BAG YOUR GAME

Two men, well versed in use of arms, Set out, 'tis said, in search of game. Each felt that hunting had its charms, Yet widely differed they in aim. Both felt their need of wholesome food For present use and winter's store; But one was of a careless mood— Than the day's sport he asked no more.

No game he bagged from morn till night, Content to show his master skill In hitting every bird at sight, And shooting down the deer at will. Grand sport he deemed it, day by day, As in the tangled forest brake He brought the bounding stag to bay, Or shot the wood-duck in the lake.

As he each night to home returned He sang the pleasure of the chase; But had not yet the lesson learned That he was loser in the race. Yet, when sat in the winter's cold And game had fled to warmer clime, He had no stock to sell for gold, Nor food: and past his harvest time.

The chase the other prized as well; But bagged his game as best he could, And thus had lots of pelts to sell— For self and wife the choicest food. In the pursuit of game a thrill Of keenest joy shot through his heart; But joy complete he knew not till He went his way joy to impart.

While he with wife and children shared The roasted duck and venison, He felt he as a king had fared; And though of earth a denizen, Such food would give both strength and cheer To meet lifes daily toil aright, And winter months he did not fear, His larder filled, and prospect bright.

The search for Truth with pleasure thrills; To find it, we our end attain— Possessed, new joy the spirit fills, And to retain is highest gain. The pleasure of pursuit is lost If truth itself is not secured. O buy the truth at any cost, And from your aim be not allured!



OTHERS' BURDENS

My greatest grief is not my own; That often proves a blessing, For in my grief God's care is shown, And as I am not left alone, It never proves distressing;

But when my brother's grief I bear The weight then seems excessive; His heavy load I inly share, And loaded down by double care, My burden feels oppressive.

Yet I remember Him who bore The world's great load of sorrow, And know that He on me will pour The needed grace to bear the more, To-day and on the morrow.



MEMORY

Remembrance of the past will joy impart If in that past the conscience was supreme; But if the soul be made an auction mart, And thoughts and deeds be sold for what you deem The price of virtue, then the called-up past Will be like hooks of steel to hold thee fast.

Or like the stings those nettles left behind Which I so fondly handled in my play; I deemed the friend who warned me true and kind, And in great haste I threw the weeds away, But soon the burning flesh reminded me 'Twere safer far from all such weeds to flee.

The cloud that flitted o'er the saintly brow Which now a crown of life so well adorns, When you by ways and means you know not now, Did what your soul with holy horror scorns, Will stay with you long as you live on earth, And be like gall to spoil your cup of mirth.

The smiles of those we bless are lasting, too; We feel their cheering glow each cloudy day. As falls on wilted flower the healing dew, So they refresh, and chase our gloom away; We feel though weak we have not lived in vain, And know God smiles tho' we cannot explain.

The footprints on the rock time wears away; The rock itself soon crumbles into dust; But memories of the past have come to stay, Nor flood, nor fire, nor the consuming rust, Can ever from the soul the past erase. Guard thou thy life, O man, with heavenly grace.



THE ROYAL WAY

Perfection ever is the price of toil. Of marchings long, and hardships by the way, Of burdens borne, oft in the heat of day, 'Tis then as right the victor claims the spoil.

The world admires the wreath upon his brow, But he alone can tell how much it cost, And how to gain it he had all things lost. Results men see, but not the when, or how.

The stately elm which rears its head so high, And spreads abroad so gracefully its boughs, Beneath which may repose a herd of cows, Grows under ground as well as toward the sky.

The bridge which spans the swiftly-flowing stream O'er which the iron horse, by night and day, With heavy tread speeds on its busy way, Rests not on sand, nor slender post and beam.

Below the shifting sand, on solid rock, The mason safely laid the buttress stone, And labored long before his work was shown; But he built well—his work endures each shock.

This work takes time; we chafe at the delay And try to gain the summit at a bound, But find full soon our hopes dashed to the ground; Yet there remains for all the royal way.

And he who would true eminence attain Must heed the word of Him who came to serve, Nor from this path a single moment swerve, If he the great reward would surely gain.

This is the royal way—to serve in love— Servant to servants ever aim to be Like Him who gave His life to ransom thee; Then shalt thou sit with Him on throne above.



