with light, more light!
Not for them the length’ning shadows
Falling coldly round our lives,
Nearer, nearer through the ages
Life’s new spring for them arrives.
Not for them the doubt and anguish
Of an old and loveless age,
Dropping sadly tears of sorrow
On life’s faded, blotted page.
Not for them the mournful dimming
Of the weary, tear-stained eye,
That has seen the sad procession
Of its dearest hopes go by.
Not for them the hopeless clinging
To life’s worn and feeble strands,
Till the last has ceased to tremble
In our agèd, withered hands.
Never lines of light and darkness
Thread the brows forever fair,
And the eldest of the angels
Seems the youngest brother there.
There the stream of life doth never
Cross the mournful plains of death,
And the pearly gates are ever
Closed against his icy breath.
Death of Zombi
The Chief of a Negro Kingdom in South America
Cruel in vengeance, reckless in wrath,
The hunters of men bore down on our path;
Inhuman and fierce, the offer they gave
Was freedom in death or the life of a slave.
The cheek of the mother grew pallid with dread,
As the tidings of evil around us were spread,
And closer and closer she strained to her heart
The children she feared they would sever apart.
The brows of our maidens grew gloomy and sad;
Hot tears burst from eyes once sparkling and glad.
Our young men stood ready to join in the fray,
That hung as a pall ’round our people that day.
Our leaders gazed angry and stern on the strife,
For freedom to them was dearer than life.
There was mourning at home and death in the street,
For carnage and famine together did meet.
The pale lips of hunger were asking for bread,
While husbands and fathers lay bleeding and dead.
For days we withstood the tempests of wrath,
That scattered destruction and death in our path,
Till, broken and peeled, we yielded at last,
And the glory and strength of our kingdom were past.
But Zombi, our leader, and warlike old chief,
Gazed down on our woe with anger and grief;
The tyrant for him forged fetters in vain,
His freedom-girt limbs had worn their last chain.
Defiance and daring still flashed from his eye;
A freeman he’d lived and free he would die.
So he climbed to the verge of a dangerous steep,
Resolved from its margin to take a last leap;
For a fearful death and a bloody grave
Were dearer to him than the life of a slave.
Nor went he alone to the mystic land—
There were other warriors in his band,
Who rushed with him to Death’s dark gate,
All wrapped in the shroud of a mournful fate.
Lines to Charles Sumner
Thank God that thou hast spoken
Words earnest, true and brave,
The lightning of thy lips did smite
The fetters of the slave.
I thought the shadows deepened,
Round the pathway of the slave,
As one by one his faithful friends
Were dropping in the grave.
When other hands grew feeble,
And loosed their hold on life,
Thy words rang like a clarion
For freedom’s noble strife.
Thy words were not soft echoes,
Thy tones no siren song;
They fell as battle-axes
Upon our giant wrong.
God grant thy words of power
May fall as precious seeds,
That yet shall leaf and blossom
In high and holy deeds.
“Sir, We Would See Jesus”
We would see Jesus; earth is grand,
Flowing out from her Creator’s hand.
Like one who tracks his steps with light,
His footsteps ever greet our sight;
The earth below, the sky above,
Are full of tokens of his love;
But ’mid the fairest scenes we’ve sighed,
Our hearts are still unsatisfied.
We would see Jesus; proud and high
Temples and domes have met our eye.
We’ve gazed upon the glorious thought,
By earnest hands in marble wrought,
And listened where the lying feet
Beat time to music, soft and sweet;
But bow’rs of ease, and halls of pride,
Our yearning hearts ne’er satisfied.
We would see Jesus; we have heard
Tidings our inmost souls have stirred,
How, from their chambers full of night,
The darkened eyes receive the light;
How, at the music of his voice,
The lame do leap, the dumb rejoice.
Anxious we’ll wait until we’ve seen
The good and gracious Nazarene.
The Bride of Death
They robed her for another groom,
For her bridal couch, prepared the tomb;
From the sunny love of her marriage day
A stronger rival had won her away;
His wooing was like a stern command,
And cold was the pressure of his hand.
Through her veins he sent an icy thrill,
With sudden fear her heart stood still;
To his dusty palace the bride he led,
Her guests were the pale and silent dead.
No eye flashed forth a loving light,
To greet the bride as she came in sight,
Not one reached out a joyous hand,
To welcome her home to the mystic land.
Silent she sat in the death still hall,
For her bridal robe she wore a pall;
Instead of orange-blossoms fair,
Willow and cypress wreathed her hair.
Though her mother’s kiss lay on her cheek,
Her lips no answering love could speak,
No air of life stirred in her breath,
That fair young girl was the bride of death.
Thank God for Little Children
Thank God for little children,
Bright flowers by earth’s wayside,
The dancing, joyous lifeboats
Upon life’s stormy tide.
Thank God for little children;
When our skies are cold and gray,
They come as sunshine to our hearts,
And charm our cares away.
I almost think the angels,
Who tend life’s garden fair,
Drop down the sweet wild blossoms
That bloom around us here.
It seems a breath of heaven
Round many a cradle lies,
And every little baby
Brings a message from the skies.
The humblest home with children
Is rich in precious gems,
That shame the wealth of monarchs,
And pale their diadems.
Dear mothers, guard these jewels,
As sacred offerings meet,
A wealth of household treasures
To lay at Jesus’ feet.
The Dying Fugitive
Slowly o’er his darkened features
Stole the warning shades of death,
And we knew the mystic angel
Waited for his parting breath.
He had started for his freedom,
And his heart beat firm
