limp hanging, mid the bloom 
 
 A tiny rosebud broken; 
 Mine eye was pained, my soul was vexed 
 
 At some rude finger's token. 
 
 Who dared to mar this lovely bush? 
 
 Strange came the answering tone; 
 The gardner walked among his flowers 
 
 And "dared" to take his own. 
 
 And He hath another garden, 
 
 Than this more wondrous fair, 
 
 And broken bu^s and fading flowers 
 Grow beautiful up there. 
 
 No scatching winds, nor heat, nor cold. 
 Can reach that pleasant place. 
 
 Where buds and leaves are intertwined, 
 And the rose with snowy face. 
 
 Transplanted flowers, our vanished friends. 
 
 The Savior watches o'er; 
 And this dear little one He'll keep 
 
 Safe, safe forever more. 
 
 (11) 
 
THE LAST BOUQUET. 
 
 Some trellised vines this summer through 
 Treasures to me have given, 
 And daily to refill the vase. 
 Most cheerfiilly have striven. 
 
 Giving hath not impoverished them, 
 But added to their store; 
 Rich clustering blooms were ever there 
 Beside the entrance door. 
 
 When the summertime is ended, 
 Bright flowers must fade and die; 
 And here I hold my last bouquet 
 For the year that's passing by. 
 
 The faithful flowers are silent friends, 
 In the sunshine or the rain — 
 And with farewell 'tis wafted back 
 That they will come again. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Thou bird of heaven, whose name is peace, 
 
 Come to my bosom, come; 
 
 Fold there thy wing 
 
 And stay with me 
 
 Until Life's flow and ebb shall cease. 
 
 The things that trouble and perplex, 
 
 That bind the soul to earth; 
 
 Those hindrances, 
 
 Thorns in the flesh, 
 
 Paul spoke of them, the thorns that vex. 
 
 Life's stormy seas, and life's dead calm. 
 
 When full-rigged barque moves not; 
 
 Life's desert drear, 
 
 A trackless waste. 
 
 No cooling wave, no shady palm. 
 
 Whate'er the scene, let peace abide 
 
 Forever in the breast — 
 
 The peace of God, 
 
 Unknown, untold. 
 
 It is an ocean, deep and wide. 
 
 (12) 
 
Vision of rest, thou peaceful dove, 
 
 That Israel's psalmist sang, 
 
 Soaring to God, 
 
 Sometime, some day, 
 
 I, too, shall fly and mount above. 
 
 THE DESERT. 
 
 I've read of the desert travelers. 
 Weary and sore athirst; 
 The sandy w^aste of thrice-heated sand. 
 Almost, as it were, accursed. 
 
 Out and in the caravan moved. 
 To the camel's spongy tread ; 
 Silent and slow and solemn, like 
 A procession of the dead. 
 
 "Water," the Arab whispered — dreamed. 
 Water and shade of palm, 
 "II Allah," he asked the precious gift, 
 As the beggar asks an aim. 
 
 A mirage, lo, a painted scene; 
 Oasis, sweet, cool and fair, 
 'Tis shining upon the sunset sky, 
 And water of life is there. 
 
 The silent camel steps unmoved. 
 
 Nor waving palm doth scan, 
 
 For the beast knows more of nature's book 
 
 Than his lordly master, man. 
 
 Slowly the mirage fades away. 
 
 Water and flower and tree. 
 
 But the traveler's heart has gathered strength 
 
 And he tramps more patiently. 
 
 This life is a desert, and pilgrims we. 
 With tired and thirsty soul; 
 But now and then a vision comes. 
 And he tramps more patiently. 
 
 And on the scroll is written fair, 
 
 If patient we pass through, 
 
 There are beautiful things, rest, holiness, 
 
 In the land we're going to. 
 
 (13) 
 
SPRING. 
 
 Where are the years, the other years, 
 
 With spring as sweet as this? 
 
 When the fair young flowers lift up their heads 
 
 For the south wind's passing kiss. 
 
 Where are the paths, the pleasant paths, 
 In the old woodland scene; 
 And the tree-tops waved, and waving now, 
 And the grass was just as green. 
 
 Where is the brook, the laughing brook. 
 With pebbles bright and gay; 
 I hear the splashing water fall 
 And the music of today. 
 
 Where are the birds, the singing birds, 
 That filled my heart with glee? 
 A bird is perched on yonder limb 
 But it does not sing to me. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the forest flowers. 
 That bloomed in other years? 
 All dead and gone — but the wildwood grove 
 Ais beautiful appears. 
 
 Where are the friends, the vanished friends, 
 Whose voices still I hear? 
 And their familiar forms endeared 
 Seem often very near. 
 
 Ah, lovely spring, it comes and goes. 
 And comes again ere long — 
 A foretaste of the new heaven and earth 
 And the everlasting song. 
 
 (14) 
 
AFAR. 
 
 I look above the dark green trees 
 That fringe the motmtain side. 
 Above the clouds that softly rest, 
 And never long abide; 
 Above the atmosphere of earth, 
 Beyond the evening star. 
 Unto a land — a better land. 
 The land that is afar. 
 
 And yet not distant doth it seem. 
 
 Our Father's house on high, 
 
 Where many mansions rise to view. 
 
 And pleasant prospects lie: 
 
 I'm sure that waving trees grow there 
 
 Of never fading leaf; 
 
 And whitest flowers of sweetest breath, 
 
 And corn, and golden sheaf. 
 
 The children of God are gathering 
 From earth's remotest bound 
 Into that peaceful, quiet home. 
 And love is all around; 
 'Tis perfect service — perfect rest, 
 Advancing more and more 
 Unto the blessedness of God, 
 Too little known before. 
 
 Doth night oppress thee, watching lone 
 
 Beside the sick and faint? 
 
 Lying most patient 'neath God's hand. 
 
 Almost ere long a saint: 
 
 Then know, that in the upper land, 
 
 Health never feels a blight; 
 
 And there shall be no night. 
 
 Ah, come and look above the trees 
 
 That shade the mountain side. 
 
 Above the clouds that softly rest 
 
 And never long abide; 
 
 Above the atmosphere of earth, 
 
 Beyond the evening star, 
 
 And onward press with eager steps 
 
 To that dear land afar. 
 
 (15) 
 
EARLY FALL. 
 
 'Tis Autumn, sweetest period of the year, 
 The ether that we breathe is bright and clear: 
 Yon distant mountains stand out bold to view, 
 And clouds, like ships, sail in the upper blue. 
 The green takes on new color more or less. 
 Like gayer fringe to deck the summer dress; 
 While stranger flowers now in our walks abide, 
 And older ones have gone somewhere to hide. 
 
 'Tis Autumn, and the cheerful school bells ring, 
 And student youth in groups are gathering 
 For knowledge that will stand in stead some day, 
 When locks now wavy brown are turned to gray. 
 Come to the woods, the air is crisp and fair. 
 In nature's general joy we'll take our share: 
 Just duly balanced by the whispered tale 
 By Equinoctial and the northern gale. 
 
 JUNE ROSES. 
 
 The roses will come in June, dear. 
 For they've never failed us yet; 
 The sunshine is warming up for them. 
 And the pearls of dew are wet. 
 
 Yes, the roses will come in June, dear, 
 And never you think, elsewise, 
 Though biting the chilly winds may be 
 And leaden the upper skies. 
 
 The roses will come in June, dear, 
 And they're hastening on apace; 
 White roses, pink roses, crimson ones. 
 All running a flowery race. 
 
 The roses will come in June, dear. 
 
 As sure as the rising sun — 
 
 And you may write it down in your book, dear. 
 
 That the summer has begun. 
 
 (16) 
 
THE LIST. 
 
 O'er that list of the killed and wounded, 
 
 A mother's eye bends low, 
 
 And scare can she hold the paper, 
 
 Her hand is trembling so: 
 
 Oh, woman's heart must suffer, and her eye must weep alone, 
 
 When the birds of death do hover, and the bird of peace hath flown. 
 
 Lean on thy God, poor mother, 
 
 Thy God will comfort Thee, 
 
 And we will talk of heaven, 
 
 Where wars will never be; 
 
 For there the nations war not, the peaceful ones are blessed — 
 
 The wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. 
 
 In the list of the killed and wounded 
 
 Her own boy's name is not. 
 
 And now the mother smileth, 
 
 "Mine is a favored lot." 
 
 But what is this that sudden pales the aged furrowed cheek? 
 
 "Missing," one name, and that, it needs not we should speak. 
 
 And now lay by the paper, 
 
 She wants the list no more, 
 
 Her spirit must go searching 
 
 Red fields and prisons o'er. 
 
 And ever from that searching, to pray alone and weep, 
 
 And feel it would be better to know he were "asleep." 
 
 Asleep in Jesus and at rest, 
 
 From War's cold .iron hand. 
 
 Safe in the hidden life of God — 
 
 The better, peaceful land. 
 
 But "missing," oh, how lonely it echoes through her heart. 
 
 And still for spirit searching, she riseth to depart. 
 
 Ah, God can find the missing. 
 
 In this wide earth of ours. 
 
 And gladden thee, poor mother. 
 
 With many happy hours; 
 
 Meanwhile, we'll think of Heaven, where loved ones all shall meet. 
 
 The wounded, killed, and missing, aroiaid the Savour's feet. 
 
 These lines are in memory of Andrew Gatewood Price, who died a 
 prisoner of war, at Point Lookout, July 7, 1864, in the 21st year of his 
 age; suggested to the writer by seeing the notice of his being missing. 
 
 (17) 
 
WARWICK. 
 
 Where Powhatan's broad stream flows by, 
 And ancient trees their heads tower high. 
 There stands a chimney left alone, 
 With glittering ivy over grown. 
 
 In other years a home was seen, 
 Wlhere now the ivy grows so green. 
 And there were smiles and voices of mirth 
 Round the deserted, silent hearth. 
 
 Warwick, how many hearts are stirred 
 At mention of the household word? 
 How many joys, long buried, rise 
 As over the past swift memory flies? 
 
 With vines a tree is still entwined 
 Which oft my father's feet have climbed. 
 And close at hand a spot is found 
 He claimed as his own cultured ground. 
 
 Still flows the river to the sea. 
 And still towers high the ancient tree 
 The spring is gushing o'er the stone 
 And murmurs in the same old tone. 
 
 These all remain to touch the heart. 
 And bid its slumbering echoes start; 
 But naught speaKs of the old hearthstone 
 As the ivied chimney, which stands alone. 
 
 It tells how time has sped away, 
 And brought a homestead to decay, 
 And so His hand has parted wide 
 A group once sheltered side by side. 
 
 The ivy shines midst su^mmer's glow. 
 And peeps from out the winter's snow; 
 The graceful tendrils catch the breeze 
 And whisper to the neighboring trees. 
 
 Methinks they tell a tale of years. 
 Of household joys, and smiles, and tears. 
 And the children of a stranger come 
 To say, "This was my father's home." 
 
 (18) 
 
THE TWO. 
 
 "We all do fade as a leaf." — Scripture. 
 Inscribed to two of my friends. 
 
 "I'm going, love; 
 
 Get ready and come home with me, 
 
 There is a placed prepared 
 
 For both of us. 
 
 "Yes, father, yes, 
 
 I follow and am coming soon, — 
 
 And as you used to do. 
 
 Stand at the gate. 
 
 "It may be strange, 
 A little strange, that holy place, 
 For sinners such as we, — 
 So, father, wait." 
 
 "But I must go. 
 
 Get ready and come home with me; 
 We've walked together long. 
 Then how to part?" 
 
 "Christ is up there. 
 
 He'll meet us both, our Savior, God, 
 
 In whom we are complete, — 
 
 So do not fear." 
 
 ZION. 
 
 I love thee, O Jerusalem, 
 Thou city of my God; 
 I love thy court and company, 
 Most sacred, sweet abode. 
 
 The mansions of our Father's house 
 Are many and how fair, 
 Prepared for those who love the Lord. — 
 And some already there. 
 
 No hurt, no ill, no evil thing, 
 No thought nor word of hate; 
 For "ye are brethren," brethren, yes. 
 The watchword at the gate. 
 
 (19) 
 
The city of our Saviour King, 
 Hope kindles at the view, 
 The glory of that glorious land, 
 Jerusalem, the New, 
 
 Through earthly cities I have walked, 
 That man had fashioned well; 
 But the heavenly one hath beauty 
 No human tongue can tell. 
 
 With the light of God excelling. 
 Transparent, perfect, pure, 
 The city with foundations, stands, 
 And ever shall endure. 
 
 Jerusalem, I love thee, 
 Most joyful sweet abode. 
 I love thy court and company, 
 Thou city of my God. 
 
 THE YELLOW ROSE. 
 
 Close to the eaves of a cottage home, 
 
 A yellow rose tree grew; 
 
 And the path was strewn with golden dust 
 
 When the breezes softly blew. 
 
 In gentle spring the rose bud bloomed 
 Yellow and fresh and gay; 
 And the children played, as young things do. 
 In the early hours of day. 
 
 And when the sim was sinking low. 
 
 Sweet fragrance stole around — 
 
 'Twas the rose-tree breathing forth good night, 
 
 Above the silent ground. 
 
 Through all these years I yet inhale 
 The fragrance of that rose, 
 And wonder to myself if still 
 In the same old place it grows. 
 
 O happy days, pleasant spring. 
 When my young flock was small. 
 And gathered close, like the yellow rose, 
 That clung to the cottage wall. 
 
 (20) 
 
Turn backward. Time, a little while 
 For beings frail as we — 
 An hour or so in the old, old home. 
 And shade of maple tree. 
 
 One hearth, one board, one metal roof, — 
 Clustered the household band; 
 But now, like leaves of the yellow rose, 
 Scattered to every land. 
 
 God grant that each may find the way 
 To a home which doth remain: 
 Unchanging, beautiful and firm, 
 Oh, heaven is its name. 
 
 1909. 
 
 Another year is coming — another year has come; 
 Upon the threshhold standing, this son of thine at home: 
 With blessings and with duties his hands are brimming over, 
 And to each one a portion is given as before. 
 
 God help us to receive it, and to fulfill our task, 
 For strength is surely promised, if only we do ask: 
 Again old Earth rejoices, a year has come to stay. 
 And with a heart encouraged, we onward take our way. 
 
 THE SONG IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 I'm carried back to other days, 
 
 A soft and sunny clime. 
 
 And vanished scenes are pictured forth. 
 
 As in the olden time. 
 
 The rose, crape-myrtle, jasmine vine. 
 That trellised arbor bower, 
 "Where a mocking bird has built his nest 
 In the bosom of a flower. 
 
 When twilight deepened into night, 
 And all the world was still. 
 The mocking bird poured out a song 
 In many a note and thrill. 
 
 (21) 
 
Expensive concerts, what are they, 
 Orchestras, dress parade, 
 Beside the music of the bird. 
 In the garden's leafy shade? 
 
 There came a night of fearful storm, 
 ThuntJer and wind and rain, 
 But could not drown the mocking bird. 
 Nor silence his refrain. 
 
 O trustful, fearless little bird, 
 Amid the tempest's swell; 
 Was this the burden of thy song, 
 God careth, it is well? 
 
 Then surely, we can learn from thee, 
 
 To praise the Lord with song: 
 
 When paths are smooth, and praise them still 
 
 When everythiaig goes wrong. 
 
 SAFE WITH GOD. 
 
 In the green vale of the mountains, beneath the valued sky. 
 There is a sacred, silent spot, watched over from on high; 
 Methinks the blessed angels pause and fold their wings awhile. 
 Above this lowly resting place, then upward point and smile. 
 
 My sister, oh my sister, we sorely miss thee here, 
 
 And still upon your memory falls many a bitter tear; 
 
 But not the faintest shadow-word-sign or whispered thought. 
 
 Has come to break the darkened grief which your departure wrought. 
 
 Ah, in God's holy word I read, and what I read is true. 
 That a mansion in the Father's house has been prepared for you, 
 For the Lord Christ loveth, saveth, such and giveth them a part — 
 The pure in mind, the dutiful, the brave and faithful heart. 
 
 When I'm perplexed and weary, oh then to hear your voice; 
 I think 'twould help me, Lucy, and bid my soul rejoice. 
 When pleasant things befall me, or sharpest sorrows lie, 
 O for your loving sympathy, as in the days gone by. 
 
 Your gentle ways, your kindly speech, your ready hand and smile, 
 Have rested many a traveller on life's uneven mile, 
 And those sweet hymns our mother loved you would at even sing. 
 Beside her bed when she had word, to come unto the King. 
 
 (22) 
 
In God's dear land, together now, where pain and death come not. 
 And the green grass is ne'er our in twain to make a "Sacred spot" 
 Mother and Lucy, happy there, and happy still to serve. 
 Beyond the reach of suffering, or strained and shattered nerve. 
 
 My sister you were faithful-faithful at every age. 
 In varied scenes God ordered, down to the latest stage. 
 When parting hour had sounded, and you were going home — 
 Whither we too are journeying, and hope at last to come. 
 
 (Mrs. Lucy Randolph Fleming, one of God's beloved, to whom He gave 
 sleep, and on whose tomb-stone is ingraved the single word: "FAITH- 
 FUL.") 
 
 THE WINTER FLOWER. 
 
 The winter months are just at hand. 
 The spring-time long since fled; 
 The zephyrs — they are gone somewhere, 
 And all the flowers are dead. 
 
 I saunter forth across the vale, 
 Beneath the leafless trees. 
 Whose topmost boughs wave naked arms 
 To chill November's breeze. 
 
 'Tis but little while ago, 
 The brooks, the rills, the grass, 
 Invited us to "stop a bit, — " 
 Now they bid us pass. 
 
 But it is well, the indoor hearth 
 Extends a friendly blaze, 
 And winter evenings are full long 
 For work and tales and plays. 
 
 Pensive, I onward urge my steps, 
 Or pause to cast a view; 
 And can this landscape be the same 
 Where all things seem so new? 
 
 The homing birds, that circle high, 
 Swoop low to flnd their nest. 
 And nature utters but one word. 
 That sounds to me like "REST." 
 
 (23) 
 
And lo, a flower of golden hue, 
 Is springing at my feet; 
 The flower that little children love, 
 So perfect, fresh, and sweet. 
 
 A dandelion, nothing more. 
 Yet volumes it doth hold, 
 Of past, of present, and to come. 
 Within it's heart of gold. 
 
 Gladness and glory, praise and song, 
 Be unto God our King, 
 Who rules above, who rules below, 
 And cares for everything. 
 
 ONLY AT REST. 
 
 We've laid thee down, our brother," 
 Unto thy quiet rest; 
 To slumber with the gathered ones, 
 Whom Go'd hath greatly blessed. 
 
 From fields of care and labor, 
 From cold and over-heat; 
 Into the garner of the Lord, 
 Gathered — the ripened wheat. 
 
 Thou are not dead, our brother, 
 
 Thou'rt only gone before; 
 
 Thine earthly barque hath outstripped ours, 
 
 And reached the farther shore. 
 
 Ah, that dear land, how pleasant, 
 Where strife and sin come not; 
 And all that grieves the heart below 
 Is wiped away — forgot. 
 
 We give thee joy, our brother, 
 
 Oh, happy change to thee, — 
 
 Weakness and pain are now transformed 
 
 To strength and victory. 
 
 Perhaps thy spirit hovers, 
 Although we cannot see, 
 To cheer that lonely one who lent. 
 Next to her God, — on thee. 
 
 (24) 
 
A short farewell, our brother, 
 
 We're journeying, day by day, 
 
 Along that path that thou didst tread, — 
 
 God help us on the way. 
 
 In memory of a good man, Mr. Alvin Clark, who departed this life 
 August 23, 1906, at his home in "the Levels," Pocahontas County, West 
 Virginia. 
 
 SHELLS OF THE SEA. 
 
 We've heard of the tradition, 
 I That the echoes never sleep, 
 
 And voice of the troubled waters 
 The beautiful sea-shells keep. 
 
 Those shells with the rosy lining, 
 And the contour so large and fine, 
 That speak of their home and birth-place. 
 Down deep in the ocean brine. 
 
 You may take the shells far inland, 
 Or to Himalayah tall 
 And still they breathe the ocean, 
 And answer the ocean's call. 
 
 I think of the Grecian maiden, 
 'Mid scenes of fair Italy, 
 Who turned with a sigh and question. 
 "Where is the beautiful Sea?" 
 
 I played with the shells in childhood. 
 As they lay along the beach; 
 And many weird tales they told me. 
 Those shells without look or speech. 
 
 Green mermaids and ocean serpents. 
 And tempests that lashed the waves. 
 Ship crews that went to the bottom. 
 And shells that adorned their graves. 
 
 And so, 'tis the old tradition, 
 Of the sea-shells and the sea. 
 And voice of the troubled waters 
 That murmur incessantly. 
 
 (25) 
 
EVER TRUE. 
 
 If joy and gladness fill thy heart, 
 And in earth's pleasure thou hast part; 
 If plenty crowns thine ample store. 
 And what's a stranger at the door, — 
 This too shall pass away. 
 
 If friends attend thy journey here; 
 True friends, with comfort, help, and cheer; 
 If days and nights glide smoothly by. 
 And all unclouded is the sky, — 
 This too shall pass away. 
 
 But grief may follow thy foot-trace. 
 And leave a saddened, tearful face; 
 The time is long with ache and pain. 
 And weary nights come on again, — 
 This too shall pass away. 
 
 Do petty cares perplex thy soul, 
 "The circumstance beyond control?" 
 Those things that make thee smile or weep, — 
 This too shall pass away. 
 
 A legend runs, that some monarch gave his courier a ring on which 
 to engrave something applicable to everything in life. The ring was 
 returned engraven, thus: "This too shall pass away." 
 
 OUR JOURNEY. 
 
 "Where are we going. Grandma, to Heaven?" 
 
 A little one said unto me. 
 
