Poems of the Heart and Home Part 15

Let us pray!--we're weak and weary, Faint of heart and slow of limb, Over mountains dark and dreary Lies our pathway--narrow, dim, Thorn beset and demon-haunted, Steep and slipp'ry is the way, Would we tread it all undaunted, Firm of footstep?--let us pray!

Let us pray!--on every spirit, Secret, solemn records lie, Of transgression and demerit, On'y seen by G.o.d's pure eye,-- Secret sins, desires unholy, Thoughts impure that once held sway,-- Oh, in penitence most lowly, Deeply contrite, let us pray!

Let us pray!--we need forgiveness,-- Strength and patience to endure,-- For our arduous labors fitness,-- Spirits consecrate and pure, Shelter need when storms are round us,-- Bread of Heavenly life each day,-- Help when hidden snares surround us,-- Guidance always--let us pray!

RICH AND POOR

Old Aleck, the weaver, sat in the nook Of his chimney, reading an ancient book, Old, and yellow, and sadly worn, With covers faded, and soiled, and torn;-- And the tallow candle would flicker and flare As the wind, which tumbled the old man's hair, Swept drearily in through a broken pane, Damp and chilling with sleet and rain.

Yet still, unheeding the changeful light, Old Aleck read on and on that night; Sometimes lifting his eyes, as he read, To the cob-webb'd rafters overhead;-- But at length he laid the book away, And knelt by his broken stool to pray; And something, I fancied, the old man said About "_treasures in Heaven_" of which he'd read.

A wealthy merchant over the way Sat in his lamp-light's steady ray, Where many a volume richly bound And heavily gilded was lying round.

One, with glittering clasps was there, Embossed, and pictured, and wondrous fair; But the printed words were the very same As those I read by the flickering flame That gave me light as I stooped to look Into the old man's tattered book, And I knew by the page's spotless white, No hand had opened it yet to the light.

"_Treasures In Heaven_"!--what, rich man, heir To countless thousands, your thoughts are--where?

With these _he_ read of?--No; ah, no!-- Over the storm-vexed waters they go, Where stout ships buffet the blast to-night, With never a glimmering star in sight!

Day fretted the east with its stormy gold, But the turbulent ocean raged and rolled, And dashed on many a rock girt sh.o.r.e The wrecks of ships that would sail no more,-- Lifting, at times, to the topmost wave Ghastly faces no hand could save,-- And then, far down with his treasures vain, Burying each in the depths again.

And the merchant looked from his mansion fair, Over the ocean, with troubled air; And thought of his treasures, in one short night Whelmed in the deep by the tempest's might;-- Ah,--I knew by that pale brow's deepening gloom, That he owned no treasure beyond the tomb.

Day fretted the east with its stormy gold, Creeping slow through a cas.e.m.e.nt old, And stealing sadly with faint, cold ray Into the hut where the old man lay.

White and still was the scattered hair, And the hands were crossed with a reverent air;-- Calm and stirless the eyelids lay, Pale as marble and cold as clay, But the lips were tenderly wreathed, the while, With the beautiful light of a saintly smile; And I knew he had pa.s.sed from that desolate room To a fadeless treasure beyond the tomb.

PALMER.

THREE YEARS OLD.

A light departed from the hearth of home, Leaving a shadow where its radiance shone,-- A flower just bursting into life and bloom, Lopped from its stem, the bower left sad and lone,-- A golden link dropped from love's precious chain,-- Gem from affection's sacred casket riven,-- Of music's richest tones a missing strain,-- A bird-note hushed in the blue summer heaven!

That light is gathered to its Source again, Though long its radiance will be missed on earth, That flower, transplanted to a sunnier plain, Bloometh immortal where no blight has birth; That missing link gleams in Love's chain above,-- That lost gem sparkles on the Saviour's breast,-- That music-uttrance, tuned to holier love, Swells richly 'mid the anthems of the blest.

Thank G.o.d! there's nothing lost! A little while, And what ye miss will be your own again E'en the dear clay once more will on you smile With life immortal throbbing in each vein Tis well to leave your treasure with the Lord-- With One so tender your beloved to see,-- Back to the Source of life a life restored-- Then _where your treasure is let your affections be!_

BALMY MORNING

Balmy morning! blessed morning!

Dew-drops bright All the emerald glade adorning In thy light-- In thy golden glowing beam With an ever-changeful gleam Flashing sparkling deeply glowing Varying tints of beauty showing Everywhere Radiant are In thy welcome light!

Balmy morning! blessed morning!

Flowers look up, With a precious, pearly off'ring, In each cup-- Dewy off'ring gleaned by night, As a tribute to the light,-- Far more precious than the gem Of a monarch's diadem, Is the gift Which they lift To thy welcome light!

Balmy morning! blessed morning!

Sounds of mirth, From the vocal vales ascending, Hail thy birth.

Happy birds in echoing bowers, Waken all their tuneful powers, And spontaneous music springs From all animated things,-- Verdant hills, Tuneful rills, Joyful greet thy light!

Balmy morning! blessed morning!

How serene, In thy calm and cloudless dawning Smiles the scene!

Even man, by care oppressed, Feels thy gladness thrill his breast, Hails thee as a source of bliss, Precious in a world like this, Gratefully Blessing thee-- Welcome, morning light!

SONG

Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!

Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!

I'm dying, mother dear!

And shades of ever deepening gloom Are round, and o'er me here,-- The city's din is in my ear, Its glitter mocks my eye,-- Oh, take me where the skies are clear.

And the hills are green, to die!

I do not dread the shadowy vale, The river deep and chill,-- For, leaning on my Saviour's arm, My soul shall fear no ill,-- But oh, to pa.s.s from Earth away Where skies are blue above, Where glad birds sing, and streamlets play, And soft winds breathe of love!

And oh, within these fevered hands, To clasp my flowers again!

To lay them on my weary breast, And round my throbbing brain!

Then, feel the South wind o'er me pa.s.s As long ago it swept, When, 'mid the scented summer gra.s.s, I laid me down and slept!

Oh, ever, in my fevered dreams, The fountain's play I hear,-- The sighing winds, the rippling streams, The robin's music clear,-- Old pleasant sounds are in my ear, Sweet visions meet my eye-- Oh take me, take me, mother dear, To the summer hills, to die!

THE PLOUGHMAN

Tearing up the stubborn soil, Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling, Hands, and feet, and garments soiling-- Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?

Yet there's l.u.s.tre in his eye, Borrowed from yon glowing sky, And there's meaning in his glances That bespeak no dreamer's fancies; For his mind has precious lore Gleaned from Nature's sacred store.

Toiling up yon weary hill, He has worked since early morning, Ease, and rest, and pleasure scorning, And he's at his labor still, Though the slanting, western beam Quivering on the gla.s.sy stream, And yon old elm's lengthened shadow Flung athwart the verdant meadow, Tell that shadowy twilight grey Cannot now be far away.

See! he stops and wipes his brow,-- Marks the rapid sun's descending-- Marks his shadow far-extending-- Deems it time to quit the plough.

Weary man and weary steed Welcome food and respite need 'Tis the hour when bird and bee Seek repose, and why not he?

Nature loves the twilight blest, Let the toil worn ploughman rest

Ye, who nursed upon the breast Of ease and pleasure enervating, Ever new delights creating, Which not long retain their zest Ere upon your taste they pall, What avail your pleasures all?

In his hard, but pleasant labor, He, your useful, healthful neighbor, Finds enjoyment, real, true, Vainly sought by such as you