Gleams of Sunshine Part 8

The swelling stream meanders on, Gives power to busy mills, And bears huge ships its breast upon, Gives drink to kine and lovely fawn, And drinks up other rills.

A lady's foot had changed its course, And drank it dry a lamb, Had they but sought it at its source; But now it rushes on with force And leaps the mighty dam.

Thus is it with our influence here; Each look, each word, each deed, Is like the rain, or dewdrop clear-- Though tiny things they now appear, They to the ocean lead.

As grains of sand make up the hill Which towers above the plain, And drops combine to swell the rill Which helps the mighty sea to fill, So does our influence gain.

UNDECAYING FRUIT

Doomed to decay are all things here; Whate'er their form or worth, Color and beauty disappear, Or turn to mother earth.

The luscious fruits which please the taste And please the eye as well, Sometimes reduced to rot and waste, Ere from the tree they fell--

Some gathered with a gentle hand, And stored away with care, To serve a place in banquet grand, Some favorite peach or pear,

Is found diseased in skin and core, And loathsome to the sight, When 'tis too late to gather more, And comes the festal night.

So is it with all earthly joy-- It pleases for a time, As toy may please a growing boy, Though costing but a dime;

But soon he tires and asks for more, Appropriate to his age; So, though a man may higher soar And greater aims engage

His active mind, he, like the child, Soon looks for something new.

Too oft are men by this beguiled And fail to find the true.

But he who goes to Christ for rest, Finds fruit that ne'er decays.

He sups with Christ as welcome guest, And glory crowns his days.

THE HEROES OF OUR DAY

Heroic deeds in every age Command the world's esteem; Each finds a place in history's page, 'Midst gloom a glory beam.

And we full oft revert to this, To show man's true descent From Him who is the source of bliss, Tho' now by pa.s.sions rent.

But we need not consult the past; The present bears this fruit: The hero race will ever last; The tree is sound at root.

And never has the world excelled The present in this line; Our loving Lord has not withheld From us this trait divine.

And we should not from them withhold The praise we feel is due For deeds of love, and actions bold, For spirit kind and true.

Their worth we now should recognize, Not chant it o'er their graves; The hero of the past we prize, No less the man who braves

The dangers of the present hour, The sneers which now are rife, Not for the sake of earthly power, Nor yet to save his life.

But for the good of fellow man, And for his Master's sake, He shuns no cross, and fears no ban; 'Tis these a hero make.

THE BIG BEAR CREEK

The waters of the Big Bear creek Glide slowly on their way; The western lakes they surely seek, Which they will reach some day;

But sluggishly they seek their end-- They scarcely seem to move; Yet through the fields and round each bend Their progress daily prove.

By debris borne upon their breast, And strewn along each sh.o.r.e, They slowly move, but never rest, Yet turbid evermore.

But when they reach the Johnson bend And the Sni Chartna meet, The turbid and the sky-blue blend-- The union is complete.

And soon is lost all trace of mud; Of azure tint the whole; With heaven's own hue the rolling flood Has gained the long-sought goal.

So is it with the soul renewed While on its heaven-bound way, With grace divine it is embued, Yet shows the trace of clay.

And though to rest it never halts, Its progress is so slow; Alas, it has too many faults, Nor much of heavenly glow.

But when G.o.d's sanctifying grace Shall meet it from above, You seek in vain for sinful trace-- It now is full of love.

A new impulse it then receives Which speeds it on its way; To it no stain of sin now cleaves-- It seeks its perfect day.

And as the azure stream has found Its home in br.i.m.m.i.n.g lake, So shall the soul thus heavenward bound Of G.o.d's own joy partake.

THE FROST ON THE WINDOW

Feathery frost on the window-pane, Who placed you there? "I cannot explain,"

Each little feather at once replied; "But this I know, I'm the children's pride, As they think I fell from an angel's wing, And coming to earth must rich blessings bring.

"I once formed part of a lovely bay; The sun shone out, and I turned to spray, And rose aloft on the ambient air, To the regions high where all is rare; Then I mingled with my old friends again, Who were my neighbors in the haunts of men.

"On the bl.u.s.tering wind, I rode along, Sometimes hard tossed by the tempest strong, And then at rest, as when in the bay, Though much enlarged, the wise savants say; Though I cannot tell you how long my sleep, With a chill I woke and began to weep.

"And my ample form much smaller grew, By the cold compressed to a drop of dew; Then down I fell, swift as bounding deer, And knew no more till I fell right here; But how I became so like a feather Is problem I can unravel never.

"But, oh, how the sun begins to burn!

I think I must to the clouds return.

Farewell, my boy! but you must not fret; We meet again, as we now have met, If not as a feather, perhaps a tree, Or whatever the Wise One may make of me."