burned into his life;
But full of high impassioned art,
He bore the fearful strife.
And wrought in ecstasy and hope
The image of his brain;
He felt the death throes at his heart,
But labored through the pain.
The statue seemed to glow with life—
A costly work of art;
For it he paid the fervent blood
From his own eager heart.
With kindling eye and flushing cheek
But slowly laboring breath,
He gazed upon his finished work,
Then sought his couch of death.
And when the plaudits of the crowd
Came like the south wind’s breath,
The dreamy, gifted child of art
Had closed his eyes in death.
Jesus
Come speak to me of Jesus,
I love that precious name,
Who built a throne of power
Upon a cross of shame.
Unveil to me the beauty
That glorifies his face—
The fullness of the Father—
The image of his grace.
My soul would run to meet Him;
Restrain me not with creeds;
For Christ, the hope of glory,
Is what my spirit needs.
I need the grand attraction,
That centres ’round the cross,
To change the gilded things of earth,
To emptiness and dross.
My feet are prone to wander,
My eyes to turn aside,
And yet I fain would linger,
With Christ the crucified.
I want a faith that’s able
To stand each storm and shock—
A faith forever rooted,
In Christ the living Rock.
Fifteenth Amendment
Beneath the burden of our joy
Tremble, O wires, from East to West!
Fashion with words your tongues of fire,
To tell the nation’s high behest.
Outstrip the winds, and leave behind
The murmur of the restless waves;
Nor tarry with your glorious news,
Amid the ocean’s coral caves.
Ring out! ring out! your sweetest chimes,
Ye bells, that call to prayer and praise;
Let every heart with gladness thrill,
And songs of joyful triumph raise.
Shake off the dust, O rising race!
Crowned as a brother and a man;
Justice to-day asserts her claim,
And from thy brow fades out the ban.
With freedom’s chrism upon thy head,
Her precious ensign in thy hand,
Go place thy once despisèd name
Amid the noblest of the land.
O ransomed race! give God the praise,
Who led thee through a crimson sea,
And ’mid the storm of fire and blood,
Turned out the war-cloud’s light to thee.
Retribution
Judgment slumbered. God in mercy
Stayed his strong avenging hand;
Sent them priests and sent them prophets,
But they would not understand.
Judgment lingered; men, grown bolder,
Gloried in their shame and guilt;
And the blood of God’s poor childrep
Was as water freely spilt.
Then arose a cry to heaven,
Deep and startling, sad and wild,
Sadder than the wail of Egypt,
Mourning for the first-born child.
For the sighing of the needy
God at length did bare his hand,
And the footsteps of his judgments
Echoed through the guilty land.
Oh! the terror, grief and anguish;
Oh! the bitter, fearful strife,
When the judgments of Jehovah
Pressed upon the nation’s life.
And the land did reel and tremble
’Neath the terror of his frown,
For its guilt lay heavy on it,
Pressing like an iron crown.
As a warning to the nations,
Bathed in blood and swathed in fire,
Lay the once oppressing nation,
Smitten by God’s fearful ire.
The Sin of Achan
Night closed o’er the battling army,
But it brought them no success;
Victory perched not on their banners;
Night was full of weariness.
Flushed and hopeful in the morning,
Turned they from their leader’s side:
Routed, smitten and defeated,
Came they back at eventide.
Then in words of bitter mourning
Joshua’s voice soon arose:
“Tell us, O thou God of Jacob,
Why this triumph of our foes?”
To his pleading came the answer
Why the hosts in fear did yield:
“ ’Twas because a fearful trespass
’Mid their tents did lie concealed.”
Clear and plain before His vision,
With whom darkness is as light,
Lay the spoils that guilty Achan
Covered from his brethren’s sight.
From their tents they purged the evil
That had ruin round them spread;
Then they won the field of battle,
Whence they had in terror fled.
Through the track of many ages
Comes this tale of woe and crime;
Let us read it as a lesson
And a warning for our time.
Oh, for some strong-hearted Joshua!
Faithful to his day and time,
Who will wholly rid the nation
Of her clinging curse and crime.
Till she writes on every banner
All beneath these folds are free,
And the oppressed and groaning millions
Shout the nation’s Jubilee.
Lines to Miles O’Reiley
You’ve heard no doubt of Irish bulls,
And how they blunder, thick and fast;
But of all the queer and foolish things,
O’Reiley, you have said the last.
You say we brought the rebs supplies,
And gave them aid amid the fight,
And if you must be ruled by rebs,
Instead of black you want them white.
You blame us that we did not rise,
And pluck war from a fiery brand,
When Little Mac said if we did,
He’d put us down with iron hand.
And when we sought to join your ranks,
And battle with you, side by side,
Did men not curl their lips with scorn,
And thrust us back with hateful pride?
And when at last we gained the field,
Did we not firmly, bravely stand,
And help to turn the tide of death,
That spread its ruin o’er the land?
We hardly think we’re worse than those
Who kindled up this fearful strife,
Because we did not seize the chance
To murder helpless babes and wife,
And had we struck, with vengeful hand,
The rebel where he most could feel,
Were you not ready to impale
Our hearts upon your Northern steel?
O’Reiley, men like you should wear
The gift of song like some bright crown,
Nor worse than ruffians of the ring,
Strike at a man because he’s down.
The Little Builders
Ye are builders, little builders,
Not with mortar, brick and stone,
But your work is far more glorious—
Ye are building freedom’s throne.
Where the ocean never slumbers
Works the coral ’neath the spray,
By and by a reef or island
Rears its head to greet the day.
Then the balmy rains and sunshine
Scatter treasures o’er
