shore,
And human harvest reap.
Fountains and Rivulets so clear,
That gush amid the valleys fair,
With soft and mellow ring;
As coming forth from glade and wood
Your babblings whisper “God is good,”
Ye make the vales to sing.
Now when all nature swells the song,
When beast and birds the strain prolong,
Shall man from praise refrain?
Then would the rocks and hills proclaim,
All nature crying out for shame,
They who their Maker’s image wear,
Should shout and sing till rent the air
With rhapsodies sublime.
Shipwreck
Night and a starless sky,
Ship on wild billows tost,
With tattered sails and opening seams.
And deck bestrewn with falling beams.
Swift plunging to her doom.
Red lightnings round her flash,
Loud thunders crash and roar,
And the noble vessel mounts the crest
Of the reeking waves, then sinks to rest
Mid carnival of woe.
The Petrel soars aloft,
Wailing her hymn of death,
And the dirgelike sounds pierce the blackened sky,
While the crew send forth one anguished cry,
Sinking to lowest depth.
Some ships go out to sea
That never more return,
Souls that from heaven in infancy come,
Tarnished and ruined by sin may become,
Like the Dove to the Ark they never return,
But sink as ship to doom.
The Washerwoman
With hands all reddened and sore,
With back and shoulders low bent,
She stands all day, and part of the night
Till her strength is well-nigh spent.
With her rub—rub—rub,
And her wash, rinse, shake,
Till the muscles start and the spirit sinks,
And the bones begin to ache.
At morn when the sunbeams scatter
In rays so golden and bright,
She yearns for the hour of even,
She longs for the restful night.
Still she rubs—rubs—rubs,
With the energy born of want,
For the larder’s empty and must be filled—
The fuel’s growing scant.
As long as the heart is blithesome,
Will her spirit bear her up,
And kindness and love imparteth a zest
To sweeten hard life’s bitter cup.
But to toil—toil—toil,
From the grey of the morn till eve,
Is an ordeal so drear for a human to bear,
Which the rich can hardly conceive.
What part in the world of pleasure?
What holidays are her own?
For the rich reck not of privations and tears,
Saying, “she is to the manor born.”
So dry those scalding tears
That furrow so deeply thy cheek,
For rest—rest—rest
Will come at the end of the week.
Yes, even on earth there’s a day
When labor and toil must cease,
The world at its birth received the mandate
Of the seventh day of rest.
When the sweet-toned Sabbath bells
Break o’er the balmy air,
Then sing—sing—sing
That the morning stars may hear.
For the frugal table spread,
For the crust and the humble bed,
When He to whom all earth belongs
Had not where to lay His head,
Then toil for thy daily bread,
Let thy heart like thy hands be clean,
And rub—rub—rub
Till thy bones all ache, I ween.
With hands all reddened and sore,
With back and shoulders bent low,
Thou hast for thy comfort that rest, sweet rest,
Will be found on the other shore.
Then they who’ve washed their souls
Will dip in the crystal tide
Of the fountain clear that was oped to man
From the Saviour’s wounded side.
The Snowdrop
How comest thou, O flower so fair,
To bud and bloom while wintry air
Still hovers o’er the land?
How comest from the cold, dark earth?
That fostered thee and gave thee birth,
Studding thy brow with snow.
Say, didst thou yearn for sunny bowers?
To gladden with thy pure, pale flowers,
The valley and the hill?
Down in the darkness whence thou came,
Hear’st aught of passion, fashion, fame,
Or even greed for gold?
And when the old earth’s bosom heaves,
And scatters man like autumn’s leaves.
With its low thundered voice,
Thou sleep’st serene with eyelids closed,
No earthquake shock breaks thy repose,
Till comes the breath of Spring.
The Saxon Legend of Language
The earth was young, the world was fair,
And balmy breezes filled the air,
Nature reposed in solitude,
When God pronounced it “very good.”
The snow-capped mountain reared its head,
The deep, dark forests widely spread,
O’er pebbly shores the stream did play
On glad creation’s natal day.
But silence reigned, nor beast nor bird
Had from its mate a whisper heard,
E’en man, God’s image from above,
Could not, to Eve, tell of his love.
Where the four rivers met there strayed
The man and wife, no whit afraid,
For the arch-fiend expelled from heaven
Had not yet found his way to Eden.
But lo! a light from ’mid the tree,
But hark! a rustling ’mongst the leaves,
Then a fair Angel from above,
Descending, sang his song of love.
Forth sprang the fierce beasts from their lair,
Bright feathered songsters fill the air,
All nature stirred to centre rang
When the celestial song began.
The Lion, monarch of the plain,
First tried to imitate the strain,
And shaking high his mane he roared,
Till beast and bird around him cohered.
The little Linnet tuned her lay,
The Lark, in turn, did welcome day,
And cooing soft, the timid Dove
Did to his mate tell of his love.
Then Eve, the synonym of grace,
Drew nearer to the solemn place,
And heard the words to music set
In tones so sweet, she ne’er forgot.
The anthems from the earth so rare,
Higher and higher filled the air,
Till Seraphs caught the inspiring strain,
And morning stars together sang.
Then laggard Adam sauntered near,
What Eve had heard he too must hear,
But ah! for aye will woman’s voice
Make man to sigh or him rejoice.
Only the fishes in the deep
Did not arouse them from their sleep,
So they alas! did never hear
Of the Angel’s visit to this sphere.
Nor have they ever said one word
To mate or man, or beast or bird.
The Christ Child
On a starry, wintry night,
Frosty and cold was the air,
And the lowly vale where Bethlehem stood,
Looked bleak, and barren and bare.
Her streets deserted and dim,
Lit only by myriads of stars,
That with shimm’ring light illumined the night—
Among them was fiery Mars.
Adown ’mid the valley so drear
Knelt men, in wonder and fear,
For lo! in the distance a bright star had risen
Wondrously brilliant and clear.
Then an Angel’s voice they heard
In heavenly tones it said,
To you I bring “glad tidings of joy,”
“Fear not nor be
