Poems

Now that I have thee, thou art ever near; A gift from the All-love, I hold thee dear. Our ways may lie apart, earth may divide, But Heaven, my friend, will find us side by side.

It was the eve of Christmas, the snow lay deep and white; I sat beside my window, and looked into the night; I heard the church-bells ringing, and saw the bright stars shine; And childhood came again to me, with all its dreams divine. Then, as I listened to the bells, and watched the skies afar, Out of the east majestical, there rose one radiant Star; And every other star grew pale, before that heavenly glow, It seemed to bid me follow, and I could not choose but go.

The Spirit grieves Over a wasted life,— Sins committed while conscience slept, Promises made but never kept, Hatred, anger, and strife,— Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves! No garnered sheaves Of Life's fair, ripened grain: We sow our seeds! Lo, tares and weeds We reap, in toil and pain,— Nothing but leaves. And shall we greet the Master so, Bearing our withered leaves? The Saviour looks for perfect fruit, We stand before him humbled, mute, Waiting the words he breathes,— "Nothing but leaves!".

Evil must cease,— For that way tend All things that bend Its final end, With lessening trend,— And give us peace. Falsehood no more In least degree Truth's face may see.

Look hopefully forward, from life's shining plow, For the Spirit's sure prompter and guide; And find, in Love's labor, the radiant brow Of the promised Messiah and bride. The Life-giving Power awakes us today, And we know the bright message is true; For it works, as of old, in a marvellous way, Forever revealing the new.

The Truth he told, the Truth he lived; Truth was his very self. Loyal to God, a nation's friend.

Rest is not quitting The busy career, Rest is the fitting Of self to its sphere. 'T is the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean, After its life.

Ah , he who is willing to work and wait,— Who faces the cloud or the sun, and strong With the strength that battles each adverse fate, And that throttles each growing wrong, Walks firm in the path, whether smooth or steep, Whether wide or close, till he reach the goal,— He, of all the world, is the one to keep, As a guide where the high waves roll. And he who has struggled through want and cold, And has kept the road, till his feet have trod the summits that shine with the morning gold, Lo, he is the nearest to God.

Manifold the graces, On earth's bosom lying; Multiform the faces, In the heavens flying;— Faces as of angels, Bountiful and bright; Graces of God's Spirit, Leading man aright. Deep and rich the treasures, In man's bosom hidden; Full and free the pleasures To which he is bidden;— Pleasures spread in Eden, When the world was young, Treasures laid in Heaven, And by seraphs sung.

Well  hast thou painted her, our Ship of State,—      A state of Mind,—amidst the breakers' roar, The calm, grand equipoise of Faith, combined      With Understanding; and the pearly door Of Heaven, our port, that nearer is, ajar, Whence gleams the morning of our Eastern Star.