X X * ) I v . ,f ^ j i&m // Pm9 rT ;r-^v\ \->) Cl-EMS FROM T IE ASECON iESOF "SONG AND SENSE ffi* (*x f >r wk K/- >c -x: x: x x x x x x >=c x x x x x : GEMS Ff^OM THE STATES. GEMS FROM THE STATES. fS BEING A SECOND SERIES OF SONG AND SENSE FROM UNCLE S AM. ; COLLECTED BY THOMAS NICHOLSON LONDON : S. \V. PARTRIDGE & Co., PATERNOSTF.R Row, E.G. 1886. LONDON J. C. DURANT, PRINTER, CLEMENT S HOUSE, CLEMENT S INN PASSAGE, \v.c. CONTENTS. A Grown-up Birthday . A Gentle Hero Always Rejoicing. A Bit of Council . A Lesson .... At the Gate of Heaven A Prayer for Purity A Statement, a Prayer, and a Prophecy Abraham Lincoln. A Song for the Times . America s Second Centennial Brown Hands Bye-Lo-Land Beautiful Grandmamma Busy Hands and Feet . Be of Good Cheer Beyond the Sunset Between the Centuries. Bone and Sinew and Brain . Better Whistle than Whine. Called by the Angels . Come ...... Christ ..... Centennial Hymn Common Things . . Courage to Do Right . Clear the Way 54 93 95 105 122 12 7 145 162 2O 31 36 68 79 21 74 94 157 i*3 189 194 PAGE Cherries .... 194 Do Things Well . . 10 Dot and Dolly . 28 Do Thy Little . . 104 Fannie s Mud Pies . . 15 Great News .... 22 Growing Old . 45 Good Thoughts . . .100 God s Quiet .... 106 Gifts 119 God Never Made a Slave . 136 God Marching On . .138 Hang up Baby s Stocking . 30 Her Mother s Ear . . 33 Helping Papa and Mamma . 44 Heaven .... 98 I m Hurried, Child . . 25 If I Should Die To-night . 47 I Know a Beautiful Woman 62 Is Your Lamp Burning ? . 72 Into the Light ... 83 Indians at the Black Hills . 153 Independence Bell . . 159 Jingles . . ii CONTENTS. PAGE PAGE Johnnie s Soliloquy 7O 14 " Just Sixty-two " / w 75 She Always Made Home T Jack in the Pulpit . 1 80 Happy . . . . 58 Shall We Know Each Other Katrina. 24 There ? . . . . ICQ Keep a Stiff Upper Up . 188 Sunday Morning Thoughts During Service . 164 Love s Sovereignty 32 Little Children . . 40 The Coming Man. I Left Alone at Eighty . . 48 The Boy That Laughs. 6 Little Romp 55 The Bald-Headed Tyrant . 8 Love and Life - 123 The Queen in Her Carriage Laus Deo M3 is Riding By 12 Little Worries 176 The Mother s Legacy . 17 The Girl with the Calico My Baby . . . 3 Dress . 27 My New Year s Gift . 3 The Angel s Ladder 38 Mischief 10 The Woman 42 Mamma s Sick 33 The Crow that the Crow My Neighbour s Baby . 39 Crowed . 60 Mamma s Kisses . 42 The Little Chicken 65 My Choice . 52 Too Little, Eh ? . . 66 Mounting up 72 The Lost Doll 67 Mercies 90 The Open Casement at Made in His Image 114 Babylon . 76 Magnanimity Lee . 129 The Gospel of Mystery 84 Making Tracks J 74 The Haven Gained 85 Trust 86 Nobody s Child . 13 Teneo et Teneor . 89 Naming the Baby. . 6 The Answer 9i There Remaineth Therefore Our Avis 50 a Rest . 97 One of God s Poor 5i Tempest-Tossed . 102 Only a Doll . 61 Thanksgiving 103 Our Thoughts in Heaven 79 The Church and the World. no Over and Over Again . . 82 The Inward Christ "3 Only .... . 88 The Angel with the Upward Only a Little Child . 108 Look . 115 Our Dead J 47 The Christian Clock . 117 Outwitted . 167 The Beautiful 118 To Jefferson Davis 127 Prayers I Don t Like . . I2O The Mower in Ohio 139 Psalm of War 132 The Twenty - Second of February . 155 Rome Above and Below . 92 The Bell of Atri . 169 CONTENTS. PAGE The Two Armies . . . 173 The Farmer Feedeth All . 177 " Thay Amen and Thit Down " . . .178 The Gobbler s Death . .179 The Two Rivers . . . 183 The Stubborn Boot . . 185 The Seed . . . .188 Universal Emancipation . 137 Under the Snow . . iS<3 Via Crucis, Via Lucis . Which Loved Best Watching for Papa Waiting for the Children Will s Widow Wait and See What the Birds Said . \Vhittier s Hymn . PAGE 87 7 16 35 55 116 135 156 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. A pair of very chubby legs. A little, lovely, baby boy . As oft I walk along a quiet street . A fig for your upper-ten girls Across in my neighbour s window. A kiss when I wake in the morning Ah! don t be sorrowful, darling . An angel with an upward look Another century from God s hand At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town . As life s unending column pours . Baby is going to Bye-lo-land By the waters gently flowing Be of good cheer, O soul ! . Billows in tumult near the haven dashing " Bother ! " was all John Clatterby said Beautiful, beautiful snow . Children, the sun is almost down . Close by Thy side will I walk all day Christian, hast thou ticked the hours Columbia s sons, though slaves ye be PAGE I 3 . 6 27 39 . 42 54 "5 . 162 . 169 31 76 79 85 185 1 86 17 108 117 136 Do thy little, do it well INDEX OF FIRST LINES. If I should die to-night PAGE 153 20 . 96 Drive them away, or shoot them at bay . Full many a page has been written Far beyond the purpling mountains Gathering flowers in the sunshine . . -35 Grandmamma sits in her quaint arm-chair . . 36 Good tidings every day . .84 Give us war, O Lord ! -132 Hang up the baby s stocking . . . 30 Ho ! ho ! said the crow . . . 60 He came in gentlest pity . . . . 94 How sweetly strange will be the day . . 98 Have you heard of the mag-na-nim-i-tee . . . 129 I know a funny little boy . . . . 6 I love you, mother, said little John . . 7 If there were a ladder, mother . 38 47 I m tired to death of keeping still . . -55 It may seem hard to work so long. . . -56 In an old churchyard stood a stone . . 58 I know a beautiful woman . . . . .62 I am a little chicken, hear me peep, pejp peep . . 65 It seems to be father s greatest joy. . . . 70 I count this thing to be grandly true . . 72 I cannot see with my small human sight . . .86 I hold thy truth, O Lord, within my heart . . 89 I m kneeling at the threshold, weary, faint, and sore . 105 If you d bring me the treasures, New Year . .119 I do not like to hear him pray .... 120 It is done ! . . 143 It is better to whistle than whine .... 193 Just sixty-two ! Then trim thy light . . -75 Little allspice, pepper, pickle . . . .3 Little brave boy at the gate. . . . -33 Little white hands have never . . . .68 Life is like a stately temple . . . 123 Like her own royal bird . . . 157 My soul this day is tempest-tossed . . . 102 Made in His image ! Like a child . . .114 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord .... .138 My Lord rides through the palace gate . .177 Men of thought ! be up and stirring . . . 194 Not as all other women are. . . . 42 O, the quietest home on earth had I O, the Queen in her carriage is passing by . 12 Only a newsboy under the light . . .13 O, mother, look ! I ve found a butterfly . . 25 Once a ship s crew, worn and weary . . -74 Over and over again. . . . . .82 Only a poisonous drop from the cup . . .88 Our life is like the ocean . . . . 93 Our graves are strown as seeds are sown . . . 147 Our Father s God ! from out whose hand. . 156 Planting the corn and potatoes . . -44 Polly, my dolly ! Why don t you grow ? . . .61 Pale is the February sky . . . . 155 Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest . . 14 She always stood upon the steps . . . .16 Sweet little Dot on the doorstep sits . . .28 Softly, O softly the years have swept by thee . . 45 She loved the tiny flowers . . . . . 50 She died all alone at dead of night. . . 5* Say, is your lamp burning, my brother ? . . -72 Shall I tell you of what I ve been thinking. . . 90 Silently, softly, o er city and town. . . -95 Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round . -183 This is my birthday, baby . . . . -4 The farmer s wife is sitting alone . . .21 Though Love loves well all things of outward grace . 32 They sat at the spinning together . . . -33 There is music, there is sunshine . . . .40 Two little girls are better than one . . 66 The sunflowers hang their heavy heads . . -67 The day was dark. , -i. d cold and drear . . 83 Three little grr.v s beneath the sod . . -87 Though God be good and free be Heaven. . . 91 The year began with gladness and a song . . . 103 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. There s silence in the holy place . The Church and the World walked far apart The outward word is good and true There s something beautiful in every flower This man, whose homely face you look upon The birds against the April wind . Thy hill-tops, New England, shall leap at the cry The bees in the clover are making honey. Two men were passing through a village street . There was tumult in the city Though many ills may hamper life They lie around on every side There has something gone wrong . The farmer planted a seed .... Too early, of course! How provoking The Muhlheim monks were jolly and fat . Unlock the bath-room door, baby ? Under the apple-tree, spreading and thick Up above the churches in their jewelled splendour Under the tree the farmer said Under the green trees Whatsoever you find to do. Who can tell what a baby thinks? We ve got thome newth at our houth What did you say, dear, breakfast ? What shall we call our baby ? We may soar above earth on the angslic wings . When we hear the music ringing . . When my boy with eager questions We would be loving and true, Father What mean those sobs we hear around ? . vVe may have courage, all of us . You don t know who Katrina is Yes, I know there are stains on my carpet. Yes, I shall rest. When ? He knows best You rebelled, Mr. Davis . You all have heard of Old John Brown . Ye white maned waves of the Western sea GEMS FROM THE STATES. DOMESTIC. THE "COMING MAN." A PAIR of very chubby legs, Encased in scarlet hose ; A pair of little stubby boots, With rather doubtful toes ; A little kilt, a little coat, Cut as a mother can And lo ! before us strides, in state, The future " coming man." His eyes perchance will read the stars, And search their unknown ways ; Perchance the human heart and soul Will open to their gaze ; Perchance their keen and flashing glance May be a nation s light Those eyes, that now are wistful bent On some " big fellow s " kite. GEMS FROM THE STATES. That brow, where mighty thoughts will dwell In solemn, secret state, Where fierce Ambition s restless strength Shall war with future fate : Where Science from now hidden caves New treasures shall outpour Tis knit now, with a troubled doubt, Are two, or three, cents more ? Those lips that, in the coming years, Will plead, or pray, or teach ; Whose whispered words, on lightning flash, From world to world may reach ; That, sternly grave, may speak command, Or smiling, win control Are coaxing now for ginger-bread With all a baby s soul ? Those hands those little busy hands So sticky, small and brown ; Those hands, whose only mission seems To tear all order down Who knows what hidden strength may lie Within their chubby grasp, Though now tis but a taffy-stick In sturdy hold they clasp ? Ah, blessings on those little hands, Whose work is not undone ! And blessings on those little feet, Whose race is yet unrun ! And blessings on the little brain That has not learned to plan ! Whate er the future holds in store, God bless the " coming man." DOMESTIC. MY BABY. LITTLE allspice, pepper, pickle 1 Baby, changeable and fickle, Lying in your nurse s arms, Safe from everything that harms. Full of smiles, and full of tears, Full of joys, and full of fears, Are you mortal or divine ? Tell me, little baby mine ! Little cherub, sunshine, star, Baby, comfort of mamma, Welcome to this world with kisses, Crowned with love and earthly blisses. Dimpled darling, blue-eyed boy, A future hope, a present joy ; Why thus round my heart entwine ? Tell me, little baby mine ! MY NEW YEAR S GIFT. BY AUGUSTA MOORE. A LITTLE lovely baby boy, With features soft and fair ; With smiles upon his dimpled cheeks, And sunshine in his hair. Sent to me o er the tossing sea From a far sunset shore ; So that my lonely life may be Silent and sad no more. GEMS FROM THE STATES. With kisses on his rosy lips, And love within his eyes ; This is my New Year s treasure bright, The present that I prize. The New Year hath no other gift One half so full of joy, One half so sweet and beautiful As my dear baby boy. A GROWN-UP BIRTHDAY. BY SUSAN COOLIDGE. THIS is my birthday, baby. Did you know Aunties had birthdays too ? Why, how you stare ! Your wide eyes, like two solemn mountain lakes, Set in a fringe of pale, larch-yellow hair. " Do they have cakes ? " No, cakes are not for people old as I ; They grow for little folks, the pretty things, All sweet and pink, with glittering sugar top And lighted tapers set in careful wings. " When did you stop ? " A long time since, before our baby came. You needn t look so very sorry, dear. It is no matter ; Auntie doesn t care. She has cake every night not once a year. " How old are you ? " DOMESTIC. Well, yes. I used to sit up in a pew At church, when I was small like you, and stare At men and women not so old as I, And wonder at their wrinkles and gray hair. " Why don t you cry ? " Ah ! baby, why ? How can I tell you that ? You bloom too near the ground, my violet blue, To look beyond the grass and flowers close by, I, taller grown, have further sight than you. And see the sky. Above the vapory mists that shroud the plain Above the further clouds, my vision flies, To seek the place of the all-perfect day ; And fain my feet would follow where my eyes Have shown the way. I climb, and the road widens all the way ; I near the morning breaks, the fog-wreaths fly; I breathe a heavenly air, and hear at times The sound of bell-notes pealing clear and high In welcoming chimes. Each step but brings me nearer to the goal ; Each milestone left behind marks one mile past; Each moment grows the vision on my eyes ; Each birthday says : The end is coming fast. Beloved, arise. GEMS FROM THE STATES. What am I saying? Never mind, my pet, Auntie was talking stupid, grown-up talk. Don t wrinkle so your pretty, puzzled brow And try to understand ; but come and walk. " I like you now." A GENTLE HERO. BY F. D. MASON. As oft I walk along a quiet street, And pass a small white cottage, neat and plain, I see a meek, white face pressed to the pane Of the low window. Patient eyes I meet, Child s eyes that in their purity are sweet. Yet in their gaze I see their owner fain Would have some gift denied, some boon would gain, Without which life perhaps seems incomplete. A sufferer for life the gentle boy, And still he never murmurs at his fate, But like that Spartan lad, the pain he bears, And smiles as though his sorrow were a joy. How many lives there are, sublimely great, Of which the world knows not amid its cares ! THE BOY THAT LAUGHS. BY GEORGE COOPER. I KNOW a funny little boy, The happiest ever born ; His face is like a beam of joy, Although his clothes are torn. DOMESTIC. I saw him tumble on his nose, And waited for a groan ; But how he laughed ! Do you suppose He struck his funny bone ? There s sunshine in each word he speaks, His laugh is something grand ; Its ripples overrun his cheeks, Like waves on snowy sand. He laughs the moment he awakes, And till the day is done ; The schoolroom for a joke he takes, His lessons are but fun. No matter how the day may go, You cannot make him cry ; He s worth a dozen boys I know, Who pout, and mope, and sigh. WHICH LOVED BEST. BY JOY ALLISON. " I LOVE you, mother," said little John, Then, forgetting his work, his cap went on, And he was off to the garden swing, And left her the water and wood to bring. " I love you, mother," said rosy Nell, " I love you better than tongue can tell," Then she teased and pouted full half the day, Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play. 8 GEMS FROM THE STATES. " I love you, mother," said little Fan, " To-day I ll help you all I can ; How glad I am school doesn t keep ! " So she rocked the babe till it fell asleep. Then, stepping softly, she fetched the broom, And swept the floor and tidied the room ; Busy and happy all day was she, Helpful and happy as child could be. " I love you, mother," again they said Three little children going to bed. How do you think that mother guessed Which of them really loved her best ? THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. BY MARY E. VANDYKE. O ! THE quietest home on earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of care ; Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, And Peace had folded her pinions there ; But one day there joined in our household band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man s-land. O, the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why ; Like slaves we trembled before his might, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry ; For never a soul could his power withstand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man s-land. DOMESTIC, He ordered us here and he sent us there Thoughnever a word could his small lips speak With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, " Go up, thou bald-head from No-man s-land/ But his abject slaves they turned on me ; Likethebearsin Scripturethey drend methere, The while they worshipped with bended knee This ruthless wretch with the missing hair ; For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man s-land. Then I searched for help in every clime, For peace had fled from my dwelling now, Then I finally thought of old Father Time, And low before him I made my bow. " Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man s-land? " Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim. " I ll take the tyrant under my care : Watch what my hour-glass does to him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned Is this same bald-head