through every vein;
He ran and clasp’d his child, and wept,
Murm’ring, “He lives again!”
“Father, I’ve come, but not to claim
Aught from thy love or grace;
I come, a child of guilt and shame,
To beg a servant’s place.”
“Enough! enough!” the father said,
“Bring robes of princely cost!”—
The past with all its shadows fled,
For now was found the lost.
“Put shoes upon my poor child’s feet,
With rings his hand adorn,
And bid my house his coming greet
With music, dance and song.”
Oh! Saviour, mid this world of strife,
When wayward here we roam,
Conduct us to the paths of life,
And guide us safely home.
Then in thy holy courts above,
Thy praise our lips shall sound,
While angels join our song of love,
That we, the lost are found!
Eva’s Farewell
Farewell, father! I am a dying,
Going to the “glory land,”
Where the sun is ever shining,
And the zephyr’s ever bland.
Where the living fountains flowing,
Quench the pining spirit’s thirst;
Where the tree of life is growing,
Where the crystal fountains burst.
Father! hear that music holy
Floating from the spirit land!
At the pearly gates of glory,
Radiant angels waiting stand.
Father! kiss your dearest Eva,
Press her cold and clammy hand,
Ere the glittering hosts receive her,
Welcome to their cherub band.
Be Active
Onward, onward, sons of freedom,
In the great and glorious strife;
You’ve a high and holy mission
On the battle field of life.
See oppression’s feet of iron
Grind a brother to the ground,
And from bleeding heart and bosom,
Gapeth many a fearful wound.
Sit not down with idle pity,
Gazing on his mighty wrong;
Hurl the bloated tyrant from him—
Say my brother, oh, be strong!
See that sad, despairing mother
Clasp her burning brow in pain;
Lay your hand upon her fetters—
Rend, oh! rend her galling chain!
Here’s a pale and trembling maiden,
Brutal arms around her thrown;
Christian father, save, oh! save her,
By the love you bear your own!
Yearly lay a hundred thousand
New-born babes on Moloch’s shrine;
Crush these gory, reeking altars—
Christians, let this work be thine.
Where the Southern roses blossom,
Weary lives go out in pain,
Dragging to death’s shadowy portals,
Slavery’s heavy galling chain.
Men of every clime and nation,
Every faith, and sect, and creed,
Lay aside your idle jangling,
Come and staunch the wounds that bleed.
On my people’s blighted bosom,
Mountain weights of sorrow lay;
Stop not now to ask the question,
Who shall roll the stone away?
Set to work the moral forces,
That are yours of church and state;
Teach them how to war and battle
’Gainst oppression, wrong, and hate.
Oh! be faithful! Oh! be valiant,
Trusting not in human might;
Know that in the darkest conflict,
God is on the side of right!
Lessons of the Street
Walking through life’s dusty highways,
Mid the tramp of hurrying feet,
We may gather much instruction
From the “lessons of the street.”
Now a beggar sues for succor—
Nay, repress that look of pride!
’Neath that wrecked and shattered body
Doth a human soul reside.
Here’s a brow that seems to tell you,
“I am prematurely old;
I have spent my youthful vigor
In an eager search for gold.”
On the cheek of yon pale student
Is a divorcement most unkind—
’Tis the cruel separation
Of his body from his mind.
Here a painted child of shame
Flaunts in costly robes of sin,
With a reckless mirth that cannot
Hide the smouldering fires within.
And here’s a face, so calm and mild,
Mid the restless din and strife;
It seems to say, in every line,
“I’m aiming for a higher life.”
Just then I caught a mournful glance,
As on the human river rushed,
A harrowing look, which plainly said,
“The music of my life is hushed.”
Look on that face, so deathly pale,
Its bloom and flush forever fled:
I started, for it seemed to bear
A message to the silent dead.
Thus hurries on the stream of life,
To empty where Death’s waters meet;
We pass along, we pass away—
Thus end the lessons of the street.
“Gone to God”
Finished now the weary throbbing,
Of a bosom calmed to rest;
Laid aside the heavy sorrows,
That for years upon it prest.
All the thirst for pure affection,
All the hunger of the heart;
All the vain and tearful cryings,
All forever now depart.
Clasp the pale and faded fingers,
O’er the cold and lifeless form;
They shall never abrink and shiver,
Homeless in the dark and storm.
Press the death-weights calmly, gently,
O’er the eyelids in their sleep;
Tears shall never tremble from them,
They shall never wake to weep.
Close the silent lips together,
Lips once parted with a sigh;
Through their sealed, moveless portals,
Ne’er shall float a bitter cry.
Bring no bright and blooming flowers,
Let no mournful tears be shed,
Funeral flowers, tears of sorrow,
They are for the cherished dead.
She has been a lonely wanderer,
Drifting on the world’s highway;
Grasping with her woman’s nature,
Feeble reeds to be her stay.
God is witness to the anguish,
Of a heart that’s all alone;
Floating blindly on life’s current,
Only bound unto His throne.
But o’er such, Death’s solemn angel,
Broodeth with a sheltering wing;
Till the hopeless hand ’s grown weary,
Cease around earth’s toys to cling.
Then kind hands will clasp them gently,
On the still, unaching breast;
Softly treading by, they’ll whisper,
Of the lone one gone to rest.
To the Union Savers of Cleveland
Men of Cleveland, had a vulture
Sought a timid dove for prey,
Would you not, with human pity,
Drive the gory bird away?
Had you seen a feeble lambkin,
Shrinking from a wolf so bold,
Would ye not to shield the trembler,
In your arms have made its fold?
But when she, a hunted sister,
Stretched her hands that ye might save,
Colder far than Zembla’s regions
Was the answer that ye gave.
On the Union’s bloody altar,
Was your hapless victim laid;
Mercy, truth and justice shuddered,
But your hands would give no aid.
And ye sent her back to torture,
Robbed of freedom and of right.
Thrust the wretched, captive stranger.
Back to slavery’s gloomy night.
Back where brutal men may trample,
On her honor and her fame;
And unto
