Gleams of Sunshine Part 4

'Tis well to have a goal in mind, A life-aim, high and true; Clear as the day, and well defined, And ever kept in view.

But G.o.d has strewn along the way Bright flowers of every hue.

Gather the brightest while you may, For they were meant for you.

Heaven's joy transcends the joys of earth, But if earth's joys be pure They must have had a heavenly birth, And bless while they endure; So pluck the flower before it fades-- Drink from the purling stream; Nor look for sorrow's darkening shades, But for the morning gleam.

Life's burdens lose full half their weight If gay our spirits be; The rest beyond we antedate, And serve, though ever free.

Our lamentations all will end, Exchanged for smile and song, And men will mark our upward trend By joy-points all along.

The poet wrote, "no room for mirth;"

Much less for sigh and frown.

"A vale of tears" may be this earth-- 'Tis so to every clown.

The desert blossoms as the rose, And joy flows everywhere; The star of hope in brightness glows, No room for dark despair.

Before we reach G.o.d's heaven above, Enjoy His heaven below; And by the ministries of love A Christlike nature show; For he who lives a selfish life Must lose the joy of this; For highest good, vain is our strife, If man share not our bliss.

HIDE THEIR SCARS!

A painter, high in worldy fame, Was sought to reproduce by art A likeness of the man whose name Sent darts of anguish through the heart Of mighty monarchs in his day; For he by arms subdued the world.

Kingdoms and empires owned his sway And bowed beneath his flag unfurled.

But Alexander bore a scar, Deep marked upon his royal brow; To paint him thus would greatly mar The monarch's beauty; as a slough Would mar the beauty of a lawn, Where queenly feet are wont to tread; Or like the cloud at early dawn, Which hides some glory 'neath its spread.

To leave it out would not be true, For Alexander bore the scar; The painter this resolved to do, Which would be true, yet would not mar: To paint the monarch's head reclined, With his fore-finger on his brow; And thus much grace with art combined, Like ornament on vessel's prow.

The finger rested on the scar, As if mere chance had placed it there; And hid from sight this fruit of war, And left a likeness true and fair.

So let us try, as best we can, To cover o'er each ugly scar Upon the brow of mortal man, So none may see it, near nor far.

"ASHAMED, BUT NOT AFRAID"

O G.o.d, I am ashamed to die, But not the least afraid; Tho' death's dark shadow draweth nigh, Atonement has been made

For every member of our race, And I on it rely, And hope immortal blooms thro' grace; I'm not afraid to die.

But Thou hast done great things for me, And I have nothing done.

To set my sin-bound spirit free, Was sacrificed Thy Son;

And every day by Thy kind hand Rich blessings are bestowed; Oh, how can I before Thee stand, Or rest in Thine abode

With self-respect, or feel at home With no returns to show, My whole life like the worthless foam On time's incessant flow.

Oh, that in life's great harvest field, I may some reaping do; Early and late the sickle wield, And prove a reaper true.

And when the summons comes from Thee, While I on Christ rely, Thou wilt not be ashamed of me, Nor I ashamed to die.

DUNBAR

Up to Dunbar our Cromwell went, Not to invade was his intent; But they who first King Charles sold Now turn their backs on friends of old, And principles they then held dear Were sacrificed for self, I fear.

Another Stuart they receive, Who knew too well how to deceive; The most perfidious of his race, Corrupt in life, and void of grace, The menial of the Papacy; And yet content by oath to free Himself from Holy See's control, And covenant to save his soul By the Scotch Presbyterian mode, As to the crown this paved the road.

But Cromwell brooked not this control; He wished man free to save his soul As conscience may to him dictate, Without subservience to the State.

He saw also thro' the disguise Of one well versed in fraud and lies, And saw how England's liberties Were threatened by this scheme of his.

So up to Dunbar Cromwell went; To break this compact his intent, Conserve the rights of Britons true To worship G.o.d in desk and pew As conscience may to them dictate, Without control of king, or state, Or Papal "bull," or legate's rod-- Only accountable to G.o.d.

On Sunday night he reached Dunbar.

From darkened sky gleamed not a star; The way he travelled o'er was drear, Made doubly so by Scotchmen's fear.

At his approach like sheep they fled, Made frantic by an awful dread Of red-hot irons, spear, and sword, Of b.r.e.a.s.t.s thrust thro', and bodies gored, Which they were told would be their lot When Cromwell came. So from each cot They bore away what pleased them best, And to the flames consigned the rest.

But now Dunbar is reached; yet he Finds himself in extremity; Midst swamps and bogs unfit to tent, By Lammermoor from hillside rent, Leslie in front defiant stands A n.o.ble army he commands Of thousands two score seven, or more, Ready on Cromwell shot to pour.

Behind the sea cut off retreat; With such great odds can he compete?

The mountain sheep may safely tread The Lammermoor, but men may dread To cross this heath at any time; Much more now, midst the rain and slime, Will Cromwell with the smaller score Dare to cross o'er to Dunbar sh.o.r.e?

Tho' shipped were half his guns and men The foe falls ere he turn again.

With foresight keen, like one inspired, He saw the end ere Leslie fired.

"THE LORD," said he, as rapt he stands, "HATH GIVEN THEM INTO OUR HANDS!"

'Tis the ninth month and second day, A wild, wet night, historians say.

Quit you like men, and bravely stand; Death's wrestle now is close at hand; Heed not the hoa.r.s.e sea's doleful moan, As on the cliffs its waves are thrown.

Think not of life nor kindred dear-- Who goes to war should nothing fear But G.o.d, whose eye-lids never sleep-- His Israel He will safely keep.

Oh, pray! but keep your powder dry-- Your part do, then on G.o.d rely.

Stand to your arms the whole night thro'

Or lie awake with arms in view.

And you, ye Scots, your lights blow out, But stay not in your strong redoubt.

'Midst shocks of corn your shelter seek, And rest in sleep; your foe is weak, Yet ere another night comes 'round In deeper slumber shall be found Full many of your stalwart host, And stilled for aye their every boast.

In Cromwell's camp all night was heard The voice of prayer in tones which stirred The tender hearts of "Ironside" men, As never can be told by pen.

Ere shone the first faint streak of morn, The Scots beneath the shocks of corn, Stretched out full length in quiet sleep, Hear a loud blast, and upward leap To seize their arms and face the foe.

Too late the warning! or, too slow Their movements when the trump was heard, Yet rang along the lines the word Of battle-cry by Leslie sent, "_The Covenant! The Covenant!_"

While high and strong was Cromwell's boast, "_The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts!_"

With master skill he struck the blow, And when shone out the crimson glow Of morning sun upon the sea, Brave Leslie's men began to flee.

"_They run! Oh, I protest they run!

Let G.o.d arise! Let G.o.d arise!

And scattered be His enemies!_"

Loud Cromwell cried. _The work was done._ Then rose from England's host a cry Which rent the very heavens on high.

Now halt they on the battle field And to the Lord their homage yield-- And sing this song with hearts devout: "_O praise the Lord, ye nations all!

Laud Him all peoples on this ball!

His mercy toward us e'er is great; His truth and grace for sinners wait, Let all the people shout!_"

MARSTON MOOR