from No-man s-land." Old Time is doing his work full well Much less of might does the tyrant wield ; But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell, And sad tears fall as I see him yield. Could I stay the touch of that shrivelled hand, I would keep the bald-head from No-man s-land. io GEMS FROM THE STATES. For the loss of peace I ve ceased to care ; Like other vassals, I ve learned, forsooth, To love the wretch who forgot his hair And hurried along without a tooth. And he rules me, too, with his tiny hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man s-land. DO THINGS WELL. WHATSOEVER you find to do, Do it boys with all your might ; Never be a little true, Or a little in the right. Trifles even Lead to heaven, Trifles make the life of man ; So in all things, Great or small things, Be as thorough as you can. MISCHIEF. " UNLOCK the bath-room door, baby, And let your mamma in ; What is the water running for, And making such a din ? " " Baby wants mamma go away She can t get in e door Fo baby s sailing ittle boats In rivers on e floor; DOMESTIC. " But pretty soon I let oo in ; An mamma musn t c y, For baby s took his new blue dress An wiped e floor all dry ! " " The baby s soaked from top to toe ! The parlour ceiling s wet ! Does this earth hold one single spot Where that child cannot get ? " JINGLES. WHO can tell what a baby thinks ? When it wakes from its forty winks, And rubs its face into numerous kinks, And stares at the light that comes in at the chinks Of its rock-a-by nest, and gapes and blinks, Who can tell what a baby thinks ? Who has courage to venture a a guess As to what the baby may think of its dress, Trimmed and ruffled to such excess ? Or what the baby may think of the mess For headache and toothache and stomach distress, And for all its ailings, more or less ? What does it think when it wakes at night, With all the pretty things out of sight, With nobody stirring and " making a light? " Does it think its condition is far from right, And that big folks are not at all polite, And treat their visitors far from right, And that darkness is meant for a personal slight ? Is that the reason it takes delight 12 GEMS l f ROM THE STATES. In screaming with all its personal might, And rousing the neighbours, at dead of night ? And what do you think that the baby thinks, Looking about like a mild-eyed lynx, Watching the spoon that tinkles and clinks, While papa is warming its catnip drinks, Over a candle that glimmers and blinks, Humming and drumming out " Cap n Jinks," That the children skate to, now, at the rinks, What do you think that the baby thinks ? Did you say that babies are thinkless things, With no other light than what instinct brings, With brains as downy as butterflies wings, And heads as empty as a bell that swings Over and under, and rings and sings, When muscular motion is moving the strings ? Did you say that babies are thinkless things ? Then when does the thing begin to grow ? And when does the mind begin to show ? And when does the baby begin to know That this is true, or this is so ? Say, when you find out, please let me know ! THE QUEEN IN HER CARRIAGE IS RIDING BY. O, THE queen in her carriage is passing by : Her cheeks are like roses, her eyes like the sky ; Her wonderful teeth are white as new milk, Her pretty blonde hair is softer than silk. DOMESTIC. 13 She s the loveliest monarch that ever was seen ; You ask of what country the darling is queen ; Her empire extends not to far distant parts, She s queen ofourhousehold,themistressofhearts. For sceptre she lifts her soft dimpled hands ; Her subjects all hasten to heed her commands ; Her smile is bewitching, and fearful her frown, And all must obey when she puts her foot down. May blessings descend on that bright little head, From the time she awakes, till she s safely in bed ; And now do you guess, when I speak of the queen, Tis only our six months baby I mean ? NOBODY S CHILD. ONLY a newsboy under the light Of the lamp-post, plying his name in vain ; Men are too busy to stop to-night, Hurrying home through the sleet and rain. Never since dark a paper sold ; Where shall he sleep, or how be fed ? He thinks as he shivers there in the cold, While happy children are safe a-bed. Is it strange if he turns about, With angry words, then comes to blows, When his little neighbour, just sold out, Tossing his pennies, past him goes ? " Stop !" someone looks at him sweet and mild, And the voice that speaks is a tender one ; " You should not strike such a little child, And you should not use such words, my son !" I 4 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Is it his anger or his fears That have hushed his voice and stopped his arm ? " Don t tremble " ; these are the words he hears, " Do you think that I would do you harm ?" " It isn t that," and the hand drops down ; " I wouldn t care for kicks and blows, But nobody ever called me son, Because I m nobody s child, I s pose." O men ! as you careless pass along, Remember the love that has cared for you ; And blush for the awful shame and wrong Of a world where such a thing could be true ! Think what the child on your knee had been, If thus on life s lonely billows tossed ; And who shall bear the weight of the sin If one of these " little ones " be lost ! SONG. H. W. LONGFELLOW. STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest ; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care ; To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander East, they wander West, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt ; To stay at home is best. DOMESTIC. 15 Then stay at home, my heart, and rest ; The bird is safest in its nest ; O er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky ; To stay at home is best. FANNY S MUD PIES. BY ELIZABETH SILL. UNDER the apple tree spreading and thick, Happy with only a pan and a stick, On the soft grass in the shadow that lies, Our little Fanny is making mud pies. On her brown apron and bright drooping head Showers of pink and white blossoms are shed ; Tied to a branch that seems meant just for that, Dances and flutters her little straw hat. Gravely she stirs with a serious look, " Making believe " she s a true pastry cook ; Sundry brown splashes on forehead and eyes Shows that our Fanny is making mud pies. But all the spoil of her innocent play Clean soap and water will wash away ; Many a pleasure in daintier guise Leaves darker traces than Fanny s mud pies. Dash, full of joy in the bright summer day, Zealously chases the robins away, Barks at the squirrels, or snaps at the flies, All the while Fanny is making mud pies. 1 6 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Sunshine and soft summer breezes astir, While she is busy, are busy with her ; Cheeks rosy glowing and bright sparkling eyes Bring they to Fanny while making mud pies. Dollies and playthings are all laid away, Not to come out till the next rainy day. Under the blue of those sweet summer skies Nothing s so pleasant as making mud pies. WATCHING FOR PAPA. BY ANNIE D. WARE. SHE always stood upon the steps, Just by the cottage door, Waiting to kiss me, when I came Each night home from the store. Her eyes were like two glorious stars, Dancing in Heaven s own blue ; " Papa," she d call, like a wee bird, " I s lootin out for you." Alas ! how sadly do our lives Change as we onward roam ; For now no birdie voice calls out To bid me welcome home. No little arms stretch out to me, No blue eyes, dancing bright, Are peeping from the cottage door, When I come home at night. DOMESTIC. 17 And yet, it comforts me to think That when I m called away, From scenes below, to those of bright And everlasting day, A little angel at the gate, With eyes divinely blue, Will call with birdie voice, " Papa, I s lootin out for you." THE MOTHER S LEGACY. BY MRS. S. T. PERRY. CHILDREN, the sun is almost down How very clear the western sky ! Before the dew begins to fall, We ll have a talk here, you and I. I ve watched the sun set, from this porch, Day after day, many a year ; Sometimes it went down in a cloud, But oftener the sky was clear. We re apt to think life s full of clouds, But there s more sunshine on the whole ; We lose so much of it because We close the windows of the soul. Although we may have warmth and light, We will persist in shade to dwell, And find out, when it is too late, We could have sunshine just as well. C 1 8 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Perhaps you think it strange I call You children still, but don t you know That little ones, in mother s heart, Never to men and women grow ; I cannot think, John, you have passed Your fortieth birthday, but tis true Why, yes, and more, if you should live Till April, you ll be forty-two ! You have been married twenty years, My Sarah, and arc thirty-nine. Who can believe it possible ? Alas, how very fast goes time ! And Willie, if he were alive, Just wait a minute let me see ; *n eighteen fifty he was born Yes, that will make him twenty-three. Some people think that children grow In heaven, but I never could. If Willie is not still a child, The meeting won t seem half so good. And, ever since he went away, There s been the mercy in the cup, To think, when I get home, I ll have One child that never will grow up. Poor Stephen ! O, the wayward boy, How I have wept and prayed for him ! I ve waited for the answer long, And oftentimes my faith grew dim ; But God has promised He ll fulfil, Although His way may not be mine. If I am gone before he comes For, children, he will come some time DOMESTIC. 19 Tell him that in the silent hours Of darksome night, when all alone, I ve made a ladder of my prayers, Reaching from earth to God s white throne. When he finds that he feeds on husks, And longs for bread he can climb there. God, for Christ s sake, will take him home ; Then he ll find bread enough to spare. This is my legacy for him, But don t upbraid about the past ; When he comes back, be sure and say That mother loved him to the last. Father and I toiled hard to save Something each year to lay aside, That you might all have legacies To help you on, if we both died. But crops failed often, times were hard ; One year the drought destroyed the grain, Another year was just as bad We had such heavy falls of rain. Then I \vould fret when things went wrong, But father always used to say, Perhaps, if we could see the road, W 7 e d find an angel in the way. But father died ; you know the rest. You ve done nobly and bravely, John ; Your strength of arm and noble heart, For years, I have depended on. Perhaps it s better as it is ; Wealth envy brings and foolish strife. \Vills oft are broken in the courts, And friends made enemies for life. C 2 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Of this world s goods we always had Only a small and meagre share ; So I can leave to you and yours Only my blessing and my prayer. The sun has set. Upon your heads I ll place my hands. God bless you ail. Give me your arm, John, I ll go in, The heavy dew begins to fall. BROWN HANDS. BY MRS. HATTIE F. BELL. FULL many a page has been written, And the gifted have sung in the praise Of lily white hands and fingers In a score of poetical ways ; This is all very well for a lady Who lives among diamonds and silk, But sometimes in life a farmer s wife Is obliged to do housework and milk. And woman s best mission thro out our dear land Is fulfilled in the strength of the little brown hand. When the roses are blushing the sweetest, And the vines climb up to the eaves, And the robins are rocking their birdies To sleep mong the maple leaves ; The sunshine smiles down cross the threshold, When the labour of love seems but rest, \Vhether rocking the household birdies, Or keeping the dear home-nest Oh ! I pity you all who can t understand The wealth and the worth of a little brown hand. DOMESTIC. 21 If I were a man with a fortune, A million laid by on the shelf If I were a youth if I wasn t, in truth, If I wasn t a woman myself I know what I d do in a minute, (White fingers have often misled) ; I d seek after those whose rich tinting shows Acquaintance with puddings and bread. I d use all the eloquence words could command, And be proud might I win a little brown hand. CALLED BY THE ANGELS. THE farmer s wife is sitting alone, In the dusk of a winter s day, While over the hills the shadows fall, And over the meadows grey, And the cares of many a busy hour Steal fast from her heart away. Her eyes have wandered through mist of tears To the churchyard under the hill, Wherethe snow,like the wingsof a brooding dove, Lies soft and pure and still, And where her treasures, so long ago, She laid at the Master s will. And ah ! how oft, as the days go by, She starts, as her listening ear Has almost caught on the passing breeze Voices so sweet and clear. " Tis the angels calling !" she thinks. " Ah me ! It is weary waiting here." 22 GEMS FROM THE STA7ES. The farmer comes from his work, at last, In the dusk of a winter s day, And he sits him down by his faithful wife, And she parts his locks so gray, And looks in his face with a loving smile That years steal never away. And back again, as her dim eyes turn To the hills where the shadows fall, She thinks, "My treasures are lying there. But He has not taken all, Since one is waiting beside me still Till the angels voices call." But the weeks are slow, and the aged two, In the dusk of many a day, Will watch the shadows come and go O er the meadows cold and grey, Ere they, at the Master s will, may lie Where their treasures are laid away. GREAT NEWS. " We ve got thome newth at our houth, Ith funny and ith true, Ith made uth all tho happy, Twill make you happy too ! " And pretty Kitty Allen Had such an eager look, The tall, grave man before her, Laid down his pondrous book DOMESTIC. 23 He stroked her fair, bright ringlets, And took her on his knee, And said, " Well, tell me Kitty, What this great news can be." " You gueth ; I cannot tell you Right thraight off ; Kitty said, And neath her tiny kerchief, She hid her roguish head. " I guess you ve found three kittens, With your old tortoise cat ; " " No ; you ve got to guess again ; Ith better newth than that ! " " I guess your mamma s bought you A pretty little hat.". O, pho !you thilly gentleman, Ith better newth than that \ " " I give up, Kitty ; tell me ; " Her wise, rich neighbour said, And then she drew her kerchief From off her flaxen head, And said, " Then I will tell you. Its juthtath true ath truth, Our own thwect, darlin baby Hath got a little tooth ! " Down from his knee she sprang, off In merry glee she ran ; " I want to thee that toothie, Jutht as quick th I can !" 24 GEMS FROM THE STATES. O happy, careless Kitty ! This wise man s books and gold, Are less to him, than is to thee The news so proudly told. KATRINA. You don t know who Katrina is ? Why, she s our newest dolly ; She s sister to wax Eveline, First cousin to Miss Molly. She only came to us last week, Afraid of every stranger ; And so we kept old pussy out, The Kittens, and black Ranger. And yet we left a little foe, When we went out a-walking ; Our darling, silly baby dear, W T ith mamma sweetly talking. Mamma went up to get her work ; Pet caught up dear Katrina, And laid her on the register, O, dear ! you should have seen her ! Mamma came back, but twas too late Her cheeks were boiling over, Her eyes were shedding waxen tears, Before mamma could move her ! All baby said was, " Poo Katrine ! She cold, and baby warm her ; And now she very sick ; O, dear ! Go get the me cine, mamma ! " DOMESTIC. 25 That was the end of sweet Katrine ; We still have Eve and Molly ; And better yet the baby dear That warmed our waxen dolly. With many tears we wrapped Katrine, And put her safe away, To show Miss Mischief what she did On this sad Christmas Day. I M HURRIED, CHILD! " O, MOTHER, look ! I ve found a butterfly Hanging upon a leaf do tell me why there was no butter. Oh, do sec its wings ! I never saw such pretty things, All streaked and striped with blue and brown and gold. Where is its house when all the days are cold ?" " Yes, yes," she said, in absent accents mild " I m hurried, child !" " Last night my dolly quite forgot her prayers ; An when she thought you had gone down the stairs, An dolly was afraid ; an so I said, Just don t you mind, but say them in the bed, Because I think that God is just as near. When dolls are fraid do you spose He can hear?" The mother spoke from out the ruffles piled " I m hurried, child !" 26 GEMS FROM THE STATES. " Oh, come and see the flowers in the sky The sun has left, and won t you, by-and-by, Dear mamma, take me in your arms and tell Me all about the Pussy in the Well ? Then tell me of the babies in the wood ? An then, perhaps, about Red Riding Hood ?" " Too much to do hush, hush, you drive me wild. "I m hurried, child !" The little one grew very quiet now ; And grieved and puzzled was the childish brow ; And then it queried : " Mother do you know The reason cause you must be hurried so ? I think the hours are little-er than I, So I will take my pennies, and will buy A bigger clock ! O ; big as it can be, For you and me !" The mother now has leisure infinite. She sits with folded hands and face as white As winter. In her heart is winter s chill. She sits at leisure questioning of God s will " My child has ceased to breathe, and all is night. Isheaven so dark that Thou didstgrudgemy light? O life ! O God ! I must discover why Time moves so slowly by." O, mothers sweet, if cares must ever fall, Pray do not make them stones to build a wall Between thee and thy own ; and miss thy right To blessedness, so swift to take its flight ! DOMESTIC. 