Poems

Oh floweret fair! Thou art a type of nature's sweet content, Who shed'st thy rich perfume And bloom In empty air or lowly tenement, As freely as in palace rare. Thy lesson dear, sinks deep into my breast, Nor gives me rest.

To him who in the love of bounteous Nature, Sweet concord holds amid her varied thought, She shows,—the grand old Dame—full many a feature, Which to the blind are hid, because unsought. The birds, the flowers, the trees—if we but heed them, All tell a tale of love of God to man.

Oh sun and earth, oh wind and sky, Oh morning freshness on the flower! Why sure it is a Spirit-hour, The dawning of a light on high! Did'st think the world a sorry thing, Blooming to decay and die? Oh man, the sole mortality Is thine own sin and suffering! Oh joy of the created Whole, Springing from out eternity; Arched by the blue of constancy, Lit by the sun of Soul!

What ! daring at your post to stand With listless mien and eye; No ready weapon in your hand, No sense of danger nigh! 'Twas yours with zealous care to guard The avenues of thought, The subtle blows of sense retard When the "young child" was sought. And ye who watch the inner camp As soldiers come and go; Are you alert with lighted lamp, Lest dire offences grow? Does dust lie on the barrack floors, Are "upper rooms" "made meet"; The table spread, the open doors Waiting the Master's feet? Ho, Garrison, are you awake, With guns at every port? Know you what issues are at stake; What menaces your fort? And dost them, Gen'ral, sit at rest; No field-glass poised for use; No drill thy soldier's skill to test! What then is thy excuse? Rings not the war-cry in your ears; Our prophet's warning call, Unheeded through the passing years Its trumpet-accents fall? As moved the pillar and the cloud Leading the Hebrew host; As walked the Christ, with head unbowed, Majestic at His post, So comes to us our Chieftain's call; Oh! hear and heed it well.

Oh , the earth shall be filled with the glory of God! Now we taste of the harmony Love's law has sent, And the world must grow heavenward under that rod. Paths sinuous close, —the straight way must be trod! Great cares and great gifts in this new hour are blent; Oh, the earth shall be filled with the glory of God! Not by crude, deadening creed shall men, ban-burdened, plod.

Grave on her monumental pile, She won from vice, by virtue's smile, Her dazzling crown, her sceptered throne, Affection's wreath, a happy home. The right to worship deep and pure, To bless the orphan, feed the poor; Last at the cross to mourn her Lord, First at the tomb to hear his word.

Angels are messages from God Pure thoughts sent down to man; They hover round the trustful heart And all his footsteps plan. In every age and every clime The meek and lowly mind, These messages from God has caught And voiced them to mankind.

Who loves not June, Is out of tune With love and God; The rose his rival reigns, The stars reject his pains, His home the clod! And yet I trow, When sweet rondeau Doth play a part, The curtain drops on June, Veiled is the modest moon, Hushed is the heart.

The flowers of June The gates of memory unbar: The flowers of June Such old-time harmonies re tune, I fain would keep the gates ajar,— So full of sweet enchantment are The flowers of June. — James T.

Close up the ranks my comrades, Hear ye not the trumpets' call? Fear not, for God is with thee, His strength and power are all. The prophet has arisen, To call the remnant home; Their frankincense they're bringing,— From distant lands they come.