 As in the cold, grey misty morn, 
 
 Onward, right onward we were borne, 
 
 Through the heart of Alleghany. 
 
 "Yes, dear, we are going to heaven some day, 
 But Grandma will get there first;" 
 The aged one thought of life's weary hours. 
 Of the garden of earth and its withered flowers. 
 And this rose-bud scarcely burst. 
 
 (26) 
 
"0 no, grandma, together we'll go. 
 And Heaven's the best, nicest place, — " 
 Then quick as a flash, "The geeses, see, see, 
 And funny things flying, oh, dearie me. 
 
 And the snow's just kissing my face. 
 
 Thus on she prattled, the little child, 
 Until a dark tunnel we passed; 
 Then nestling close as could be. 
 Her blue violet eyes turned upward to me, 
 Tightly she held my hand fast. 
 
 THE YEAR OF GRACE, 1910. 
 
 'Tis midnight hour, the year full spent, 
 I set me down alone. 
 The members of my glowing grate 
 Are dull and cheerful grown. 
 
 Earth runs her circuit, stars their course. 
 The belfry's old, old chime; 
 "Where are the years that I have lived. 
 Oh, whither, vanished time. 
 
 Hush, — List, — a form of light. 
 Recording angel, be — 
 "Perplexed and lost in questionings 
 I come to answer thee, 
 
 "Just as the soul sent forth from God, 
 
 At last returns to Him, 
 
 A truth that all mankind admit 
 
 To some, alas, how dim. 
 
 "To time, true measured, year by year, 
 A gift from God's right hand, 
 Pulfllled, recorded, goes to Him — 
 Now, dost thou understand?" 
 
 My vision fades, the embers blaze, 
 I hear the morniing chime; 
 As angels sang the Saviour's birth. 
 So angels shall descend to earth, 
 And record keep of stewardship, 
 — Another year of thine. 
 
 (27) 
 
SORROW. 
 
 Yes, I was young, and death so strange. 
 That gives not back again; 
 A first great grief, O, who shall tell. 
 Its bitterness and pain. 
 
 The earth grew sudden dark to me. 
 Automaton, I wrought; 
 The under current of my mind, 
 One great, sad, solemn thought. 
 
 Through deepening forests, damp and cold, 
 I seemed to take my way; 
 But grief was darker than the world, 
 An'd farther from the day. 
 
 When slumbers broke at early dawn, 
 "What is it?" said my heart, — 
 And sorrow's tide rushed over me, 
 A sea without a chart. 
 
 Ah, since, — pale grief has often come, 
 And I have learned at last. 
 The lesson God was teaching me. 
 In that far distant past. 
 
 Our tent of Life is bound to earth, 
 By many a cable strand; 
 God cuts these cables one by one, — 
 "Build in the better land." 
 
 ALL THE WAY. 
 
 Unseen, but very present walketh He 
 Beside each traveler to eternity. 
 
 My faithful Guide, so kindly leading through life's day. 
 Since morn light flushed on journeying begun — 
 Nor weary yet of leading through the shades, 
 Of even stretch their darkened forms upon life's way. 
 
 I do rejoice to follow thee and to obey 
 Thy signals and the stillness of thy voice; 
 Wisdom and knowledge dwell at home with thee. 
 And as a father thou dost love and care alway. 
 
 (28) 
 
I wonder at the paths I've trod and deserts drear, 
 
 But most I wonder to have e'er forgot 
 
 The hand that led, and trusted to myself. 
 
 When walks were flowery and the skies were summer clear. 
 
 'Tis past, and like a sorry child I come 
 
 Close to my Guide till He shall bring me home. 
 
 THE LITTLE GREEN CHAIR. 
 
 This little green chair, Oh yes, it is plain. 
 With its old-fashioned make and its bottom of cane; 
 But I love and cling to it and wouM not exchange 
 For the latest of styles in the cabinet range. 
 
 Ah, it speaks to my heart in a sad, silent way, 
 Of one I've not seen for this many a day, — 
 A sweet little boy, and we loved him so well. 
 He left us, one Sabbath, with Jesus to dwell. 
 
 That gentle, dear boy, oh methinks I see now. 
 With his baby hands clasped to his lowly bent brow; 
 As patient he knelt by this very same chair. 
 One summer, long since, at our family prayer. 
 
 But alas, when that summer was passing away 
 And the leaves had turned "pretty," as Willy would say, 
 His strength and his mirth yielded slow to disease, 
 Till we laid him to rest 'neath the beautiful trees. 
 
 When Willy had gone, then this little green chair. 
 Bereft of its master, was hung up in the stair; 
 For almost it seemed that again he would come. 
 To gather his play-things and brighten our home. 
 
 But I've taken it down for the children to use. 
 
 And somehow they've kindly learned not to abuse. 
 
 Say lessons, mind baby, or visitor tempt. 
 
 But from stage-coach and horse-play this chair is exempt. 
 
 This little green chair, and a few things beside,— 
 A lock of brown hair, and some playthings I hide. 
 Are treasures to me that I wouM not resign 
 And all because, Willy, that once they were thine. 
 
 (29) 
 
THE CHURCH OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 South Third Street Presbyterian Church, Brooklyn, New York, and 
 inscribed to the pastor of my youth. Rev. J, D. Wells, Oct. 25, 1888. 
 
 They tell me it is beautiful, 
 
 The dear old church I knew, 
 
 With glass all stained and diamond-cut 
 
 And sun-light prismed through. 
 
 Ah, beautiful, with lucent sheen, 
 As mantle overcast; 
 But to my simple heart it was 
 More lovely in the past. 
 
 Those walls were fair as heaven to me 
 The marbled columns tall, 
 Those aisles of peace and blessedness. 
 How plainly pictured all. 
 
 Earth's changes come so thickly on. 
 We may not stem nor stay, 
 I fain would hold what pleaseth me 
 And keep it thus always. 
 
 The dear old church, whence some like me, 
 Have wandered forth afar; 
 And some have sped an upward course. 
 Beyond the brightest star. 
 
 We backward look to Zion's gate, 
 That opened into rest. 
 And who shall say, they join us not. 
 Those spirits of the blest. 
 
 I turn me to the scenes beloved, 
 Sure memory guides the way; 
 I pause and ask the stranger friends. 
 The landmarks, where are they? 
 
 Ah, chide me not, it is the Heart 
 That speaketh thus to you. 
 Mine eye sees beauty in the house 
 That you have made so new. 
 
 (30) 
 
Did some one dream of glory land, 
 And of the temple there, — 
 Then fashion it with humble hand 
 In sublimary air? 
 
 For it is very beautiful, 
 
 And I will learn to praise 
 
 The splendor that would hide from me 
 
 The church of other days. 
 
 THE AGED AND THE YOUNG. 
 
 O, let your tears flow freely down 
 For those who've labored long. 
 And patient borne life's every load; 
 Yes, weep if they are gone. 
 The world rolls on, the busy world, 
 And all things take their course. 
 When many a sweet refreshing stream 
 Lies withered at its source. 
 
 Weep for the aged saints of God, 
 
 Though they have reached their rest; 
 
 And we would not call them back again, 
 
 For the aching at our breast. 
 
 Their joy, their peace, their sinlessness, 
 
 As full, great rivers flow, — 
 
 They see the Master face to face. 
 
 And lofty service know. 
 
 But weep not for the babe asleep. 
 
 So strangely cold and still; 
 
 Christ's little lamb, safe sheltered now, 
 
 From every earthly ill. 
 
 If tears are shed, let be for her 
 
 Who sits with empty arms. 
 
 Or moves about her household task, 
 
 Cold duty 'reft of charm. 
 
 (31) 
 
So I have seen the aged pass 
 
 Beyond our straining sight; 
 
 And the babe unfold those hidden wings 
 
 For everlasting flight. 
 
 "We mutely gaze as lookers on, 
 
 Meanwhile forgetting, too, 
 
 That death has left his silent gate 
 
 Open for me and you. 
 
 Lines suggested by the death of James Moore, aged 86 years and little 
 Roy Johnson, of 16 months, both of Marlinton, W. Va. and whose graves 
 are not far apart. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Above the troubled elements. 
 Above life's restless sea. 
 Dear Savior, lift my spirit up, 
 Oh, lift me up to thee. 
 
 Great calmness there, sweet patience too. 
 Upon thy face I see; 
 I would be calm and patient. Lord; 
 Oh, lift me up to thee. 
 
 I am not weary of thy work, 
 From earth I would not flee; 
 But while I walk and while I serve. 
 Oh, lift me up to Thee. 
 
 That I might bless my tender friends. 
 And those who love not me; 
 Oh, lift me high above myself. 
 Dear Jesus, up to thee. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Jesus, Master, be thou with us. 
 Pilgrims still, and strangers here, 
 In this life so equal balanced. 
 Now a smile and then a tear. 
 
 Walk with us through scenes of gladness, 
 Precious sunlight of our way; 
 Closer draw in times of sadness, 
 When the thick mists hide the way. 
 
 (32) 
 
Holy angels are about us, 
 But the sweetest truth to know, 
 Is that Jesus goeth with us 
 Wihlle we journey here below. 
 
 Shall we then be over-troubled, 
 Whatsoever things betide; 
 Shall we cherish one misgiving, 
 While the Saviour is beside? 
 
 Strange that we should doubt or murmur, 
 Passing strange we ere forget. 
 All the love that Jesus bore us, 
 And the love he bears us yet. 
 
 Jesus, Master, be thou with us. 
 Pilgrims still and strangers here. 
 Through the scenes of life that wait us, 
 Be thou ever, ever near. 
 
 PRESENT WITH THE LORD. 
 
 They seem so near. 
 Ah, just around me here — 
 The friends who went away. 
 In days of long ago. 
 
 They come and sit 
 The while I sew and knit. 
 And gather at my side. 
 The aged and the young. 
 
 Whom Jesus saves. 
 
 Are not to me in graves; 
 
 Their precious souls have soared. 
 
 To God and Heaven above. 
 
 In garments bright. 
 Of linen spotless white. 
 They pass me on the stair. 
 They smile but do not speak. 
 
 Tongues very so. 
 In this small earth below: 
 Then those who walk with God, 
 How should I understand. 
 
 (33) 
 
But I shall learn. 
 The speech that now would burn: 
 And I shall serve nor tire — 
 'Tis written, "they rest not." 
 
 They went away. 
 When Jesus called that day, 
 First one, another loved — 
 'Tis well, and they are near. 
 
 UNTO THE LORD. 
 
 "Two-mites" — a farthing — the widow brought. 
 
 The margin of her toil. 
 
 For daily through the week she wrought 
 
 A living, — that was all: 
 
 I seem to hear, "Ah, little store: 
 
 Master, I would that it were more." 
 
 The rich cast in their many coins. 
 
 That rattled as they fell; 
 
 They went their way with girded loins. 
 
 To further monies tell, 
 
 O happy rich, if humble, free, 
 
 Good stewards of the Lord they be. 
 
 "Agai'nst the treasury," sitteth one. 
 
 Of meek and lowly air. 
 
 He sees who cast and who cast not 
 
 For temple use and fare, — 
 
 And often on the empty palm, 
 
 His blessings fall like gilia'ds balm. 
 
 "Gve me thine heart," not gold. He said, 
 
 And then the whole is given: 
 
 Who loveth God with all the heart 
 
 Shall see God's face in Heaven. 
 
 We cannot make Him rich or poor. 
 
 By little or by largest store, 
 
 But we can praise Him evermore. 
 
 Amen. 
 
 {M) 
 
APRIL. 
 
 Sweet breezes of April, Oh whence do ye come? 
 The heral'd of summer to bring the flowers home; 
 So gently ye play on the evergreen tree, 
 And kiss the lone violet, none other would see. 
 
 Soft breezes of April, so faithful and true, 
 W|hatever may fail us, it will not be you; 
 The promise of God that doth blessings unfold, 
 Like seed-time and harvest, the summer and cold. 
 
 Ah, breezes of April, what comfort ye bring. 
 To weary and sick ones who no more can sing; 
 Caressing so kindly the furrowed cheek o'er, 
 'Till the aged are glad to see April once more. 
 
 The children are wild with exuberent glee. 
 At bits of the rainbow in every bare tree; 
 The red. bird, the blue bird, the yellow and gray. 
 And green carpet spread to be 'broidered in May. 
 
 The beautiful April ere long will depart, 
 The time is sure written upon the year's chart; 
 But you'll not be lost, though you leave us so soon. 
 No more than the morn that brings even and noon. 
 
 Sweet breezes of April, fly on to the north, 
 
 Fulflll all the mission as it is set forth, 
 
 And teach us this lesson our God to obey, 
 
 And smile and be pleasant through life's little day. 
 
 HE CARETH FOR YOU. 
 
 My Father, is it so, and may I cast 
 The heavy burdens of the present — past, 
 
 On Thee? 
 And dost thou ever care for me? 
 
 My child, is it not written, casting all 
 
 The cares and burdens that each day befall? 
 
 My arm, — 
 And mine alone can shield from harm. 
 
 (35) 
 
Then wherefore should we sink 'neath load of care 
 Since God hath promised that same load to bear, 
 
 Dear Lord, 
 All else may fail, but not Thy word. 
 
 A friend writes thus: "Within some passing years, 
 I've cast on Jesus all my cares and fears; 
 
 And rest 
 Sweet rest is my continual quest." 
 
 But I've known others in God's family, 
 Who could not ever walk unburdened, free: 
 
 And they? 
 Ah, now 'tis well with them alway. 
 
 When shall we learn God's love? Perhaps not here. 
 With mists enveloping these valleys dread: 
 
 Up there 
 The secret of our Father's care. 
 
 DEATH OF A FATHER. 
 
 In Memory. 
 The folded hands, the placid brow. 
 All hurtings o'er, a calm rest now; 
 
 My father, my father. 
 
 From day to day, from night to night, 
 I followed thee, though out of sight: 
 On mountain tops, in valleys deep, 
 I've turned aside to pray and weep. 
 My father, my father. 
 
 At last they tell me, thou art gone. 
 And Mother-parent walks alone; 
 O passing strange, I think it o'er 
 That thou at home art found no more. 
 My father, O my father. 
 
 Thy chastening, ah, 'twas sore and long, 
 Death's woes came as an armed throng; 
 One vital post — another — fell. 
 Days, weeks, and then life's citadel. 
 My father, O my father. 
 
 (36) 
 
In quiet shade of locust tree, 
 Whence all around thy toils we see, 
 They made thy wished-for place of rest, ' 
 
 Cold, heavy earth above thy breast. 
 My father, my father. 
 
 Some day I'll turn me to the spot, 
 (How sad hath grown that orchard-lot,) 
 And weep with those at home who weep, 
 Above thy calm untroubled sleep. 
 
 My father, my father. 
 
 "Christ Jesus, and Him crucified." 
 Sweet words of thine in heart we hide 
 Our hope, our light, our cheer, our stay, 
 Until we meet another day, — 
 
 My father, O my father. 
 
 Henry Ward Randolph closed his mortal life at home, near Richmond, 
 Virginia, Sabbath morning, July 26, 1874, aged 64 years. 
 
 BETHANY. 
 
 We do not know if those disciples gazed, 
 With more affection than their wont, amazed. 
 Or if their eyes were somewhat holden, dim. 
 When on that day of days they followed him, 
 As far as Bethany. 
 
 Did flowers bloom, was nature smiling then? 
 Calmness of eventide, when those few men 
 Were led of Christ, perhaps through Salem's street, 
 And furlongs o'er, with dusty sandaled feet. 
 As far as Bethany. 
 
 No sick folk there, no blind, no multitude, 
 These moments of our Savior's quietude; 
 Redemption wrought, death conquered and the tomb, 
 He set His face toward His heavenly home, 
 By way of Bethany. 
 
 With arms outspread, he blessed that little band. 
 And blessing, blessed the Church in every land; 
 As in the holy Mount, a cloud most bright, 
 Received His form and hid Him from their sight, 
 Lone Bethany. 
 
Would'st rest from toil and earth's tumultuous din, 
 Would'st speak a peace to strife of thoughts within? 
 Then talk with Jesus, learn of Him and wait, 
 Ah, walk with Him beyond the city gate, 
 As far as Bethany. 
 
 Methinks the Savior's presence lingers there, 
 And voices steal from heaven through the air; 
 Angelic beings, white apparalled, twain. 
 Say unto us. Our Lord shall come again. 
 As then at Bethany. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 October month is blithe and gay. 
 Come, let us sing her praise today; 
 'Twixt summer warm and winter wild, 
 This is the year's most pleasant child. 
 
 The hills bedecked look 'down and smile 
 And nature's forces rest awhile; 
 Soft, pensive murmurings are heard, 
 That answer to no human word. 
 
 Gardens and fields and meadows green 
 All crowned with plenty we have seen; 
 And man may work and man may sleep, 
 And he may wake, perhaps to weep. 
 
 There is a veil we cannot raise, 
 
 God hangs in mercy o'er our days, — 
 
 Sufficient for the present strife. 
 
 And strength comes with advancing life. 
 
 October is the song we sing, 
 And our fair month is on the wing — 
 For Time's a bird — not on the bough. 
 But flying swiftly — more swiftly now. 
 
 THE KINGDOM. 
 
 When slumbers lock our every sense 
 God's sun returns "the same," 
 And writes up on the eastern sky 
 Another day's fair name. 
 
 (38) 
 
Quiet, resistless, unobserved, 
 Comes on the morning light. 
 Slowly and surely, driving hence 
 The darksomeness of night. 
 
 And it may be when slumbers wrap 
 The church and souls of men. 
 The kingdom of our Lord shall come, — 
 The morning breaketh then. 
 
 God hath a flock, a "little flock," 
 
 Who watch and wait and pray; 
 
 But the most of Christ's disciples sleep. 
 
 E'en at the break of day. 
 
 Sun of Righteousness, arise, 
 Lord Jesus, come again, — 
 The spirit waits, O happy morn. 
 Amen, so be it then. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Sweet friend, they tell me thou art dead, 
 Art sleeping in earth's lowly bed; 
 And many hearts are sad. 
 
 Thy ki'ndly voice, thy pleasant face, 
 Thy gentle ways; all, all we trace. 
 These memories of the past. 
 
 A pearl hath slipped from out our hand, 
 'Tis gone, we cannot understand, 
 So sad, so strange is death. 
 
 And is it lost, our treasure, dear. 
 Because we do not hold it here? 
 Believe me, it is safe. 
 
 Jesus hath taken to his breast. 
 The friend we love, and she is blessed: 
 God's holy will be done. 
 
 Some time in heaven we shall meet, 
 
 The friends who made this life more sweet: 
 
 The friend we mourn today. 
 Mrs. Laura R. Campbell, of Northampton, Mass. 
 
 (39) 
 
A MEASURE OF GRACE. 
 
 O had we not some faith in God, 
 
 Believing He is wise, 
 How could these feet hold out to tread 
 
 Our path beneath the skies? 
 That path which e'en the favored find, 
 
 Thorn-set and wounding sore; 
 But faith in God brings patience, such 
 
 As we had not before. 
 
 O had we not some love to Christ, 
 
 How could we e'er resign 
 The little ones we hold so dear. 
 
 And learn not to repine? 
 But love to Christ, imperfect yet, 
 
 Enables us to rest. 
 Calm in the thought that Jesus hath 
 
 Our lamb close to his breast. 
 
 O had we not some hope of heaven. 
 
 How couM we rightly bear 
 Life's burden, with its good and ill, 
 
 Our cloudy days and fair? 
 But hope of Heaven, tho' oft obscured. 
 
 By doubt and little things, 
 Dost sweetly lift us higher up, 
 
 As tho' our souls had wings. 
 
 O Lord increase our faith, hope, love. 
 
 If little, keep us so. 
 That we may learn thy perfect ways, 
 
 And follow on to know; 
 As slaves, we'll lay faith, hope, aside. 
 
 When earthly journeys cease; 
 But love shall still attend our steps. 
 
 In God's own land of peace. 
 
 JESUS WITH US. 
 
 Jesus master be thou with us, 
 
 Pilgrims still, and strangers here, 
 
 In this life so equal balanced, 
 Now, a smile and then a tear. 
 
 (40) 
 
Walk with us thro' scenes of gladness, 
 Precious sunlight of our way; 
 
 Closer draw in tilnes of sadness 
 
 "When the thick mists hide the day. 
 
 Holy angels are about us 
 
 But the sweetest truth to know, 
 Is that Jesus goeth with us 
 
 While we journey here below. 
 
 Shall we then be overtroubled, 
 
 Whatsoever things betide. 
 Shall we cherish one misgiving, 
 
 When the Savior is beside? 
 
 Strange that we should doubt or murmur, 
 Passing strange we e'er forget. 
 
 All the love that Jesus bore us. 
 And the love he bears us yet. 
 
 Jesus, master, be thou with us, 
 
 Pilgritas still and strangers here, 
 
 Thro' the scenes of life that wait us, 
 Be thou ever, ever near. 
 
 LIVE NEAR THE LORD. 
 
 In days of silence and of pain. 
 There came from out those lips again, 
 
 A message to his flock; 
 And not alone to them it came. 
 But unto us, to all the same; 
 "Live near the Lord, live near." 
 
 Yes, bid them live near unto God, 
 And this was all, beneath the rod. 
 
 Our brother uttered them; 
 We saw the stroke that laid him low, 
 The call we heard not, — "Rise and go", — 
 
 He heard it, and obeyed. 
 
 What matters now, the mortal strife 
 That death held there with earthly life, 
 
 What matters death should win 
 God over saw and ruled the strife 
 And 'twas an entrance into life. 
 
 Of blessedness and rest. 
 
