The Nativity
The gloom of night had overspread the land,
Swaying its dread sceptre o’er every man;
For superstition like a monarch reigned,
And Adam’s sons were fettered by its chain.
When the fulfilment of the promise came,
A Saviour! born to-day in Bethlehem;
Gabriel, the news, the joyful news revealed
By night, to some poor shepherds in the field.
Go now to Bethlehem, behold the Babe—
Though Lord of all, He’s in a manger laid!
Among the horned cattle there you’ll find
The Prince of Peace, the Saviour of mankind.
The Shepherds then in haste obeyed his word.
Guided by flaming star to view their Lord;
They entered in, when, judge of their surprise—
An infant, a Redeemer, burst upon their eyes.
Amazed, affrighted, trembling, they
Gazed on the Babe as there He lay;
Though in a manger yet He bore
Rare tokens of Almighty power.
To the Mock-Bird
Bird of the woodland, sing me a song,
Fain would I list to thee, all the day long.
Out from thy cosy nest, ’mid leafy bower,
Lift high thy tuneful voice—’tis summer’s hour.
Bird of the forest, with voice sublime,
Gladdening with thy music all summer time,
E’en while the Autumn’s winds bend low the trees,
Sweetly still thy carols float with the breeze.
Queen of the song-realm, what doest thou?
Up amid the leaflets, rocking on the bough,
Ah! little trickster, building thee a nest,
Cosy, soft and warm, for thy wee ones to rest.
Bird of the southland, haste thee and bring
Tributes of thy melody, welcoming the spring,
Say to sombre winter—up and away,
This my time of minstrelsy, bright, sunny May.
In Memoriam
Rev. Samuel Weston
Oh! surely for thee were the gates ajar,
As thy chariot onward sped,
When with brightened eye and youth renewed,
Triumphant thou did’st tread
Through the gates of death, to the portals bright,
While the ransomed myriads sing,
“Lift up your heads, ye Golden Gates,”
Let the aged pilgrim in.
No terrors for thee had the darksome vale,
For like the wise virgins of old,
Thou keep’st thy lamp burning and trimmed from thy youth,
Till three-score and ten were well told.
And oft, as a shepherd, that tends his flock,
Thou did’st then to still waters lead,
And ’mid the green pastures of justified grace,
Thou lovedst thy children to feed.
Then Pastor and Leader, fond Parent, adieu,
Till the last, grand trump shall sound,
When shepherd and flock united once more,
Shall echo a long harvest home.
To Rev. Thaddeus Saltus
Sleep, Christian warrior, sleep,
Life’s fitful dream is o’er,
Thy pain-tossed bark is anchored
Safe on the golden shore.
’Neath the green sward we lay thee
Thus early to thy rest,
And press the sod thus lightly,
Upon thy gentle breast.
Though but in manhood’s prime,
When the dread summons came,
To hush the voice so well attuned
To preaching “In His Name.”
Thou did’st not murmur, but with joy
Obeyed the Master’s word,
And rapture crowned did’st enter
The palace of thy Lord.
Then sweetly sleep, dear Rector,
Thy grave we’ll deck with flowers,
An earnest of that Better Land
Of ever blooming bowers.
Around this spot a halo twines,
While angels vigils keep,
And we rejoice that thus “He gives
To His beloved sleep.”
Tribute to Capt. F. W. Dawson
Carolina mourns to-day. For he, the gifted
Son of her adoption, is no more. The voice
That stirred the bosoms of her sons, and
Made her ramparts ring from mount to
Sea-board, is hushed in death. His
Noble form, and nobler mien that
Never faltered ’mid the cannon’s
Roar, lies motionless.
So Carolina weeps. ’Tis meet she should—
Her chieftain lieth low. In this
Grand, old City by the Sea, this Venice
Of the Southland. The home he loved
So well. When the grey morn breaks,
And when the twilight lingers, they
Chant in low, sweet music, evening
Vespers for his soul.
Then, Carolinians, build a monument for him;
But not on marble cold. Not on
Towering dome or polished shaft,
Should his memory be engraved. But
In the hearts of those he loved and
Served, should immortelles, perpetual, bloom;
And incense, fragrant, ever rise
To his memory.
Requiescat in Pace.
Mrs. Louise B. Weston
My Mother! With the angels now,
Life’s race completely run;
The Pilgrim’s cross is laid aside,
The Christian’s crown is won.
Full two-score years has thy frail bark
Relentlessly been driven,
Along the rugged shoals of time—
Now safely moored in heaven.
Some vision bright of Eden’s land—
Some glimpse from Nebo’s crest—
So ravished thy enraptured soul,
Then panting for its rest,
That when the City bathed in gold
Full burst upon your sight,
You would not tarry with us more;
Your spirit took its flight.
My Mother, when life’s sands run low,
In love, in kindness come,
And take the spirit of thy child,
And bid her “welcome home.”
Lines to Mrs. Isabel Peace
’Tis said but a name is friendship,
Soulless, and shallow, and vain;
That the human heart ne’er beats in response,
Or echoes sweet sympathy’s strain.
But to-day in “memory’s mirror”
Came a dear and honored one.
Whom in days gone by had lived and had loved.
Ere her heavenly goal was won.
Her countenance beamed as of yore,
With radiant smiles of love,
And I felt that the friendship she lavished me here,
Had ripened in heaven above.
I felt that her voice so winsome,
Attuned to holier rhymes,
Would in soft cadence tell of friendship’s truth,
Like harp of a thousand strings.
Rise up and call her blest!
Ye children of her love,
For a friendlier hand or a kindlier heart
Ne’er entered the mansions above.
Yes, my darling, when life’s shadows
Over me do darkly fall,
Meet me surely at the river
As I haste to obey the call.
Gladly through the darksome valley,
Through its portals, grim and cold,
Will I hasten ’till my nestling
Meets me at the “Gates of Gold.”
Sadly do I miss my wee one,
None can fill thy vacant place,
Only in my dreams I fold thee,
Only then behold thy face.
See thee in thy childish beauty,
Clasp thy little hand in mine,
Ever will those moments chain me,
Ever in my heart enshrined.
Little Heartsease, “bud