'STABLISHED

The well-built house with walls of brick, or stone, May tremble some if struck by the cyclone; The most established saint may trials feel, As flint may turn the edge of finest steel. Satanic hosts may rush in like a flood, Allied with foes of our own flesh and blood, The elements of earth and hell combine, Yet tho' he trembles, stands in strength divine; He rests secure on the unyielding rock. The top may sway, but base feels not the shock; His heart is fixed, nor earth nor hell can move; They wrench not loose, but his allegiance prove. Christ wept with Mary at her brother's grave; Laid down His life a rebel world to save; Tried, like ourselves, and like us too, infirm, Yet knew no sin in either root or germ; Let us be like Him while we sojourn here, Then storms and earthquakes we need never fear.



A MEROGNOSTIC

I know in part, but know not all, The part I know is known; What know I not I hope with Paul To know before the throne. Till then where knowledge fails I trust The truth God has revealed, As known by me, forever must Be like the truth concealed.

I know God is, tho' hid from sight, And know He cares for me; In blessing me He takes delight, And I by faith can see His skilful hand and loving heart, In all my life's affairs, And feel content to know but part If He knows all my cares.

I know God gave His Son to die A sacrifice for man, And live all who on Him rely, And meet His claims I can, Yet I know not how in Him meet The human and divine; But God He is, and at His feet I fall, and feel Him mine.

Nor do I understand the change The spirit wrought in me; A work so great exceeds my range, But I can feel and see The inward peace, and outward trend, And hear likewise His voice, The outward with the inward blend, And answer to my choice.

I know not how mind touches mind And thoughts spring into life; Nor know the mystic bands which bind, Like husband to the wife, My loving Lord and my poor soul, But this I know full well, If I submit to His control I cannot sink to hell.

I know the world shakes to its base, And man still wars with man, The bane of sin rests on our race, And Satan leads the van; But hope exults within my breast Tho 'darkness shrouds the sky; God is the friend of the oppressed, The good will never die.

I know not why my plans should fail When I have plan'd for God, And on this ground my foes assail, But I still kiss the rod, For tho' I cannot tell the why My heart is filled with peace; I can on my dear Lord rely, And wait for my release.

I know He is both true and kind, And has my good at heart. His discipline will only bind With cords which naught can part, My heart's affections to His throne, And fit me for my rest, Nor do I tread life's path alone; He knows, and I am blest.



"SALUT AUX BLESSIS"

A group of mounted officers Ride up and fall in line; Their gleaming swords hang at their sides, Chevrons their arms entwine; They bare their heads as pass along A train of wounded men, Their shattered comrades from the field They ne'er may meet again.

"Salut aux Blessis!" loud they cry. The wounded soldiers hear, And for a time forget their pain, And swell the lusty cheer. Thus should it be in other lines; The men who lead the van Should e'er accord a brother's cheer To every wounded man.

The "rank and file" the wounds receive; Sometimes the leader, too; But honest wounds none should despise; The bearer may be true. He stood his ground 'gainst mighty odds, And dared the shot and shell; So bare your heads, ye scarless ones, And say, "Thou hast done well!"



SONNET

Each human life with mysteries is replete; They press upon us in its early dawn, And multiply apace as years roll on, And at each turn we must their problems meet. Reason is blind, and fails their end to see, Misjudges God and gathers only woe, And from this spring much turbid waters flow. Only the pure in heart from doubt are free; They read aright the writing on the wall Which solves the problems of our earthly lot; To them God draws aside the veil, and shows The golden threads with which the garment glows, And why one dwells in palace, one in cot, And how His love is working good to all.



BROTHERHOOD

Is brotherhood to flesh confined? Is there no kinship of the soul? To have it thus, I am resigned, If 'tis my God-appointed goal; For there are those whom I hold dear, Who claim with me a common sire, That we, with one accord, revere, And love holds out midst flood and fire.

But is the family so small Of which I fondly claim a part? Is there no other I may call A brother, and within my heart Cherish for him, whate'er his name, Or rank, or color, or his creed, A love of pure and changeless flame, And feel I render but his meed?

Thank God for brotherhood so broad That all the human race may share A kinship, never yet outlawed, Tho' types of it have been too rare. But bigotry is doomed to die, And hate, a relic of the past; The golden age is drawing nigh, And all one family at last!