27 While answering baby questionings you arc But entertaining angels unawares. The richest gifts are gathered by the way For darkest day. THE GIRL WITH THE CALICO DRESS. A FIG for your upper-ten girls, With their velvets, and satins, and laces, Their diamonds, and rubies, and pearls, And their milliner figures and faces ; They may shine at a party or ball, Emblazoned with half they possess ; But give me, in place of them all, My girl with the calico dress. She is plump as a partridge, and fair As the rose in its earliest bloom ; Her teeth will with ivory compare, And her breath with the clover perfume ; Her step is as free and as light As the fawn s whom the hunters hard press, And her eye is as soft and as bright My girl with the calico dress. She is cheerful, warm-hearted and true, And is kind to her father and mother ; She studies how much she can do For her little sweet sister and brother ; If you want a companion for life, To comfort, enliven and bless, She is just the right sort of a wife My girl with the calico dress. GEMS FROM: THE STATES. DOT AND DOLLY. BY MINNIE WARD PATTISON. Sweet little Dot on the doorstep sits, with Dolly wrapped in a shawl Her own thin dress is faded and patched, but Dolly has none at all ! She kisses and cuddles her little pet in a way tis joy to see, And whispers, " I know we s poor, but I s got you and you s got me /" Rocking her treasure to and fro, in the silent summer air, Her chubby chin to her bosom went, and her hands forgot their care, Her dimpled feet into dreamland slipped, just as upon the scene A lady rode, with jewels and silk begirt like a very queen. Her happy darling, just Dot s own size, the child and the Dolly spied ; She pointed, grasping her mamma s arm, to the half-wrapped pet and cried " Oh mamma ! look at her dolly see ! arn tyou fraid it s catching cold ? Please let me give it Rosa s dress you know it s getting old." DOMESTIC. 29 She slipped from the carriage, and quick the work of the little maid was done, And Dot s poor dolly was in a dress the prettiest under the sun ! Gold and silver, satin and gauze, stockings and bright blue shoes, And money, as much in her pocket put as a doll in a year could use. Then away, with a smile that almost laughed, so great was the giver s glee, She went, with many a backward look, and said, " I s afraid she ll see ! Hurry up Tom mamma !" and quick away to their palace home they flew, While Dot was dreaming a wonderful dream of fairies and Dolly, too. They had satin dresses, and gauzy wings, all speckled with drops of gold ; They danced in troops on the lilac leaves, and a leaf would a dozen hold ; And Dolly was dancing with all her might in the prettiest dress of all, And spangled wings, when up sprang Dot, afraid lest her pet should fall. She opened her eyes, and merrily laughed, in happiness and surprise, As Dolly, dressed in her fairy best, looked into her wondering eyes. " Oh mamma ! what shall I do?" cried Dot, in a comic tone of dismay, " My Dolly has borrowed a fairy s clothes, and the fairies have runned away ! 32 GEMS FROM THE STATES. O, the bright dreams in bye-lo-land All by the loving angels planned ! Soft little lashes downward close, Just like the petals of a rose. Swing so, Bye-lo ! Prettiest eyes in Bye-lo-land. Sweet is the way to Bye-lo-land, Guided by mother s gentle hand ; Little lambs now are in the fold, Little birds nestle from the cold. Swing so, Bye-lo ! Baby is safe in Bye-lo-land. LOVE S SOVEREIGNTY. BY JOHN G. SAXE. Though Love loves well all things of outward grace That poets praise and gentle ladies prize, Yet lives he not by favour of blue eyes, Or black or brown, or aught that he may trace In features faultless as the perfect face Of Art s ideal. No ! his essence lies Deep in the heart, not in its changing dyes On lip and cheek. He has his dwelling-place In the life s life. As violets deck the May Which yet s urvi ves when these have passed away, All lovely things are Love s ; but, ne ertheless, Health, youth, and beauty, though they serve him well, Are but Love s ministers ; his sovereign spell Lives in his own immortal loveliness ! DOMESTIC. 33 MAMMA S SICK. LITTLE brave boy at the gate, Run and play ; why do you wait ? " Hush your noise, old carts, I say, My dear mamma s sick to-day ! Little " Pink-boots " on the stair, Why so silent stand you there ? In a whisper hear her say, " Hush ! my mamma s sick to-day." Little maid with thoughtful eye, Softly singing " Lullaby," You are not the nurse alway ?. " No ; but mamma s sick to-day." Happy mother ! she has heard Tiptoe step and whispered word ; Love has almost cured her pain ; Soon she will be well aerain. HER MOTHER S EAR. BY EMMA M. JOHNSON. They sat at the spinning together, And they spun the fine white thread ; One face was old and the other young, A golden and silver head. And at times the young voice broke in song, That was wonderfully sweet, And the mother s heart beat deep and calm, For her joy was most complete. D 32 GEMS FROM THE STATES. O, the bright dreams in bye-lo-land All by the loving angels planned ! Soft little lashes downward close, Just like the petals of a rose. Swing so, Bye-lo ! Prettiest eyes in Bye-lo-land. Sweet is the way to Bye-lo-land, Guided by mother s gentle hand ; Little lambs now are in the fold, Little birds nestle from the cold. Swing so, Bye-lo ! Baby is safe in Bye-lo-land. LOVE S SOVEREIGNTY. BY JOHN G. SAXE. Though Love loves well all things of outward grace That poets praise and gentle ladies prize, Yet lives he not by favour of blue eyes, Or black or brown, or aught that he may trace In features faultless as the perfect face Of Art s ideal. No ! his essence lies Deep in the heart, not in its changing dyes On lip and cheek. He has his dwelling-place In the life s life. As violets deck the May Which yet survives when these have passed away, All lovely things are Love s ; but, ne ertheless, Health, youth, and beauty, though they serve him well, Are but Love s ministers ; his sovereign spell Lives in his own immortal loveliness ! DOMESTIC. MAMMA S SICK. LITTLE brave boy at the gate, Run and play ; why do you wait ? " Hush your noise, old carts, I say, My dear mamma s sick to-day ! Little " Pink-boots " on the stair, Why so silent stand you there ? In a whisper hear her say, " Hush ! my mamma s sick to-day. Little maid with thoughtful eye, Softly singing " Lullaby," You are not the nurse alway ?. " No ; but mamma s sick to-day." Happy mother ! she has heard Tiptoe step and whispered word ; Love has almost cured her pain ; Soon she will be well again. HER MOTHER S EAR. BY EMMA M. JOHNSON. They sat at the spinning together, And they spun the fine white thread ; One face was old and the other young, A golden and silver head. And at times the young voice broke in song, That was wonderfully sweet, And the mother s heart beat deep and calm, For her joy was most complete. D 34 GEMS FROM THE STATES. And at times the mother counselled, In a voice so soft and low, How the untried feet of her daughter Through this strange, rough life should go. There was many a holy lesson, Inwoven with silent prayer, Taught to her gentle, listening child As they two sat spinning there. "And of all that I speak, my darling, From my older head and heart, God givcth me one last thing to say, And with it thou shalt not part : " Thou wilt listen to many voices And, ah woe, that this must be ! The voice of praise and the voice of love And the voice of flattery ; " But listen to me, my little one, There s one thing that thou shalt fear, Let never a word to my love be said Which her mother may not hear. " No matter how true, my darling one, The words may seem to thce, They are not fit for my child to hear If they cannot be told to me. " If thou wilt keep thy young heart pure, And thy mother s heart from fear, Bring all that is told to thee by day At night to thy mother s car." DOMESTIC. 35 And thus they sat spinning together, And an angel bent to see The mother and child whose happy life Went on so lovingly. And a record was made by his golden pen, And this on his page he said, That the mother who counselled her child so well, Need never to feel afraid ; For God would keep the heart of the child Who, with tender love and fear, Should kneel at her mother s side at night, \Vith lips to her mother s car ! WAITING FOR THE CHILDREN. BY AIMEE HOWARD. GATH RING flowers in the sunshine, With their petals bright with dew, Merry little figures flitting ; Eyes of bonny brown and blue. When the twilight shades are falling, Little feet have ceased to roam, And the forms within the doorway Greet the children coming home. Working in life s golden vineyard, When the sweets of youth are past, Waiting till the sheaves have ripened, And the harvest come at last ! \Vhen the marriage bells are pealing, High within the sacred dome, Still the forms, grown older, dearer, Wait the children coming home. D 2 36 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Time is fleet, and Age will touch us, As he hurries on his way ; Tarries not to smile or flatter, Till the sunset of our day. Ne er again on earth will listen Those dear forms in evening s gloam But above, methinks, they re waiting For the children coming home. BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA. 15Y MARJORY WEST. GRANDMAMMA sits in her quaint arm-chair, Never was lady more sweet and fair; Her grey locks ripple like silver shells, And her placid brow its story tells Of gentle life and peaceful even, A trust in God and a hope in heaven. Little girl May sits rocking away, In her own low seat, like some winsome fay ; Two doll babies her kisses share, And another one lies by the side of her chair. May is fair as the morning dew, Checks of roses and ribbons of blue. " Say, grandmamma," says the pretty elf, " Tell me a story about yourself; When you were little, what did you play? Where you good or naughty the whole long day ? Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago? And what makes your soft hair as white as snow ? DOMESTIC. 57 " Did you have a mamma to hug and kiss ? And a dolly like this, and this, and this? Did you have a pussy like my little Kate? Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight ? Did you have long curls and beads like mine, And a new silk apron and ribbons fine ? " Grandmamma smiled at the little maid, And, laying aside her knitting, she said : " Go to my desk, and a red box you ll sec ; Carefully lift it, and bring it to me." So May put her dollies away and ran, Saying : " I ll be as careful as ever I can." Then grandmamma opened the box, and lo ! A beautiful child with throat like snow, Lips just tinted like pink shells rare, Eyes of hazel, golden hair. Hands all dimpled, and teeth like pearls Fairest and sweetest of little girls. O, who is it ? " cried winsome May. " How I wish she were here to-day ! Wouldn t I love her like everything? Wouldn t I wish her frolic and sing ! Say, dear grandmamma, who can she be? " " Darling," said grandma, " that child was m3." May looked long at the dimpled grace, And then at the saint-like, fair old face ; " How funny ! " she cried, with a smile and a kiss, To have such a dear little grandma as this ! " Still," she added, with smiling zest, " I think, dear grandma, I like you best ! " 38 GEMS FROM THE STATES. So May climbed on the silken knee, And grandmamma told her history : What plays she played, what toys she had, How at times she was naughty, or good, or sad ; " But the best thing you did," said May, " don t you see, Was to grow a beautiful grandma for me." THE ANGEL S LADDER. BY MRS. M. U. BUTTS. " IF there were a ladder, mother, Between the earth and sky, As in the days of the Bible, I would bid you all good-bye, And go through every country, And search from town to town, Till I had found the ladder, With angels coming down. " Then I would wait, quite softly, Beside the lowest round, Till the sweetest-looking angel Had stepped upon the ground ; I would pull his dazzling garment, And speak out very plain : Will you take me, please, to heaven, When you go back again ? " " Ah, darling," said the mother, " You need not wonder so To find the golden ladder Where angels come and go. DOMESTIC. 39 Wherever gentle kindness, Or pitying love, abounds, There is the wondrous ladder With angels on the rounds." MY NEIGHBOUR S BABY. ACROSS in my neighbour s window, With its drapings of satin and lace, I see, neath its flowing ringlets, A baby s innocent face. His feet in crimson slippers, Are tapping the polished glass, And the crowd in the streets look upward And nod and smile as they pass. Just here in my cottage window, Catching flies in the sun, With a patched and faded apron, Stands my own little one. His face is as pure and handsome As the baby s over the way, And he keeps my heart from breaking At my toiling, every day. Sometimes when the day is ended, And I sit in the dusk to rest, With the face of my sleeping darling Hugged close to my lonely breast, I pray that my neighbour s baby May not catch heaven s roses all, But that some may crown the forehead Of my loved one, as they fall. 4 o GEMS FROM THE STATES. And when I draw the stockings From his little weary feet, And kiss the rosy dimples In his limbs so round and sweet, I think of the dainty garments Some little children wear, And that my God withholds them From mine so pure and fair. May God forgive my envy I knew not what I said ; My heart is crushed and troubled, My neighbour s boy is dead ! I saw the little coffin As they carried it out to-day ; A mother s heart is breaking In the mansion over the way. The light is fair in my window ; The flowers bloom at my door ; My boy is chasing the sunbeams That dance on the cottage floor. The roses of health are blooming On my darling s cheek to-day, But the baby has gone from the window Of the mansion over the way. LITTLE CHILDREN. THERE is music, there is sunshine, Where the little children dwell, In the cottage, in the mansion, In the hut or in the cell ; DOMESTIC. 41 There is music in their voices, There is sunshine in their love, And a joy for ever round them, Like a glory from above. Little children ! yes, we love them For their spirit s ceaseless flow, For the joy that ever lingers Where their bounding footsteps go ; Tis the sunshine of their presence Makes the lowly cottage fair, And the palace is a prison If no little one is there. Oh ! I wonder not the Saviour, He, the beautiful, the meek, To the precious little children, Tender, loving words did speak. Tis a pleasant thing to teach them Unto Him to bend the knee, Since He spoke the words of blessing, " Suffer them to come to Me." Yea. of such is heaven s kingdom, And if we would enter there, We must seek the sinless garment Which the little child doth wear. Father, bless the little children, Bless them everywhere they dwell In the palace, in the mansion, In the hut, or in the cell ; May the clouds of sin and sorrow Never darken o er their way, And in heart may we be like them, Pure and innocent as they. GEMS FROM THE STATES. MAMMA S KISSES. BY A. E. FABENS. A KISS when I wake in the morning, A kiss when I go to bed, A kiss when I burn my finger, A kiss when I bump my head. A kiss when my bath is over. A kiss when my bath begins ; My mamma is full of kisses, As full as nurse is of pins. A kiss when I play with my rattle, A kiss when I pull her hair ; She covered me over with kisses The day I fell from the stair. A kiss when I gave her trouble, A kiss when I gave her joy ; There s nothing like mamma s kisses For her own little baby boy. THE WOMAN. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. NOT as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear ; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening star ; And yet her heart is ever near. DOMESTIC. 45 Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know : God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair ; No simplest duty is forgot ; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone or despise; For nought that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low esteemed in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things ; And though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is ; God made her so ; And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; Nor hath she ever chance to know That aught were easier than to bless. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonise ; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 44 GEMS FROM THE STATES. She is a woman one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river s peaceful might, Which by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own sweet will, And yet doth ever flow aright. And on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie ; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh, and fair, and green- Sweet homes wherein to live and die. HELPIiMG PAPA AND MAMMA. PLANTING the corn and potatoes, Helping to scatter the seeds, Feeding the hens and the chickens, Freeing the garden from weeds, Driving the cows to the pasture, Feeding the horse in the stall We little children are busy ; Sure there is work for us all, Helping papa. Spreading the hay in the sunshine, Raking it up when t is dry, Picking the apples and peaches Down in the orchard hard by, DOMESTIC. 