 (41) 
 
Doubtless our brother meeteth there, — 
 In whose salvation he shall share, 
 
 The travail of his soul, — 
 Saved Spirits, unto him a crown, 
 And yet a crown he casteth down 
 
 Before his Savior God. 
 
 then, receive ye stricken fold, 
 
 A message that can ne'er grow old, — 
 
 "Live near the Lord, live near;" 
 And think how oft to you were given 
 Words coming now from verge of heaven. 
 
 To help you thitherward. 
 
 "Live near the Lord, live near," 
 To him the conflict time is o'er. 
 He labors, prays and weeps no more; 
 
 Forever with the Lord; 
 But yet are still a pilgrim band. 
 With faces turned toward that land 
 
 He hath already reached. 
 
 "Live near the Lord," at morn repeat, 
 And if at noon your pulse yet beat, 
 
 Oh! breathe the word again; 
 Ere slumbers fall, remind your soul. 
 And as the dark night watches roll, 
 
 "Live near the Lord," still say. 
 
 And when at length God's time has come, 
 And pilgrims all are gathered home. 
 
 To live so near the Lord; 
 perfectly, you then will know 
 The lesson learned in part below, 
 
 Of living near the Lord. 
 
 THE OLD LOOKLNG GLASS. 
 
 An old fashioned mirror, by no means large, 
 
 A modest concern of glass. 
 With a landscape picture across the top. 
 
 And a frame, not gilt, — Alas! 
 
 The polished surface is bright and smooth 
 
 Reflecting perfectly true; 
 And the antique more desirable now, 
 
 Than all the ornate and new. 
 
 (42) 
 
'Tis the piece of homestead, plain and staunch. 
 
 Yet simple and grand withal, 
 Where the sun-light played on the oaken floor, 
 
 And the portraits of the hall. 
 
 The baby was raised to the wonder glass, 
 
 A duplicate babe to find; 
 And what harder problem have we to solve, 
 
 Than this to the infantile mind? 
 
 The mirror repeated the stately dames, 
 
 The beautiful children too, 
 The table that groaned 'neath the weight of good cheer, 
 
 And guests that never were few. 
 
 The bride glanced up in the old home glass. 
 And blushed at the picture there, 
 Her own sweet face, snowy robe, orange wreath, 
 The festive occasion rare. 
 
 Ah! sad scenes it witnessed, this same true glass, 
 When the sheeted dead have lain. 
 The softened step, darkened room and low tone. 
 And tears that fell down like rain. 
 
 Ah! War times it knew when a strong youth stood. 
 In uniform bright and new; 
 But afterward dusty and stained with blood, 
 From bullet that pierced it thro'. 
 
 Then, heart sick and weary, with empty sleeve. 
 
 The soldier came home to rest, 
 And breathed out the life he had scarce begun, 
 
 Upon his dear mother's breast. 
 
 The children at play and the sweet blooming flowers, 
 
 The faithful old glass told o'er; 
 And the quiet toil of the home went on. 
 
 As it had done ever more. 
 
 The mirror's reflections are never disclosed 
 
 Thro' many a household stage. 
 And fresh is the face of this old looking glass. 
 
 For a hundred odd years, its age. 
 
 (43) 
 
OFF HATTERAS. 
 
 Athwart the coast of Hatteras, 
 
 Where storms come oft and strong, 
 
 A vessel nigh to wrecking toiled 
 The angry waves among. 
 
 Weary and strained as a living thing, 
 The timbers creaked with pain; 
 
 Now poised upon the waters high, 
 Then plunging deep again. 
 
 Ah! Hatteras Cape is pitiless 
 And loves to crush a barque, 
 
 Outstrew the planks and hand the souls 
 To hungry waiting shark. 
 
 The captain was a gallant man, 
 And stalwart men, his crew; 
 
 But 'gainst the prince of power of air, 
 What could a human do? 
 
 A woman and a little child 
 
 Were passengers aboard: 
 "What time I am afraid, I'll trust. 
 
 And call upon my God!" 
 
 The captain came with words of cheer, 
 
 The cheer he did not feel; 
 Care of his ship and all those lives 
 
 Had broke the heart of steel. 
 
 He paused — he gazed — the awful winds 
 Had burst the cabin door! — 
 
 A mother kneeling by her babe. 
 Upon the cabin floor. 
 
 Forth strode the captain, hand uplift. 
 
 And spirit lifted too; 
 'Mid din of roaring hurricane. 
 
 He thundered to his crew. 
 
 (417 
 
"Yes we shall conquer Hatteras, 
 
 The Lord is on our side;" 
 And truly so, did that good ship 
 
 The Hatteras storm outride. 
 
 In 1838 or 9, my father, mother and myself, a babe, were returning 
 from Texas, a new country indeed at that time. It was a sailing vessel. 
 My mother and I the only female passengers. Off Cape Hatteras we 
 met a fearful storm when the captain gave up his ship for lost. The 
 kneeling form upon the cabin floor was my own dear mother, a christian 
 of faith and prayer. I and others believe she saved the endangered 
 vessel from the depths of the Atlantic. 
 
 MY WHISTLING LAD. 
 
 A while since beneath my window, 
 
 He whistled in boyish glee. 
 And spite of the cloudy morning 
 
 'Twas a pleasant sound to me. 
 
 My heart rose up from it's sadness, 
 
 I could not whistle like him. 
 But the hours broke forth into gladness. 
 
 That had ushered storm cast and dim. 
 
 What if there be checks and besetments. 
 And best days of life-time gone by 
 
 The kindliest blessings linger, 
 Painted blue on the upper sky. 
 
 It takes but a little to cheer us — 
 
 The voice of a whistling lad, 
 Going forth to his daily labor, 
 
 Free and happy, though roughly clad. 
 
 Then whistle away, my laddie, 
 
 'Twill help you and others to bear 
 
 The burden that falls to the shoulder, 
 Let the weather be storm tossed or fair. 
 
 ( t&) 
 
OUR DEAD. 
 
 Just out of sight 
 
 A little way ahead 
 In scenes of pleasantness 
 
 Are they whom we call "dead." 
 
 Unbound and free 
 
 A wide, wide life is theirs 
 And from those eyes that wept 
 
 God's hand has wiped the tears. 
 
 Call them not "dead" 
 'Tis true their bodies sleep, 
 
 And where we laid them down. 
 We sometimes go and weep. 
 
 Altho' we know 
 
 Our parted, our beloved 
 Have risen and gone hence, 
 
 A little way removed. 
 
 I do not think 
 
 That they forget their own, 
 Nor is it only memory. 
 The old familiar tone. 
 
 If by God's grace 
 
 Our feet are in the way 
 We'll surely come to them. 
 
 And meet our own some day 
 
 Beyond our sight, 
 
 A little way ahead 
 The crystal waters by 
 
 And in green pastures led. 
 
 We hindered there. 
 
 In one great Company, 
 Our friends behold God's face 
 
 And serve continually. 
 
 (46) 
 
EARTH'S SABBATH. 
 'The whole earth is at rest, and is quiet." Isa. xiv-7. 
 
 The whole earth is at rest, — oh beautiful sight. 
 
 That glorious day shall arise. 
 The spirit of love and perfect accord 
 
 Shall be wafted down from the skies. 
 
 The day is not yet, — Alas! we shall see 
 
 Over spreading parts of our world, 
 A blood-fringed ominous dark canopy, — 
 
 The banner of war is unfurled. 
 
 We hear from afar the tramping of horse, 
 
 The terrible clashing of steel, 
 The victor's shout, — near by the death moan 
 
 Oh! suffering is battle's dire seal. 
 
 Tho' nations of earth may madly combat. 
 
 Inhaling war's pestilent breeze, 
 *Tis sweet to reflect there cometh a day 
 
 When wars and contentions shall cease. 
 
 The Sabbath of earth is hastening on, 
 'Twill follow the night of distress, — 
 
 E'en now afar off the beams we discern 
 Of the sun of Righteousness. 
 
 That sun shall arise with healing on wings. 
 
 The felt darkness of sin shall flee 
 And knowledge of God shall cover the earth. 
 
 As waters cover the ^a. 
 
 The redeemed of the Lord shall then return 
 
 With new glad songs to Zion's hill; 
 The lonely place and desert shall rejoice 
 
 And streams the wilderness shall fill. 
 
 Delectable hour! Oh hasten and come. 
 
 Let our earth bid sin a farewell. 
 Let discord and hate be exiled all lands, 
 
 And brethren in harmony dwell. 
 
 (47) 
 
The while earth at I'est, — A beautiful sight! 
 
 That glorious day shall arrive; 
 Men's hearts will be swayed by the Prince of Peace 
 
 And Nations shall never more strive. 
 
 — '"Homestead Seminary" — 1860. 
 
 THE HILLS. 
 
 These hills I view with great delight, 
 
 So beautiful, so green 
 
 Are not the hills that strengthen me 
 
 Amid life's chequered scene: 
 
 Those hills are loftier far than these. 
 
 Around God's throne are they. 
 
 Strange that a mortal, weak and small. 
 
 Should find them every day! 
 
 Not far removed, though hid from sight. 
 Those heavenly heights sublime 
 Whence blessings flow to us below, 
 Adown the slope of time: 
 'Tis there not here lies all my strength, 
 My help, my guidance too: 
 Oh! blessed hills, eternal hills 
 I thank my God for you. 
 
 Storms and commotions, toils and cares 
 
 Yea, weariness and woe. 
 
 Are constant on these earthly hills 
 
 But farther cannot go: 
 
 'Tis peaceful there, for Jesus reigns 
 
 His will is fully done, 
 
 O, that 'twere so on this fair earth 
 
 Lord, let Thy Kingdom come! 
 
 Upon those hills are friends we love. 
 Oh! many a well known brow, 
 This world was better far than stay. 
 And heaven is sweeter now: 
 More pleasant is thy upper home 
 Than any earthly scene. 
 But when our eyes would follow them, 
 Rocks, clouds and mists between, 
 
 (48) 
 
Unto the hills whence cometh help. 
 
 We look with gaze intent, 
 
 And thirtherward, mid sun and shade. 
 
 Our pilgrim feet are bent. 
 
 Yes earth's low hills are beautiful, 
 
 In summer's glad estate. 
 
 But my hill-portion is with God, 
 
 Unspeakably so great. 
 
 DARK PLACES. 
 
 Those mountains across the river 
 
 So lovely look and dark 
 No human sound, no human step 
 
 I ever see or mark. 
 
 The season's come, the seasons go, 
 
 White snow flakes gently fall, 
 The trees take on their fresh green leaves. 
 
 But still 'tis silence all! 
 
 If I could see a child at play, 
 
 Or study manhood's walk, — 
 Something to break the loneliness, 
 
 Something wth which to talk. 
 
 I gaze until the topmost pines 
 
 Gaze darkly down at me. 
 And bid me to my wanted task 
 
 Whate'er the skies may be. 
 
 If sadness reign or gaiety; 
 
 If friends are stern or kind, — 
 Duty, the bright and guiding star. 
 
 Until God's rest I find. 
 
 ROBBIE STEWART. 
 "The Little Missionary." 
 
 Dear little worker over the seas 
 
 Thou brother to us all; 
 How precious is the memory, 
 
 How gently, too, doth fall 
 Thy record, in this far off land. 
 
 Where many watch and pray, 
 That China's darkness may precede 
 
 The dawning of her day. 
 
 (49) 
 
What thou could do in mission work, 
 
 So cheerfully was wrought; 
 And in thine infant soul took root, 
 
 Such large and wondrous thought 
 The Savior saw it and he placed 
 His hand upon thy head, 
 "Suffer this little one to come," 
 
 And to His Kingdom led. 
 
 Short was the fading of the flower, 
 
 Its heauty scarcely lost; 
 Like some white blossom rudely snatched, 
 
 And on the ocean tossed; 
 But Jesus quickly gathered it. 
 
 And to his bosom pressed — 
 Robbie the flower so beautiful. 
 
 And Heaven his place of rest. 
 
 IN MEMORY. 
 Mrs. Ruhamah McLaughlin. 
 
 The kindly heart we're wont to greet. 
 
 The busy hands, the willing feet. 
 Ere while with us and now with God, 
 
 What earth doth miss in heaven's abode, 
 Oh, me, she hurried to her rest. 
 
 Life's noon became the evening west 
 A few short days with illness pained 
 
 And glorious heights of heaven were gained. 
 Surely our friend would not return 
 
 Save as the guardian spirits learn 
 To watch and help the loved ones here 
 Mid change and danger, doubt and fear, 
 
 God comfort them and bring each one. 
 When life's respective circles run- 
 To meet their mother in the sky. 
 
 No more to suffer, droop and die. 
 But, beautiful, resplendant, fair, 
 Forever in the Savior's care. 
 
 (50) 
 
LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 Life's arrow, whither hath it sped? 
 
 That trembled in the bow so long: 
 God spoke the word and it was gone, 
 
 Beyond our ken, beyond our sight, — 
 Nor followed we the arrow's flight, 
 But, it was upward, this we know. 
 
 It was not strange that he so young, 
 
 With hope so pure and high, 
 Should shrink from entering the vale, 
 
 "I cannot, — must not die." 
 
 But well we know as time went by, 
 
 How patient he became, 
 God's grace drew heaven to hs soul 
 
 And shaded earthly fame. 
 
 'Twas as Jesus stayed him in the fight, 
 
 Through Jesus he has won, 
 And it is Jesus helping us 
 
 To say "Thy Will be done." 
 
 JOAN D' ARC. 
 
 Joan of Arc, in an humble sphere. 
 
 Was a heorine self made; 
 Voices and visions appeared to her. 
 
 And somehow the scheme was laid. 
 
 The very king was over wrought. 
 
 Those voices had wondrous power, 
 And Joan led the French troopers forth, 
 
 For one victorious hour. 
 
 Then sore defeat catastrophe. 
 
 As oft occurs in war. 
 And the voices did not help Joan, 
 
 They were muffled and 5far. 
 
 Ardent and patriotic. 
 
 She left the realms of sense. 
 And we cannot parse the sentence, 
 
 With the wrong mood and tense. 
 
 (51) 
 
While the body, we must walk, 
 
 By common sense and God, — 
 Voices and visions lead astray. 
 
 And block the common road. 
 
 Were Joan living, would she join 
 
 The mediums of our time, 
 Who deceive the people, perhaps themselves 
 
 With death and the things sublime? 
 
 The French will never forget Joan, 
 
 And still they dwell upon 
 How her soul was upward seen to rise 
 
 From the market place at Rouen. 
 
 'Twas a cruel deed, and the English erred 
 
 To burn the heoric form. 
 Who only loved her country. 
 
 And for it faced the storm. 
 To Joan d'Arc, a few sweet flowers. 
 That will fade, as she faded too; 
 Pure, unselfish, intrepid, weak, 
 
 She passed the red furnace through. 
 
 IF THOU CANST BELIEVE. 
 
 Friend of my soul, have faith in God, 
 For if thou canst believe. 
 All things are possible to thee, 
 And, all thou shalt receive. 
 
 The greatest thing in heaven and earth. 
 To strong and simple faith; 
 The root, the fruit, the blessedness, 
 The Lord's finale, thus saith. 
 
 What wilt thou have — salvation, 
 For those most dear to thee? 
 Mother, it is the chiefest thing, 
 This side eternity. 
 
 Canst thou believe, hast thou obeyed, 
 Precept, line upon line? 
 Then as the hen gathereth her brood. 
 So shalt thou gather thine. 
 
 (52) 
 
The weakly ones, the over tried. 
 
 To be kept on their way, 
 
 The promise runs, strength shall be given 
 
 Sufficient to the day. 
 
 The kindly friends who think of me, 
 I never can forget them, 
 I hold them in my heart of hearts, 
 And to God's grace commit them. 
 
 'Tis not by might nor yet by power, 
 But by thy Spirit Lord, 
 Which teaches men and brings to mind. 
 Remembrance of Thy work. 
 
 The church of Christ, now militant. 
 Assailed by many foes, 
 Shall be the church triumphant. 
 And have a long repose. 
 
 Friend of my soul, have faith in God, 
 And thou shalt not come to grief; 
 Oh Christ, I can, I do believe. 
 Help Thou mine unbelief. 
 
 JAMESTOWN. 
 
 Behold a ship whose faithful sail, 
 
 Measured the ocean vast. 
 And near this old historic spot 
 
 Her silent anchor cast. 
 And then! 
 Forest and stream, wigwam — huts 
 
 And the redman's soverign step. — 
 San Salvador! 
 Three cycles pass, behold once more, 
 
 A host by land and sea; 
 To celebrate the Settlement, all praise. 
 
 So let it be: 
 Old town. 
 Dominion wide. Oh realm, with history 
 
 Aladdin-like: 
 
 God save our land! 
 
 (53) 
 
THE SHELTERED PLANT. 
 
 Once as the shades of even fell, 
 A garden walk I trod, 
 And viewed with an admiring eye, 
 The handiwork of God. 
 
 The flowers that lie along our path, 
 Are tokens from above; 
 And if we have a heart to learn, 
 They teach us "God is love." 
 
 So bright hued all so sweet the breath, 
 I knew hot which to choose, 
 Until at length I stood before 
 A young and budding rose. 
 
 Whilst it I viewed, the gardener came. 
 And ere I was aware, 
 Had raised the flower, and then I knew, 
 It hence he meant to bear. 
 
 I grieved to see the rose removed. 
 Its parting I would stay; 
 So said I to the gray haired man, 
 "Why take the plant away?" 
 
 He turned and bent his eye on me. 
 And spake in tones most mild 
 "Behold yon dark and heavy cloud. 
 It bodes a tempest wild, 
 
 "My other plants can bear the storms. 
 And it will strengthen them, 
 But the blast would scathe this little one, 
 And break the tender stem. 
 
 "And so in love I bear it hence. 
 Far from this open space, 
 That it may flourish 'neath my care, 
 Within a sheltered place. 
 
 "Naught shall it know of scorching heat. 
 Of storm and winter cold; 
 But there the buds that you admire 
 Shall perfectly unfold." 
 
 (54) 
 
The Gardener paused, then turned to leave, 
 
 And since we have not met; 
 
 But long I thought of all his words— 
 
 I muse upon them yet. 
 
 Oh, thus it is with cherished ones. 
 By death so rudely taken; 
 God sees the storm would be too rough 
 And shelters them in heaven. 
 
 Sweet buds of promise, in that home, 
 No cold winds o'er them flow; 
 They're fairer than our eyes have seen 
 And still in beauty grow. 
 
 Oh ye whose little ones are gone, 
 Stay, stay the falling tear. 
 Thank God, they are sheltered safe 
 From storms that we meet here. 
 
 CHRISTMAS 1919. 
 
 Today, the twenty-fifth of December, 
 
 Christmas, as doubtless you will remember; 
 
 The memorial birth-day, Bethlehem, 
 
 Alas! that dark shadow, Jerusalem. 
 
 Let us thank God for the love gift He gave, 
 
 When He stooped so low our poor souls to save; 
 
 Praises to God for the Gift of His Son, 
 
 And triumphs of grace which Jesus hath won. 
 
 Christmas, a blessing, and comes once a year, 
 To beautify earth with heaven so near, 
 Lo! Christmas crowns us with a rainbow bent. 
 And Christmas is heaven of long content: 
 Such Christmas we wish you with every joy. 
 Ye big folks and old folks, each girl and boy. 
 
 A HAUNTED. HOUSE. 
 
 A certain man built him a house 
 
 Beside a noble river; 
 
 And thought that he would live there in peace, 
 
 Perhaps, he thought, forever. 
 
 (55) 
 
Just opposite a city stood, 
 In marble, brick and tile. 
 And midway of the Powatan 
 Was many a verdant isle. 
 
 A pleasant scene in summer time. 
 In winter also fair. 
 
 When white-robed nature walked about, 
 With snow flakes in her hair. 
 
 A storied building 'twas he built 
 Mahogany inside 
 And every thing to satisfy, 
 Man's comfort or his pride. 
 
 You think he was a favored son. 
 And lived right joyously, 
 With all around his heart — 
 But wait and you shall see. 
 
 A few months, he had grown so lean, 
 So trembling, weak and pale; 
 'Twas something in that very house 
 Made all his powers fail. 
 
 Until at length he left that house 
 Upon the river side; 
 And as he never came back again, 
 I think he must have died. 
 
 Then others came to "fold their tents. 
 And silent steal away," 
 Leaving the mansion lone by night 
 And lonely thro' the day. 
 
 Strange rumors were afloat of ghosts 
 And apparitions dire. 
 Of dancing torches in the house 
 As if it were on fire. 
 
 The doors and windows opened, — closed 
 Without a human hand. 
 And ghostly whispers echoed back 
 That none could understand. 
 
 (56) 
 
The evil one possessed that house, 
 As certain as could be. 
 And if a man did doubt the fact, — 
 Just let him go and see. 
 
 Haunted? O yes, and too wise, 
 By pestilential air, 
 The misty vapors from the James 
 Brought chills and fever there. 
 
 So it was a deserted house, 
 Lonely and damp and dank 
 A spectral monument of brick 
 Upon the river bank. 
 
 THE BABY HAND. 
 
 Upon the window-pane impressed, 
 Marks of a baby hand, 
 The little fingers all stretched 
 As graven in the sand. 
 
 The sun shine of a little child 
 Steal into every room; 
 And then 'tis lost, now can we find 
 Ou»r sun beam for the gloom. 
 
 He ran, he played, he laughed and cried, 
 As little children do; 
 And sometimes pressed his open palm. 
 Seeking a pastime new. 
 
 A sickness came, — it comes to all. 
 And this was unto death. 
 Who gave, He took, and Oh the change,- 
 No sound, no stir, no breath. 
 
 The tiny fingers, once in glee 
 Upon the window pressed. 
 Lie folden in a last long sleep 
 Upon the infant breast. 
 
 Deep grief fell on the household then, 
 Through years its memory lasts; 
 For the shadow reaches, Oh so far, 
 A little coflBn casts! 
 
