Poems of the Heart and Home Part 8

The other picture is a young, fair child-- A gentle boy, with curls of cl.u.s.tered gold, And calm, dark eyes that seldom more than smiled As though his life had grown too grave and old-- Too full of earnest thought, and anxious quest, And silent searchings after things unseen;-- And yet, the quiet child seemed strangely blest, As one who inly feels Heaven's peace serene.

So close beside me, in his Sabbath-place, He sat or stood, my hand I might have laid Upon his rippling curls, or dropped a kiss Upon his fair, white forehead while he prayed.

Frail, beauteous boy!--upon his little feet-- Though all unheard by love's quick ear attent-- E'en then Death's chilling waters sternly beat, And with his sweet child-hymns their murmurs blent.

One Sabbath day there was an empty seat-- I could not see for blinding tears that hour-- But by and by, where Living waters meet In G.o.d's fair Paradise, I saw my flower, And ceased to weep!-Henceforth with loving care, These precious pictures in my heart I shrine-- Food for sweet thought, incentive to sweet prayer-- My own, until I reach _their_ home and _mine!_

FELLOWs.h.i.+P WITH CHRIST

To pray as Jesus prayed, When faithless brethren sleep,-- To weep the ruin sin has made-- The only ones that weep,-- To bear the heavy cross,-- To toil, yet murmur not,-- To suffer pain, reproach, and loss,-- Be such our earthly lot.

Yet oh, how richly blest The Master's cup to share,-- The aching grief that wrung His breast,-- His broken-hearted prayer,-- If thus we may but gain One sheaf of golden wheat Gleaned from Earth's sultry harvest-plain, To lay at His dear feet!--

If thus we may but win One precious earthly gem s.n.a.t.c.hed from the mire of vice and sin, For His rich diadem!-- Here, sorrow, patience, prayer; In Heaven, the rich reward!

Here, the sharp thorns, the cross,--and there "Forever with the Lord"!

AN ALLEGORY

AN OLD LESSON IN A NEW DRESS.

"Here is a lantern, my little boy,"

Said a father to his child, "And yonder's a wood, a lonely wood, Tangled, and rough, and wild; And now, this night,--this very hour, Though gloomy and dark it be, By the single light of this lamp alone, You must cross the wild to me!

"I'll be on the farther side, my son, So follow the path you see, And at the end of this narrow way, Awaiting you, I will be!"

Thus bidden, the child set out, but soon, With the gloomy waste ahead, Oppressed with terror and doubt he stopped, Shaking with fear and dread.

"Father!--father!--I cannot see!-- The forest is thick and black, I'm sure there is danger ahead of me, Please, father, call me back!"

But the father's voice through the gloomy wild, In answering accents said,-- _"Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child, And don't look too far ahead!"_

Thus cheered, the child pressed trustingly on, Though trembling much with fear, For around, beyond, and overhead, The forest was dark and drear, And ever, to keep his courage up, To himself he softly said,-- "He told me to keep in the light of my lamp, And not look too far ahead!"

At length the other side was gained, And lo, the father was there!

To welcome his child from the dreary wild, Where darkness and danger were; And, "why did you fear, my son?" he said, "You had plenty of light, you see, Though it lit but a step at a time, enough To guide you safely to me!

"And besides, I was just ahead in the dark-- Though you did not see me at all-- To be sure that no evil or accident Should my darling child befall; Then remember, my son, in life's darkest ways The simple words that I said,-- _'Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child, And not look too far ahead?'_"

THE CRY OF THE KARENS

Lines written after hearing a returned missionary relate some of the traditions, and speak of the long-cherished hopes of this interesting people.

A voice from the distant East-- A voice from a far-off sh.o.r.e-- A voice from the peris.h.i.+ng tribes of Earth Has wandered the blue seas o'er!

It comes with a lingering cry, With a wail of anguish and pain,-- "O brothers,--our brothers!--why Do we look for you still in vain?

"We are weary,--we droop,--we die!

We grope in the deepening gloom!

We look above with despairing eye!

We drop in the yawning tomb!

Our children stretch their hands Far over the waters blue, And vainly cry from our darkened lands-- Alas, how long--for you!

"Brothers! do ye not keep _Our law_ of the olden time, For which, through ages of woe, we weep In darkness, and sin, and crime?

There are sails from the distant West Dotting our waters blue, And the feet of strangers our sh.o.r.es have pressed, But they came not, alas, from you!

"We know there's a G.o.d above, We know there's a land of rest,-- But there's naught that whispers of pard'ning love To our spirits by guilt oppressed!

We call to the earth below,-- To the calm, unanswering heaven,-- But no voice replies to our cry of woe That can tell us of sins forgiven!

"And yet we look and wait, With sorrowing hearts and sore, If haply we may behold, though late, Your sails from the western sh.o.r.e;-- O, come with that precious word We lost in the far-off years, And tell us the voice of woe is heard, And G.o.d has beheld our tears!"

ALONE

Alone, alone!--the night is very silent, Voiceless the stars are, and the pallid moon Through the unknown sends down no tone, no utt'rance To break the hush of midnight's solemn noon!

I stretch my arms toward the unanswering heavens, 'Tis empty s.p.a.ce,--no form, no shape is here!

I call,--no answer to my cry is given, Powerless my voice falls on Night's leaden ear!

Alone, alone!--I thought the dead were near me,-- The holy dead. E'en now, methought I heard Low tones whose music long ago did cheer me, That shadowy hands the parting branches stirred 'Twas but the night wind's mournful sigh above me,-- 'Twas but the lonely streamlet's grieving tone, No voice comes back from those who once did love me,-- No white hand beckons--I am all alone!

Alone?--not so! One sacred, unseen Presence Fills the far depths, broods round me and above, Enfolding all in His own Omnipresence, Pervading all with His unstinted love, In Him I live, and move, and have my being, My soul's deep yearnings all to Him are known, On me in kindness rests His eye all seeing, His arm upholds me,--I am not alone!

MARY

Thus early with the dead-- Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye, The light and joyous tread,-- Mary, we little thought thou would'st be first to die!

A little while ago We saw thee first in girlhood's early bloom; Now thou art lying low, Thy pale hands crossed in slumber, silent in the tomb!

Ah me! 'tis hard to speak Of thee as of the dead--the pale, still dead!-- 'Tis hard to think the b'eak, Stern blast of winter sweeps above thy low, cold bed!

Thus early with thy G.o.d!

'Twas a rich boon He sent whose loving voice Called thee to His abode, 'Mid the sweet bowers of Heaven forever to rejoice!