45 Picking the grapes in the vineyard, Gathering nuts in the fall We little children are busy ; Yes, there is work for us all, Helping papa. Sweeping and washing the dishes, Bringing the wood from the shed, Ironing, sewing, and knitting, Helping to make up the bed, Taking good care of the baby, Watching her lest she should fall We little children are busy ; O, there is work for us all, Helping mamma. Work makes us cheerful and happy, Makes us both active and strong ; Play we enjoy all the better When we have laboured so long. Gladly we help our kind parents, Quickly we come at their call ; Children should love to be busy ; There is much work for us all, Helping papa and mamma. GROWING OLD. SOFTLY, O, softly the years have swept by thce, Touching thee lightly with tenderest care ; Sorrow and death they did often bring nigh thce, Yet they have left thee but beauty to wear. Growing old gracefully, Gracefully fair. 46 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Far from the storms that are lashing the ocean, Nearer each day to the pleasant home-light ; Far from the waves that are big with commotion, Under full sail, and the harbour in sight. Growing old cheerfully, Cheerful and bright. Past all the winds that are adverse and chilling, Past all the islands that lured thee to rest, Past all the currents that wooed thee unwilling Far from the port and the land of the blest. Growing old peacefully, Peaceful and blest. Never a feeling of envy or sorrow When the bright faces of children are seen ; Never a year from their youth wouldst thou borrow ; Thou dost remember what lieth between. Growing old willingly, Gladly, I ween. Eyes that grow dim to the earth and its glory See but the brighter the heavenly glow ! Ears that are full to the world and its story Drink in the songs that from Paradise flow ; All their sweet recompense You cannot know. Fourscore ! But softly the years have swept by thee, Touching- thee lightly with tenderest care ; Sorrow and death they did often bring nigh thee, Yet they have left thee but beauty to wear ; Growing old gracefully, Graceful and fair. DOMESTIC. 47 "IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT." IF I should die to-night, My friends would look upon my quiet face, Before they laid it in its resting-place, And deem that death had left it almost fair ; And laying snow-white flowers against my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands, with lingering caress Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night. If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought-, Some gentle word the frozen lips had said ; Errands on which the willing feet had sped The memory of my selfishness and pride, My hasty words, would all be put aside, And so I should be loved and mourned to-night If I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, Recalling other days remorsefully. The eyes that chill me with averted glance Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, And soften in the old familiar way For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay ? So I might rest forgiven of all to-night. GEMS FROM THE STATES. O friends, I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow. The way is lonely ; let. me feel them now. Think gently of me ; I am travel-worn ; My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Forgive, O hearts estranged ! forgive, I plead ! When dreamless rest is mine, I shall not need The tenderness for which I long to-nicrht. LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY. VVlIAT did you say, dear breakfast ? Somehow I ve slept too late ; You a,re very kind, dear Effie ; Go tell them not to wait. I ll duress as quick as ever I can, My old hands tremble sore, And Polly, who used to help, dear heart ! Lies t other side o the door. Put up the old pipe, deary, I couldn t smoke to-day ; I m sort o dazed and frightened, And don t know what to say. It s lonesome in the house, here, And lonesome out o door I never knew what lonesome meant, In all my life before. The bees go humming, the whole day long. And the first June rose has blown, And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day, Too old to be left alone ! DOMESTIC. 49 O, heart oflove ! so still and cold, O, precious lips, so white ! For the first sad hours in sixty years, You were out of my reach last night. You ve cut the flower. You re very kind. She rooted it last May ; It was only a slip ; I pulled the rose, And threw the stem away ; But she, sweet, thrifty soul, bent down, And planted it where she stood, " Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she said, " Asleep, in this bit of wood." I can t rest, deary I cannot rest ; Let the old man have his will, And wander from porch to garden post The house is so deathly still ; Wander, and long for a sight of the gate She has left ajar for me We had got so used to each other, dear, So used to each other, you see. Sixty years, and so wise and good, She made me a better man From the moment I kissed her fair young face, And our lovers life began. And seven fine boys she has given me, And out of the seven, not one But the noblest father in all the land Would be proud to call his son. O, well, dear Lord, I ll be patient, But I feel so broken up ; At eighty years it s an awsome thing To drain such a bitter cup. E 50 GEMS FROM THE STATES. I know there s Joseph, and John, and Hal, And four good men beside, But a hundred sons couldn t be to me Like the woman I made my bride. My little Polly, so bright and fair ; So winsome, and good, and sweet ! She had roses twined in her sunny hair, White shoes on her dainty feet ; And I held her hand was it yesterday That we stood up to be wed ? And No, I remember, I m eighty to-day, And my dear wife, Polly, is dead. OUR AVIS. BY REV. JAMES UPIIAM, D.D. SHE loved the tiny flowers Just peering from the sod, Or decking door and bowers Those cheery smiles of God. And yet she was an infant Within her mother s arms The sweetest of the smiles of God, The crown of earthly charms. She came while autumn lingered ; The chill months quickly passed Earth decked itself with beauty It was her first and last. DOMESTIC. The morning glory loved so well, Type fit of her brief stay, Now types the glory of the morn Of her eternal day. " As tender mothers guiding baby steps. When places come at which the tiny feet Would trip, lift up the little ones in arms Of love, and set them down beyond the harm ; So did our Father watch the precious child Led o er the stones by me, who stumbled oft Myself, but strove to help my darling on ; He saw the sweet limbs faltering, and saw Rough ways before us, where my arms would fail, So reached from heaven, and lifting the dear child, Who smiled in leaving me, He put her down Beyond all hurt, beyond my sight, and bade Her wait for me ! Shall I not then be glad, And thanking God press on to overtake ?" ONE OF GOD S POOR. BY MVRA COPKLAXD. SHE died all alone at dead of night, No neighbour nor friend was near, To wipe the cold sweat from her furrowed brow, Or whisper one word of cheer ; No loving hand to close the sad eyes, So sunken by grief and pain, To fold the worn hands a-weary of toil, Never to weary again. E 2 52 GEMS FROM THE STATES. " She died very poor," the neighbours said, As they stood in the cheerless room, So dreary and dark, so damp and cold, So full of shadows and gloom. " Poor thing," they said, " we have come too late- Too late to do any good." And they saw with pain the lack of fire, The lack of clothing and food. But better we knew who knew her life, So patient, faithful, and true ; So strong and brave, God s will her delight, Her joy his bidding to do. A patience well-kept through bitter pain, A faith that no trial could dim, And strength to follow God s leading hand, Content to be led by Him. She died very rich. Heir to a crown, A throne, and a wondrous estate ; A name that shall stand above the names Of all the wise and the great. Close the dim eyes and fold the thin hands, While angels exultingly sing, " She died very rich, a child of God ! Joint heir with the Son of a King ! " MY CHOICE. 15V JENNIE HARRISON. YES, I know there are stains on my carpet The traces of small, muddy boots ; And I see your fair tapestry glowing All spotless with blossoms and fruits. DOMESTIC. 55 And I know that my walls are disfigured With prints of small fingers and hands ; And I see that your own household whiteness All fresh in its purity stands. Yes, I know my " black walnut" is battered, And dented by many small heels, ; While your own polished stairway, all perfect, Its smooth shining surface reveals. And I know that my parlour is littered With many odd treasures and toys ; While your own is in daintiest order, Unharmed by the presence of boys. And I know that my room is invaded Quite boldly, all hours of the day ; While you sit in your own unmolested, And dream the soft quiet away. Yes, I know I have jackets that wear out, And buttons that never will stay ; \Vhile you can embroider at leisure, And learn pretty arts of " croquet." And I know there are lessons of spelling, Which I must be patient to hear ; While you may sit down to your novel, Or turn the last magazine near. Yes, I know there are four little bedsides, Where I must stand watchful, each night ; While you may go out in your carriage, And flash in your dresses so bright. 54 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Now I think I m a neat little woman I like my house orderly, too ; And I m fond of all dainty belongings Yet I would not change places with you. No ! keep you fair home, with its order, Its freedom from trouble and noise ; And keep your own fanciful leisure But give me my four splendid boys. ALWAYS REJOICING. " REJOICE ALWAYS ; REJOICE, I SAY, IN THE LORI)/ An ! don t be sorrowful, darling, And don t be sorrowful, pray : Taking the year together, my dear, There isn t more night than day. Tis rainy weather, my darling, Time s waves they heavily run ; But taking the year together, my dear, There isn t more cloud than sun. We are old folks now, my darling, Our heads are growing grey ; And taking the year to-gether, my dear, You will always find the May. We have had our May, my darling, And our roses, long ago ; And the time of the year is coming, my dear For the silent night and snow. DOMESTIC. 55 And God is God, my darling, Of night as well as day, And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way. Ay, God of the night, my darling, Of the night of death so grim ; The gate that leads out of life, good wife, Is the sate that leads to Him. LITTLE ROMP. I M tired to death of keeping still, And being good all day ; I guess my mamma s company Forgot to go away, I ve wished and wished they d think of it, And mamma s \\ishsd so too, But they must talk forever first, They almost always do ! I heard Tom calling me once, He s launched his boat, I know, I wanted to go out and help But mamma s eyes said no. The ladies talk such stuff to me, It makes me sick to hear " How beautiful your hair curls ! " or " How red your cheeks are, dear ! " I d ten times rather run a race Than play my tunes and things ; I wouldn t swap my dogs and balls For forty diamond rings. 56 GEMS FROM THE STATES. I ve got no finement, aunty says, I spect she knows the best ; I don t need much to climb a tree Or hunt a squirrel s nest. " Girls are like berries," papa says, " Sweeter for running wild." But Aunt Melissa shakes her head, And calls me "horrid child." I ll always be a romp, she knows But sure s my name is Sadie, I ll fool em all some dreadful day By growing up a lady. WILL S WIDOW. BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO. IT may seem hard to work so long, And get such little pay ; But still it does not matter much, As W T ill has gone away ; That shows you ma am, how true it is God s ways are always best : He takes the good we miss the most, and we don t miss the rest ! A cup of tea and bite of bread Are quite enough for me; I wouldn t wish another thing, As Will s not here to see ; Or, leastways, if he can look down, he knows too much to care, Knows that it docs not matter much what people eat or wear. DOMESTIC. 57 If I was living in the place Where I once lived with Will, Just going on the some old way, But with the house grown still, I think Will would seem farther off the days would pass so slow. One needn t sit to watch for Death he s sure to come, we know. But now I seldom moan and pine About the sadder part. I think the moving of the hands Is wholesome for the heart ; For as I work I recollect the happy life we had Our courting time, and wedding day, when all the earth seemed glad. That is Will s linnet overhead, I think it pines for trees, So whiles when Sunday evening comes I take it for a breeze ; Will s lying not so far from this, and that is where we go ; The little bird it cheeps and cheeps what mayn t such creatures know ? Will s buried by an old grey church That stands upon a hill, And as I can t take Dick inside, I listen at the sill ; And every word the parson speaks, I seem to hear Will say, " That s something good for you, old girl," for that was poor Will s way. 5 8 GEMS FROM THE STATES. And all the way as I v/alk home I watch the sun go down ; It makes the grim old city look Like new Jerusalem town ; And I have such sweet fancies come I never had before ; When you ve none else to talk with you, I think God talks the more. When first Will went, I longed to die, But now I wait content, As parson says, " When comforts go The Comforter is sent." Yet I ll be glad to meet with Will, and tell him it came true, When he said, " Polly, dear old girl, God will look after you." SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY IN an old churchyard stood a stone, Weather-marked and stained ; The hand of time had crumbled it, So only part of it remained ; Upon one side could I just trace " In memory of my mother ;" An epitaph which spoke of " home " Was chiselled on the other. I d gazed on monuments of fame, High towering to the skies ; I d seen the sculptured marble stone Where a ereat hero lies ; DOMESTIC. 59 But by this epitaph I paused, And read it o er and o er, For I had never seen inscribed Such words as these before. " She always made home happy," A noble record left, A legacy of memory sweet To those she loved bereft ; And what a testimony given By those who knew her best, Engraven on this plain, rude stone, That marked the mother s rest ! It was a humble resting-place, I knew that they were poor, But they had seen their mother sink And patiently endure. They had marked her cheerful spirit When bearing, one by one, Her many burdens up the hill, Till all her work was done. So, when was stilled her weary heart, Folded her hands so white, And she was carried from the home She d always made so bright, Her children made a monument That money can t secure, As witness of a noble life, Whose record will endure. A noble life ! but written not In any book of fame ; Among the list of noted ones None ever saw her name ; 60 GEMS FROM THE STATES. For only her own household knew The victories she had won, And none but they could testify How well her work was done. THE CROW THAT THE CROW CROWED. r,Y S. CONANT FOSTER. "Ho! ho!" Said the crow : " So I m s posed not to know Where the rye and the wheat And the corn kernels grow Ho! no! Ho ! ho ! " He ! he ! Farmer Lee, When I fly from my tree, Just you see where the tops Of the corn-ears will be ; Watch me ! He! he! Switch-swirch, With a lurch, Flopped the bird from his perch, As he spread out his wings And set forth on his search His search, Switch-swirch. DOMESTIC. 6 1 Click ! bang ! How it rang, How the small bullet sang As it sped through the air- And the crow, with a pang, Went spang ! Chi-bang ! THE TAIL FEATHERS. Now know That to crow Often brings one to woe ; Which the lines up above Have been put there to show And so Don t crow. ONLY A DOLL. BY SARAH O. JEWETT. Polly, my dolly ! why don t you grow ? Are you a dwarf, my Polly ? I m taller and taller every day ; How high the grass is ! do you see that ? The flowers are growing like weeds, they say ? The kitten is growing into a cat ! Why don t you grow, my dolly ? Here is a mark upon the wall. Look for yourself, my Polly ! I made it a year ago, I think. I ve measured you very often, dear, But, though you ve plenty to eat and drink, You haven t grown a bit for a year. Why don t you grow, my dolly ? 62 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Are you never going to try to talk ? You re such a silent Polly ! Are you never going to say a word ? It isn t hard ; and oh ! don t you see The parrot is only a little bird, But he can chatter so easily. You re quite a dunce, my dolly ! Let s go and play by the baby house ; You are my dearest Polly ! There are other things that do not grow ; Kittens can t talk, and why should you ? You are the prettiest doll, I know ; You are a darling that is true ! Just as you are, my dolly ! I KNOW A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. BY MRS. FRANCIS D. GAGE. I KNOW a beautiful woman, But she s not of " sweet sixteen " ; Full sixty winters have come and gone The " Now " and " Then " between. Yes, every year hath added A something so fair and true, That to me she s the sweetest woman I think that ever I knew. Her eye may be dimmer growing, It hath lost the glance of youth, But up from the inner fountains It is flashing love and truth ; DOMESTIC. 