 (57) 
 
The mother finds in daily toil 
 And cherishes that pane, 
 A token to her saddened heart. 
 The baby finger-stain. 
 
 How precious are the little things 
 That speak of children gone, 
 A broken toy, a missing shoe, 
 But most the voice, the tone. 
 
 We hear them speak. Oh, they are near, 
 Yet 'tis a heavenely strain; 
 Oh will it not be pleasant once 
 To see our own again. 
 
 That Mother has been joined to hers, 
 Both in the better land; 
 And still for us the fragile glass 
 The graven baby hand. 
 
 God would not grieve, He never does. 
 His children needlessly 
 Wherefore the pain, the aching void. 
 Hereafter we shall see. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 We give thee joy young brother — 
 We shed for thee no tear; 
 Thou'st only gone to Jesus 
 And Heaven itself is near. 
 
 What, tho thy form lies sleeping 
 (That broken form alas! ) 
 Where spring-time flowers shall blossom 
 And summer breezes pass. 
 
 That form, and pain are parted, 
 Companions here so long 
 Thy spirit all untrammelled 
 Is full of life and song. 
 
 But ye, who watched so kindly. 
 Who bore the burden through. 
 Who tended him so gently — 
 We can buit weep for you. 
 
 (58) 
 
Oft times ye turn to find him, 
 At eve or early dawn; 
 Ah then the sad, lone aching — 
 His face and form are gone. 
 
 At such sad times remember 
 He needs no help from pain; 
 He's found the Saviour's presence. 
 And he is well again. 
 
 Nor deem his young life wasted, 
 And all earths plans unmet. 
 He lived to teach us lessons 
 That we shall ne'er forget. 
 
 To think of him is pleasant, — 
 How patiently he bore 
 The heavy cross laid on him 
 Ere life's bright morn was o'er. 
 
 We give the joy, young brother. 
 We shed no tear for thee; 
 So early, safely gathered in 
 Where it is good to be. 
 
 MY CATHEDRAL. 
 
 'Mid the rush and whirl of business, 
 
 'Mid the concourse and the strife, 
 
 A merchant-man took daily. 
 
 One hour from busy life; 
 
 That hour he sought the cloister. 
 
 His grand cathedral-nave, 
 
 Neath the frescoes and the paintings, 
 
 Of Christ who came to save! 
 
 In holy thought he lingered. 
 
 In prayer he bent his knee; 
 
 "So quiet here and peaceful, 
 
 It rests and quiets me." 
 
 I, too, have my cathedral. 
 
 More grand than aught earth knows; 
 
 Ah! wonderfuJ for structure, 
 
 And full of sweet repose; 
 
 This world and Its distractions, 
 
 (59) 
 
Its turmoil and its care, 
 
 Would weary and would crush me, 
 
 But for my refuge there. 
 
 I talk with Christ my Savior, — 
 
 Christ speaketh unto me, — 
 
 So quiet there and peaceful. 
 
 It rests and quiets me! 
 
 THE AGED PILGRIMS. 
 
 To the beloved memory of Margaret E. Sangster, to whom Heaven 
 opened in 1912. 
 
 We are treading the sun-set path, dear. 
 And the road is very long; 
 But the shadows slant, the air grows cool, 
 And the beautiful end is near. 
 
 See how the colors sparkle, dear, 
 Angels? No, angels are snowy white, 
 Perhaps the bright flowers of Paradise, 
 Just over the gate-way appear. 
 
 It may be the sun-rise path, dear, 
 
 Our feet are approaching to; 
 
 The joy, the freshness, the "healing wings," — 
 
 And the light that is wondrous clear. 
 
 W|hether the sunrise or sunset, dear, 
 Of one thing at least, we are sure; 
 The good hand of God has led us on. 
 And His presence is growing near. 
 
 If first I should reach the home-land, dear, 
 And the Lord of the mansion assent; 
 I'll pause and wait till you quicken your step, 
 For we've loved one another here. 
 
 MINISTERING. 
 Are they not all ministering spirits? Heb. 1. 14. 
 
 Know ye that God sends angels, 
 To help His children Here, — 
 "Ministering spirits," they are called. 
 And ever, ever near. 
 
 (60) 
 
We cannot see these angels, 
 Because our eyes are dim; 
 Disciples walked with Jesus once. 
 And yet they knew not Him. 
 
 The air is full of angels, 
 Horsemen and chariots too, 
 And saints are borne, Elijah-like, 
 To Jerusalem the New. 
 
 I've stood a-near the parting soul, 
 The veil of sense quite riven, 
 And heard the pallid lips repeat, 
 "Spirits — I see from heaven." 
 
 Long time those angels had been close, 
 That trusting soul to stay; 
 The vision only realized. 
 As earth-mists rolled away. 
 
 For all Thy mercies. Father — God, 
 We raise a hymn of cheer; 
 And for Thine angel visitants, 
 Ministering to us here. 
 
 HE PASSETH BY. 
 
 Not now in form that mortal eye can see, 
 As when He calmed the waves of Galilee, 
 As when He sate and rested on the well. 
 Or when He walked in Judah and the tidings fell, 
 Jesus! He passeth by! 
 
 Our Master hath gone up, and lo! exalted high — 
 No more 'tis said He hath not whfere to lie, 
 The hills and vales receive not now His feet. 
 Nor listening winds His voice of prayer repeat, 
 Yet Jesus passeth by. 
 
 Do heavy chastenings bend thy spirit low, 
 And all His tempest billows o'er thee flow. 
 Hath some strong hand up-stirred thy household nest. 
 And dost thou long to fly, and be at rest? 
 'Tis Jesus passing by. 
 
 (61) 
 
Hath one beloved arisen and gone forth, 
 And dost thou feel almost alone on earth, 
 Yet, bowing, own the will of God is right, 
 Content to walk by fath and not by sight? 
 Ah! Jesus passeth by. 
 
 Is there new sweetness at the throne of grace,' 
 A longer lingering in the heavenly place. 
 An utterance thou hast not known before. 
 And "Abba Father," canst thou lisp it o'er? 
 'Tis Jesus passing by. 
 
 Thus is our Master near at all times near, 
 And whispereth, '"Tis I! be of good cheer"; 
 'Mid scenes of joy, 'mid scenes of sore distress, 
 When all aboundeth and when stores are less, 
 Jesus is passing by. 
 
 And when thou hast attained the vale of years, 
 Thro' all the course of human smiles and tears, 
 Thou» Shalt go gently down, as saints have gone before, 
 And find, what men call death, and tremble o'er. 
 Is Jesus passing by. 
 
 THE SILENCE OF SCRIPTURES. 
 
 We are not told of Jesus' youth. 
 
 Nor of his childhood days. 
 
 But are left unto our fancy. 
 
 To love, admire and praise; 
 
 The temple doctors versed in law. 
 
 Marveled at what they heard and saw, 
 
 In one so very young. 
 
 Did Jesus bring to Joseph's shop. 
 
 Sweet flowers nature grew. 
 
 And with the grace of childhood teach 
 
 The artisan anew? 
 
 When older he would lend a hand. 
 
 The cleverest in all the land. 
 
 That true Judean lad. 
 
 (62) 
 
Or did he sometimes linger long, 
 
 Within the cottage door, 
 
 To see his mother thro' her care, 
 
 Mindful of each humble chore; 
 
 And with the prattle of his tongue. 
 
 Join wisdom's words to old and young, 
 
 Which Mary pondered o'er 
 
 With other children did he play, 
 
 Kindly and gentle still, 
 
 So meekly patient warding off 
 
 The harbingers of ill: 
 
 Perchance some little one were hurt. 
 
 He wouM wipe the blood with his own skrt, 
 
 And brush away the tear. 
 
 The solemn silent Scripture, 
 
 On Jesus' infancy 
 
 Those sacred tender incidents, 
 
 Where we might curious be: 
 
 But in time's plentitude and strength. 
 
 He was our sacrifice at length. 
 
 The holy Nazarene. 
 
 NOON. 
 
 It was the noon-tide of her life, 
 Distant the evening star. 
 Her morning had been beautiful. 
 And darkness seemed afar. 
 
 But, the lengthened shadows gathered, 
 The twilight came so soon; 
 And our hearts grew sad and troubled. 
 That her sun should set at noon. 
 
 But, Oh! the glorious morrow 
 Of sweetness all untold; 
 The shining of her sun again, 
 And shining seven-fold. 
 
 (63) 
 
NOT LOST. 
 
 Wie do not say the birds are lost 
 When hid from mortal eye, 
 With heaven directed wing they soar, 
 Intently aiming evermore, 
 To reach the upper sky. 
 
 We do not say the ship is lost 
 That passeth from our view. 
 The lessening sail doth only tell 
 Of sheltering ports beyond the swell, 
 Rough seas and tempests through. 
 
 We do not say the seed is lost, 
 When buried deep in earth 
 To sow may give the laborer pain, 
 But precious seed shall spring again. 
 And manifold be worth. 
 
 We do not say the stars are lost. 
 When morning breaks night's gloom. 
 They are but hidden from our gaze. 
 They're shining still with heavenly rays, 
 At threshold of our home. 
 
 The loved of earth the gentle ones. 
 
 Who left us long ago, 
 
 Through clouds they've only soared on high 
 
 O'er stormy seas to port draw nigh. 
 
 Then are they lost? Oh No! 
 
 EVER TO JESUS. 
 
 To whom shall I go when rough billows meet. 
 And contrary winds against my barque beat? 
 When clouds vail with darkness the mariners star. 
 And the haven of shelter is yet very far? 
 Tossed voyager, to Jesus. 
 
 To whom shall I go when sorrows have come. 
 
 And lonely I sit in a "once happy home"? 
 
 When tears are my food by day and by night, 
 
 And the deep grave divides me from all my delight? 
 
 Oh heart bereaved, to Jesus! 
 
 (64) 
 
To whom shall I g owhen the tempter is nigh, 
 And against me strong weapons doth skillfully ply — 
 When the conflict is wounding and wasting my strength, 
 And I fall, without help, I must yield me >at length? 
 Tr,led spirit, go to Jesus! 
 
 To whom shall I go, the world I have tried. 
 And turn from it worn and unsatisfied, — 
 I'm weary, I'm weary — with grief sorely pressed 
 Who, who can speak comfort and give me heart rest? 
 Oh sinner, none biit Jesus! 
 
 Afar from the fold and the kind Shepherd's care 
 The path that I tread is all rugged and bare: 
 
 for the green pasture where still waters flow, 
 
 1 hunger and thirst! To whom shall I go? 
 Poor wanderer, back to Jesus. 
 
 To whom shall I go when joy fills my cup. 
 And my ways is o'er arched with the rainbow of hope. 
 When the earth smiles below, and the heavens look bright. 
 And a voice would fain whisper, there "Cometh no night"? 
 Oh then, keep close to Jesus! 
 
 To whom shall I go when near the dark waters, 
 
 And on the steep bank my flesh-nature falters? 
 
 When from earth's scenes and friendships I'm passing away, 
 
 Blest spirit, home to Jesus! 
 
 OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 
 
 1913-1914. 
 
 Old year, old friend, a long farewell, — 
 Our paths divide and we must part; 
 Nor is it strange at parting time; 
 Something akin to tears should start. 
 
 The year-ship that has borne us well 
 Across a portion of life's sea, — 
 Another barque is waiting us. 
 But we will still remember thee. 
 
 The year book and its latest page, 
 We close the volume w.ith a sigh; 
 Things that we've done or left undone. 
 Whose influence will never die. 
 
 (65) 
 
Old year, old friend, farewell, farewell, 
 Patient companion on our way. 
 Good blessings from the Father's hand. 
 Twelve months of time by night, by day. 
 
 New year, new friend, we welcome thee, 
 And hope right pleasantly to spend 
 Together days of peace and cheer. 
 With God to love izfi and defend. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Twelve months have passed, a Friend is come 
 
 A friend who vists every home; 
 
 The high, the low, the rich, the poor, 
 
 The palace and the cabin door; 
 
 Who is this Friend? I hear you say — 
 
 Why sure it is good Christmas day; 
 
 Ring out ye bells, rejoice O earth, 
 
 For Christmas means the Savior's birth. 
 
 The interchange of gifts is meet. 
 
 As "merrie Christmas" we repeat. 
 
 THANKSGIVING A. D. 1912. 
 
 Come let us rejoice and be thankful to-day, 
 A year has rolled 'round and we hold on our way; 
 God's mercies are many, far more than we earn, 
 And thanksgiving lesson is easy to learn. 
 
 First peace in our borders, no fire and no flood. 
 While abroad rages war with confusion and blood; 
 Surely, angels encamp near our country and seas; 
 Long, long may the banner wave forth to the breeze. 
 
 Of bread there is plenty and waters are sure, 
 God's promise and blessing forever endure; 
 And if trouble o'ertake us and scenes are less bright, 
 'Tis needful night deepens before it is light. 
 
 The summer was golden and kindly the fall, 
 Now thanksgiving cheer and God's worship withal; 
 'Tis the "prayer and the provender hindering no man," 
 If only we do the very best that we can. 
 
 (66) 
 
Rejoicing, contented, our hearts we upraise, 
 And we'll follow the Lord in the good old ways; 
 We'll sing in the spirit with a thanksgiving strain, 
 And God will smile on us and bless us again. 
 
 MY PORTRAITS. 
 
 I have a chamber jn my heart, 
 'Tis long and wide and high; 
 And often I delight to walk 
 The quiet spaces by. 
 
 Portraits are hanging on the walls. 
 That almost speak to me, 
 Those friendly eyes, those waiting hands. 
 Just as they used to be. 
 
 But when I try to speak to them. 
 My lips refuse to move, 
 Save in the language of the heart, 
 That silent voice of love. 
 
 My parents first, wise, kind and good. 
 Cheek furrowed, silvery hair, 
 Upon the altar of their love, 
 Life was consumed with care. 
 
 Father, mother, could I perform 
 But half so well my part, 
 It would rejoice me every day. 
 And satisfy my heart. 
 
 And little children, darling ones, 
 "Whom God called in from play. 
 To shelter them against life's storm 
 Until another day. 
 
 A noble youth of comely mein, 
 With sash of red that bound him, 
 Who sudden fell in cruel war. 
 His colors wrapped around him. 
 
 f67) 
 
And here's the homestead of my birth, 
 On green banks of a river, 
 That noble stream, the Powhatan, 
 Flowing ou and on forever. 
 
 And what is this? the good old church, 
 With pointed spire to Heaven, 
 Strong-hold of hope and port of peace 
 To spirits tempest driven. 
 
 Another city — mounfiJ scene. 
 
 Nay do not turn thy head, 
 
 For willows weep while loved ones sleep 
 
 In this city of the Dead! 
 
 My College Institute is next. 
 Comrades were wont to meet; 
 A few remain, but most are gone, 
 To learn at Jesus' feet. 
 
 The Portrait gallery of my heart. 
 These pictures all and more: 
 I breathe them a short farewell. 
 And softly close the door. 
 
 ANNO DOMINI 1911. 
 
 And must we change our date anew, 
 And nineteen ten, discard that, too? 
 "W/hen we had just acquaintance made. 
 And plans and purpose fairly made. 
 
 We meant to do so much this year. 
 To trim our barque and neatly steer; 
 The rocks of folly we would shun. 
 And in the smoothest channels run. 
 
 Ourselves to navigate — yea, more, 
 The waters scan and "lend an oar," 
 To needy vessels close and far; — 
 Lord, pilot us "across the bar." 
 
 Bon voyage now, the coast is clear, 
 O we shall sail ahead this year. 
 Whose name we've written every day, — 
 "Redeem the time," our chart doth say. 
 
 (68) 
 
And have we done it nineteen ten? 
 Thou precious gift from God to men: 
 Then let us pray that nineteen 'leven, 
 Earthward, may help us. to Heaven. 
 
 THE NETHER OCEAN. 
 
 Know ye when the storms rack the watery deep, 
 And wnds in their fury o'er everything sweep; 
 When waves rise and break with a deafening roar. 
 As if claiming the right of the way evermore. 
 
 Ah! know ye that down far below the wild scene, 
 A holy calm rests in the dark liquid green, — 
 For God sounds a word to the ocean's deep home 
 "Thus far, and no farther, those proud waves shall come. 
 
 Skies forbidding and black, as tho' earth had no morn. 
 The ship timbers creak to the pitiless storm; 
 But smooth is the floor of the great nether sea, 
 With rare gems and shells paved most beautifully. 
 
 Truly, such is a picture of this mortal life. 
 
 With its tossing and moaning, its surging and strife; 
 
 But the soul is all quiet and knoweth no ill, 
 
 For the voice of the Master hath said, "Peace! be still." 
 
 THE IRISH IMMIGRANT. 
 
 He has left his home, 
 
 By the sea-breezes fanned. 
 
 Where the grasses grow green. 
 
 In old Ireland. 
 
 'Tis the Emerald-isle, 
 
 In pure crystal set, 
 
 And no souJ that is Irish 
 
 Can ever forget. 
 
 But we leave what we love. 
 With a sigh in the heart. 
 And a tear in the gland 
 That is too deep to start. 
 Then, when it's too late, 
 The home-sickness will come — 
 "Nostralgia," they call it. 
 Just dying for home. 
 
 (69) 
 
Lo! now, the strange dock, 
 And the side busy streets; 
 But no "morning" to "Pat," 
 From the many he meets. 
 And he talks to himself, 
 "If I find the old sod, 
 I'll kneel down and kiss it. 
 And so help me, God!" 
 
 The buildings — the buildings, 
 How grow they so high, 
 When, methinks the same sun 
 Shines not in the sky. 
 It passes description, 
 This "land of the free," 
 They may have it who want it. 
 But Ireland for me. 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 Sorrow is out to-n.ight, 
 
 Sorrow is on the sea; 
 
 The racing waves lash high the waves. 
 
 And ships drift hopelessly. 
 
 A schooner seeks the oflBng, 
 
 Misses the beacon light, — 
 
 The blinding' storm, the rocks ahead, 
 
 And horror of the night! 
 
 Ripped seams, torn shrouds. 
 
 The slanting mast speaks forth. 
 
 But to that signal of distress. 
 
 No answer west of north! 
 
 White icy billows — life's slipping pillow, 
 
 Pink roseate shell and coral, 
 
 Pearl studded tomb — 
 
 And the sea hath room 
 
 For one poor little shallop. 
 
 God of the ocean, mighty God, 
 
 Temper the wintry storm, 
 
 Utter a peace above the waves, 
 
 And save the schooner's form. 
 
 But if the wild, wild wreck must come, 
 
 (70) 
 
speed the danger signal; 
 Hie thee, O sister-craft, hie home, 
 And well the music, ship ahoy! 
 To give those frozen sufferer joy. 
 Within the sinking shallop! 
 
 Jesus, we know Thou art at hand, 
 On Galilee Thou once didst stand 
 When storm racked that lone sea. 
 
 UPWARD ONWARD. 
 
 Look up and not down. 
 For rough is the tide; 
 Look onward, my brother, 
 'Tis smoother that side. 
 
 Look upward to God, 
 And not down to man; 
 Look onward to glory 
 Time measures a span. 
 
 Look upward to Heaven, 
 
 'Tis not very far, 
 
 Though doubt may be whisp'ring. 
 
 As yon distant star. 
 
 The veil is so thin, 
 The journey so small; 
 Right upward, right onward, 
 Brave comrade, that's all. 
 
 The field is for strife, 
 Till day-light is done; 
 Heart cool and eye steady. 
 The battle is won. 
 
 Upward and onward. 
 Our watch word shall be. 
 As long as we're sailing 
 O'er life's troubled sea. 
 
 (71) 
 
EARTH. 
 
 The days are long and full of care, 
 
 The thorns that pierce grow every where; 
 
 O tell me of a better place, 
 
 To rest this sad and tear-stained face. 
 
 The days fly fast, God's hand I see 
 Upholding all, and therefore me; 
 Amid its change, the earth is fair, 
 While we are blessed with God's kind care. 
 
 AT REST. 
 
 (To the memory of a beloved elder in Cook's Creek Church, Va., vis, 
 Frank Ralston.) 
 
 The hills look down in pity, 
 
 Quiet the vale of to-day 
 
 While the men bear forth their brother. 
 
 From House of God to clay 
 
 So tenderly and gently. 
 They bear the precious form. 
 At perfect rest from every woe. 
 And safe beyond life's storm 
 
 The valiant soldier is discharged 
 And drinks the heavenly cup; 
 But who to meet the battles here 
 Will take his armour up? 
 
 Faithful in all the walks of life. 
 Ready for work and word; 
 He bade his souil watch and wait 
 The coming of the Lord. 
 
 His memory v/ill long abide, 
 Thro' earthly passing days; 
 Embalmed with all that we can give, — 
 Our tear-drops and our praise, 
 
 Methinks the angels hold in charge. 
 The dust beneath that sod; 
 And hover o'er the silent path, 
 Anear the House of God. 
 
 (72) 
 
Ye stricken ones, learn to rejoice, 
 Altho' you weeping stand; 
 Him follow as he followed Christ, 
 To meet at God's right hand. 
 
 ONE OF THOSE DAYS. 
 
 Gospel of Luke, 8-22, Revised Version. 
 
 Sweet day, I call it when the Saviour stepped 
 
 Within a boat, 
 
 Upon the waters of Tib'rias' lake, 
 
 Whose ripples yet the silvery notes awake — , 
 
 And they launched forth. 
 
 Then in the vessel's hinder part He slept, 
 
 Alone, unmarked. 
 
 Quiet, as tho' He would not incommode 
 
 The toiling ones who willingly bent and rowed 
 
 Toward the shore. 
 
 When, lo! adown the gorge winds unbound rushed 
 Upon the lake: 
 
 And troubled roaring waves that would destroy, 
 Their Master knew and licked His feet with joy; 
 Great was the calm. 
 
 My fellow voyager, is life's sea rough, 
 
 Art thou afraid? 
 