SHE DEARLY LOVED THE FLOWERS

I saw her first when she was old, Her form devoid of grace; Her locks that once were yellow gold Were white, and on her face Were furrows deep, which told of pain, And toil, and worldly fret, Which all, alas, had been in vain, But nature claimed the debt.

Her eyes were gray and lacked in glow, Her voice some thought was gruff, And when excited was not slow To use a sharp rebuff; For she in speech was free from art; Men feared her verbal stroke, And yet they said, "She has a heart; She never wears a cloak."

Her creed, perhaps, was heterodox, If creed she ever had. She knew far more of pans and crocks, But this was not her fad; Her light, I fear, did not shine out In pious talk and airs, In fact I entertain a doubt If she oft said her prayers.

Her light, if dim, was never hid, Yet looked not for applause; For kindly deeds she often did, In line with highest laws. She lacked it may be that rare grace Which some I know endowers, Yet good in her I gladly trace— She dearly loved the flowers.



MY PANSY PETS

My pansy pets are sleeping well Beneath their quilt of snow; How they can breathe I cannot tell, Nor how their rootlets grow; But soon the snow will melt away And April showers descend; Then shall appear in colors gay Each little pansy friend.

Of pride it may not show a trace; Of lowly mind, alway; But will not blush to show its face All through the lifelong day: Its fragrance other flowers surpass, In form more stately, too. But when you see my pets in mass, Thank God they ever grew.

For though the human face may frown, Or show a heart of guile, My pansy pets as you look down Will look at you and smile; Nor will they murmur if you should Pluck off their brightest bloom; Their mission is to do us good, And smile away our gloom.



LOVE BETTER THAN KNOWLEDGE

O Thou Eternal One, look down Upon an erring child of earth; Thy handiwork with knowledge crown, Or life will seem of little worth; By Thine own light illume my way, And turn this darkness into day.

I hear a whisper in my heart— "Than knowledge, better far is love; Thy knowledge here is but in part, The perfect waits for Thee above: Walk now by faith, and leave to me The things now wrap'd in mystery."

Weighed down with mysteries profound I lean upon Thy loving breast; The great unknown still girts me round, But Thou art mine, and here I rest; Unsolved the mysteries remain; But they no longer give me pain.

My finite mind may never grasp The thought of Thy immensity; But I Thy hand more firmly clasp— To feel Thee near suffices me; For Thou art knowledge, power, and love, The same in earth and heaven above.



A SUFFERING GOD

Man is like God in miniature, When he is at his best; His motives and impulses pure, His heart and will at rest; No conflict in himself is felt, His light no earthly beam, While love encircles like a belt, And conscience is supreme.

As thus endowed a creature may The keenest sufferings feel; Not such as rack the frame of clay, Which art of man may heal; But pain untold at others' woes, And deadly blight of sin, Which right and virtue overthrows, And blackens all within.

And may not God have suffered much Ere reached the gory cross? Did not our woe the God-heart touch? Did He not feel our loss? The "Man of Sorrows" we adore, And own His sufferings real; But suffered He as God before; For God can sorrow feel.



THE COPY

Looking o'er this written page, Many blurs and blots are seen; Crooked strokes, at every stage— Oh, that it again were clean, As at first I found it, when I defiled it with my pen!

Gladly would I all erase; But along the lines of blue You could still the failure trace In the paper's darkened hue; Though the words could not be seen, You could trace where they had been.

I will try to do my best, Though my ideal be not gained; On the Master's scrip shall rest Eager eyes, till is attained Some resemblance to His hand; If no more I can command.

Like my life, this written sheet, So unlike the pattern given; Crooked strokes, I oft repeat; Oh, that from it could be riven All the blurs and blots of sin; All the self that's found within.

I can not the past erase. Christ shall blot the crooked out, Leaving not the slightest trace Of my sin, the lines about; And will give me grace to write Pages pleasing in His sight.

I will try to do my best, As He gives me strength and light, Leaving with Him all the rest; He will keep life's pages white; And the copy shall be shown Perfected, before His throne.



PERFECT WORK

An artist skilled beyond the sons of men With pleasure scanned the pictures on the wall, Rare works of art, each one pronounced a gem, The product of his hand, both great and small; Each filled its place in the designer's plan; Conceived in full before the work began.