63 Her cheeks have not all the freshness Of the rosebud s glowing red ; The purity of the lily, Full-blown, has come in its stead. And her voice is low and soothing As the hum of summer bees, Or twilight rustling mong the corn, Or the song of autumn trees. She moves with a grace so gentle Among the garden bowers, A brighter radiance than their own Seems falling on her flowers. All over her face of beauty There are lines of days gone by Of holy loves and earnest hopes That have wrought there patiently ; They are lovelier far than dimples, For I know that each was given To mark the years of dutiful life That have fitted her for heaven. I never think of that woman But my heart throbs high with love, And I ask, " Can she be more beauteous In the blissful realms above ? " I can scarcely in my dreaming See her face more fair and bright, She seems to me now, with her radiant brow, A spirit of love and light. The poet may sing his praises Of the glow of " sweet sixteen," But there s a holier beauty, Of sixty-five, I ween ; 6 1 GEMS FROM THE STATES. For a girlish face that s moulded By a true and loving heart, Will brighten as the heart throbs on, Rechiselling every part. NAMING THE BABY. BY MRS. RUFUS BARTLETT. WHAT shall we call our baby Who lately to us came ? He s three months old to-day, and yet The darling has no name. He now begins to smile and coo, And grasp at pretty things, And acts as if he d like to use A pair of tiny wings. And as his tender mind expands Within his frame so small, The music strain ofbaby s name Upon his ear should fall. Let s call him " Winthrop " ; that s a good Staunch Massachusetts name, On which the pious Puritan Ne er left a single stain. Yet we must add another one ; The mother now desires Her cherub boy should bear the name One that she loves his sire s ! Now, baby, open wide your ears ; You ve oped your eyes so bright ; Winthrop Vanleuven, Keep the name forever pure and bright. DOMESTIC. 65 And now we to our little son An earthly name have given, We ll consecrate his future life To usefulness and heaven. Knowing this fair and fragile thing, All baby smiles and tears, Contains a soul that will live on Through the immortal years. O Thou who sent intooui home This precious human flower, Round which our yearning hearts now cling With such mysterious power, Help us to write upon his heart, In childhood and in youth, With burnished gold, the law of love, And royalty of truth. Help us to guide his untried feet, So he at length shall stand, With manhood s wreath upon his brow, A noble, Christian man. And when his mission here shall close, And lowly sinks his frame, O, mid the shining ones above Give him an angel s name. THE LITTLE CHICKEN. BY MRS. CIIILION B. ALLKN. I am a little chicken, hear me peep, peep, peep, My mamma s gone away, and I ve no place to sleep ; I feel a little lonely, but I will not say a word, F 66 GEMS FROM THE STATES. I don t like to be a chicken, I wish I were a bird. I think I sing quite nicely, hear me peep, peep, peep, Or wect, a wect a wect wcct, cheap, cheap, cheap, Now isn t that the nicest song you ever, ever heard ? It is really very easy to be a little bird. Now, when other little chicks are scratching m the dirt, Or running to their mamma for fear they will be hurt, I ll be singing far away, not so far I can t be heard, For I want them all to know I m no chicken ; I m a bird. What is that up in the heavens? It s a hawk I really fear ? If I could but find my mamma, how glad I d be to see her. " Cluck a cluck," that s mamma calling, sweeter sound I never heard ; I m so glad I am a chicken I don t want to be a bird. TOO LITTLE, EH? BY MARY MAPES DODC.E. T\VO little girls are better than one, Two little boys can double the fun, Two little birds can build a fine nest; Two little arms can love mother best, DOMESTIC. 67 Two little ponies must go to a span, Two little pockets has my little man, Two little eyes to open and close, Two little ears and one little nose, Two little elbows, dimpled and sweet, Two little shoes on two little feet, Two little lips and one little chin, Two little cheeks with a rose set in, Two little shoulders chubby and strong, Two little legs running all day long, Two little prayers does my darling say, Twice does he kneel by my side each day, Two little folded hands, soft and brown, Two little eyelids cast meekly down, And two little angels guard him in bed, One at the foot and one at the head. THE LOST DOLL. BY SARAH O. JEWETT. THE sunflowers hang their heavy heads And wish the sun would shine ; The clouds are gray, the wind is cold. " Where is that doll of mine ? The dark is coming fast," said she. " I m in a dreadful fright. I don t know where I left my doll, And she ll be out all night. " Twice up and down the garden walks I ve looked ; but she s not there. Oh ! yes, I ve hunted in the hay ; I ve hunted everywhere. F 2 68 GEMS FROM THE STATES. I must have left her out of doors ; But she is not in sight. No Dolly in the summer-house, And she ll be out all night. " The dew will wet her through and through And spoil her dear best dress ; And she will wonder where I am And be in such distress ; The dogs may find her in the grass, And bark and even bite ; And all the bats will frighten her That fly about at night. " I ve not been down into the woods Or by the brook to-day. I m sure I had her in my arms When I came out to play, Just after dinner ; then, I know, I watched Tom make his kite. Will anybody steal my doll If she stays out all night? " I wonder where Papa has gone ? Why, here he comes ; and see ! He s bringing something in his hand. That s Dolly, certainly ! And so you found her in the chaise. And brought her home all right ? I ll take her to the baby-house. I m glad she s home to-night." BUSY HANDS AND FEET. LITTLE white hands have never Known what it is to work, DOMESTIC. 69 Yet they are busy ever, With never a wish to shirk. Never a moment idle, Never at all o ertasked ; Whatever mamma calls for, Bringing as soon as asked. Bringing the slippers for papa, And with them an evening kiss ; Waiting to have his blessing Fill her with happiness, Placing a chair for mamma, Without being asked at all ; Soothing the fretting baby, Shaking her rattle small. Playing when papa s reading, Still as a little mouse ; Never with clash and clatter Righting her little house. Never intrusive, only Ready to come and go As papa or mamma wishes, Little face all aglow. You may talk of your household jewels, But ours is the richest yet ; O, what a priceless treasure We have in our little pet ! Ready at every one s bidding, With fingers so nimble and neat ; Never such dutiful servants As these little hands and feet. 70 GEMS FROM THE STATES. JOHNNY S SOLILOQUY. BY ANNIE A. PRESTON. IT seems to be father s greatest joy To tell what he did when he was a boy. Nothing very wonderful, so far s I can see ; And it seems pretty rough on a fellow like me, When I ve worked like a man all the long sum mer day And boys can get tired, I don t care what they say To have father declare, in his evening chat, " When I was a boy I did better than that. " I was bound out when I was boy, Had never a play-day, a book, or a toy. I earned my first suit when I was of age, By working at odd hours for old Deacon Gage. I often went barefoot, having seldom a hat, And as for a coat, I was too poor for that. Of course I had extra clothes in cold weather, But the clothes were not broadcloth, Nor the boots patent leather." Then he talks of this and that wonderful feat, With little to wear and little to cat ; How he never went either to college or school, Just picked up his learning without guide or rule, And says : "John, to be sure, is easy to learn, And always stands first at the close of the term ; But if I d his chance of books in ;/yday, I don t think you d have found me always at play." DOMESTIC. Now I am just as willing as can be to work, Nobody can call me a bit of a shirk ; I don t ask for fine clothes or frequent play-days, For I know father s money has plenty of ways ; But when I have done as well as I can, They might treat me as though I d some day be a man. I m so tired of the song father always has sung, <l I did better than that when I was young." RELIGIOUS. MOUNTING UP. I COUNT this thing to be grandly true, That a noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting the soul from the common sod To a purer air and a broader view. We rise by things that arc under our feet, By what we have mastered of gocd and gain By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished hills that we hour.ly meet. Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies ; And we mount to its summit round by round. IS YOUR LAMP BURNING? SAY, is your lamp burning, my brother ? I pray you look quickly and see ; For if it were burning, then .surely Some beams would fall bright upon me. RELIGIOUS. Straight, straight is the road, but I falter, And oft I fall out by the way ; Then lift your lamp higher, my brother, Lest I should make fatal delay. There are many and many around you Who follow wherever you go ; If you thought that they walked in the shadow Your lamp would burn brighter, I know. Upon the dark mountains they stumble, They are bruised on the rocks, and they lie With their white, pleading faces turned upward To the clouds and the pitiful sky. There is many a lamp that is lighted, We behold them anear and afar ; But not many among them, my brother, Shine steadily on like a star. I think, were they trimmed night arid morningv They would never burn down or go out, Though from the four quarters of Heaven The winds were all blowing about. If once all the lamps that arc lighted Would steadily blaze in a line, Wide over the land and the ocean, What a girdle of glory would shine ! How all the dark places would brighten ! How the mists would roll up and away ! How the earth would laugh out in her gladness. To hail the millennial day ! 7|. GEMS FROM THE STATES. Say, is your lamp burning, my brother ? I pray you look quickly and see ; For if it were burning, then surely Some beams would fall bright upon me. "COME." BY MRS. L. S. HARRIS. ONCE a ship s crew, worn and weary, Tossed on Galilee s dark waves, Watched the mountain billows rising, Threatening but un fathomed graves ; And they saw no arm of succour Lent to still their hearts wild cry, Till a form, like spirit gliding, Whispered, u Fear not ; it is I." Thus it is, as o er life s billows, Mid the gloom of sorrow s night, That same form is ever near us, Though obscured from natural sight. Faith alone can hail His presence Through the mental sky s deep gloom ; Faith alone amid the breakers Hears that cheering voice say " Come." * Come " why longer toil in rowing? Walk with Him upon the wave ; All thy toil without His mercy Cannot thy frail life barque save. Heed not though the winds are raging, And the towering billows loom ; Keep the eye but fixed on Jesus ; Tis His voice that bids thcc Come." RELIGIOUS. Christian stranger, worn and weary, Toiling on life s boisterous deep, Faint from labour unavailing, Sowing but where others reap, Leave the ship with earth s frail tackling, Though to sense all s fraught with gloom He can still thy grief s wild tempest, And His voice now bids thee "Come." "JUST SIXTY-TWO." JUST sixty-two ! Then trim thy light, And get thy jewels all re-set ; J Tis past meridian, but bright, And lacks one hour to sunset yet. At sixty-two Be strong and true ; Clear off thy rust, and shine anew. Tis yet high time ; thy staff resume, And fight fresh battles for the Truth ; For what is age but youth s full bloom ; A riper, more transcendent youth? A wedge of gold Is never old. Streams broader grow as downward rolled. At sixty-two life is begun ; At seventy-three begins once more ! Fly swifter as you near the sun, And brighter shine at eighty-four ; At ninety-five, Shouldst thou arrive, Still wait on God, and work and thrive. 76 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Keep thy locks wet with morning dew, And freely let thy graces flow ; For life well spent is ever new, And years anointed younger grow. So work anew : Be young for aye ; From sunset breaking into day. THE OPEN CASEMENT AT BABYLON. DANIEL vi. 10. FROM THE GERMAN OF KARL GERDK. BY REV. HENRY S. BURRAGE. BY the waters gently flowing Babylon s fair banks along, Where the breezes, softly blowing, Move the leafy trees among, In a chamber, by a casement, Which towards Zion open stands, Daniel kneels in deep abasement, Seeking God with outstretched hands. Daily thrice in rapt devotion Kneels he there before his Lord ; Hushes the wild world s commotion, Claims the promise of the Word ; Morning, as the stars are fading, Midday, hour of fiercest heat, Evening, in the twilight shading Busy Babel s lordly seat. Payees of monarchs spurning, Halls his exiled feet have trod, RELIGIOUS. Lo, the prophet, westward turning, Greets the Zion of his God. And in gardens bright with flowers, Over many a palm-tree s crest, Rise again the ruined towers Of Jerusalem the blest. And the breezes, lightly blowing, Over deserts vast and drear, Over rivers wilding flowing, Greetings out of Zion bear. Balm the sweetest, too, they bring him, Balm from Zion s holy hill. Melodies of home they sing him. Wakening every pulse s thrill. Happy he, the world forgetting, Mid the tumult all around, Who, his casement open setting, Looking Zionvvard is found ; Who, beneath his burden bending, Lifts to heaven his bitter sigh. Morn, and noon, and evening sending Messages of faith on high. Though I had in fullest measure All that crowns the worldling s bliss, Mines untold of richest treasure, Gardens of Semiramis ; Still, with Babel s walls around me I should feel the tyrant s hand, Long to break the chain that bound me, Hie me to the Fatherland. 7 8 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Though in some deep dungeon pining I must dwell in darkest night, Lo, a glory round me shining Fills the dungeon with its light, As my heart its casement throwing Open towards the heavenly hills, Somewhat of the light there glowing Falls, and all my being fills. When mid cares which daily press me, Cares which none but I may wear ; When the pains of life distress me, Pains so burdensome to bear, Then my casement opening flinging Towards the lands by angels trod, All my care and pain there bringing, Find I sweet relief in God. When disease my frame is wasting, From Jerusalem the fair Strength I draw, already tasting Daily of its blissful air. Stars of hope, too, brightly burning O er my pilgrim way appear ; And the harpers, earthward turning, Waft a message to my car. Thus, where er my home I make me, Here or far in distant lands, Daily Zionward I take me, Open wide my casement stands. What though Babylon is ringing With the tumult of the street, O er it all my heart upspringing, Zion undisturbed I greet. RELIGIOUS. BE OF GOOD CHEER. Be of good cheer, O soul ! Angels are nigh : Evil can harm thcc not, God hears thy cry. Into no void shalt thou Spring from this clay ; His everlasting arm Shall be thy stay. Day hides the stars from thce, Sense hides the heaven Waiting the contrite soul That here has striven. Soo n .^hall the glorydawn, Making earth dim : Be not disquieted, Trust thou in Him. OUR THOUGHTS IN HEAVEN. BY S. A. J. We may soar above earth on the angelic wings Of fervent devotion and prayer, And catch some faint glimpses of heavenly things, But what will our thoughts be when there ? We will wish we had rolled every burden away On a faithful, omnipotent arm, When we see that the Lord of the night and the day Himself was our shield from all harm. So GEMS FROM THE STATES. We willnover regret tint w^ here loveJ His Word And drank of the life-giving fount ; When vista on vista of knowledge shall ope, As we walk with our Lord on the mount. We will wish that on earth, with a bountiful hand, We had scattered the truth s holy seed, When its fruit we behold in Immanucl s land, As the labourer s glorious meed. With joy had we borne every trial and loss, And the fear of the world trampled down, Had we seen that the darkest and heaviest cross Would change to a star and a crown. With what fervour had called in this valley of tears, On our Lord, had we felt He would own Our prayers as sweet incense from censer of gold, Rising up as a cloud to His throne. When we mourned for friends that were lost to our sight With a bitter and heart-broken cry, Our wail had been changed to an anthem of praise, Had we seen but their glory on high. Let us bring every thought of that light-beaming world To bear as a lever on this, And raise up the beings that sin has enthralled To the height of that infinite bliss, When we meet the freed spirits of saints that on earth, With " affliction and iron " were bound RELIGIOUS. 