Poems

"Allah! Allah!" cried the sick man, racked with pain the long night through, Till with prayer his heart grew tender, till his lips like honey grew! But with morning came the tempter, said, "Call louder, child of pain! See if Allah ever hears or answers, 'Here am I,' again. " Like a stab the cruel cavil through his brain and pulses went— To his heart an icy coldness, to his brain a darkness, sent.

'Tis borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour, And falls on the heart like the dew on the flower— An infinite essence from tropic to pole, The substance, the home and the heaven of Soul. Love reigns over all—at the altar or bower— It binds with sweet fetters in strange pride of power, And comes through our tears as the soft summer rain To beautify, bless and make happy again.

Tell me, ye winged winds, That round my pathway soar, Do ye not know some spot Where mortals weep no more? Some lone and pleasant dell, Some valley in the west, Where, free from toil and pain, The weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sighed for pity, as it answered, "No. " Tell me, thou mighty deep, Whose billows round me play, Knowest thou some favored spot, Some island far away, Where weary man may find The bliss for which he sighs, Where sorrow never lives, And friendship never dies? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, Stopped for awhile, and sighed, to answer, "No.

"Exquisite solvent of the gods, and dear, That goads man's sluggish nature into deeds! The heart is waste and barren till it bleeds; Poor, shrinking soul! Hope's fruitful half is— Fear; The fire-emboweled Earth, in tost career, Knows all thy inarticulate needs; Begets and buries races, nurtures, feeds; The blood would rot in Pleasure's atmosphere; Old Chaos' self crept into Beauty's shape Through feeling, sense, blind Impulse at the wheel; To think were devilish, severed from to feel; Man, reft of heart, were but a chattering ape! Wine issues only from the trodden grape, And iron must be blistered into steel! ".

I wish the heart that's hungry      For better things in store, Would find within its portals      An item on the floor. That melancholy mortals      Could count their mercies o'er, And ask of truth and wisdom      One little item more.

"Whether the tempests lull or blow, Whether the currents ebb or flow, Whether the future smile or no, Whether the harvests blight or grow, Whether the years are swift or slow, In days of joy or days of woe, In fortune high or fortune low, This be my creed for friend or foe— Gather the roses as you go. ".

"Oh! where is He, the Master, who, ye say, Hath healed so many sick and sore distress'd? I, too, am ill: why bid me yet delay? He never can refuse my poor request. 'Have I such faith?' Yes, surely, God's own Son Hath power divine to heal and cleanse the soul: E'en healing blessings thro' His garments run.

"Twas night before Christmas,—and was it because The children were crazy to greet Santa Claus That homes were all lighted so bright? you might say The gloom of the night had been driven away. Many Annies and Willies, whose loving mamma Had told them that Santa was big as papa, Went to bed and to sleep so sure, in the night, Of Santa Claus coming before it was light.

"Joy for thee, happy friend, thy bark hath past The dangerous sea, and safely moored at last,                                 Beyond rough foam, Soft gales celestial, in sweet music bore, Mortal emancipate for this far shore,                                  Thee to thy home. "You've travelled long, and far from mortal joys, To Soul's diviner sense, that spurns such toys,                                  Brave wanderer, lone.

"Ho! ye that rest beneath the Rock On pastures greenly growing, Or roam at will, Christ's favored flock, By waters gently flowing: Hear ye, upon the desert air, A voice of woe come crying, While, cold upon the barren moor, Christ's little lambs are dying. "Go, feed my lambs!" the Shepherd's call Comes down from realms of glory,— "Go, feed my lambs, and bring them all From moor and mountain hoary!" Fast falls the night, the bleak winds blow Across the desert dreary: Great Shepherd, at thy call we'll go, And bring the wanderers weary.