Pleased was the artist with results as shown; But his ideal was not as yet attained; It needed this, as palace needs a throne, But throne a king—then is perfection gained, When his great masterpiece hangs in its place, And the great artist looks in his own face.



THE JOHNSTOWN DISASTER, 1889

Look down, ye Alleghenies, into the Conemaugh vale, And see the rising waters, and hear the bitter wail; The swollen streams now empty their contents in the lake, The waters rise to kiss the skies and walls of granite shake.

Oh, hear that awful booming; the dam has given way! An avalanche of water God's hand alone can stay! Oh, leap, ye hills, before it and keep this torrent back, Or devastated towns and homes will mark its onward track!

Look down, ye Alleghenies, upon this vale of woe; Ten thousand corpses at your base their soulless faces show; Some hid beneath the debris, some covered o'er with slime, Their spirits fled to meet their God, beyond the shores of time. The aged sire and lassie; the careworn mother, too, With her strong son, whom she had hoped would guard life's journey thro', Are lying there together, the old and young alike; Their plans and purposes cut off, no power to love or strike.

Bow down, ye Alleghenies, and weep o'er thousands slain, Who yesterday were all intent this present world to gain. Their active brain is sleeping, their busy hands are still, Bright hopes are blasted in an hour, ambitions cease to thrill; Their mansions, with their bodies, the flood has borne away— The rich and poor together rest till resurrection day.

Now leap for joy, ye mountains, for all is not in vain! For as it was in Noah's flood, it ever will remain! God cares for those who love Him; He holds them in His hand, And wind and wave obey His will, and rest at His command; Some sank beneath the freshet, and now with others lie, But God prepared another ark to bear their souls on high.

See, floating with the wreckage, borne onward by the tide, A loving mother with her babe close sheltered at her side; One hand has grasped a rafter, the other guards her child; Oh, how she pleads with God and man in accents loud and wild! Men hear but give no answer, no human hand can save; Her voice, alas, is hushed in death by the relentless wave;

But God has heard her pleading, and now His angel bears Their deathless souls to dwell with Him, where free from toils and cares, Her voice rings out in gladness the notes of that blest psalm The prophet heard the elders sing, of "Moses and the Lamb."

And see this lovely maiden, a mother's hope and pride, The sunbeam of a Christian home, and the affianced bride Of one who loved her dearly, and loved her not in vain, For he had won a loyal heart, and hand without a stain; But he lies 'neath the billows, and she will join him soon. Hark! hark! she sings in accents sweet, to old familiar tune! "Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly," etc.

Her prayer, also, is answered, for see, the roof is bare! The current swept the slippery raft, the maiden is not there! An angel band descended, her lover led the way, And now she joins her loved and lost in realms of endless day!

Look down, ye Alleghenies, from your colossal heights, And witness an heroic deed, bright gleam 'midst horrid sights. See, Periton has mounted his famous large bay steed, And flies, not to the mountains, but at his greatest speed He gallops down the valley, to warn of pending fate, And cries aloud, "Flee for your lives! flee, ere it be too late! The Conemaugh dam is broken, destruction comes apace! Leave all and to the mountains flee; leave all and win the race!"

Each creek becomes a river, each pool a little sea, The tidal wave comes rushing on, men know not where to flee, But on he rides, still shouting, as angels did of old, "Flee! Flee ye to the mountain! Flee! forsake your homes and gold!"

His horse now shares his spirit, and leaps each swollen stream. With panting flanks and nostrils wide, and breath like scalding steam, He dashes down the roadway, and fairly seems to fly, Obedient to his rider's rein, resolved to do or die.

Some heed our hero's warning. See, toward the hills they fly! Will Periton now turn aside, or like a hero die? Straight on he goes, brave fellow; to turn aside he scorned, His life he deems of little worth if other men be warned.

We honor those brave soldiers, who scaled the rampart height, To plant the standard of their queen in the defence of right, The fire was hot before them, and bursting shells o'erhead, Yet on they pressed, till bullet-pierced they fell—our honored dead; But he, I hold, was braver, who ran his race alone, No comrade's cheer to urge him on, no bugle blast was blown, Nor grand review to follow if he should win the day; But thoughts of self were all too weak his onward course to stay.