8 r We shall \vish we had loved, when of love they had need, Whom Christ with His glory hath crcwn d. Their faces were marred, and their frail forms were bowed, And too often our hearts turned away ; How we ll wish we had been as a light to their eyes, When no longer they sigh for the day ! We will wish we had meekly and patiently borne With the frailties we saw in a friend, Whom Christ in His tender compassion hath kept, And watched o er and loved to the end ; Had followed the Shepherd in seeking the sheep Astray in the darkness and cold, And when it was found, had rejoiced in His joy, And gathered it safe in the fold. Oh, how we shall wish when enraptured we stand With our feet on the glorified shore, And follow our Lord in the beautiful land, That on earth we had loved Him far more. Let us cling to these words as a silvery cord To guide through the darkness of even, We will do unto those whom Christ gives us to aid, As we ll wish when we meet them in heaven. G 82 GEMS FROM THE STATES. And oh, with what gladness of soul shall we serve The humblest whom Christ hath made free. When we feel that the King at the judgment will say, " Fear not ; ye have done it to me." OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Over and over again, No matter which way I turn, I always find in the Book of Life Some lessons I have to learn. I must take my turn at the mill, I must grind out the golden grain, I must work at my task with a resolute will Over and over again. We cannot measure the need Of even the tiniest flower, Nor check the flow of the golden sands That run through a single hour. But the morning dew must fall, And the sun and the summer rain Must do their part, and perform it all Over and over again. Over and over again The brook through the meadow flows, And over and over again The pond rous mill-wheel goes. Once doing will not suffice, Though doing be not in vain ; And a blessing failing us once or twice, May come if we try again. RELIGIOUS. 83 The path that has once been troJ, Is never so rough to feet ; And the lesson we once have learned Is never so hard to repeat, Though sorrowful tears may fall, And the heart to its depth be driven With storm and tempest, we need them all To render us meet for heaven. INTO THE LIGHT. BY M. C. THE day was dark and cold and dreir ; Without, the raindrops falling Kept time to sadder thoughts within, My grief and pain recalling. My eyes were wet with falling tears My lack of faith brought blindness, God s way s seemed hard ; I could not sec He meant me only kindness. And so I murmured more and more And yielded to my sorrow ; I longed to see each day depart, And dreaded each to-morrow. But God was watching o er me still, Through all my bitter railing ; I turned to Him, and found again His strength and grace unfailing. " Thy will be done, O Lord ! " I cried, " Forgive my long repining Thy will be done ! " Lo ! alT the world Was like the noon- day shining. G 2 8 4 GEMS FROM THE STAl ES. THE GOSPEL OF MYSTERY. BY SAXE HOLM. GOOD tidings every day : God s messengers ride fast. We do not hear one-half they say, There is such noise on the highway, Where we must wait while they ride past. Their banners blaze and shine With Jesus Christ s dear name, And story how by God s design, He saves us, in His love divine, And lifts us frcm cur sin and shame. Their music fills the air, Their songs sing all of heaven ; Their ringing trumpet-peals declare What crowns to souls who fight and dare And win, shall presently be given. Their hands throw treasures round Among the multitude. No pause, no choice, no count, no bound, No questioning how men are found, If they be evil or be good. But all the banners bear Some words we cannot read ; And mystic echoes in the air, Which borrow from the songs no share, In sweetness all the songs exceed. RELIGIOUS. 85 And of the multitude, No man but in his hand Holds some great gift misunderstood, Some treasure, for whose use or good His ignorance sees no demand. These are the tokens lent, By Immortality ; Birth-marks of our Divine descent : Sureties of ultimate intent, God s Gospel of Eternity. Good tidings every day : The messengers ride fast. Thanks be to God for all they say : There is such noise on the highway, Let us keep still while the)- ride past. THE HAVEN GAINED. I5Y JANE M. READ. Bn.i.ows in tumult, near the haven dashing. Toss, in their wrath, a vessel bound for home ; Over its sides the rolling waves are plashing, Breaking and falling into spray and foam ; Meeting near shore are tides of wondrous power, Each, in its pride, would rule the restless sea ; Seamen arc toiling through the midnight hour ; Danger is there, and awful majesty. But, over all, that One His watch is keeping, Who, by His word, on storm-tossed Galilee. Calmed all the tumult, waking from His sleeping, Chiding alike the tempest and the sea. C6 GEMS FROM: THE STATES. Reaching at length the welcome port, and gazing Fondly OH happy homes along the shore, God and His love the seaman s heart is praising, For at God s word the billows roll no more. Fair was the landscape to the sailor, weary After his labour through the gloomy night ; After the danger, mid those shadows drear}-, Glorious appeared that haven, bathed in light. Fair is the harbour where the spirit, resting, Sings in its joy ; the toil-worn Christian s home! Meeting this side, two tides in strength contesting, Crown their vast billows white with seething foam ; Yet, though the billows o er the soul are sweeping, Tempests shall rise nogreater than our strength. God at a word can change to joyous weeping We shall behold our heavenly home at length. And when the Christian sees the radiant morning Break on his sight, the haven gained at last, Charmed with the glory, will he hail the dawning Brighter because of dangers bravely passed. TRUST. I CANNOT see, with try small human sight, Why God should lead this way or that for me I only know He saith " Child, follow Me ; " But I can tiust. I know not why my path should be at times So straitly hedged, so strangely barred before ; 1 only know God could keep wide the door ; But I can trust. RELIGIOUS. 87 I find no answer, often, when beset With questions fierce and subtle on my way, And often have but strength to faintly pray ; But I can trust. I often wonder, as with trembling hand I cast the seed along the furrowed ground, If ripened fruit for God will there be found; But I can trust. I cannot know why suddenly the storm Should rage so fiercely round me in its wrath ; But this I know, God watches all my path And I can trust. I may not draw aside the mystic veil That hides the unknown future from my sight ; Nor know if for me waits the dark or light ; But I can trust. I have no power to look across the tide, To know, while here, the land beyond the river ; But this I know, I shall be God s for ever ; So I can trust. VIA CRUCLS, VIA LUCIS. BY MRS. C. A. MEANS. THREE little graves beneath the sod, Three sinless spirits safe with God ; A lonely pathway must be I rod ; She murmured not. 88 GEMS FROM THE STATES. " God knows how heavy is the cross, What anguish keen, what bitter loss, How earthly treasures seem but dross ; He sees, He cares. " No love my widowed heart can fill, No joy the life-long craving still, He knoweth best it is His will," She meekly said. God s strength is given her cross to bear She seeks another s grief to share, And strives to lighten pain and care, Where er she treads. Is tJiy heart pierced with keenest woe ? Then seek around thy path to throw A heavenly light, which all may know, And own Divine. ONLY. 15V JAMES F. STEARXS. ONEY a poisonous drop from a cup, But it gave a thirst for more, And awoke a craving that wrecked a life, On a barren, desert shore. Twas only a glance, but a scornful glance, And it fanned a dreaded flame. It was only a kind, beseeching look, But it won a heart from shame. RELIGIOUS, 89 It was only a dying mother s kiss On a fair, pale girlish face, I3ut always the thought of that sacred touch Drew her from evil apace. Twas only a draught from the limpid stream, But it caved the hunter s life. Twas only the husband s familiar step, Yet it cheered the gloomy wife. It was only a smile a pleading smile But it reached a hardened heart, And roused a desire and an earnest will To perform a noble part. It was only a tear one pearly tear That stood on the maiden s cheek, Yet it spoke a sweeter good-bye than words Have ever essayed to speak. It was only a word one single word But sweet as the summer s breath, And it touched the spring of a thoughtless mind, And rescued a soul from death. TENEO KT TENEOR. 15 Y T. L. ROGERS. I HOLD Thy truth, O Lord, within my heart ; Thy law I love ; I hold Thy cross and try to do my part Its power to prove ; I hold Thy promise, Lord, and daily pray My faith increase, That I may closer cling to Thee, the way; And save Thy peace. 90 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Yet little joy my holding brings to me, Because I know That though full well I love my soul and Thee, I may let go. But / tun held. O Lord, Thou hast my hand, And Thou hast strength, And on my journey in this desert land, Throughout its length, Thy promise is to lead. I shall not fall, Though foes assail And press me hard ; over myself and all I shall prevail ; And so great joy Thy hold on me affords, Because I know That Thou wilt not, according to Thy words, Of me let go. MERCIES. My meditation of Him shall b2 sweet. Psalm IQJ, 34. SHALL I tell you of what I ve been thinking, And thinking the livelong day, From the earliest dawn of the morning Till the sunset faded away, And on through the sweet, still evening, And into the starry night, Till my soul is filled with music, And the way is all flooded with light ? It is of the Lord s rich blessings, And His tender mercies I sing, Thick as the fragrant blossoms In the wonderful, beautiful spring. RELIGIOUS. 91 All fraught with grace and helping, They come straight down from above, From the hand of the Heavenly Father, Whose very name is love. Sometimes I can hardly see them, 1 When doubts and fears assail ; But tis only my blinded vision, And not that His mercies fail. And sometimes they seem like sorrows, All fierce, and dark, and chill ; But when I turn to the other side, The mercies are shining still. Then what can I do but trust Him, Since he sends me what is best ? And I know He s leading me safely To his own eternal rest ! THE ANSWER To a question as to his belief in the eternity of punishment, ]!V J. G. WHITTIER. THOUGH God be good and free be Heaven, No force divine can love compel ; And though the song of sins forgiven May sound through lowest hell, The sweet persuasion of His voice Respects thy sanctity of will, He giveth day, thou hast thy choice To walk in darkness still. 92 GEMS FROM 77 IE STA TES. No word of doom may shut thec out, No wind of wrath may downward whirl, No swords of fire keep watch about The open gates of pearl ; A tenderer light than moon or sun, Than sung of earth a sweeter hymn, May shine and sound forever on, And thou be deaf and dim. Forever round the mercy seat The guiding lights of love shall burn ; But what if, habit-bound, thy feet Shall lack the will to turn ? What if thine eyes refuse to see, Thine car of Heaven s free weicomcfail, And thou a willing captive be, Thyself thy own dark jail ? ROME, ABOVE AND BELOW. 15V EMILV SKAVER. UP above, tho churches, in their jewelled splendour, And wavering censers, with their rich perfume; Down below, the rudely hewn -out arches, The cave-like chapels, and the mouldering gloom. Up above, the ever-burning candles, And costly altars by their light displayed ; Down below, the glaring of the lurid torches Shows where the saints in endless twilight prayed. RELIGIOUS. Above, the gaudy shrines of the Madonna,; Pictures of saints by kneeling crowds adored ; Below, the fish,thc clove, and the Good Shepherd, And simple altars where they sought the Lord. Above, the worshipped relics of the martyrs, A thousand-fold, O wonder, multiplied ; Below, the tomb, a rudely sculptured palm- branch, And words of praise to Jesus crucified. Above, the daily, oft-repeated masses, For souls in torment, that their pain may cease ; Below, the simple, hopeful, sweet inscription, " He suffered and he sleeps ;""He rests in peace. " O, that the spirit of the brave old martyrs Might fill the churches, walk the streets of Rome, And v/e no more, amid the dust of ages, Need seek the Faith down in the Catacomb ! A BIT OF COUNSEL. BY L. L. PIIELPS. OUR life is like the ocean, With ebb, and tide, and flow, And gems of choicest beauty, Hidden in depths below. The varying tints of ocean, Now green, now gray, now blue, Are only the reflection Of heaven s changeful hue. 94 GEMS FROM THE STATES. While far beneath the surface, The turmoil and the strife, Are regions calm and peaceful, Teeming with wondrous life. From this a bit of counsel Is offered thee in love : In every onward step of life, Keep thine eyes fixed above ; And catching the reflection Of thy Father s smiling face, Lining each cloud with glory, Possess thy soul in peace. F cn when the storms are raging Most fiercely o er thy path, Keep thy heart calm and peaceful, Unmoved by all their wrath. Beneath the billows dashing, Beyond the surges roar, Abide thyself in quiet, Where storms disturb no more. Thus walking thou shalt lighten This life of many cares ; And other hearts shall bless thcc, An angel unawares. CHRIST. 15Y E. R. G. HE came in gentlest pity, It seemed that I could see My Father, ah, my Father, Bend down and look at me RELIGIOUS. 95 O, human heart of God in Christ, O, pitying, patient heart of Christ, He pointed unto thee ! Thou seest all, Thou knowest all, The doubting and the sin ; But more tender than my mother s love, Thy love that shuts me in. O, so full of mercy is Thy love, That through that love I win ! A LESSON. V>\ A. ]. R. SILENTLY, softly, o er city and town, Beautiful snowflakes came falling down. Tiny crystals, so feathery light, Covering the earth with a globe of white. When I arose in the early dawn, Brown earth and bare trees all were gone ; Beauty and purity met my sight, Silently wrought in the hours of night. Looking abroad on a world so fair, Read I the lesson written there, The bare, brown land, the homely soil, Is the heart so stained by sin and toil. The beautiful snow, so soft and white, Is the grace of God as a robe of light ; Noiselessly ever, it falls on the heart, Clothing anew its every part. Silently, softly, o er city and town, God s gift to the people, His grace, comes down. 96 GEMS FROM THE STATES. BEYOND THE SUNSET. IiV METTIE BELLE CRANK. EAR beyond the purpling mountains Golden clouds hang in the West ; Twilight draws her mystic curtains, And the sun sinks to his rest. Shadows o er the earth are falling ; A soft silence o er it lies, As if an angel breathed thereon The sweet quiet of the skies. Thus my earthly life is closing ; Soon will come the day s decline ; But beyond the glorious morning Through the golden portals shine. Shadows o er my path are falling ; Earthly visions fade away ; But beyond the beauteous sunset Rises an eternal day. On the golden steps of Heaven Cometh One I ve longed to sec ; Soft and sweet as summer breezes Is His bidding, " Come to me." Heaven opens to my vision, And the angels come and go, And I think I hear among them Voices that I used to know. Friends, and home, and love await me, Joys that never know decay, In the land beyond the sunset, In a bright, eternal day. RELIGIOUS. 97 Softly now the day is closing ; Evening shades are drawing nigh ; To my glorious home I m hastening Is this death ? Tis sweet to die. " THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A REST." BY S. R. L. YES, I shall rest. When ? He knows best. When care and I lie down together. The future morrow shall bring no sorrow, Nor wintry winds and stormy weather. Safe from all harm, with folded palm, They ll bear me through the busy street ; Cloudy or fair, I will not care, When I am borne to my retreat. Perhaps the foe, with one dread blow, Will silence me in dreamless sleep. What matter? twill be my last ill, There are not many left to weep. But this I pray, be when it may, By Thy atoning sacrifice, O Saviour mine, Thou lt own me Thine. Thy righteousness for all suffice. Yes, I shall rest among the blest. After that sweet, untroubled sleep, With tearless eyes, I will arise, To meet with those who never weep. H 98 GEMS FROM THE STATES. My soul, be lowly ! O live thou holy With patience all endure, Until, all glorious, I rise victorious Where Christ has "one before. HEAVEN. How sweetly strange will be the day When we shall no more kneel and pray For daily bread ; but wondering say, " We hunger now no more ! " When we shall hear the cooling rill, And feel the fountain s freshness fill The vital balmy air, and still Thirst not for ever more ! When we shall fly on errands vast ; And pore o er secret wonders past, While heaven s revolving ages last, Yet we no older grow ! When we shall plan for endless years ; And joy in God ; and know our fears Lie in the sole tomb that appears, The tomb of all our woe ! When service shall be wrought aright, Love the only motive ; O Thou Light ! For ever banishing the night, Thou shalt make all things new ! There Love unfurls her starry wings, And pours her soul forth as she sings, Untired as living water springs To shower melodious dew. RELIGIOUS. 