Poems

"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.

Lovest thou me—do you love me? Answer with soul-lighted eyes! Lovest thou me? speak only As stars shine out of the skies. Love is my life—do you love me? Love as the earth loves the sun When he flushes the face of the morning And a beautiful day is begun? Whisper the words of the answer— Give me joys of which angels are blest, If thou lovest me, lovest me truly, In an ocean of music I rest.

Men don't believe in a devil now, as their fathers used to do; They've forced the door of the broadest creed to let His Majesty through. There isn't a print of his cloven foot or a fiery dart from his bow To be found in earth or air to-day, for the world has voted so.

Show me the way that leads to the true life: I do not care what tempests may assail me: I shall be given courage for the strife; I know my strength will not desert or fail me,— I know that I shall conquer in the fray,— Show me the way. Show me the way up to a higher plane, Where body shall be servant of the soul: I do not care what tides of woe or pain Across my life their angry waves may roll, If I but reach the end I seek, some day,— Show me the way.

Grave on her monumental pile, She won from vice, by virtue's smile, Her dazzling crown, her sceptred 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.

O'er the hushed harp-strings of the soul There swept a strain, Low, sad and sweet, whose music stole Away all pain. And woke a white-winged angel throng Of thoughts, illumed By faith, and breathed in raptured song With love perfumed.

The soul on earth is an immortal guest, Compelled to starve at an unreal feast; A spark which upward tends by nature's force; A stream diverted from its parent source; A drop dissevered from the boundless sea; A moment parted from eternity; A pilgrim panting for the rest to come; An exile anxious for his native home. — Hannah More.