Poems

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn till night, my friend.

In the month of gray November, We must all our sins remember,— Call to mind that they may leave us, And no longer plague and grieve us.

What though earth's jewels disappear;      The turf, whereon I tread, Ere Autumn blanch another year,      May rest above my head. Touched by the finger of decay      Is every earthly love; For joy, to shun my weary way,      Is registered above.

Oh do not bar your mind Against the Light of Good; But open wide, let in the Word, And Truth will be your food. It will from error free Your long-enslaved mind; And bring the light of liberty Where it shall be enshrined.

The waves and the rocks in fierce combat meet ever, (So sang a pink sea-shell to me). And which shall be victor, they tell us, oh never,— Bold cliff, or tempestuous sea.

'Tober, ripe and mellow, Well-met, jovial fellow! Though your leaves turn yellow, Brown us old Othello,— And your tempest bellow, Like some deep-toned 'cello, We their fury quell, oh, And your harvest smell, oh. Though your squirrel hello, As he cracks yon shell, oh,— Squeak like Punchinello,— And your sighs up-swell, oh, Like some lost Costello, You must ever tell, oh, Of a goodly spell, oh, Hidden in your cell, oh.

Oh let the dear children come to me, For of such my kingdom is made. The pure and the sweet and the trustful! Let never a frown throw a shade Of doubt or darkness in their way; — 'T is theirs to blossom in Good's day.

From his lips Truth limpid, without error, flowed. Disease Fled from his touch.

"What can be more lovely?" Said Mother to Ned; And held up before him, So rosy and red, A dish of tomatoes, Rich, juicy, and bright. "Say, are they not pretty, Thus gleaming in light?" "Oh yes," said our Neddy, With something of brag, "One thing is more handsome,— The American flag!" Well said, my brave youngster.

Scattering seed by the wayside, The germs of Truth I'll sow, Knowing there 's none beside Him, Who can the Word o'erthrow. For the glory we hope to win, Our labor we count no loss,— Never pause and murmur because Of the river we have to cross.