Spur up your steed, brave fellow—the flood is at his heels! Too late! the waves now gird him round; the gallant rider reels; Entombed beneath the debris his warning voice is stilled, But he, I trust, ran not in vain; his mission is fulfilled.

Like Jesus, he saved others, yet would not save himself; The plaudits of the world sought not, but scorned its praise and pelf. He still sat in the saddle, and held the guiding rein, Yet wind and wave awoke him not, and thunders roared in vain. His spirit had ascended, death set the hero free, And God shall say in His great day, "Thou didst it unto Me!"

Look down, ye Alleghenies, with ever-darkening frown, Upon the selfishness which caused the ruin of Johnstown. A reservoir was fashioned, of full three miles in length, An inland lake, kept back by dam of insufficient strength; No mills were driven by it; no water-works supplied; A few rich men, for selfish sport, claimed all these waters wide.

They rode upon its surface in skiff, and bark canoe, Shot grouse and duck, caught fish and eel, and held their title true; For other people's safety took not a single thought— Ten thousand lives were less to them than fish thus daily caught. The dam revealed its weakness by frequent leaks, but they Turned not aside to strengthen it till came the fateful day; But God, who rules the nations, to whom all bow the knee, Will say to them on judgment day, "Ye did it not to Me."



EYE HATH NOT SEEN

Somewhere in the realms supernal Is a home prepared for me, Where my joys shall be eternal, And my spirit ever free; Mortal vision helps not here, God conceals it from my sight, By effulgent beams of light; Oh that He would bring it near!

But I hear a voice say, softly, "Be content to leave it so, For God's thoughts are far too lofty For a man like thee to know; Human spirits must be free From their tenements of clay, Ere they bear that full-orbed day, Bide thy time and thou shalt see."

I cannot draw back the curtain That conceals the glory land, Yet my hope is sure and certain, For the tracings of God's hand On the outside do appear, Like the cherubim of old, Wrought in needle-work and gold, Bringing all the glory near.

He who made the lovely flowers Which adorn both shrub and tree, Climbing vine, and shady bowers, In this beauty speaks to me: 'Tis the curtain of His tent, Hiding much, yet much reveals, Type of the Elysian fields; Glory streams thro' woof and rent.



WHAT LASTS?

The words we speak on the empty air, Are never lost, but recorded there; The process we may not comprehend, Nor how the words with the air may blend, But science shows what results may be; Accept the fact, is enough for me.

The waves of sound may have died away As ripples faint on a sheltered bay; But though now faint will be heard again, By God, ourselves, and the sons of men. As sound e'en now may be multiplied; The faintest moan like the roaring tide; The housefly's tread with its tiny feet Like tramp of horse on the stone-paved street.

So, though now faint, will those voices be, When Christ shall come in His majesty; Our quicken'd sense will the echo hear, Like blast of horn to the timid deer.

In pleasant tones will the echoes be, Of words of love and of happy glee, Which we address to the friends we love, Or offer up to our Lord above.

But, unlike those, all the echoes heard, Of angry tones, and each sword-like word; As we here mete to our fellow men, The Judge shall mete in full measure then.

The thoughts we think may be lasting, too, Though not inscribed on the azure blue; On the tissued walls of the soul's great dome, May be found those thoughts ne'er more to roam. And like our thoughts, may we not become The thought we think, be ourselves the sum? May thoughts of God on my heart be graved, And I be known as a sinner saved.



IS THERE A BRIGHTER WORLD?

Beneath the surface of a shallow lake, Where grasses rank and mammoth rushes grow, And playful fish their bright fins nimbly shake, Or madly chase each other to and fro, The larva of the dragon-fly submerged, In family large, had taken their abode, And tho' the waves around them daily surged, Upon the bending grass they safely rode.

Content were they with life as there enjoyed; To brighter world they never had aspired, Had they not felt unfilled an aching void, And heard a whisper of a life attired In sapphire robes, 'midst gleams of golden light, Above their present world, so dank and chill, Where all day long they wing their happy flight From roses sweet to lovely daffodil.

But some essayed to doubt if it were so. Who ever had returned to make it known? One volunteered that he would upward go, To bring report; but he was not full grown, And fainted when he reached the surface air, And falling, round a reed his form he curled, Then cried, "Delusion! I have been up there. And could not find a trace of brighter world."