99 There, beckoning to some shining throne, Our suffering darlings crowned, our own, Shall fold us in a bliss unknown ; The patient, tried, and true ! And if, obeying Love s command, Among those ransomed ones shall stand Some soul uplifted by our hand, What praises \vill be due ! And oh ! to see our Saviour smile ! We being certain all the while The sin that did our souls defile And made us cry " Unclean " Is blotted out ; as from the sky W r hen the great sun goes shining by, Are the dark clouds that threat ning lie ! As if they had not been ! So that He whom our souls adore Can look us through, and o er and o er, Nor find one stain for evermore ; And we can look on Him. Nor shrink, nor strive to hide, nor sigh ; But find it Heaven s joy to lie Full in the light of His pure eye. Made pure like Him, by Him ! And now, though words must fail to tell The whole of Heaven ; yet is it well That Hope within the veil should dwell And sing of the unseen. H 2 loo GEMS FROM THE STATES. GOOD THOUGHTS. No man can safely go abroad that does not love to stay at home ; no man can safely speak that does not willingly hold his tongue ; no man can safely govern that would not cheer fully become subject ; no man can safely com mand that has not truly learned to obey; and no man can safely rejoice but he that has the testimony of a good conscience. "WHEN I was a young man, there lived in our neighbourhood a farmer who was usually re ported to be a very liberal man, and uncom monly upright in his dealings. When he had any of the produce of his farm to dispose of, he made it an invariable rule to give good measure rather more than would be required of him. One of his friends, observing him frequently doing so, questioned him as to why he did it ; he told him he gave too much, and said it would be to his disadvantage. Now, mark the answer of this excellent man : "God has permitted me but one journey through the world, and when I am gone I can not return to rectify mistakes." DID men govern themselves as they ought, in stead of trying to govern each other, the world would be well disciplined. RELIGIOUS. 10 1 THE cradle of civilisation is rocked by a mother s hand. RELIGION is not a mere debt we owe to God; it is a spirit of fellowship and sympathy with Him ; it is the highest proof that God has made us for Himself, and redeemed us to Himself, and called us to be renewed in His image once more, and to be perfect as our Father in Heaven is perfect. CHRISTIAN faith is a grand cathedral, with divinely pictured windows. Standing without, you see no glory nor can possibly imagine any ; standing within, every ray of light reveals a harmony of unspeakable splendours. Haw thorne. NEIGHBOURLY LOVE. Genuine neighbourly love knows no distinction of persons. It is like the sun, which does not ask on what it shall shine, or what it shall warm ; but shines and warms by the very laws of its own being. So there is nothing hidden from light and heat. IF in a dish of sand I should look with my eyes for the particles of iron, or feel for them with my fingers, I might be unable to detect them. But let me take a magnet and sweep through it, and how would it draw to itself the most invisible particles by the mere power of attraction ! The unthankful heart, like the 102 GEMS FROM THE S lA lES. fingers in the sand, discovers no mercies ; but let the thankful heart sweep through the day, and as the magnet finds the iron, so it will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings ; only the iron in God s sand is gold. 0. W. Holmes. IT is a very solemn thing to live, unless a man is living right ; and then it is a very joyful thing to live. It is a very solemn thing for a man to die if he does not know where he is to go at death ; but it is a final triumph, and it may well be an ecstacy, to the man whose conscience bears him witness that all his purposes have been just, and pure, and loving, and true. Death to him is only coronation and glory. Bcecher. TEMPEST-TOSSED. BY EGBERT L. BANGS. MY soul this day is tempest-tossed, The winds around me madly blow, And conscience thunders, " Thou art lost, Unless thy Saviour mercy show." With terror wild my heart doth quake ; O sleeping Christ, within me wake ! My passions burn with furious heat, They drive me where I would not go ; Unholy pleasures lure my feet Where I sweet peace can never know. Show me the path that I should take ; O sleeping Christ, within me wake ! RELIGIOUS. 103 As lightnings flash along the sky, And then the midnight darkness leave, So anger lights my spirit high ; In deepest penitence I grieve. Let not my heart with anguish break ; sleeping Christ, within me wake ! Thick clouds of doubt around me rise, No light comes to me from above ; They hide my Father from my eyes, And make me question His dear love. 1 call to thee ; for thy love s sake, O sleeping Christ, within me wake ! Now hear me when I cry to thee, Bid passions winds and waves be still ; Let light and peace come back to me, For they obey Thy holy will. With terror wild my heart doth quake ; O sleeping Christ, within me wake ! THANKSGIVING. BY C. B. L. THE year began with gladness and a song Shall we rejoice because the tune went wrong? How can we give Thee thanks ? We reaped rich harvests but a year ago, Now brown and barren all our fields lie low ; Must we for this give thanks ? 104 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Our eyes are blinded by the tears we shed ; Beside a grave we sit discomforted ; We see no place for thanks. Our hearts are heavy while we stand and wait, And we are hungry, poor, and desolate ; Can this be time for thanks ? Because the discord only helped the strain, As hearts grow tender through exceeding pain ; For this we will give thanks. Our fields lie fallow under rain and snow Because the Husbandman works wisest so ; And we will give Him thanks. The heavy tears make lighter the heart s pain, The bow of promise shines through falling rain; For that we jrive Thee thanks. 6 J The heart whose food has longest been denied Will be most grateful for their need supplied ; For all we render thanks- DO THY LITTLE. Do thy little, do it well ; Do what right and reason tell ; Do what wrong and sorrow claim, Conquer sin and cover shame. Do thy little, though it be Dreariness and drudgery ; They whom Christ apostles made "Gathered fragments" when He bade. RELIGIOUS. 105 Do thy little ; never mind Though thy brethren be unkind ; Though the men who ought to smile Mock and taunt thee for a while. Do thy little ; never fear While thy Saviour standeth near ; Let the world its javelins throw ; On thy way undaunted go. Do thy little ; God has made Million leaves for forest shade ; Smallest stars their glory bring ; God employeth every thing. AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN. I M kneeling at the threshold, weary, faint and sore ; Waiting for the dawning, for the opening of the door, Waiting till the Master shall bid me rise and come To the glory of His presence, to the gladness of His home. A weary path I ve travelled, mid darkness, storm, and strife, Bearing many a burden, struggling for my life ; But now the morn is breaking, my toil will soon be o er, I m kneeling at the threshold, my hand is on the door. io6 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Methinks I hear the voices of the blessed as they stand, Singing in the sunshine of the sinless land ; O, would that I were with them, amid their shining throng, Mingling in their worship, joining in their song! The friends that started with me have entered long ago ; One by one they left me struggling with the foe. Their pilgrimage was shorter, their triumph sooner won, How lovingly they ll hail me when my toil is done. With them, the blessed angels, that know not grief nor sin, I see them by the portals, prepared to let me in. O Lord, I wait Thy pleasure Thy time and way are best ; But I m wasted, worn, and weary O Father, bid me rest ! GOD S QUIET. THERE S silence in the holy place Where sits the Holiest on the throne, And silence in the unmeasured space, Where silver stars go pacing on Eternally, eternally. Around him moves the universe ; Earth only breaks the harmony With her discordant curse. RELIGIOUS. 107 Sad earth ! whose music breaks in moans Against the crystal of the sky Poor earth ; to have but bitter groans Wherewith to make reply. All silently, all silently, Upon thee fall the light and dew ! God sends His blessings unto thee Alas ! His judgments, too. Now, wherefore is the constant strife ? And wherefore is the ceaseless moan ? Why does the dust of our low life Rise up in clouds before the throne ? Unceasingly, unceasingly, We vex His patience with our prayers ; For Him to rise and work, we cry ; Impatient that He spares. For Him to work ; His chariot wheels Pause never in their onward way ; Even now before Him error reels ; And yet we charge Him with delay ! All silently, all silently, He breaks the yoke, He gives the meed- Calm, for His own eternity Hath time for any deed. I think it is that we are weak Our life so short, so faint our breath ; We find the feeble words we speak Strike blankly on the shore of death. And yet they live eternally ! They echo on a far off shore ; O mortals, know your destiny ! Speak hopeless words no more. loS GEMS FROM THE STATES. God s great hereafter lieth bright Beyond life s valley, death s abyss ; A triumph crowns the perfect right Wherewith that world doth compass this. In silence His eternity Flows round our little isle of life ; There s room for calm in that great sea With us, for only strife. ONLY A LITTLE CHILD. BY MISS E. MARIA UPHAM. CLOSE by Thy side will I walk all day, Thou Holy One, meek and mild, Lest from the narrow and blessed way, Out in the cold and dark, I stray ; For I m only a little child. Into Thy hand will I place my hand, Thy love hath my heart beguiled ; And I will believe Thou hast wisely planned Things that I cannot now understand ; For I m only a little child. Over the moorland cold and drear, Over the mountains wild, I will never falter, or doubt, or fear, With Thee and Thy tender love so near; Though I m only a little child. And when I am tired and long for rest, Thou Holy One meek and mild, O, lift me up to Thy loving breast, And tenderly whisper of home and rest ; For I m only a little child. RELIGIOUS. 109 SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE? WHEN we hear the music ringing Through the bright celestial dome, When sweet angel voices singing Gladly bid us welcome home To the land of ancient story, Where the spirit knows no care, In the land of light and glory, Shall we know each other there ? When the holy angels meet us, As we go to join their band, Shall we know the friends who greet us In that glorious spirit land ? Shall we seethe dark eyes shining On us as in days of yore ? Shall we feel their dear arms twining Fondly round us as before ? Yes, my earthworn soul rejoices And my weary heart grows light, For the thrilling angel voices And the angel faces bright, That shall welcome us in heaven, Are the loved of long ago, And to them is kindly given Thus their mortal friends to know. O, ye weary ones and lost ones, Droop not, faint not, by the way ! Ye shall join the loved and lost ones In the land of perfect day ; GEMS FROM THE STATES. Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers, Murmur in my raptured ear ; Evermore their sweet tone lingers, We shall know each other there. THE CHURCH AND THE WORLD. BY MRS. M. C. EDWARDS. THE Church and the World walked far apart, On the changing shore of time ; The World was singing a giddy song, And the Church a hymn sublime. " Come, give me your hand," cried the merry World, " And walk with me this way." But the good Church hid her snowy hand, And solemnly answered, " Nay, I will not give you my hand at all, And I will not walk with you ; Your way is the way to endless death ; Your words are all untrue/ " Nay, walk with me but a little space," Said the World, with a kindly air. " The road I walk is a pleasant road. The sun shines always there. My path, you see, is a broad, fair one, And my gate is high and wide ; There is room enough for you and for me To travel side by side." Half shyly the Church approached the World And gave him her hand of snow, RELIGIOUS. in The old World grasped it, and walked along, Saying in accents low : " Your dress is too simple to please my taste : I ll give you pearls to wear, Rich velvets and silks for your graceful form, And diamonds to deck your hair." The Church looked down at her plain white robe, And then at the dazzling World, And she blushed as she saw his handsome lip, With a smile contemptuous curled. " I will change my dre^s for a costlier one," Said the Church with a smile of grace. Then her pure white garments drifted away, And the world gave in their place Beautiful satin and shining silks, And roses and gems and pearls ; And over her forehead her bright hair fell Crisped in a thousand curls. " Your house is too plain," said the proud old World, " I ll build you one like mine Carpets of Brussels, and curtains of lace, And furniture ever so fine." So he built her a costly and beautiful house, Splendid it was to behold ; Her sons and her beautiful daughters dwelt there, Gleaming in purple and gold. The Angel of Mercy flew over the Church, To gather the children in ; But some were off at the midnight ball, And some were off at the play, And some were drinking in gay saloons, So she quietly went her way. ii2 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Then the sly World gallantly said to her, " Your children mean no harm, Merely indulging in innocent sports ; " So she leaned on his proffered arm, And smiled and chatted, and gathered flowers, As she walked along with the World, While millions and millions of deathless souls To the horrible gulf were hurled. " You give too much to the poor," said the World ; " Far more than you ought to do. If the poor need shelter, and focd, and clothes, Why need it trouble you ? Go, take your money and buy rich robes,. And horses and carriages fine, And pearls and jewels and dainty food, And the rarest and costliest wine. My children they dote on all such things ; And if you their love would win, You must do as they do, and walk in the ways That they are walking in." Then the Church held tightly the strings of her purse, And gracefully lowered her head And simpered, " I ve given too much away : I ll do, sir, as you have said." So the poor were turned from her door in scorn ; And she heard not the orphan s cry ; And she drew her beautiful robes aside As the widows went weeping by. And the sons of the World and the sons of the Church Walked closely hand and heart, RELIGIOUS. 113 And only the Master, Who knoweth all, Could tell the two apart. Then the Church sat down at her ease, and said, " I am rich and in goods increased I have need of nothing, and naught to do But to laugh and dance and feast." And the sly World heard her and laughed in his sleeve, And mockingly said aside : The Church is fallen, the beautiful Church, And her shame is her boast and pride." The Angel drew near to the mercy-seat, And whispered in sighs her name ; And the saints their anthems of rapture hushed And covered their heads with shame. And a voice came down through the hush of Heaven, From Him who sat on the throne, " I know Ihy works, and how thou hast said I am rich ; and hast not known That thou art naked, poor, and blind, And wretched before My face ; Therefore, from My presence I cast thee out, And blot thy name from its place." THE INWARD CHRIST. BY T. C. UPHAM. THE outward word is good and true, But inward power alone makes new ; Not even Christ can cleanse from sin, Until He comes and works within. ii 4 GEMS FROM THE STATES. It was for this He could not stay, But hastened up the starry way ; And keeps from outward sight apart, That men may seek Him in the heart. Christ in the heart ! if absent there Thou canst not find Him anywhere ; Christ in the heart ! O friends ! begin And build the throne of Christ within, And know from this that He is thine, And that thy life is made Divine, When holy love shall have control, And rule supremely in the soul. "MADE IN HIS IMAGE." BY ANNIE E. JOHNSON. MADE in His image. Like a child That seeks its father s face, But wanders, weary, through the earth Finding no resting-place, Watching with eyes through sorrow dim, Pining to catch one smile from Him. So pine our souls for Thee, our God ! So thirst our spirits for Thy rest ! With faltering steps our feet have trod This lonely earth of Thee in quest ; Give us Thy rest give us Thy peace, So shall our weary longings cease ! "Made in His image." Can it be That we have fallen so far ! RELIGIOUS. 115 How could we turn our gaze from Thee, Our bright and morning star ! O, be Thine own to Thee restored, And keep them in Thine image, Lord ! THE ANGEL WITH THE UPWARD LOOK. BY L. L. PHELPS. AN angel with an upward look Walks ever at my side, With face that changes never, With footsteps turning ever To* that glad, bright Forever, Where breaks full memory s tide Upon the Past. The angel with the upward look Oft leads my soul away ; From the past she turneth While my spirit yearneth For the things she spurneth, Whispering of a brighter day Than the Past. That angel with the upward look More radiant grows each day ; More of heaven in her face, More of wonder-working grace, And with her I calmly trace Every sorrow-laden way Of the Past. I 2 ii6 GEMS FROM 7 HE STATES, O angel of the upward look, I thank my God for thee. Though my idols oft be crushed, Though they crumble into dust, Teach me still thy holy trust, Evermore abide with me, Till all s past. WAIT AND SEE. WHEN my boy, with eager questions, Asking how, and where, and when, Taxing all my store of wisdom, Asking o er and o er again Questions oft to which the answers Give to others still the key, I said, to teach him patience, " Wait, my little boy, and see." And the words I taught my darling Taught to me a lesson sweet ; Once, when all the world seemed darkened And the storm about me beat, In the " children s room" I heard him, With a child s sweet mimicry, To a baby brother s questions Saying wisely, " Wait and see." Like an angel s tender chiding Came the darling s words to me, Though my Father s ways were hidden, Bidding me still wait and see. What are we but restless children, Ever asking what shall be ? And the Father, in His wisdom, Gently bids us " wait and see." RELIGIOUS. 