Gleams of Sunshine Part 12

The night of affliction, with its long hours of sadness, Will soon pa.s.s away to be remembered no more; And the weeping will end in a morning of gladness; For no sorrow is known on the evergreen sh.o.r.e.

In this world we shall have tribulation and sorrow; 'Tis enough for the subject to be as his king; But if we are faithful, joy will come with the morrow, And with the blood-washed a new song shall we sing.

"HE SHALL DWELL ON HIGH"

(Isaiah 33:16)

Tossed about in strange commotion Like the surface of the ocean When the wind, its waters lashing, Sends great billows, roaring, dashing O'er the breakers, which for ages Have withstood the storms it wages, See those clouds, so like this ocean, How they whirl in strange commotion.

Dust and vapor now are meeting, Each the other wildly greeting; As one hand another grasping, So are these each other clasping; Now they whirl in form fantastic And great trees with boughs elastic With loud moans are lowly bending, Leaves and fruit to earth descending.

Eyes 'most blinded, nerves all shaken, By this fearful storm o'ertaken, As it swept on toward the sunrise; Yet, I chanced to lift my dim eyes Upward, when, O sight entrancing, I beheld, to west advancing, Other clouds, in higher current, Unlike earth's, so wild and errant.

Far above the wild commotion, Like great ships on peaceful ocean, Floating westward, grand and steady, Were those clouds, as if made ready, As great cars, with grand pavilions, To convey the ransomed millions From this earth where storms are raging To that land of charms engaging.

Life on earth is a probation; Storms fit well in this relation; Yet, above, are peaceful regions, Where ne'er come h.e.l.l's dreaded legions.

Looking toward the things eternal, We may rise to realms supernal, Where earth's dust will not defile us Nor the cunning foe beguile us.

To this higher plain, O lift me, Gracious Lord! ere Satan sift me, Far above this noisy Babel; Far above earth's clouds, all sable; Up so far no darts can reach me, Where the Holy Ghost will teach me; And, in perfect peace abiding, I will sing while heavenward riding!

BAG YOUR GAME

Two men, well versed in use of arms, Set out, 'tis said, in search of game.

Each felt that hunting had its charms, Yet widely differed they in aim.

Both felt their need of wholesome food For present use and winter's store; But one was of a careless mood-- Than the day's sport he asked no more.

No game he bagged from morn till night, Content to show his master skill In hitting every bird at sight, And shooting down the deer at will.

Grand sport he deemed it, day by day, As in the tangled forest brake He brought the bounding stag to bay, Or shot the wood-duck in the lake.

As he each night to home returned He sang the pleasure of the chase; But had not yet the lesson learned That he was loser in the race.

Yet, when sat in the winter's cold And game had fled to warmer clime, He had no stock to sell for gold, Nor food: and past his harvest time.

The chase the other prized as well; But bagged his game as best he could, And thus had lots of pelts to sell-- For self and wife the choicest food.

In the pursuit of game a thrill Of keenest joy shot through his heart; But joy complete he knew not till He went his way joy to impart.

While he with wife and children shared The roasted duck and venison, He felt he as a king had fared; And though of earth a denizen, Such food would give both strength and cheer To meet lifes daily toil aright, And winter months he did not fear, His larder filled, and prospect bright.

The search for Truth with pleasure thrills; To find it, we our end attain-- Possessed, new joy the spirit fills, And to retain is highest gain.

The pleasure of pursuit is lost If truth itself is not secured.

O buy the truth at any cost, And from your aim be not allured!

OTHERS' BURDENS

My greatest grief is not my own; That often proves a blessing, For in my grief G.o.d's care is shown, And as I am not left alone, It never proves distressing;

But when my brother's grief I bear The weight then seems excessive; His heavy load I inly share, And loaded down by double care, My burden feels oppressive.

Yet I remember Him who bore The world's great load of sorrow, And know that He on me will pour The needed grace to bear the more, To-day and on the morrow.

MEMORY

Remembrance of the past will joy impart If in that past the conscience was supreme; But if the soul be made an auction mart, And thoughts and deeds be sold for what you deem The price of virtue, then the called-up past Will be like hooks of steel to hold thee fast.

Or like the stings those nettles left behind Which I so fondly handled in my play; I deemed the friend who warned me true and kind, And in great haste I threw the weeds away, But soon the burning flesh reminded me 'Twere safer far from all such weeds to flee.

The cloud that flitted o'er the saintly brow Which now a crown of life so well adorns, When you by ways and means you know not now, Did what your soul with holy horror scorns, Will stay with you long as you live on earth, And be like gall to spoil your cup of mirth.

The smiles of those we bless are lasting, too; We feel their cheering glow each cloudy day.

As falls on wilted flower the healing dew, So they refresh, and chase our gloom away; We feel though weak we have not lived in vain, And know G.o.d smiles tho' we cannot explain.

The footprints on the rock time wears away; The rock itself soon crumbles into dust; But memories of the past have come to stay, Nor flood, nor fire, nor the consuming rust, Can ever from the soul the past erase.

Guard thou thy life, O man, with heavenly grace.

THE ROYAL WAY

Perfection ever is the price of toil.

Of marchings long, and hardships by the way, Of burdens borne, oft in the heat of day, 'Tis then as right the victor claims the spoil.

The world admires the wreath upon his brow, But he alone can tell how much it cost, And how to gain it he had all things lost.

Results men see, but not the _when_, or _how_.

The stately elm which rears its head so high, And spreads abroad so gracefully its boughs, Beneath which may repose a herd of cows, Grows under ground as well as toward the sky.

The bridge which spans the swiftly-flowing stream O'er which the iron horse, by night and day, With heavy tread speeds on its busy way, Rests not on sand, nor slender post and beam.

Below the shifting sand, on solid rock, The mason safely laid the b.u.t.tress stone, And labored long before his work was shown; But he built well--his work endures each shock.

This work takes time; we chafe at the delay And try to gain the summit at a bound, But find full soon our hopes dashed to the ground; Yet there remains for all the _royal way_.