 The tossings to and fro, wave after wave, 
 
 Hoarse ghostly whispers of a watery grave, — 
 
 And Christ asleep. 
 
 Nay, Christ is not asleep, — one of those days. 
 On earth he slept; 
 
 Oppressed and tempted, yea, He hungered too, 
 And like uis toiling, worn and weary grew, — 
 But He arose. 
 
 And on that other side He watches us. 
 
 Far in the night; 
 
 He knows that 'gainst us winds contrary blow. 
 
 The storm runs h.igh and faith, alas! 
 
 '"Tis I, fear not." 
 
 (73) 
 
RESURRECTION. 
 
 A plant truly eccentric was given to me. 
 One more uninviting you seldom will see; 
 All dried-up and withered, a fibreless thing. 
 That seemed only fit in the open to fling. 
 
 Wait, — life may he hidden in this hardened dust, 
 For often appearance belied hope and trust: 
 There's many a leaflet .in dame Nature's book. 
 Will repay us our labor if only we look. 
 
 I followed directions — "put this tangled moss 
 A few fleeting days in water filled glass;" 
 Then, lo what a change — verdure, beauty and all. 
 From gardens in Heaven, did this wonder fall? 
 
 The plant, "Resurrection," yes that is its name, 
 
 Not Heaven, but Mexico, place whence it came; 
 
 To teach the grand lesson, how Death and the Grave 
 
 Will someday be transformed when the Lord Christ shall save. 
 
 THE DAY OF PENTECOST. 
 
 And when the day of Pentecost was fully come. — Acts, 2:1. 
 
 Oh! for Pentecostal fire, 
 
 In these eventfuJ years, 
 
 To warm our hearts with heavenly love. 
 
 And penitential tears. 
 
 Father, we come unto Thy house, 
 
 With languishing existence. 
 
 And faint, we try to preserve, 
 
 But Oh! we need Thy presence. 
 
 So many pass the open door, 
 
 Souls hungry, almost dead, 
 
 Draw them, oh, spirit of the Lord, 
 
 To where the feast is spread; 
 
 Oh! for Pentecostial fire. 
 
 To penetrate the cold, 
 
 And draw a thousand souls to Christ, 
 
 Within the Church's fold. 
 
 (74) 
 
MY ROCK. 
 
 I sat beside my teacher, 
 
 In Sabbath School of old, 
 
 And eagerly I listened 
 
 To all the things that she told; 
 
 One was a verse of Scripture, 
 
 Simple and short and sweet, 
 
 Easy to be remembered, 
 
 And we should all repeat; 
 
 'Twas 2nd verse, Psalm 6l8t, 
 
 Full clear our voices rang, 
 
 And perhaps adown the ages. 
 
 Shall echo and re-echo 
 
 The very words we sang. 
 
 "Higher than I, 
 
 Yes, higher than I. 
 
 Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.' 
 
 'Twixt this and that it happened, 
 
 So many years away, — 
 
 It seems but yesterday. 
 
 How oft that short and simple verse 
 
 Has helped God's children here. 
 
 In over-stress of daily toil. 
 
 And wiped away a tear. 
 
 The Psalmist's prayer, let it be ours. 
 
 Long as we tread the vale; 
 
 'Twill give us strength e'en to the last, 
 
 When flesh and heart sTiall fail. 
 
 "Higher than I, 
 
 Yes, higher than I, 
 
 Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I," 
 
 (75) 
 
THE HOPIA TREE. 
 
 (Dr. Judson and Mrs. A. H. J. were in the band of the first Mission- 
 aries from our country to India. At that early date, they suffered 
 much in the cause. Mrs. Judson died at the age of 37 years, and the 
 American ladies of the Baptist church erected a suitable monument 
 to her memory near the river Martaban.) 
 
 The Hopia-tree, and it grows there yet, 
 In the land of the Southern sun, 
 And it marks the lovely resting place 
 Of a toiler whose work was done. 
 'Tis a quiet scene and a sacred spot. 
 On the banks of the Martaban. 
 
 The years have rolled onward since Anne Hazeltine, 
 
 Went forth from her own native land. 
 
 To teach the dark heathen and learn their strange tongue, 
 
 Near the jungles of Hindustan. 
 
 Brave and heroic till God bade her rest, 
 
 On the banks of the Martaban. 
 
 "The teacher is long in coming," she moaned. 
 And the kind "natives" drew to her side, 
 They heard a faint blessing, a child's dear name; 
 Then, the wife and the mother had died! 
 Sweet little "Maria lies sleeping too," 
 On the banks of the Maraban. 
 
 O come to the shade of the Hopia tree, 
 
 In the land that is far away. 
 
 And pause, if you will, on the sacred spot. 
 
 And gather an evergreen spray. 
 
 To the memory of her whom the angels took home. 
 
 From the banks of the Maraban. 
 
 REPENT. 
 
 "Yet forty days, O Nineveh, 
 
 And thou shalt be destroyed!" 
 
 What prophet form, what voice is this, 
 
 Jehovah's hand employed? 
 
 His servant Jonah and the cry, 
 
 "Yet forty days, O Nineveh!" 
 
 (76) 
 
The devotee and the worldling smiled, 
 
 "Nay prophet, thou art mad;" 
 
 But many a heart grew sick and faint, 
 
 And many a visage sad: 
 
 Still thro' the streets, that bitter cry, 
 
 "Yet forty days, O Nineveh!" 
 
 The king upon his golden throne. 
 
 The vassal 'neath the wall, 
 
 Turned unto prayer and penitence, 
 
 In ash and sack-cloth, all. 
 
 "O spare this wicked city. Lord," 
 
 The broken contrite prayer was heard. 
 
 And thou wast spared, O Nineveh, 
 Now, sinner wilt thou hear? 
 Thy life is measured, "forty days," 
 God's judgments are so near. 
 Repent, and get thee unto prayer. 
 And in great mercy God will spare. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 Year of our Lord, 1911. 
 Farewell, old year, good friend, farewell! 
 No more together may we dwell; 
 Good-bye, receive our blessing now, 
 On thy white locks and furrowed brow. 
 
 We knew thee in thy early youth. 
 
 Decked out with flowers and smiles forsooth; 
 
 Glories of summer 'round thee shone. 
 
 And autumn paintings were thine own. 
 
 From morn to noon thy sun rose high, 
 Then down the slope to twilight sky; 
 And what hath been, ah, who can tell. 
 Of life and death; of heaven and hell! 
 
 The hour-glass, scythe, bird's rapid flight. 
 The flowing stream, the book closed tight, — 
 Such is a year, — we let it pass, 
 But time is kind, and turns the glass. 
 
 (77) 
 
DOGWOOD. 
 
 The white tent of the dogwood tree 
 Once more our eyes behold; 
 So different from the winter time, 
 All bleak and bare and cold. 
 
 Beside the forest's tender green, 
 The snowy leaf appears, 
 And gently bending o'er our head, 
 The dogwood smiles and cheers. 
 
 Who could be sad when Nature wakes 
 From her long season's sleep. 
 And pitches this white tent again, 
 A silent watch to keep. 
 
 'Tis only for a little while, 
 When like the Arab clan. 
 The canvas will be taken down, 
 And seen no more by man. 
 
 But now we gaze and feast our eyes, 
 Upon the snow-white bloom, 
 And think if sin-cursed earth is fair. 
 What will be Heaven's home? 
 
 When Eden's garden man destroyed, 
 God saved some precious flowers. 
 And gave the trees their varied hues, 
 Before the fruitage hours. 
 
 And why He paints the dogwood white, 
 'Tis not for us to know, — 
 Except He loved the pure in heart 
 And man should holy grow. 
 
 Then we salute our dogwood friend. 
 Upon the mountain slope, 
 And take the lesson close to mind. 
 Of joy and love and hope. 
 
 (78) 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 The rustling leaves of varied hue, 
 The nuts that rattle down, 
 Proclaim the changes passing o'er 
 Hill-country and the town. 
 
 And yet, the quietude of air. 
 The whispers soft and low 
 Tell of a season sure to come, 
 The ice, the cold, the snow. 
 
 The interim, so kindly given. 
 
 To grace earth's roughened way; 
 
 We gather breath and strength the while, 
 
 This same October day. 
 
 Should summer quickly, sudden change, 
 
 To nature and to man; 
 
 All nature would be paralyzed. 
 
 And brief our mortal span. 
 
 O depth of knowledge, wisdom. 
 Great God, we find in Thee; 
 'Tis written large on all around. 
 If we could only see. 
 
 Open our eyes, Lord, to behold, 
 And warm our hearts to feel 
 The wonders of Thy gracious hand, 
 Autumnal days reveal. 
 
 KIND WORDS AT HOME. 
 
 Speak kindly to the aged sire, 
 
 Whose locks are silvered o'er — 
 
 'Twill ease his heart and bring back joys, 
 
 That else would come no more. 
 
 Speak kindly to thy father, 
 
 And comfort him with love; 
 
 Long hath he cared and toiled for thee, — 
 
 Soon he may rest above. 
 
 (79) 
 
Speak kindly to thy mother, 
 
 And smooth life's rugged way; 
 
 Ah! watching nights she spent for thee, 
 
 And many a weary day. 
 
 Speak kindly to thy brother, 
 
 His young affections win, 
 
 And thou shalt have a strong-linked chain, 
 
 To keep him back from sin. 
 
 Speak kindly to the sister, 
 Her's is a gentle heart, 
 And treasures up for thee a love 
 That naught on earth can part. 
 
 Yea, even to the little babe 
 In words of kindness speak, ' 
 And of that fair immortal soul. 
 Help form a spirit meek. 
 
 And should a stranger chance to be 
 Amid the household band. 
 Speak kindly to his lonely heart 
 And give a brother's hand. 
 
 To those who in thy service wait. 
 Aye speak in kindly tone. 
 And pay with smile and gentle word 
 Each little favor done. 
 
 O, ever speak kind words at home, 
 'Twill spread sweet joys around. 
 And bring back joys unto thy breast 
 In measure to abound. 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 What are the children doing today, 
 What are the children doing? 
 Out in the fine air, out in the sun, 
 Gathering the violets, every one, — 
 For it is the violet season. 
 
 (80) 
 
I see them in groups of three and six, 
 And a dear little child alone; 
 Her bonnet is cast on the grass aside, 
 And under it many flowers hide, 
 Sweet violets, blue and white. 
 
 I believe the Good Father throws them down 
 "With a lavish hand and heart. 
 On the soft green sward and over the lawn, 
 Dazzling with diamonds at early dawn. 
 Wild violets children love. 
 
 Sweet is the influence of the flowers, 
 And quiet as it is strong; 
 The violet school hath a subtle sway. 
 And violet fragrance for life's long day, 
 'Till evening opens Heaven. 
 
 BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Apple blossoms, red, white and green. 
 How could there be a fairer scene; 
 Beauties of earth and heaven meet. 
 To shed rich fragrance at our feet. 
 
 The baby lisps, sweet apple bloom. 
 And stretches forth a glad welcome; 
 While aged lips trill trembling song. 
 O'er apple blossoms loved so long. 
 
 ThinTi you that heaven itself will show 
 Plowers fairer than these flowers below? 
 And it may be, for none can tell 
 The glories of Immanuel. 
 
 Then lift the eye, lift it above, 
 And praise our God whose name is Love; 
 Then look around earth's dwelling place. 
 For smilings of our Father's face. 
 
 (81) 
 
SHIPWRECK. 
 
 In the last days of January, two steamships collided off Cape Charles 
 on the Virginia coast; the crash came suddenly in the dense fog, — 
 the "Munroe" sank in a few minutes and over forty persons perished, 
 some after being rescued. 
 
 Another horror on the sea, 
 Another plunging in the wave, 
 Two-score and more of souls are dead. 
 And buried in a watery grave. 
 
 A blinding fog, two ships of steam 
 Bound northward, southward, they collide! 
 In state-room berths the many sleep; — 
 They wake to wreck, and so they died. 
 
 Unclad and dazed they walk the sides 
 Of that great ship, now overturned 
 In rush the waves on slippery planks, — ■ 
 And yet no storm the ocean churned. 
 
 How strange, how awful, how beyond 
 
 The utmost stretch of human mind; 
 
 "Five righteous" souls God could not find? 
 
 O God, engrave this awful scene 
 
 Upon the hearts of living men. 
 
 That they may know how short the step 
 
 Twixt life and death — and ah, what then? 
 
 Come, sinner, come to Jesus' feet, 
 Implore His mercy, kneel in prayer; 
 Remember all the vows you've made, — 
 O come to church and worship there. 
 
 MRS. ELMER H. WADE. 
 
 Died at Marlinton, W. Va., December 13, 1913, aged 36 years. A 
 woman, greatly beloved, and whose "path was like th© shining light 
 that shineth more and more unto the perfect day." 
 
 And she hath joined the company 
 Of those redeemed on high 
 Her soul attuned to harmony. 
 Before the Throne of God. 
 
 (82) 
 
And she was with us here awhile 
 Astir from place to place; 
 We see her yet, that pleasant smile, 
 That hand so kind and true, 
 
 Me thinks she had a gentle haste, 
 
 In holy movement here 
 
 As if life's dial shadow cast 
 
 The shortening of her days. 
 
 Of such as she, the world hath need, 
 Yet God doth not mistake; 
 His lines, thro' tears, we cannot read 
 But surely, it is well. 
 
 Oh, may her fallen mantle rest 
 On Zion that she loved. 
 Where all arise to call her blessed. 
 And mourn for many days. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Died, in the city of Baltimore, on September 2nd, of a chronic heart 
 disease, — Helen, youngest of seven children of the widowed mother, 
 Mrs. Cornelia Bennett, who spent a summer in Marlinton some years 
 ago. Thro' many months of acute suffering, we seem to hear this 
 dear christian girl saying to the Angels: 
 
 "I want to put on my attire. 
 Washed white in the blood of the Lamb, 
 I want to be one of your choir. 
 And tune my soft harp to His home: 
 
 "I want — O, I want to be there, 
 Where sorrow and sin bid adieu. 
 Your joy and your friendship to share 
 To wonder and worship with you!" 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Just how and when and where, 
 As pleaseth Thee, O Lord, — 
 To break the fountain cup, 
 Or loose the silver cord." 
 
 (83) 
 
It is not mine to know 
 
 The circumstance of death; 
 
 'Tis thine to intermit 
 
 Who gave this mortal breath. 
 
 So, be not troubled, heart, 
 The Lord hath ever stood 
 Beside his parting ones 
 That trust in Jesus' blood. 
 
 Then how and when and where, 
 Just as it pleaseth Thee; 
 Only, I pray this prayer, 
 Dear Lord, stand" thou by me. 
 
 A LITTLE ONE. 
 
 Anna Bell, infant child of Mr. and Mrs. S. E. Williams, Valley Center, 
 Va., died December 6, 1911. 
 
 A babe is like the "breathing" rose, 
 That sweetens home and heart; 
 And Oh, how slow we are to learn 
 The rose may soon depart. 
 
 This rose-bud stem is broken now, 
 And the fair blossom gone; 
 We cannot find it anywhere, 
 For it has upward flown. 
 
 The mother's eyes are full of tears. 
 Empty her arms tonight — ' 
 The babe she loved has slipped away. 
 List! from the dark to light. 
 
 Fond mother, grieve not over-much, 
 These days so sad and lone; 
 God giveth, — and God taketh too. 
 What is his very own. 
 
 Earth's paths, perhaps, might be o'er rough 
 
 For soft sweet blossom fair. 
 
 So angels bore it hence to bloom, 
 
 On Jesus' bosom there. 
 
 (84) 
 
JEANETTE; AGED 11. 
 
 Died, May 16, 1912, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. H. P. Patterson, 
 Monterey, Virginia. 
 
 To one whose life has reached three-score. 
 Betwixt this world and Heaven, 
 How short and flitting like a dream 
 The life of this dear child doth seem. 
 Whose mile-stones marked eleven! 
 
 Yet very many pleasant things 
 May be in that brief space; 
 The earth is fair and life is sweet, 
 As tripped along by youthful feet 
 In kindly sheltered place. 
 
 And not in vain hath Jeanette lived. 
 Nor yet hath died in vain; 
 The broken vase, the severed rose. 
 Rest in long and deep repose, 
 But sweet perfumes remain. 
 
 BABY'S SEWING. 
 
 Diving low in the depths of a catch-all place, ' 
 
 Where everything strove for a wee bit of a place, 
 I picked up a treasure — was it ducats or gem? 
 Nay, surely, my friend, it was none of them. 
 
 Just a piece of patch-work done by a baby's hand, 
 
 The various colors all prettily planned; 
 
 But those wonderful stitches, uneven and long. 
 
 The safe double thread and knots large and strong. 
 
 To accomplish that feat on a winter day bright; 
 So lay it aside — the dear baby's endeavor, 
 I wish not to lose, but will keep it forever. 
 
 MORNING PRAYER. 
 
 Before the sun has risen fair. 
 Listen! it is the call to prayer; 
 How sweet and solemn is the sound 
 Echoing thro' the vale around. 
 
 (85) 
 
At morning-tide, united prayer, — 
 Surely, it pleases God up there; 
 The Master meets His two or three 
 And where the great assemblies be. 
 
 Ere yet the hum of business hours 
 Smoke-stacks, bank, store and office-towers, 
 The soul can find its own repose. 
 To meet life's work, life's joy, life's woes. 
 
 Time is a transient, passing thing, 
 The bird's not poised, it's on the wing; 
 And ere the flight doth end for thee. 
 Come, take Salvation full and free. 
 
 Listen, the secret God will tell 
 To worshipers who love Him well; 
 And gird the armor to withstand, 
 Till pilgrims reach the Holy Land. 
 
 Shall moslems heed Muezzim's call 
 And christians never heed at all 
 Summons to church, God's Kingdom here. 
 Nor in His earthly courts appear? 
 
 THE VICTOR. 
 
 I heard some little boys at play, — 
 "Come, let us run a race today;" 
 Yes, and I'll place upon your brow 
 A wreath from yonder oaken bough. 
 
 "Who wants a wreath of leaves or grass, 
 Nothing but gold with me will pass;" 
 Ah! well, I see you do not know 
 Of games Olympic long ago. 
 
 How sturdy youth of Grecian mold. 
 Stirred all their nerve in days of old, 
 And deemed a crown of oaken leaf 
 Far better than a harvest sheaf. 
 
 The simplest symbols are the real. 
 And to the noble soul appeal; 
 A sordid age it is indeed 
 That must be fed by golden feed. 
 
 (86) 
 
A father in that ancient clime, 
 Had sons — two sons who won the time; 
 He gazed with joy and honest pride, 
 Embraced his sons, and then — he died! 
 
 Methinks those sons with filial love. 
 The chaplets from their brows remove. 
 And bending low with silent tear. 
 Lay them upon their father's bier. 
 
 Come, little boy, hope of our race, 
 If victor, on thy head I'll place 
 A garland from the oaken tree, 
 Type of true life and victory. 
 
 FOLLOW ON. 
 
 "Then shall we know, if we follow on to know the Lord." Hosea 6, 3. 
 
 We have a guide, a faithful guide. 
 To lead our steps aright. 
 Through all the dangers of the way, 
 And in the darksome night. 
 The voice so clear, we ever hear, 
 Just follow on. 
 
 A perilous country is our life. 
 With pitfalls here and there; 
 And for our feet adown the cliffs, 
 No ladder and no stair. 
 But he, our guide, is close beside. 
 Just follow on. 
 
 At times, we pause in pleasant paths. 
 Where angels seem to hover; 
 We'll pitch our tent and rest awhile, 
 'Mid roses and the clover. 
 Arise, depart, up, up, faint heart, 
 And follow on. 
 
 Or, we will do some wondrous thing, 
 Fcrr men to sing the praises; 
 We'll carve our name on structure high 
 Far up above the daisies. 
 Lowly and meek, nor great things seek 
 But follow on. 
 
 (87) 
 
And please our guide — who kindly smiles, 
 And lays on us a fetter; 
 Nay, nay, the Master asks not that — 
 Obedience is better. 
 The staff, the rod, the way to God, 
 Just follow on. 
 
 Ah! many travelers have been led. 
 Heights, rivers, valleys low; 
 Safe to the borders of that land. 
 Where they desire to go. 
 And where they be is room for thee — ■ 
 So follow on. 
 
 AT EDRAY. 
 
 Those pleasant hills, that once I trod. 
 When Edray was my aim; 
 The old familiar woodland path. 
 And is it still the same? 
 
 Or has the business of the world 
 Marred all the pleasant scene. 
 Dollars and cents, the hard stiff broom. 
 That sweeps off nature's green? 
 
 The giant trees stretched out their arms, 
 To shield one's foot-steps there, 
 From over-heat of summer sun. 
 And fragrant was the air. 
 
 I mind me of the dark ravine, 
 Where fern palmettoes grow; 
 And shrubbery that loves the shade. 
 With water trickling through. 
 
 Those quiet homes among the hills. 
 So restful to the heart; 
 Bustle and care seem strangers there, 
 And for a while depart. 
 
 Earth still retains some garden spots 
 To draw the pilgrim's feet; 
 Where breezes thro' the tree-tops play, 
 And oM-time songs repeat. 
 
 (88) 
 
THE STRIKES. 
 
 Kanawha's peaceful stream flows red, 
 The troops and aliens fought and bled; 
 I do not praise their spirit vim, 
 I sing for them no funeral hymn. 
 Kanawha, Oh Kanawha! 
 
 Perhaps, the foreign sons of toil. 
 Misunderstanding, drd embroil 
 The pleasant scene of mountain ground 
 And awful was the fell rebound. 
 Kanawha, Oh Kanawha! 
 
 Scarred, blackened trunk of naked wood. 
 That once in vernal beauty stood; 
 But trees weep not and tell no tale 
 Of war-scythe thrust and battle hall. 
 Kanawha, Oh Kanawha! 
 