Yet others could not still the voice within, Nor disregard tradition's hopeful tale. They called a council; but it caused some din, And all their efforts seemed at first to fail, Till one wise head suggested this compact, Expressed, no doubt, in dragon larva lore; That if that brighter life were actual fact, And all who rose in golden sunshine soar,

Each must return to tell the joyful tale, And o'er the waters shake his sapphire wings, So all may see, and their bright comrade hail, And talk about the tidings which he brings. Now each returns, clad in his bright array; Skims o'er the grassy lake with gauze-like wings, Attracts their notice by his plumage gay, And they collect to hear the news he brings.

Then, holding fast, he buzzes out his song, And seeks to woo them to a brighter world. And he succeeds; for see, the larva strong Climb up the grass, and soon in light enfurled, They wait the growth of wings, then burst their shells, Shake loose the gauzy folds, and soar away; But soon come back again their joy to tell, And help their brothers to a brighter day.

Perhaps our loved ones do not always stay In far-off heaven, and leave their comrades lone; Tho' yet unseen, may hover round our way, And see our toil, and hear our daily moan; And tho' we cannot see their lovely forms, Nor hear full well the whispers of their voice, May shield us oft in life's tempestuous storms, And when we victories gain, with us rejoice.

They whisper thoughts, perhaps, if not word sounds, And help to waken longings for our rest; And thus allure our hearts beyond earth's bounds To joy and home, upon our Saviour's breast.

O may I heed the whispers which they bring, And seek the grace which will my heart prepare To climb from earth and take on angel wing, Then soar aloft, to find my home up there!



A GLIMPSE OF HEAVEN

As the caged eagle neared the mountain range, O'er which he oft had soared on pinions strong, He clapped his wings, moved by some impulse strange, And then fell dead his prison floor along.

So Moses stood on Pisgah's heights alone, With sight undimmed, and unabated strength; He gazed with rapture on the vision shown, Of the fair land in all its breadth and length;

He saw the vale of Eschol clad with vine, Mount Libbanus adorned with lordly trees, Gilead and Achor, with their lowing kine, And verdant Sharon swept by the sea breeze;

He saw the spot where Jacob's ladder stood, The oaks at Mamre where their father prayed, Saw Bashan with its pastures and its wood, And the rude cave where Abram Sarah laid.

Saw the whole land—its hills and vales and streams, Its lakes and pools, its vineyards and its groves, A wealth and glory far beyond his dreams; Better, it seemed, than all earth's treasure troves.

God then revealed a glimpse of His own face, Which Moses once desired, but God withheld, But finished now the God-ordained race, The battle fought, and every passion quelled.

As he beholds the glory of his Lord, And looks within the pearly gates ajar, Snaps, in an instant, life's frail brittle cord, And he is where the holy angels are.

So is it, likewise, with most dying saints; They see e'en here the beatific sight; The spirit then breaks thro' this world's restraints, And enters into heaven's effulgent light.

Not sorrow snaps the silver cord, but joy; Not woe, but bliss, expands the golden bowl. The pitcher breaks when free from earth's alloy, And fails the wheel when heaven has filled the soul.



THE END WE SOUGHT

The end we sought is not attained, But wisdom has been won, And thus a higher goal is gained. That like the moon has sadly waned, While this shines as the sun.

A shorter route to India's strand Columbus failed to find. That was an object truly grand, But in the wealth of this fair land Grandeur and good combine.



ASPIRATION

I stand to-day on higher ground Than ever reached before, Yet from this summit I have found, Outlined full many more, Which seem to pierce the vaulted sky, And prove my effort vain But God will set my feet on high, Thro' grace I shall attain.

Yet higher still my ideal stands, Its peak but dimly seen, But hope impels, and love commands, And faith discerns its sheen; And when I reach its shining height Heaven's gate will open wide; I'll see the beatific sight, And rest at Jesus' side.



MY REST

I would not cherish a wish or thought Displeasing, Lord, to Thee; Thy will is good, and with wisdom fraught, And that suffices me. I cannot alter a plan of Thine, And would not if I could; I acquiesce in the will divine, And find my highest good.

At times my vessel drifts near the shore, And the beacon lights expire, The surf-capped waves swell more and more, And threaten with ruin dire; But only the surface sea is rough; The ocean's depths are calm, And a star affords me light enough, The Star of Bethlehem.