 The fatherless and widows weep. 
 And thro' the long night do not sleep; 
 Among the dead they seek their own. 
 To meet cold hands and eyes of stone. 
 Kanawha, Oh Kanawha! 
 
 How Mandoletta never wed. 
 He whom she loved had fought and bled; 
 To Mandoletta, more than brother. 
 And Mandoletta seeks no other. 
 Kanawha, Oh Kanawha! 
 
 Sweet Bird of Peace, and hast thou flown 
 From scenes of blood and death groan? 
 Oh, spread thy wings, come back again. 
 To Caledonia's hill and plain. 
 Kanawha, Oh Kanawha! 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Autumn is calling — the leaves are falliing, 
 And the air that fans your brow 
 Like music remote — strikes a pensive note, 
 In the key of the autumn now. 
 
 (89) 
 
Yes, the summer green — that curtained the scene, 
 Is drawing its folds aside; 
 The casement to free — and landscape to see. 
 For chambers of earth are wide. 
 
 Some leaves drop away — but the many stay. 
 The length of their days to fill, 
 In yellow to shine — ^and red crimson fine, 
 Artistic, consummate skill. 
 
 And Nature marks Life — even tenor and strife; 
 Sweet Spring buds and flow'rets come, — 
 Youth's strong pulses beat — noontide, fever heat; 
 Then the golden sheaf — and the fallen leaf. 
 Till pale Winter brings us "home." 
 
 MEMORIAL TRIBUTE. 
 
 Silent and sweet the perfume rose 
 
 From the flowers on the casket lid 
 
 And spoke of the life now gone from us, 
 
 That life with the Savior hiti. 
 
 Peacefully, gently, lay her down. 
 And lay the sweet blossoms there 
 To tell the stars of the life we loved. 
 So useful, so kind and fair. 
 
 Flowers will wither and pass away 
 Their perfume will soon depart; 
 Not so, the mem'ry of God's dear saint. 
 Of that loving, faithful heart. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 I wish you "Merry Christmas," 
 And the happiest New Year, 
 And I wish your cup of blessings 
 May overflow with cheer. 
 
 We're glad to walk together, 
 And greetings interchange, 
 In paths old and familiar, 
 Or may-be, new and strange. 
 
 (90) 
 
Kind hearts, brave hearts and cheerful. 
 
 Behold .the Chrtetmas morn, 
 
 And ever more be thankful 
 
 For the Christ-child who was born. 
 
 And Christmas now is coming 
 Just as before it came; 
 And children hail the season, 
 And love its very name. 
 
 One saint we all acknowledge, 
 Upon this festal day; 
 Nicholas, St. Glaus, Kriss Kringle, 
 As the old year wears away. 
 
 His method is for hiding 
 The gifts he brings along; 
 And so the more surprising. 
 And joyfuller the song. 
 
 I wish you "Merry Christmas," 
 And "Happy New Year," too, 
 Friends, citizens and children, 
 And all things good to you. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 This old familiar earth of our, 
 Is decked with snow instead of flowers; 
 Icicles clear and sharp as spears 
 Tell now of war, then melt to tears. 
 
 The river that flowed freely by 
 Is chained with bands forged silently, 
 And where was once a liquid mass, 
 Our feet may walk and safely pass. 
 
 Adown the hill, the coasters go, 
 There's many a tumble in the snow 
 And laughter snaps the crackling air, 
 For it is Christmas everywhere. 
 
 The jingle bells, fly jingling by. 
 And Christmas socks are hanging high; 
 The children shout in happy glee. 
 For it is Christmas, don't you see? 
 
 (91) 
 
Ho Merry Christmas! hearty -will- 
 Old Santa Claus is traveling still; 
 So let us all be of good cheer. 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 THURSDAY, NOV. 27, 1913. 
 
 Thanksgiving-day! Thanksgiving-day; 
 Oh, it has come once more; 
 And does our thankfulness keep pace. 
 With basket and w.ith store. 
 
 Bread daily given, waters sure. 
 Health, comfort, friends and home, — 
 Not from the ground to us arise. 
 Whence do these mercies come? 
 
 Lift up our eyes and view the Hand, 
 Supplying all oiir need; 
 And think! one day of giving thanks, 
 Is small return indeed. 
 
 Just here we have been kept secure 
 From blazing fire and sword. 
 While over portions of the globe. 
 Tempests and seas have warred. 
 
 Southward, the very earth has reeled. 
 And wrinkled up its crust. 
 People and cities disappeared. 
 In chasm, smoke and dust. 
 
 But peacefully we've moved along, 
 The Spring and Summer smiled 
 And now the end of one year's life. 
 Upon our book is filed. 
 
 Surely, in church, at home, afield. 
 We hail Thanksgiving-day, 
 And bless our gracious Lord above 
 Who brings us on our way. 
 
 (92) 
 
TRUST, 
 
 'Tis well, 
 
 I know that it is well, — 
 Altho', Good Teacher, 
 In whose school I learn. 
 This lesson Thou dost give 
 I find it very hard to spell; 
 Then, how can I expect 
 To read and understand 
 Thy ways, O God! 
 
 BvJt, I can trust. 
 
 E'en as the little child 
 
 Doth trust and hold his father's hand, 
 
 When all is dark and strange around; 
 
 And so, again I say, 'tis well, — 
 
 I know that it is well. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 'Tis well to be happy and mirthful and gay, 
 For the calendar tells us, it is Christmas day. 
 
 A Christmas brand-new, and yet hoary with age. 
 For its history dates to the first Christian page. 
 
 When at Bethlehem-town, the blest Savior was born. 
 And the angels rejoiced for the Star of the Morn. 
 
 Scatter smiles and kind words, scatter presents around, 
 And forget not the poor who are every where found. 
 
 Oh, remember the children, the girls and the boys. 
 
 And the tree, labeled "Christmas," with fruitage of toys. 
 
 Without flowers, without children, what would be our globe? 
 Naught but an icicle-fringe and a spangled white robe. 
 
 The birds and the flowers, where the summers are long, 
 Shine in radiant beauty, sing jubilant song. 
 
 But the children, the children, they're steadily growing — 
 The joy in their cup, let it be over flowing. 
 
 (93) 
 
From Christmas to Christmas, to them is an age; 
 But to ufl who are older — just turning a page. 
 
 And while we are "merrie" that Christmas has come — 
 There's a song whose sweet chorus is Heaven, our Home. 
 
 CHIMERS 
 
 The withered leaves of Autumn, 
 Strewn broadcast on the hill, 
 The lonely branches of the trees, 
 The house, Ah! lonlier still; 
 No moving figure on the stair. 
 No childish voice, no foot-fall. 
 No face beside the casement there. 
 But utter silence, all. 
 
 Where are the people who were wont 
 
 To stit the hill-top scene. 
 
 And mark the changes of the year, 
 
 From snow to summer's green; 
 
 More pleasant dwellings do they seek? 
 
 Pleasant this seems to me; 
 
 "While steps on steps ascending. 
 
 Disclose the scenery. 
 
 Air-castles now I build me. 
 Transforming this lone place, 
 For sick-folk, maimed and weary, 
 And for the pale sad face: 
 These quiet upper chambers, 
 For minds that have gone astray. 
 Where thoughts confused may settle. 
 When once they have learned to pray. 
 
 Strange architect, still building, 
 For air-castles take no gold, — 
 Ample, bright and beautiful. 
 And trespass on no one's fold; 
 Gather the happy people. 
 In the hill deserted nest, 
 They smile and salute each other, — 
 The air-castle's name is — Rest. 
 
 (94) 
 
AFTER CHRISTMAS 
 
 Now Christmas is gone, 
 
 And the children are sick; 
 
 And crimson-star rocket 
 
 Lies there just a stick; 
 
 While the candies and "goodies" go begging around, 
 
 And the gramd Christmas-tree, — is tossed to the ground. 
 
 The mother's are tired 
 
 With the servants at play; 
 
 And the fathers feel poor, 
 
 With such long bills to pay; 
 
 Yes truly comes Christmas but once a year, 
 
 And that is enough for the pleasure and cheer. 
 
 The water pipes burst, 
 
 And the coo-stoves, we're told; 
 
 The milk is all frozen. 
 
 While Christmas is cold: 
 
 And leaves of dry holly like tacks strew the floor, 
 
 For hapless night walker to step on and roar. 
 
 Sunshine hath shadow, 
 
 That is good for the soul; 
 
 The racer must run. 
 
 If he reaches the goal; 
 
 And Christmas is "merry" with all its defects, 
 
 But we're willing to wait a whole year for the next. 
 
 THE SYRIAN'S FUNERAL 
 
 List! the church-bell is tolling so sadly it tolls, 
 And through the green valley the slow echo rolls: 
 A soul from our midst has been summoned away, 
 And cold lies his form on this bright summer day. 
 
 A stranger he came to America's land, 
 
 From Lebanon's slope where the "old cedars" stand: 
 
 The scene of the Bible — he bade it good-bye. 
 
 He trimmed his sail westward, and only to die! 
 
 So kindly our men turn from business and trade: 
 And bear the dead gently, where new graves are made: 
 Ah! suffering and death make the whole world akin, 
 And the angel of Peace breathes a heaven within. 
 
 (95) 
 
The bell has ceased tolling, but the sound echoes still, 
 
 Thro' the beautiful valley and forest-clad hill: 
 
 And solemn the message it bears to us all: 
 
 At such hour, as ye think not, the Master may call! 
 
 HO! FOR THE CREW 
 
 Many the highways on the earth, 
 And one is the ocean wide, 
 Where the ships like floating palaces. 
 Are borne on the heaving tide. 
 
 Huge engines and heated furnaces 
 Throbbing as if with life, 
 Propel the great "unsinkables," 
 Thro' the ocean's calm and strife. 
 
 Hither, thither, the vessels go. 
 And "speak" in unknown tongue; 
 How quickly at call the sister ships 
 Rush help to the injured one. 
 
 The ancient craft had canvas wings 
 Like a mammoth bird held down. 
 Skimming the surface of the sea. 
 With record of renown. 
 
 Methinks it were far more pleasant 
 To voyage the old time way. 
 At home for long on the good old ship. 
 And breathing the salt-sea spray. 
 
 Bless them who man the gallant ships, 
 The sailors, the "tars," the crew, 
 And the labor they accomplish. 
 Not many of us could do. 
 
 Sturdy and honest, brave and true 
 Are the seamen of the world; 
 Ho! for the crew and a banner too 
 On the ocean breeze unfurled. 
 
 I am sure that God remembers 
 
 The poor sailor out at sea, 
 
 And God hears his strong "Ay ay Sir!" 
 
 That's given so cheerily. 
 
 (96) 
 
Now when the wild tempest rages, 
 Scooping a watery grave, 
 Oh, lift a prayer to Heaven, 
 For the sailor on the wave. 
 
 DEAD LETTER OFFICE 
 
 The dead-letter office, that terrible place, 
 
 Please don't send our letter there, 
 
 "W)ith the scraps and the wraps and the foreigner's traps, 
 
 And the hiteroglyphics that scare. 
 
 The dead-letter office, where Burleson lives. 
 
 The Post-master general is he; 
 
 We'd be pleased to meet him in "Uncle Sam's" house. 
 
 But his dead-letter office not see. 
 
 O is it a dungeon 'neath the Capitol ground, 
 That deati-letter office? The same; 
 Where posts and white letter ghosts 
 Are fluttering around without name. 
 
 The dead-letter office, 'tis needed, 
 
 O yes, — 
 
 As sepulchers, jails and the like, 
 
 For the envelope scratch, "shure, for niither or Pat, 
 
 From far away Ireland and Mike," 
 
 Mike never could write or find his old friends. 
 Who hopped about just like a flea; 
 And if only he knew the fine song that was true, 
 'Tis the dead-letter office for me. 
 
 The Finns and the Huns and the Visigoths too, 
 Since they are done sacking Rome, 
 Have a beautiful time in Washington clime, 
 A-reading their letters from home. 
 
 O the Dead-letter office, long live it, we say. 
 For the post-master's help without fail. 
 When he puts on his specs to decipher the wrecks, 
 That have slipped inside "Uncle Sam's" mail. 
 
 (97) 
 
SAIL ON— SAIL ON 
 
 Sail on, sail on, the one command, 
 His purpose ought could sever, 
 Tho' scowl with mutterer curse and sneer. 
 Was all he got of hearty cheer; 
 Sail on, need be, forever. 
 
 Like snow capped peak whose loft head 
 
 Commands the plain below, 
 
 The Genoese was bold and free 
 
 To compass unknown land and sea. 
 
 And he was poor, you know. 
 
 Not many noble ones are called, 
 Not many rich in pelt; 
 But God full oft for mighty deed. 
 Appoints some soul that owns this creed, 
 Sail on and out of self. 
 
 Think of Redemption's scheme of grace, 
 It is the same old story; 
 Jesus the Captain, — we His crew, 
 And what He saith, that thing to do 
 Sail on, sail on to glory. 
 
 THE LITTLE GIFT 
 
 A few small fishes and a loaf, 
 Supply the Savior's need, 
 Who with increase miraculous. 
 The multitude doth feed: 
 Simplicity and grandeur 
 Each other met that 'day, 
 Sublimity and lowliness, 
 'Twas ever Jesus' way. 
 
 A few small fishes and a loaf 
 From a lad of Galilee, 
 And it is written in the Book, 
 The record you may see: 
 O the sweetness of salvation. 
 The freeness of God's grace, 
 And the Presence of the Master, 
 In every time and place. 
 
 (98) 
 
A few small fishes and a loaf 
 Just what the laddie brings, 
 And Jesus feeds the multitude, 
 Teaching them many things: 
 And measures shall be meted out, 
 Pressed down and running o'er 
 For each small gift to Jesus, 
 As that same lad of yore. 
 
 LIKE HIM. 
 
 'We shall be like Him; for we shall see Him as He is." — 1 John 3:2. 
 
 "We shall be like Him," — what is this I read 
 We shall be like Him, is it so Indeed? 
 Like Him, our Lord, the Holy One, the Fair, 
 And in the glory of His Kingdom share. 
 
 We shall be like Him, — Ah, we cannot tell 
 What meaneth it until with Him we dwell; 
 Ye hath not seen nor tongue of man revealed 
 The treasured store God hath in mercy sealed. 
 
 Is earth against thee and thy pathway hedged? 
 Wait but His time, the Word of God is pledged; 
 We shall be like Him, and forever more at home. 
 When He with His ten thousand saints shall come. 
 
 Watchman on Zion's wall, what dost thou see? 
 Turn to the east and tell us presently; 
 For we shall be like Him when day appears, 
 And God Himself shall wipe away all tears. 
 
 "FAITHFUL" 
 
 Close up the ranks tho comrades fall, — 
 On to the battle, on! 
 Pause not to mourn a brother dead 
 This battle must be won. 
 
 Quick closed the ranks — no gap between — 
 One glance above the slain; 
 Then with faces set, as for grim work yet. 
 On to the fight again. 
 
 (99) 
 
When wearied, flushed, and all begrimed. 
 At night those victors lay, 
 'Twas thus they spoke of each comrade gone, 
 He helped to win the day. 
 
 So with the church of the living God, 
 When gaps are thick and wide; 
 Close up the ranks, pause not to mourn, 
 Faithful they lived and died! 
 
 And when the day of triumph comes. 
 And ranks close up no more. 
 The blessed names we miss on earth, 
 Jesus will number o'er. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 O sweet is the month of September, 
 That cools and refreshes the brow; 
 How well do we all remember. 
 Such hours as are passing now. 
 
 The heat of the summer is over. 
 The dust on the road-side, fled, 
 'Tis true, that sad memories hover 
 O'er roses and daisies dead. 
 
 But month of September awakens 
 A rainbow of colors still. 
 As breath of Swiss Interlakens 
 Blooms out on the upland hill. 
 
 September doth whisper often 
 Of the summer days gone by. 
 And thoughts of the winter soften 
 Beneath a September sky. 
 
 And so this fair month doth bind us, 
 To hours that brightly shone. 
 Those scenes in the past behind us, 
 And paths that are yet unknown. 
 
 How sweet is the month of September, 
 Refreshing and cooling us so; 
 Thank God for the month of September, 
 As onward we pilgrims go. 
 
 (100) 
 
"GRANDMA'S GIRL" 
 
 have you seen Margaret, 
 The sweetest of girls; 
 With rosy red cheeks, 
 And brown chestnut curls. 
 
 Her eyes like the night, 
 As black as can be; 
 Like stars shining back 
 From the beautiful sea. 
 
 When tired of the street. 
 Its noise and rattle, 
 
 1 turn me to Margaret, 
 And all her sweet prattle. 
 
 The horse-show and circus, 
 May each go for me, 
 If I can have Margaret 
 A while on my knee. 
 
 She'll win the first prize, 
 Among the dear girls, — 
 This same little Margaret, 
 With golden brown curls, 
 
 should you see Margaret, 
 
 1 know you'll agree; 
 And join in my song, — 
 That it's Margaret for me. 
 
 THE OLD TREE 
 
 The old apple tree all crooked and gnarled, 
 That stood over the cool deep well; 
 Ah! the school-boys knew and they climbed it too. 
 When the shadows of evening fell. 
 
 It Is standing yet in the same old place. 
 And the climbers? O years have fled, — 
 Who were urchins then, have grown into men, 
 And — some of the boys are dead. 
 
 (101) 
 
"Twas a friendly tree which the children loved, 
 Where they lunched at the noontide hour, 
 And the arms stretched wide bade them run and hide, 
 When pelted with summer shower. 
 
 The tree was not grown by the farmers' rule, 
 Tall and straight as a tree should be, 
 But crooked and gnarled and unbeautiful, 
 It has filled the young hearts with glee. 
 
 Gigantic and fresh it is standing yet, 
 Like a sentinel at his post; 
 With uniform green that far can be seen, 
 And winter coat white as a ghost. 
 
 When the children come from ends of the earth, 
 At the call of the apple-tree; 
 And gather around on their old play-ground, 
 I should like to be there to see. 
 
 FIVE YEARS TODAY 
 
 How old are you, my little maid? 
 I'm five years old to-day, 
 And I can wait on my Mamma, 
 And Catechism say. 
 
 I know some Bible stories too, 
 'Bout Joseph and those men; 
 Moses, Elijah, Gideon, 
 And Daniel in lion's den. 
 
 What is your name, my little maid? 
 Agnes Louise, she said; 
 I've lots of playthings and a quilt 
 For my doll's cradle bed. 
 
 I'm glad that spring is come once more, 
 And green grass out-of-doors. 
 For I am tired of keeping house 
 Upon the carpet floors. 
 
 The trees will find their leaves again, 
 The birds begin to sing, 
 And little flowers come peeping up. 
 Soon as they've learned 'tis spring. 
 
 (102 
 
Yes, I am five years old, today, 
 What presents will you bring? 
 But the Bible says that it is God 
 Who gives us everything. 
 
 SPRING TIME 
 
 Little children on the mountain, 
 As in the years before. 
 Seeking the wildwood blossoms, 
 Scaling the hill-side o'er. 
 
 Surely, for them the Lord hath made. 
 The sweet wild flowers to grow; 
 Trailing arbutus waxen pink. 
 And drops of white fringed snow. 
 
 No human hand hath planted them 
 Nor saved the precious seed; 
 Perhaps the angels or the birds, 
 Their hidden secrets read. 
 
 By calendar 'tis somewhat late, 
 But now the spring has stormed us. 
 And "flowers" are on the near pear tree, 
 The "baby" has informed us. 
 
 It's pleasant to be thankful. 
 So let us thankful be 
 For blessings of the spring-time 
 And beauties that we see. 
 
 We might have had all that we need. 
 Without the glorious spring. 
 And lost the Resurrection truth 
 That days reviving bring. 
 
 LARKSPUR 
 
 A spray of Larkspur — nothing more — 
 I found in the grass to-day; 
 And it bore me backward many years. 
 To a scene in childhood's day. 
 
 (103) 
 
A group of merry children, we, 
 
 Not far from the schoolhouse door; 
 
 And we played with Larkspur, blue and white, 
 
 And linked it o'er and o'er. 
 
 'Twas jeweled work, we laughed with glee 
 And toiled in the shady nook; 
 A flowery chain for each little wrist. 
 And some we pressed in a book. 
 
 The recess had closed — the master called — 
 We heard not the tinkling bell. 
 Till a Macbeth vision burst on us, 
 And marshalled us in to spell. 
 
 Arraigned at the desk — the gleam of a knife 
 To cut our fingers thro; 
 The tearful bairns and the larkspur chains, 
 How plain it comes to view! 
 
 'Twas a cruel lie to tell a child. 
 
 And I heard no lies at home; 
 
 I could feel the edge of the keen, sharp knife. 
 
 And see the blood trickling down! 
 
 We spake not a word, made no defense, 
 For we felt that a crime was ours 
 More heinous far than words could paint, 
 And all for the pretty flowers. 
 
 The master gave "reprieve", he said, 
 'Twas another death we thought; 
 O, the Larkspur flowers in the recess hour, 
 What a havoc it had wrought! 
 
 And just as I passed that summer day. 
 With its varied light and shade. 
 And the children's smiles turned into tears, 
 So life's after years are made. 
 
 I love the flowers that I suffered for 
 
 Ere yet I could read or write; 
 
 And the Larkspur spray, tho' my head is gray, 
 
 I welcome with great delight. 
 
 (104) 
 
JEHOVAH-JIREH 
 
 God will provide: 
 Remember, Oh, remember, 
 This word, Jehovah-jireh; — 
 Look at the birds, so frail, so small. 
 And flitting carelessly, 
 God feedeth them, yes, everyone 
 With food sufficient free; 
 Then, do not fear, O child of God, 
 Lest thou forgotten be. 
 
 Jehovah-jireh is His name, 
 And all the ages thro'. 
 He hath fulfilled his promises, 
 And will provide for you. 
 
 "IT IS I", JOHN'S GOSPEL 6:20 
 
 'Twas in the fourth watch of the night. 
 When worn with toil and fear. 
 Disciples fought contrary winds, — 
 And Jesus was not near. 
 
 Ah! so they thought, but he was near, 
 That lake of Galilee. 
 And in the last watch of the night. 
 Came walking on the sea. 
 
 And still they feared, nor till He spoke, 
 " 'Tis I," in gentlest tone. 
 Did they remember how He cared. 
 How well He loved His own. 
 
 And is it not the same with us. 
 When sorrows rock our barque, 
 And we toil in rowing thro' the night 
 Till fourth watch deepens dark? 
 
 And when He comes. He speaks to us. 
 He calms the troubled sea; 
 And we're like those old disciples. 
 On the lake of Galilee. 
 
 (105) 
 
Often I've thought, O, lovely sight, 
 Christ walking on the wave. 
 Sovereign of nature. Comforter, 
 And powerful to save. 
 
 HISTORICAL ODE 
 
 Read at a meeting of the Social Center Society, and published at the 
 request of the Society. 
 
 Honored people, I come in our country's name — 
 Pocahontas, the same, and yet not the same; 
 Once here thet Indian followed his lonely trail, 
 Through the forests thickset, over the mountain and vale. 
 
 Not much cared the Indian for books or for school, 
 The sky was his chart and tradition his rule; 
 But the Indian, too, had his part to fulfill, 
 And one named Pocahontas did the settlers no ill. 
 
 The explorer and colonist sought out the realm 
 With heart brave and courageous and true as the helm; 
 They came from the old countries of culture and books, 
 But the seed lay long dormant in these wild western nooks. 
 
 The block-house, the cleared patch, the rude cabin small; 
 
 The rail fence, in zig-zag, enclosing it all; 
 
 A keen eye, a right arm, a stout spirit to bear, 
 
 And the settler's flint-lock by the steep ladder-stair. 
 
 Years rolled, and more settlers with children and youth, 
 Then uprose the log school house and teacher, forsooth; 
 But no public school system and grading in hosts, 
 Nor high school department, such as Marlinton boasts. 
 
 It was a beginning, and much do we owe. 
 To the little log school house in the past long ago; 
 The tree whose green branches now spread o'er the land. 
 The oak that lay hid in the small acorn band. 
 I 
 
 Oh ye who are pruning the ideal vine 
 
 And guiding the tendrils far upward to climb, 
 
 Preparing the youth, for their future estate, 
 
 May God bless your efforts — may your triumph be great. 
 
 (106) 
 
An army is tramping, day out and day in, 
 
 Not soldiers, but scliolars, the victory to win; 
 
 Pocahontas is forging ahead in the way, 
 
 And the wreath of the race on her brow we will lay. 
 
 But remember, the soul must keep pace with the mind, 
 "And the Bible, that text-book, none better you'll find; 
 The fear of the Lord and obedience to him, 
 Is the bulwark of safety and America's vim. 
 
 TO OUR SOLDIERS 
 
 Come aside in a desert place, 
 And rest ye for a while; 
 The trial of life is toilsome 
 And stretches many a mile. 
 
 And wouldst thou have me leave my task? 
 The Master saith not so; 
 But occupy until I come. 
 Or till I bid thee go. 
 
 Hardship is a part of duty. 
 
 Who marches must not halt; 
 
 Or the Captain's keen and kindly eye 
 
 Might see him at default. 
 
 GrOd helping, we will withstand, 
 And having done all stand: 
 We pass the watchword all around, 
 God, and your native land. 
 
 How like the army of our Lord, 
 And soldiers of the cross; 
 The church shall be triumphant yet. 
 Nor suffer any loss. 
 
 There is a rest remaining, 
 Beyond the scene of strife; 
 The Prince of Peace maintaining. 
 And death changed into Life. 
 
 (107) 
 
SAILING ON 
 
 The log-book of Christopher Columbus is said to have borne repeatedly 
 the entry, "This day we sailed on." That is all. 
 
 A little Spanish vessel, 
 Tossed on the mighty main. 
 So like a lonely sentry. 
 Facing the ocean beat, — 
 Now read the log's entry, 
 Which the pages oft repeat, — 
 "This day we have sailed on." 
 
 "Sailed on today," and that was all 
 You would have looked for more; 
 No word of baffled ills, 
 Suspicion, fear, tradition. 
 And the countless hinderances: 
 
 Across the waters, westward. 
 His eye, his soul was bent. 
 Whose eye and soul? Columbus', 
 Ordained of God, 
 To find a continent. 
 
 Praise God for that bold venturer 
 Beyond the trackless sea. 
 Praise God for that heroic faith. 
 And the birth of a new country. 
 
 Oh, it was grand, 'twas beautiful. 
 When he had sailed to land, 
 To strike the cross, to reverent kneel. 
 With his face upon the sand. 
 
 The great are ever simple, 
 The wise make good their way. 
 And they deem it some achievement, 
 To have "sailed on this day." 
 
 When answer comes from Jesus, 
 To prayers that we have prayed; 
 What is it that surprises us 
 And makes our souls afraid? 
 
 (108) 
 
Faith must be weak and trembling 
 And love is waxing cold, 
 Or dross of earth intruding 
 Upon the heavenly gold. 
 
 My ears are ever open, 
 I hear the prayer of faith, 
 And while they call I answer" — 
 Is that not what He saith? 
 
 Then, let us rather whisper, 
 I do believe Thy word; 
 And when He sends rich blessings, 
 'Tis just like Thee, Oh Lord! 
 
 OLD AND NEW YEAR 
 
 The year has fled, 
 
 Its months are dead. 
 
 And covered o'er with snow: 
 
 The rosy bowers 
 
 And summer flowers. 
 
 Are with the long ago. 
 
 Good bye, old year. 
 True friend and dear, 
 "We shall not meet again; 
 But bear in mind 
 That thou were kind. 
 E'en when thou gavest pain. 
 
 We have to learn, 
 Go on, return, 
 As little children do. 
 Life is a school. 
 With many a rule. 
 And holidays so few. 
 
 Another year 
 
 Is coming here — 
 
 Nineteen flfteen, we'll write; 
 
 And may we walk, 
 
 Think, act and talk. 
 
 As in the Master's sight. 
 
 (109) 
 
SIC TRANSIT 
 
 The shadows lie beneath the trees, 
 Where summer leaves lie dead; 
 And tranquil airs around me 
 Speak of a friend that's fled. 
 
 A friend that always dressed in green, 
 Save that she bore iii hand, 
 Lilies and flowers of rainbow hues, 
 And glories of the land. 
 
 Summer is gone, but remnant flowers, 
 And folds of her verdant dress. 
 Still flutter o'er the hills and vales. 
 And thro' the wilderness. 
 
 Sic transit! true all things here. 
 As well as summer grass; 
 The truth we may read at leisure. 
 Or in the crowded mass. 
 
 Peace ought to spring from genial air. 
 And common gifts God sends; 
 But no — dwellers of Arctic zones 
 Are more like brother friend. 
 
 Slaughter of men and woman's tears. 
 Burden of orphan's care; 
 Strange that enough of wood is found. 
 To make the crosses there. 
 
 'Tis by the hardest we escape 
 
 A nation's war at home; 
 
 people, cease from mirth and pray, 
 
 The Prince of Peace to come. 
 
 The shadows lie beneath the trees. 
 The dead leaves be there too; 
 And just awhile we pause to bid 
 Our summer friend adieu. 
 
 — To the dead on battlefields. 
 
 (110) 
 
OUR HEAVENLY HOME 
 
 We are journeying to the place, 
 The Lord has toM us of; 
 If weary, heavy laden, 
 He bids us look above, 
 And still press on. 
 
 O come, ye friends, come with us, 
 And we will do you good; 
 For the promised land's before us, 
 And we have daily food. 
 From tree of lite. 
 
 When foot-sore and discouraged, 
 And when the road seems long. 
 The balm of Gilead's near us, 
 And in the night a song, 
 To harp of heaven. 
 
 First one and then another. 
 Outstrips in the race; 
 A sister or a brother 
 Slips from the wonted place, 
 To be at home. 
 
 We do not grieve or sorrow, 
 That they have reached their home, 
 For on the coming morrow, 
 We too may cease to roam, 
 And enter in. 
 
 And so we're ever marching, 
 O'er desert, hill and plain; 
 And thro' the silent river. 
 To rest that doth remain. 
 In heaven beyond. 
 
 It is not very distant, 
 The land we're going to; 
 Each mile-stone of the journey. 
 Shortens the way, you know — 
 Till we get home. 
 
 (Ill) 
 
THE KING IN HIS BEAUTY 
 
 Isaiah 6:5. 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the King, 
 The holy, holy Cherubims, 
 And seraphlms that fly. 
 
 The land is very far. 
 
 As needs must be from world like this, 
 
 Where evil super-bounds. 
 
 And there shall be no sea, 
 
 For clashing ships to drown and sink,— 
 
 Pale corpses floating by. 
 
 No sickness, pain or death, 
 
 No wasting strength or weariness, 
 
 No low green mound is there. 
 
 But all things beautiful 
 Never to fade or be destroyed. 
 Are Immanuel's land. 
 
 "As they who watch for morning" 
 And it is morning there, 
 Without a night to follow. 
 
 We read, "and no more curse," 
 For Jesus nailed it to the cross; 
 And Jesus is the King. 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the King, 
 And He doth bid me say, 
 That whosoever will may come, 
 And see His face today. 
 
 THE MIRACLE MEAL 
 Gospel of John, last chapter. 
 
 "Come and dine," the Saviour said. 
 To his disciples there; 
 The toiling and the weary ones. 
 After the night of care. 
 
 (112) 
 
"Master", we have caught nothing" 
 Throughout the livelong night; 
 (The lakelet waters rippled on,) 
 Our nets are empty quite. 
 
 "All things are ready, come and dine," 
 
 Words fell from Jesus' lip, 
 
 And mindful of their calling, 
 
 "Cast 
 
 The right side of the ship." 
 
 'Twas then they knew their risen Lord 
 And silently obeyed; 
 Lo! on the shore a fire of coals, 
 Fish laid thereon and bread. 
 
 My fellow-Christians, 'tis the same 
 With us this very day! 
 Christ is our helping present friend 
 All thro' our earthly way. 
 
 He standeth on the shore of Time, 
 "Ye children, come and dine;" 
 Not fish upon the fire of coals. 
 But heavenly bread and wine. 
 
 FORECAST 
 
 We've read of the cinnamon groves 
 In the isles of the Eastern world. 
 That breathe forth sweet scented odors. 
 Like petals of roses unfurled. 
 
 The ships on the tropical seas, 
 Which sail ever nearer, more near 
 To the spicy cinnamon groves, 
 Are breathed In the rich atmosphere. 
 
 The thought britags the spirit to Heaven, 
 If thitherward voyagers sail. 
 The fullness of joy and pleasure, 
 Forecasting, the soul doth inhale. 
 
 0, the beautiful land of the Blessed, 
 0, the leaves of the tree of Life, 
 That brighten this long sea voyage. 
 Yes, and calm the waves' wildest strife. 
 
 (113) 
 
THE CHURCH. 
 
 The church at home, the church abroad, 
 
 Branches that interwine, 
 
 Green branches, 
 
 Of Christ, the Living Vine. 
 
 Upon the Rock of Ages, 
 
 The Church is built secure. 
 
 Immovable, 
 
 Forever to endure. 
 
 At home, abroad, above, below. 
 The Church to Christ is given; 
 And it is one. 
 Whether in earth or heaven. 
 
 Soldiers of Christ and saints of God, 
 'Tis yours to trample sin; 
 And in His name. 
 The final victory win. 
 
 Forever by the Spirit sealed, 
 O, lovely Church of God; 
 Ransomed and saved. 
 When Christ the winepress trod. 
 
 All glorious and powerful. 
 Praises bring o'er and o'er, 
 To Him who died, who liveth still, 
 Exalted ever more. 
 
 TRIALS 
 
 Our trials are but angels. 
 
 That beckon us above; 
 
 Lest 'mid earth's discords, we forget 
 
 That God and Heaven are love. 
 
 'Tis needful that our fragile nests 
 Erstwhile be broken up; 
 And who can bear with steady hand, 
 An overflowing cup? 
 
 (114) 
 
Trials are blessings unto us, 
 In this strange world of ours. 
 As clouds offset the noontide heat, 
 And thorns safeguard the flowers. 
 
 Think you, that Christ the Holy One, 
 Sailed o'er a placid sea? 
 Nay, storms forever burst on Him, 
 Who died for you and me. 
 
 Turn not your back on trials then. 
 Dear beckoning angels they, 
 To whisper of a better world, 
 And bring us there some day. 
 
 So, when at last we've stronger grown, 
 And laid the earthly down; 
 Our God will say, it is enough, 
 And the cross became a crown. 
 
 THE MONTEREY SCHOOL OF FIFTY YEARS AGO 
 
 To the students of those days. 
 
 The Academy school of old Monterey, 
 
 Rises vivid to view in this far away day; 
 
 The lads and the lassies, the children and all 
 
 Who responded each morn to the nine o'clock call. 
 
 The ministers, lawyers and political men. 
 
 The doctors and farmers, who were just students then; 
 
 And the matronly ladies of gentle degree. 
 
 Who were wide-awake girls and pleasant to see. 
 
 Spelling, reading and ciphering, grammar, English and Greek, 
 The youthful declaimers who rose up to speak; 
 'Twas a hive full of business in the village so high, 
 Such a buzzing and humming the young literati. 
 
 Let me tell how the girls deftly wielded the broom. 
 And for sake of appearances tidied the room; 
 How the boys piled the stove wood to battle with cold. 
 When the winder frowned darkly on Sounding Knob bold. 
 
 Many years have rolled by. Time doth take and doth give. 
 Of teachers and scholars, some of us yet live; 
 While others grown weary have sought the near road 
 That leads up to Zion, and are resting with God. 
 
 (115) 
 
To those that remain, I salute them today, 
 
 In the faculty's name of dear old Monterey; 
 
 Right hand of good fellowship and prayer of true love 
 
 That all may re-gather in the mansions above. 
 
 FORWARD 
 
 I saw a mound unsightly, made of clay, 
 Line of defense, and stretching far away; 
 Cannon and troops their mournful parts performed, 
 Artillery thundered and the soldiers stormed. 
 
 Again I saw the mound, a different scene, 
 
 Quiet and peaceful, mantled o'er with green; 
 
 And thus our Mother Nature will retrieve, 
 
 To smooth the scar and heal the wounds that grieve. 
 
 Forgetting things behind and actions dead. 
 She stirs her strength to reach the prize ahead; 
 So look not back, but follow Nature's way„ 
 And pressing forward, reach perfect day. 
 Fortifications around Richmond, Va., during the Civil War. 
 
 WAITING 
 
 When blessings hang about our path. 
 And pleasing prospects charm us; 
 When chained and fettered, muzzled be, 
 The lions that would harm us — 
 Then we can wait. 
 
 When flowers bloom bright on either side, 
 And summer skies smile o'er us. 
 When angels lend a helping hand 
 And smooth the way before us — 
 Yes, we can wait. 
 
 When friends are numerous and kind, 
 And gentle words delight us; 
 And holy fellowship of love. 
 With earthly bonds unite us — 
 Still, we can wait. 
 
 (116) 
 
But when the howling storms arise 
 And blackest clouds anear us, 
 The heart grows faint and flesh is weak, 
 And there seems naught to cheer us, 
 'Tis hard to wait. 
 
 That is the time to test our faith 
 In heaven's Redemption story, 
 To heed the "still small voice" of God, 
 And learn the way to glory. 
 Wait, wait, my soul. 
 
 SELAH 
 
 "Up my soul," is one of the various meanings given to the mysterious 
 word, "Selah," occurring so often in the Psalms. 
 
 Selah, selah — up my soul. 
 
 Rise on wings of love, 
 
 And bear a hymn of praise to God 
 
 Who lives and reigns above. 
 
 Up, my soul, when morning breaks 
 With pure celestial light; 
 When noon-tide quickens nature's pulse. 
 And in the quiet night. 
 
 Up, my soul, to run thy course, 
 As God shall give thee strength, 
 And when, thy work is fully done, 
 To rest in Christ at length. 
 
 Selah, selah, up my soul. 
 On wings of faith outspread; 
 Remember man is but a man. 
 As the heathen Roman said. 
 
 A god of wisdom, truth and love, 
 In this same God we trust. 
 Who fully knows our mortal frame 
 And knows that we are dust. 
 
 Selah, selah, up my soul. 
 
 In evil days of woe; 
 
 When serried hosts of armies clash 
 
 And earth rocks to and fro. 
 
 (117) 
 
Selah, selah, up my soul. 
 
 Till all our wanderings cease, 
 
 And we shall have learned the meaning, 
 
 And blessedness of peace. 
 
 "EMPRESS OF IRELAND" 
 
 In the last days of May, 1914, at the mouth of the St. Lawrence river, 
 in sight of land, the "Empress," a steamship, was rammed by the "Cron- 
 stadt," and sank in a few minutes. The toll of the sea was 1024 lives. 
 
 All things promised well to the outward bound, 
 On deck of the vessel was merry sound; 
 Storm and stress, surely, the good ship could weather, 
 And the little children had nurse and tether. 
 
 When, lo! a sharp prow from the foggy bank. 
 Struck the "Empress" a blow, and like lead, she sank; 
 To the floor of the sea, it was fathoms down, 
 And women and men and the children drown! 
 
 Poor ship and poor captain, the "Titanic" again, — 
 The battle of waters and myriads slain; 
 But Ocean shall give up its dead some day. 
 When the fashion of this world has passed away. 
 
 The saints of the Lord who have died in the faith. 
 And buried at sea or in six feet of earth. 
 Shall rise and shine forth in the light of Heaven, 
 Transfigured, enraptured, their sins all forgiven. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 The funeral ship, Montana, brought home the bodies of Americans who 
 fell in the seizure of Vera Cruz. 
 
 Make room for the dead. 
 
 Uncover the head. 
 
 And speak in the lowest whisper; 
 
 The funeral ship 
 
 Bears the pale cold lips 
 
 Of America's sons and heroes. 
 
 (118) 
 
They stood in the breach 
 
 That we could not reach, 
 
 And bore the brunt of the battle; 
 
 The ship at half mast, 
 
 Tells the tale at last, 
 
 Of a nation's loss and sorrow. 
 
 Ah, chant the dirge low, 
 Where southern winds blow, 
 And war clouds are hanging over; 
 Make room for the dead, 
 Uncover the head, 
 And speak in the lowest whisper. 
 
 Montana, sail on. 
 
 The victory's won, 
 
 For those in thy bosom sleeping, 
 
 A nation stands by, 
 
 Wherever they lie. 
 
 Her heroes of the sea and battle. 
 
 VITA BREVIS EST. 
 
 In old Hesperia legend, 
 
 I've read of a curious race, 
 
 That built them tents and lived therein, 
 
 For their only dwelling place. 
 
 Neither Indians nor Gypsies, 
 
 Not given to rove or stray; 
 
 The children loved their tented home, 
 
 And loved it when grown grey. 
 
 With inborn taste artistic, 
 They mingled tints that gleam, 
 And painted the inner canvas, 
 With scenes of a gorgeous dream. 
 
 And transient likewise as a dream, 
 Noiseless the swift decay, 
 When storms swept Andalusian vale, 
 And tore the tents away. 
 
 Ere courteous chieftain could invite, 
 "Padre, enter, seek repose; 
 We build no lasting structure here 
 To outlive human woes. 
 
 (119) 
 
"Marble and stone are mockery, 
 Grand halls re-echo plaint; 
 Since man is but a pilgrim here, 
 His fitting home, a tent." 
 
 Did the chieftain teach a lesson, 
 To make us truly wise? 
 Then, build thy soul a mansion firm 
 With treasure in the skies, 
 
 And still say, Vive architecture, 
 For it beautifies the world. 
 Ennobles man and honors God, 
 When Hispania's tents are furled. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 I muse upon this life of ours. 
 How strangely it appears. 
 And silently it passes but. 
 The life begun with tears. 
 
 '"Tis not the whole of life to live. 
 Nor yet the whole to die;" 
 The soul of man was made for God 
 On earth or in the sky. 
 
 And souls there are that tread the earth, 
 Forgetful of their God, 
 Who gives to them each breath of life, 
 And lifts the Father's rod. 
 
 Yet not in wrath doth he afflict. 
 But he would bring us near. 
 The children of His loving care, 
 So prone to wander here. 
 
 And He would have us back to Him, 
 to pray and meditate; 
 He reaches down his hand to us. 
 That God who is so great. 
 
 (120) 
 
And still I muse upon this life, 
 
 How like a narrow sea, 
 
 Since seasons waned and winter reigned, 
 
 So many have passed o'er — 
 
 Passed o'er this narrow sea of life, 
 
 And reached the farther shore. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 The dandelions come again. 
 The little ones to greet; 
 For truly 'tis the children's flower 
 So golden, bright and sweet. 
 
 Just cautiously and very few. 
 After the frost and snows; 
 The "dandewions" baby lisps, 
 And surely, baby knows. 
 
 Right welcome April month art thou, 
 With showers and sunny skies. 
 The waters sparkle at the touch. 
 And buds and blossoms rise. 
 
 Nature is punctual, up to time. 
 And busy as can be; 
 No loiterers in her working-shop, 
 And there no drones you'll see. 
 
 The cool crisp air, the fragrant breath, 
 The wintry storms afar 
 The softening soil, the waking grass 
 And evening's quiet star. 
 
 Stay April, longer with us here. 
 Sweet month of all the twelve — 
 Nay, mortal, I must travel on. 
 And let the gardeners delve. 
 