And by its light I discern the sand And rocks along the coast, And turn away toward a fairer land, And standing at my post, I guide my bark thro' the tempest wild, Borne on by wind and tide, Till God receives His weak, erring child, And shelters near His side.

"Lo, I come, O Lord, to do Thy will!" Shines from my star divine, And my heart cries out, "In me fulfill Also, Thy wise design." I would not alter a plan of thine If I the power possessed; My will is lost in the will divine, 'Tis here I find my rest.



"PAINT ME AS I AM, WARTS AND ALL"—Cromwell.

Brave soul, 'twere well if all the same would say, And artists aim their patron's wish t'obey. What signifies a wart, or e'en a scar? Leave both, skilled hand, and paint us as we are. The crowfeet paint, the wrinkles on the brow, The hollow cheek, the form inclined to bow, The tear-dim'd eye, the hair well streaked with gray, The hardened hand, begrim'd with soot and clay, And if you use the seer's revealing glass, Remember this, "All flesh is as the grass."



"I WAS THERE"

When the French soldier from the field returned, Begrimed with smoke and blood, he felt content, As from Napoleon he this fact had learned, That thro' his marshall, medals would be sent, The name of battlefield each one would bear, And, also, in large letters, "I was there."

In others' triumphs we may well rejoice, If in their triumphs good to us redounds; But in the glory we can have no choice, And our rejoicings are but empty sounds. If you would in the victor's glory share, Be then prepared to add this, "I was there!"

The victor's joy belongs to him alone; He stood his ground 'midst storms of shot and shell; Thro' his brave stand the foe has been o'erthrown, And he alone the victor's tale can tell. He now lies down to die 'neath glory's glare, For he can say to others, "I was there!"

Not in some neutral nook must we remain; The battle rages, we must share the strife; The world, once lost, we must for Christ regain, And each lay hold upon eternal life. Who share His conflicts will His glory share; Then looking down to earth say, "I was there!"

Those who before the throne are robed in white, Passed thro' the conflict and the foe o'ercame; Boldly they stood as champions for the right, And thus have won thro' grace enduring fame, And when the roll is called, each will declare, "Here am I, Lord, I fought for Thee down there!"



TRUE LOVE

He loves not much who loves not honor more; If men lack this then love must lack as well; If this possessed no tongue love's depths can tell; The heart an ocean filled from shore to shore.

Seeing in him the possibility Of likeness to the great and Blessed One; It may be even now in him begun. I love him much for what I hope to be,

And show my love by yielding him his due; For sentimental love is ever vain, It cannot peace, much less heaven's favor gain; But those who love in deed are blessed and true.



A TRUE MAN

With purpose strong to do or die, The race of life he ran, With love supreme to God on high, And equal love to man.

Some flaws the earthen vessel marred, Which all could clearly see; Within was found the precious nard; From guile his heart was free.

In motive e'er is found the sin; Let that to God be true, And he the Judge's smile will win, And man's approval too.



MY OLD SWEETHEART

My old sweetheart is away to-day; I feel as I did of old, In my courting days, when far away I yearned for her more than gold.

I thought of her handsome, smiling face, Her noble and cultured brow, Of her gentle ways, and charming grace; I missed her less then than now.

Through the long years of our wedded life, Now nearly a full two score, She has proved herself a loving wife, And a sweetheart evermore.

Our love has grown with the flight of time, As the mountain stream may grow; Or as a tree in a genial clime When free from the frost and snow.

The tempest may madly rage without, We have lasting peace within; And confidence ne'er gives place to doubt, Nor concord to noisy din.

She will soon return again to me, From her visit in the West, And the dear face that I long to see Will be nestling on my breast.

And I will feel as in olden time, With a love not dreamed of then; No happier man in any clime Is known to the sons of men.

And when we part at the silent tomb, 'Twill be but a passing day Before we meet where there is no gloom, And sweethearts forever stay.

Full forty-six years of wedded life, Enjoyed with my sweetheart here; They were happy years, devoid of strife, And full of Christian cheer; Then her Master called her spirit home, And I am left to walk alone.

Ere long my journey, too, will end, And my spirit to God arise; Perhaps he may my sweetheart send To escort me to the skies; And there with our Saviour we shall be, Yet sweethearts still through eternity.

THE END