 To JuJie I yield my scepter soon, 
 Queen month of roses fair; 
 And welcome winds to April given, 
 April with June will share. 
 
 (121) 
 
4TH JULY 1776— 4TH JULY 1915. 
 
 The fourth of July, 'tis a right "merrie" day, 
 Our nation is free as it shall be alway; 
 Ring out the glad news as "old Liberty Bell," 
 And from ocean to ocean the echoes swell. 
 
 The past and the present — time quickly has sped, 
 Those conflicts in which our brave fore-fathers bled; 
 Lives, hardships and toil, the stress and the store, 
 As the cost of freedom we'll cherish it more. 
 
 Red and white bars and each beautiful star. 
 Waving over the hamlets and islands afar; 
 Long, long may it wave and this day oft return, 
 And national pride in each patriot burn. 
 
 Happy Fourth of July, flowers and anthems bring, 
 Joyful Fourth of July, let all the bells ring; 
 Banners red, white and blue, banners little and grand, 
 O ye young folks, ye old folks, pray, God bless our land. 
 
 Wp have no thoueand years to live, 
 Nor thousand to repent; 
 'Tis all enclosed in life's short spar, 
 God, Heaven, or punishment. 
 
 THE ARBICENE. 
 
 Have you met that tree called the Arbicene, 
 "With feathery blossoms pink and white; 
 As sweet as a peach or a damask rose. 
 When bathed in the dews of a summer night. 
 
 Its native home is the Sunny South, 
 
 A tree of a delicate form; 
 
 And like a tall tree of the South Sea Isles, 
 
 Unbroken it yields to the Storm. 
 
 So must we bow to God's chastening hand. 
 Meek and patient the soul should be, 
 For God to lift up in his own good time. 
 Like the crown of the Arbicene tree. 
 
 (122) 
 
The green graceful boughs of the Arbicene 
 Are still waving in memory; 
 Tho' years have rolled by in a mountain clime, 
 Since I gazed on that Arbicene tree. 
 
 HOME AT LAST. 
 
 God's children are scattered everywhere. 
 
 From the Torrid zone to the Arctic air, 
 
 From the North and South, from the East and West, 
 
 Erin's Green isle to the "Syrian guest," 
 
 Occupied, eager, in earthly way, 
 
 Till shadows lengthen at close of day. 
 
 And the sunset hour brings thought of home. 
 
 That waits the toiler yon side of the tomb, — 
 
 As the child said, and is saying still, 
 
 "My Father's hoi^e is yon side of the Hill." 
 
 And what tho' the hill be dreary space, 
 
 Our Father's house is a pleasant place. 
 
 And still will make amends for ills and strife. 
 
 For ups and down of this checkered life. 
 
 Safe home at last, the children of God, 
 
 And mark you, all passed under the rod: 
 
 Multitudes saved, forever at home 
 
 Mansions of Glory, yet there is room. 
 
 So when from the North, South, East and West, 
 
 They all have reached the sweet heavenly rest. 
 
 And friends long parted clasp hands again. 
 
 To follow the lamb who for us was slain, 
 
 What a gathering that will be! 
 
 THE DEAD CHILD IN TENDER MEMORY. 
 
 The parent-heart is lonely to-day, 
 Forever repeating, "My light and my Joy, 
 Oh! where shall I find him my beautiful boy?" 
 
 Look not to the grave, 
 
 Where the small form was laid. 
 
 Nor yet to earth's pillow. 
 
 That received his fair head: 
 
 But look unto Heaven, 
 
 'Mong the angels at play. 
 
 Is your beautiful boy whom Death took away! 
 
 (123) 
 
A little child shall lead them home — 
 
 No sweeter word in Kingdom Come: 
 
 There you shall find him, 
 
 Of course you will know him, 
 
 'Mong the angels — among them at play. 
 
 Is the dear little fellow who left us that day! 
 
 LITTLE HAZEL ANN. 
 
 Infant daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Asa C. Barlow, Edray, W. Va., who 
 departed this life January 25, 1916, aged 14 months and some dasy. 
 
 Sweet infant child, departed hence, 
 
 "I need this little lamb" — 
 
 Methinks the Savior said. 
 
 And tenderly He placed His hand 
 
 Upon the drooping head: 
 
 Gently unclasping parents' hold. 
 
 He bore the lamb to his own fold. 
 
 Yet, 'tis a blessed thing to have. 
 
 When cruel death comes close, 
 
 A cherub child in Heaven; 
 
 Amid the joys of that sweet place, 
 
 Forever saved — forgiven; 
 
 Free from the dangers of earth's way. 
 
 While we a little longer stay. 
 
 Friends, I have trod this very path 
 
 Death of a little child, — 
 
 And know the bitter pain; 
 
 But, believe me, God can make 
 
 The grievous loss your gain; 
 
 When Jesus takes the lambs above, 
 
 Hearts follow on with waiting love. 
 
 THE GRAVES. 
 
 The landmark Rhododendron, 
 Is now in sweetest bloom 
 Above the bed of the sleeping ones. 
 And monumental tomb. 
 
 Kind was the hand and spirit, 
 Ah, woman's heart is brave. 
 That planted Rhododendron, 
 Over the household grave. 
 
 (124) 
 
The breath of July morning 
 Whispers at evening's close, 
 But wakens not the sleepers, 
 From their long, deep repose. 
 
 The shadows of the mountain 
 Are cool and pleasant there; 
 And seem to say of those laid away, 
 "Just leave them in my care." 
 
 The pure and heavenly sweetness, 
 Of Rhododendron bloom. 
 Speaks of the life immortal, 
 Beyond the silent tomb. 
 July, 1917. 
 
 AARON MOORE. 
 
 Aaron Moore died at his residence ,in the vicinity of Marlinton on Fri- 
 day afternoon, April 17, 1914, aged 78 years, 9 months. Sometime the 
 night before he had suffered a stroke of paralysis, from which he never 
 regained consciousness. 
 
 Quietly sleeping. 
 Life's long day past. 
 No shadow creeping. 
 Sweet rest at last. 
 
 Weary hands folded. 
 Aged form still, 
 Toil and care ended. 
 No more of ill. 
 
 Lips that spoke kindly. 
 Cheerily too. 
 Gentlest of pilgrims. 
 All the way through. 
 
 Sadness and sorrow. 
 Tears that flow down 
 But to our brother, 
 The joy and crown. 
 
 (125) 
 
Earth is the poorer, 
 This good man gone. 
 Heaven the richer, 
 God taketh His own. 
 
 Earth-side hath sorrow, 
 Parting and pain; 
 In home of glory. 
 Friends meet again. 
 
 YEA THO' I WALK— 23 PSALM. 
 
 Blessed Savior, gently lead me 
 Down the sloping vale of time. 
 And uphold my failing foot-steps, 
 As the farther hill I climb. 
 
 Past the valley, past the hill-top, 
 Flows a darksome river by, 
 And the pilgrims to yon City, 
 Find the Savior walking by. 
 
 Once he trod the lonely valley. 
 Think of sad Gethsemane; 
 Tears of blood and cry of anguish. 
 Crucified on Calvary. 
 
 Loved and lovely, saintly woman. 
 Going home to meet her God; 
 Softly whispered, "There's no river," 
 And she passed death's wave dryshod. 
 
 Unto some quick translation. 
 Here one moment, next with God; 
 Unto many, vale and river, 
 Ere they reach the blest abode. 
 
 Jesus, sinners need Thee always. 
 Precious; to have such a friend, 
 Who will gently lead us, feed us, 
 Clear thro', to the journey's end. 
 
 (126) 
 
OUR FLAG. 
 
 On the day the Armistice was signed Theodore and Edwin Mooro 
 planted the U. S. Flag for Victory, on the big pine overlooking Marlinton. 
 
 High up on the mountain top, 
 Where lonely pine trees stand, 
 The Stars and Stripes are waving. 
 Flag of our native land. 
 
 Thro' day-light and the night-time 
 Our flag is waving there, 
 The Stars and Stripes, Old Glory, 
 Our treasure and our care. 
 
 We look up from the valley. 
 Stars look down from above. 
 And back and forth 'tis waving 
 The flag we so much love. 
 
 Wave on, flag of our fathers, 
 America is true, 
 And every son and daughter, 
 Will give a life for you. 
 
 Yes, wave and wave, dear banner, 
 While still we have our breath, 
 And in the self same manner. 
 Wave over us in death. 
 
 ANOTHER CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Not have we forgotten the old Christmas days, 
 With father and mother, the games and the plays; 
 The socks in a row by the warm chimney hearth 
 And candle light morning of laughter and mirth. 
 Merry Christmas! to all 
 1918. 
 
 THE WEE STRANGER GUEST AT THE PRESBYTERIAN MANSE. 
 
 Thou tiny tender blossom. 
 Thou sweet and fragrant flower. 
 Nor shall the North wind kiss thee 
 In the cold wintry hour. 
 
 (127) 
 
The silent little stranger 
 That ventures in this home, 
 So welcome and inviting, 
 He need not farther roam. 
 
 A goodly child like Moses, 
 And may he also be, 
 Beloved of God, as Samuel, 
 To age from infancy. 
 
 Kind father, gentle mother. 
 Receive the precious gift, 
 One of God's greatest blessings, 
 Rich burden hard to lift. 
 
 Earth would be dark and somber. 
 Without an infant's face. 
 And heaven itself is fairer. 
 That children there find place. 
 
 Set lightly by the treasure 
 And mark it well for heaven; 
 May be lent for a season. 
 When we had thought it given. 
 
 Who for these things sufficient. 
 To guide a soul to God, 
 Stupendous task committed, 
 So dangerous the road. 
 
 Juet here we need the Savior, 
 The little ones He blessed: 
 Oh, Jesus, tender shepherd. 
 And this wee stranger guest. 
 
 Unfold thou tiny blossom. 
 Thou lovely fragrant flower. 
 And brighten up the household. 
 Thro' every coming hour. 
 
 (128) 
 
AT NOON. 
 
 Shall the Hindoo and Moslem benighted excel thee, 
 Who lift up the voice at the Meuzzim sound, 
 However employed, wherever they may be, — 
 At home or abroad, .in the store, on the ground. 
 Their religion is false, but how zealous, how prayerful, 
 Groping on in the darkness all misty and dim; 
 We're servants of one and the only true God, 
 Who loves for His children to speak unto Him. 
 Come to prayer, come to prayer, at the noon-tide hour, 
 Raise the unfeigned heart with one little word; 
 Prayer is the pure incense around the white throne, 
 To descend in rich blessings, for thus saith the Lord. 
 September, 1918. 
 
 THE NEW JERUSALEM— CITY OF OUR GOD. 
 
 Bemoaning short pastorates to a Methodist lady, she sweetly remarked. 
 "We have no continuing city here," to which I added, "You are right; 
 but we seek one to come." 
 
 We've no continuing city here, 
 
 Nor had the Lord of glory. 
 
 True, cities rose on every side. 
 
 But none for Him where to abide; 
 
 Foxes had holes and birds their beds. 
 
 But He, no where to lay His head. 
 
 We seek a city yet to come, — 
 
 The apostle wrote of it, 
 
 And his description is so beautiful, 
 
 I know it all by heart. 
 
 First, It hath strong foundation. 
 
 Those precious stones well set, 
 
 The walls are high, the streets of gold. 
 
 And every "several" gate of pearl. 
 
 The tree of Life is there with healing leaves, 
 
 O SM'eet and peaceful shade, O fruits perennial, 
 
 And rivers of salvation. 
 
 Let not your heart be troubled. 
 
 And while ye wander here, remember 
 
 That there are mansions, many manaions, 
 
 In the Father's house, 
 
 The saints' continuing city. 
 
 (329) 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Lieutenant John Neal, U. S. N., aged 21, of Louisburg, N. C, died of 
 pneiimonia, October 6, 1918, on battle stiip Pennsylvania, U. S. N. He 
 was a Christian as well as a patriot and is greatly mourned. 
 
 Soldier, who in the "dew of youth," 
 
 Didst answer to the call 
 
 And give thy life to Liberty, 
 
 Beneath our honored flag, — 
 
 We do salute thee, sadly too, 
 
 Thou wert so young to die! 
 
 And if in time some should forget. 
 
 Who only knew thy name and lot, 
 
 The mother never can forget 
 
 Who bore thee, watched thy infancy. 
 
 Who helped to make thy spirit true, 
 
 And wept beside thy bier. 
 
 Fond mother, dry thy tears, arise, 
 
 God will repay thee for this loss, 
 
 And thou shalt meet thy boy again. 
 
 Heaven is wide and there is a sea, 
 
 "Like unto glass," before thy throne, 
 
 Where comes no battle ship of earth. 
 
 No war, nor sickness unto death. 
 
 But love, joy, peace, health, fellowship. 
 
 And glory to the Highest. 
 
 TO AN AGED SAINT. 
 
 Mrs. Rebecca Bosworth See, over 90 years, of Philippi, W. Va. 
 
 They tell me she is lingering here. 
 When I had thought her gone; 
 And I know in her later pilgrimage. 
 That she doth not walk alone. 
 
 Thro' changed and checkered scenes of life. 
 
 The hand of the Lord hath led; 
 
 And grace suifficient with peace of mind, 
 
 As the Lord Himself hath said. 
 
 (130) 
 
This saint at leisure from herself, 
 And the weight of years that press, 
 Doth think and pray for one far away 
 In her work and loneliness. 
 
 I mind of a time in the long ago. 
 When a kindness to me was given. 
 And the sweetness and quiet of her home, 
 Seemed just like a little heaven. 
 
 Her youth's companion and closest friend. 
 Years agone hath "fallen on sleep," 
 When he had finished all his toils 
 And drunk the Lord's cup deep. 
 
 God's blessing on her pilgrimage, 
 The numerous mile-stones passed; 
 And the light of a glorious morrow 
 On her path-way backward cast. 
 
 *Dr. Mary R. Fleming, Persian Missionary. 
 
 tRev. C. S. M. See, whose labors were abundant in several states. He 
 organized the Presbyterian Church in Monterey, Va., and on its first 
 building worked with his own hands, for he was a genius all around. I 
 may be pardoned for stating that his hand rested in baptismal blessing 
 on our first born child, a dear little boy who went early, at four years 
 of age, to God. 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 As against the shorter Bible and the Higher Critics. 
 
 The Bible entire, and nothing less. 
 Which God to us hath given. 
 To guide our feet in the path of truth 
 And finally to Heaven. 
 
 The Bible entire, and nothing less, 
 O 'tis an awful crime, 
 To tamper with the word of God, 
 To suit our taste and time. 
 
 (131) 
 
Written by holy men of yore, 
 As God their minds impressed; 
 To improve it is not possible, 
 Because God's work is best. 
 
 The Bible entire, and nothing less. 
 Speed on the happy day; 
 When all men shall bow down to God 
 And His blest word obey. 
 
 I've stood beside the dying bed 
 I've seen the comfort given. 
 From one small crum of living bread 
 As soul passed on to heaven. 
 
 The words of men, they pass away, 
 God's word abides for aye; 
 We'll love and learn and understand 
 It better bye and bye. 
 
 O men of earth, be reverent. 
 Touch not the ark of God, 
 And when ye tread on holy ground, 
 The feet should be unshod. 
 
 SONGS OF ZION. 
 
 You hand me a book of Psalms and Hymns, 
 Thanks for your kindness, friend, 
 You expect me to join in singing. 
 And another voice to lend. 
 
 I love the sweet songs of Zion, 
 And many I know by heart; 
 But a rapt listener only I stand 
 And cannot take a part. 
 
 In my best days I could not sing, 
 The key-board and I were friends. 
 And to the echoes of long past years. 
 Distance, enchantment lends. 
 
 It may be this silent tongue will wake 
 When a glorious harp is given. 
 And then at last I shall learn to sing. 
 When the church comes home to heaven. 
 
 (132) 
 
I stood by the bed of a dying girl, 
 And sweet music she seemed to hear; 
 Was it not the choir invisible, 
 That to her soul drew near? 
 
 Oh! I love the songs of Zion, 
 
 The grand old hymns of praise. 
 
 And the swelling tide of songs that rolls 
 
 To God, the ancient of days. 
 
 (133) 
 
INDEX 
 
 A. L. O. E 7 
 
 Afar 15 
 
 All the Way 28 
 
 April (Sweet Breezes of April) 35 
 
 After Christmas 95 
 
 April (The Dandelions) 121 
 
 Aaron Moore 125 
 
 Another Christmas 127 
 
 At Noon 129 
 
 A Measure of Grace 40 
 
 A Haunted House 55 
 
 Anno Domini 68 
 
 At Sea 70 
 
 At Rest (Mr. Ralston) •. 72 
 
 A Little One 84 
 
 At Edray 88 
 
 Bethany 37 
 
 Blossoms , 81 
 
 Baby's Sewing 85 
 
 Christmas 1919 55 
 
 Christmas 66 
 
 Christmas 90 
 
 Christmas 91 
 
 Christmas 93 
 
 Chimera ■ 94 
 
 Death of an Infant 9 
 
 Death of a Father 37 
 
 Dark Places 49 
 
 December 1911 77 
 
 Dogwood 78 
 
 Death 83 
 
 Dead Letter Office 97 
 
 Early Fall 16 
 
 Ever True 26 
 
 Earth's Sabbath 47 
 
 Even to Jesus 64 
 
 Earth 72 
 
 Empress of Ireland 118 
 
 Follow On 87 
 
Faithful 99 
 
 Five Years Today 102 
 
 Forecast 113 
 
 Forward 116 
 
 Fourth of July 122 
 
 Grandma's Girl 101 
 
 Hymn (Above the Troubled Elements) 32 
 
 Hymn (Jesus Master) 32 
 
 He Careth for You 35 
 
 He Passeth by 61 
 
 Ho! for the Crew 96 
 
 Historical Ode 106 
 
 Home at Last 23 
 
 It is the Lord 6 
 
 In Memoriam (Mr. Grems) 9 
 
 In Memoriam (Mrs. Campbell) 39 
 
 In Memory (Mrs. McLaughlin) 50 
 
 If Thou Cans't Believe 52 
 
 In Memoriam 58 
 
 In Memoriam (Miss Bennett) 83 
 
 It is I 105 
 
 In Memoriam 118 
 
 In Memoriam 130 
 
 June Roses 16 
 
 Jesus With Us 40 
 
 Joan D'Arc 51 
 
 Jamestown 53 
 
 Jeannette, Aged 11 85( 
 
 Jehovah-Jirah 105 
 
 Kind Words at Home 79 
 
 Lead Me 10 
 
 Live Near the Lord 41 
 
 Life and Death 51 
 
 Like Him 99 
 
 Larkspur 103 
 
 Life 120 
 
 Little Hazel Ann 124 
 
 My Whistling Lad 45 
 
 My Cathedral ,. . 59 
 
 Ministering 60 
 
 My Portraits 67 
 
 My Rock 75 
 
 Mrs. Elmer H. Wade 82 
 
 Morning Prayer i 85 
 
 (136) 
 
Memorial Tribute 90 
 
 Nineteen-Nineteen 21 
 
 Noon , 63 
 
 Not Lost 64 
 
 Nature 89 
 
 Our Rock 8 
 
 Only at Rest 24 
 
 Our Journey 26 
 
 October 38 
 
 Off Hatteras 44 
 
 Our Dead 46 
 
 Old Friends and New 65 
 
 One of Those Days 73 
 
 October 79 
 
 Our Flag 107 
 
 Old and New Year 109 
 
 Our Heavenly Home Ill 
 
 Peace 12 
 
 Present With the Lord 33 
 
 Robbie Stewart 49 
 
 Resurrection 74 
 
 Repent 76 
 
 Spring 14 
 
 Safe With God 22 
 
 Shells of the Sea 25 
 
 Sorrow 28 
 
 Shipwreck 82 
 
 Sail on — ^Sail on 98 
 
 September 100 
 
 Springtime 103 
 
 Sailing On 108 
 
 Sic Transit 110 
 
 Selah 117 
 
 Songs of Zion 132 
 
 The Old Church 5 
 
 That City 7 
 
 The Broken Bud 11 
 
 The Last Bouquet 12 
 
 The Desert 13 
 
 The List 17 
 
 The Two 19 
 
 The Yellow Rose 20 
 
 The Song in Night 21 
 
 The Winter Flower 23 
 
 (137) 
 
The Year 1910 27 
 
 The Little Green Chair 29 
 
 The Church of My Youth 30 
 
 The Aged and Young 31 
 
 The Kingdom 38 
 
 The Old Looking Glass 42 
 
 The Hills 48 
 
 The Sheltered Plant 54 
 
 The Baby Hand 57 
 
 The Aged Pilgrims 60 
 
 The Silence of Scripture 62 
 
 Thanksgiving 1912 66 
 
 The Nether Ocean 69 
 
 The Irish Immigrant 69 
 
 The Day of Pentecost 74 
 
 The Hopia Tree 76 
 
 The Victor 86 
 
 The Stripes 89 
 
 Thanksgiving Day 1913 92 
 
 Trust 93 
 
 The Syrian's Burial 95 
 
 The Little Gift 98 
 
 The Old Tree 101 
 
 To Our Soldiers 107 
 
 The King in His Beauty 112 
 
 The Miracle Meal 112 
 
 The Church 114 
 
 Trials 114 
 
 The Monterey School 115 
 
 The Arbicene 122 
 
 The Dead Child 123 
 
 The Graves 124 
 
 The Wee Guest 1 127 
 
 The New Jerusalem 129 
 
 The Bible 131 
 
 To an Aged Saint 130 
 
 Unto the Lord 34 
 
 Upward — Onward 71 
 
 Violets 80 
 
 Vita Brevis Est 119 
 
 Warweca 18 
 
 Waiting 116 
 
 Zion 19 
 
 Yea, Tho' I Walk 126 
 
 (138)