117 THE CHRISTIAN CLOCK. BY C. A. C. " Alackaday ! The clock is a-ticking life s minutes away." CHRISTAIN, hast thou ticked the hours, Moments, seconds, as they flew ? Has thy soul with all its powers Kept thy faith and duty true ? Dost thou keep good time for others Ever in thy lot and place ? Do thine hands uphold thy brothers, Running fair the Christian race ? Art thou working for the Master, Whose dear love thy soul possessed With the joy of full salvation When the faith His name confessed ? Are thy tones of love heard ever, Striking clear a silver chime, As the hours, like watching angels, Mark the " dial-plate of time " ? Is their record pure and glowing Of thy Christian life away ? Art thou reaping, art thou sowing, Ticking true from day to day ? " Have not ticked for months," you answer, Works run down, with rust strewn o er, Rusted wheels and long inaction, Past and present, you deplore. ii8 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Rise then ; wake to life and motion ; Use the golden key of prayer ; Wind the soul to true devotion ; Keep thy deeds and records fair. Then will faith and love in union Help thce to " redeem the time," And with Christ in true communion, Make thy earthy life sublime THE BEAUTIFUL. BY CLARA B. HEATH. THERE S something beautiful in every flower ! Perhaps a crimson glow or pearly leaf; Or, may it be a tint of Heaven s own blue, Or burnished shade like sunbeams shining thro Something that whispers of a higher Power, And checks our unbelief. There s something beautiful in every clime ! A tropic growth to fascinate and charm ; A wild luxuriance, a wealth of vines, Curtained recesses where the sun ne er shines, Ripe, luscious berries, a long summer s time Of summer rest and calm. There s something beautiful in frost that bars The lakes and pools in caverns dark and still ; In the light clouds of fleecy falling snow, In the white fields whose wealth is hid below, In the bright glitter of the pale, cold stars, Beyond our reach or will. RELIGIOUS. 119 And is there not within the human heart Deep down, perhaps within its lowest deep Some holy thought born great and beautiful ? Some worthy purpose, which, considered well, And brought to its maturity, would start The soul from guilty sleep ? Why do we cover up these precious things, And crowd them down and smother them with sighs ? Why do we let the work-day world control, Till all the life grows formal, dead and dull ? Why do we clip our own God-given wings, Till they no more can rise ? GIFTS. BY C. M. WEDGWOOD. IF you d bring me the treasures, New Year, That the Old Year has taken away, You would make me happy and proud With your gifts each wonderful day. I am looking for something now ; A gift that will always be new. Is there such a thing for me, New Year ? O answer me, answer me true ! Not a book I am weary of books ; Not a ring it will only be lost. A flower ? tis a beautiul thing, But will die in the pitiless frost. It is hard to please me, I know, And yet I want only just this That it cannot be lost or grow old ; It is sad if my gift I must miss. 120 GEMS FROM THE STATES And to think of the gifts I have lost, Sweet friends true as steel gone away. Not one such is left to me now ! Dark hairs shining eyes you are grayj I am tired to death. What s the use Of expecting a present at all ? This year will be just like the rest Ice now, rain and wind in the fall. A knock ! Who is there at the door ? I cannot sec anyone now. Must He come? O who is He, and what Are the scars on His fair, kingly brow? Come in, peace to Thee, Blessed One, My Lord, now I know Who Thou art By the splendour that shines in my room, By the calm, loving trust in my heart ! No friend that is true, did I say ? My Saviour ! I thought not of Thee ! Lost Youth ? Why the ages to come Have no moan for the days behind me ! Happy Year ! If He keep me in peace For the trust I have put in His name And He will He hath promised, this year And the others will not be the same. PRAYERS I DON T LIKE. I DO not like to hear him pray, Who loans at twenty-five per cent. ; For then I think the borrower may Be pressed to pay for food and rent ; RELIGIOUS. 121 And in the Book we all should heed, Which says the lender shall be blest, As sure as I have eyes to read It does not say " Take interest." I do not like to hear him pray On bended knees, about an hour, For grace to spend aright the day, Who knows his neighbour has no flour. I d rather see him go to mill, And buy the luckless brother bread, And see his children eat their fill, And laugh beneath their humble shed. I do not like to hear him pray, " Let blessings on the widow be," Who never seeks her home to say, " If want o ertakes you, come to me." I hate the prayer, so loud and long, That s offered for the orphan s weal. By him who sees him crushed by wrong, And only with the lips doth feel. I do not like to hear her pray, With jewelled ear and silken dress, Whose washerwoman toils all day, And then is asked to " work for less." Such pious shavers I despise ! With folded hands and face demure, They lift to heaven their " angel eyes," Then steal the earning of the poor. I do not like such soulless piayers ; If wrong, I hope to be forgiven ; No angel s wing them upward bears They re lost a million miles from heaven. 122 GEMS FROM THE STATES. A PRAYER FOR PURITY. BY A. J. BATES. WE would be loving and true, Father, We fain would live nearer to thee ; But something stands in our way, Father, O help us, whatever it be ! Whatever that suffering may be, Father, Be it hatred, or passion, or pride, From our hearts help us drive it, O Father, And let Jesus and love there abide. In the darkness be with us, O Father ! We cannot walk safely alone, But if Thou wilt walk with us, Father, While for every sin we atone, We shall grow to be better and stronger ; Shall not be afraid by the way ; We shall walk in the darkness no longer, For Thou leadest from night unto day. Wherever we wander, dear Father, By mountain, or woodland, or stream, The lesson is always the same, Father, We read it as one in a dream. We read of Thine infinite love, Father, We see it displayed everywhere, From the flowers that grow in the field, Father, From the birds that fly in the air, RELIGIOUS 123 From the snow that rests on the mountains, From the rain that cools the fierce heat, To the stream that flows from the Fountain Of Grace at Immanuel s feet ! May the Water of Life fill our hearts, Father, May it purge us from sin and from pride, Till in heaven, our mission here over, We stand with the pure at Thy side. LOVE AND LIFE. BY MRS. ZADEL D. BUDDINGTON. LIFE is like a stately temple That is founded in the sea, Whose uprising fair proportions Penetrate immensity ; Love the architect who builds it, Building it eternally. To me, standing in the Present, As one waits beside a grave, Up the aisles and to the altar Rolls the Past its solemn wave, With a murmur as of mourning, Undulating in the nave. Pallid phantoms glide around me In the wrecks of hope and home ; Voices moan among the waters, Faces vanish in the foam ; But a peace divine, unfailing, Writes its promise in the dome GEMS FROM THE STATES. Cold the waters where my feet are, But my heart is strung anew, Tuned to Hope s profound vibration, Pulsing all the ether through, For the seeking souls that ripen In a patience strong and true. Hark ! the all-inspiring Angel Of the future leads the choir ; All the shadows of the temple Are illumed with living fire, And the bells above arc waking Chimes of infinite desire. For the strongest or the weakest There is no eternal fall ; Many graves and many mourners, But at last the lifted pall ! For the highest and the lowest Blessed life containeth all. O thou fair, unfinished temple ! In unfathomed sea begun, Love, thy builder, shapes and lifts thee In the glory of the sun ; And the builder and the builded To the pure in heart are one. NATIONAL. A STATEMENT, A PRAYER, AND A PROPHECY. One-eighth of the whole population were coloured slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localised in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and power ful interest. All knew that this interest was, somehow, the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the ob ject for which the insurgents would rend the Union, even by war ; while the Government claimed no right to do more than to resist the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party ex pected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither antici pated that the cause of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God ; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God s assistance in wringing their bread from 126 GEMS FROM THE STATES. the sweat of other men s faces ; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayer of both could not be answered that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. " Woe unto the world because of offences ; for it must needs be that offences come ; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him ! Fondly do we hope fervently do we pray that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must b-e said, " The judgments of the Lord are true, and righteous altogether." With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firm - ness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in ; to bind up the nation s wounds ; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among our selves and with all nations. From Abraham Lincoln s Last Inaugural Address. NATIONAL. 127 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. BY R. H. STODDARD. THIS man, whose homely face you look upon, Was one of Nature s masterful, great men ; Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won : Direct of speech and cunning with the pen. Chosen for large designs, he had the art Of winning with his humour, and he went Straight to his mark, which was the human heart : Wise, too, for what he could not break, he bent. Upon his back a more than Atlas-load, The burthen of the Commonwealth was laid ; He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed. Hold, warriors, councillors, kings ! all now give place To this dear benefactor of the Race ! JEFFERSON DAVIS. [The following lines were written by a Northern " mudsill a porter in the store of one of our friends -and we print them as evidence of the deep conviction of the great middling-class of our people.] You rebelled, Mr. Davis, that you might prolong To indefinite length the great national wrong ; And, all red from the field with our countrymen strewn, You so modestly asked us to let you alone ! 128 GEMS FROM THE STATES. And the friends of oppression all over the world, Taking hope as they saw thy dark banner unfurled, Caught the pitiful din of that innocent tone, And they all echoed back, " They must let you alone ! " Ay ! so grandly that chorus swept over thy plains That the Toms and Elizas forgot their rude chains ; And the wake with bright dreams of the future was strewn, And the banjoes resounded, " They must let us alone ! That response filled the air with its heart-stirring thrills, And the glad breezes wafted them back to our hills, To the men ever ready their brothers to own, And the bugles and drums sounded, " Let them alone ! " So, although the foul tares you expected to reap In the unwilling soil of good providence sleep, Still the land is all golden with wheat you have sown, And the heavens are ringing with, " Let them alone ! You indeed raised the whirlwind in dreadfullest form, But a stronger than you is directing the storm ; For, if laurels for Lincoln but slowly have blown, The great God of the wronged hath not let thee alone ! NATIONAL. 129 All applause to the patient and spirited braves That are pressing your place from the back of the slaves ! All applause to the widows and mothers that moan While the cannons are thundering, " Let them alone ! " The dark night, Mr. Davis, will soon pass away, And we trust there remains but a moment s delay ; While Aurora embroiders her roseate zone With the beautiful motto of, " Let me alone ! " And when comes that proud morn we are long ing to see, When this land shall indeed be the land of the free, As the Queen of the Nations ascends to her throne, She will move to the music of, " Let me alone !" MAGNANIMITY LEE. BY AN OLD FARMER. HAVE ye heard of the mag-na-nim-i-tee Of the great Suthern juntleman, Gineral Lee ? I m a plain old citizen, friends, I am, And for words, as they go, I don t care a clam ; But none of your smoothed-up talk to me Of Gineral Magnanimity Lee ! Wasn t he most mag-na.n-i-m0use When he tried to gnaw into our national house ; K 130 GEMS FROM THE STATES. When he planted the shot of his murderus guns Strait into the hearts of our brothers and sons ? lias he follerd the bizness of throat-cutlery, Sustained by his mag-na-nim-i- tee ? If I had an ox that was goring his mate, And rippin up things at a rebellious rate, And ox number 2 got the better o him Would I name the bad critter my old Mag-na- nim ? In the village I come from the thing we don t see Is the/r<?cise mag-na-nim-i-tee ! We think it s a leetle too much out o jint, Arter schoolin young Lee up there at West Pint Free gratis for nothin, with clothing arid feed, And teachin the lad how to sifer and reed, To have him turn round with jest such a gee Or is it his mag-na-nim-i-tee ? & Wasn t it Christian for him to jine hans With our Gineral Scott, and steal all his plans. Then cut out and run to the foul rebel nest With the whole Union program for stoppin the pest ! My eyes have grown dim, for I really can t see Robert s wonderful mag-na-nim-i-tee ! To tear down and keep down the old Union flag, And hist up, instid of it, Slavery s rag, To stamp on our freedom with red treason s noise, And starve by the thousan our poor prisoner boys NATIONAL. 131 I m a plain man, Captain, but it does seem to me That this is not mag-na-nim-i-tee And that other chap so pious and trew That was squatting last Sunday so snug in his pew Where s Jeff. Davis hidin his brainy gray head That planned all the mis ry and piled up the dead Betraying old Judas ! I wonder if he Will set up his mag-na-nim-i-tee ? Did it ever strike you how this sort o cant Would read in his tent to a fellow like Grant ? How Butler would twist it to light his sheroot, And Sheridan spurn it aside with his boot ? Can t you hear the swift cuss of the brave-hearted three As they take in the mag-na-nim-i-tee ! By thunder ! it makes us country folks swear To hear people plarster the traitors down there ; We ve jest but one way ; it s to cave in the hive, And pull out the sting from each rebel alive Or you may hear agin from more Robert Lees With their usual mag-na-nim-i-tees ! Don t gloss over now that terrible night When the traitors made havoc, and stabbed left and right ! Don t say that sech deeds as we shudder to tell Belong to great heroes and not to deep hell ! They ve killed Abram Lincoln ! just God ! can it be That treason is mag-na-nim-i-tee ? K 2 GEMS FROM THE STATES. PSALM OF WAR. BY HENRY PYMN. And Moses said Shall your brethren go to war. and shall ye sit here ? " NUMB. 32, 6. I. GIVE us War, O Lord ! Give us War ! Let its thunder and lightning break, Forever and ever around us, Till it cleanse and purify us, Till its red, red rain of blood, Of fire, of tears, and of blood, Shall cleanse our land of sin- Shall make us clean forever. From a foul devouring ulcerous sore Make us sweet and pure forever. Our measure of guilt is full. Give us War, O Lord ! Give us War ! II. Give us wounds, O Lord, Give us wounds ! Oh ! prisons and hunger and wounds ! Take our limbs, and enlarge our souls- Give us freer, braver souls - Till they burst the shell of a frivolous life, A selfish, aimless, wasted life. Take our limbs and make us larger men. Give us wounds, O Lord, Give us wounds ! NATIONAL. 133 III. Give us Death, O God,. Give us Death ! "^ From our perishing lives uplift us ! From our shrivelling low self-seeking ! From our lying cowardly living ! Till for Land and Law and Liberty, And the rights of the wronged who are weaker than we, Our lives shall be earnest pledges. Give us Death, O God, Give us Death ! IV. What is Death, O Lord, What is Death ? Shame to the man who fears it, Honour to him who scorns it, A little bodily hurt, For a space a little pain, And then thy fresher kingdoms, And all the loved departed, " Who watch and await us ever ! Our brothers Jiave made it easy ! What is Death, O, Lord, What is Death ? V. What is Life, O Lord, What is Life ? What is Life but noble action ; Ho brothers ! hand in hand Let us fly where danger is thickest, Where the fight is closest and thickest I 3 4 GEMS FROM THE STATES. For there our country implores us To come with our hearts and our bodies ; The home ones urge us thither, And there is the joy of the brave man. Let us charge the mouths of cannon ! Let us sweep like a surge their bayonets! What is life but noble action, What is Life, O Lord, What is Life ? VI. What is Love, O Lord, What is Love ? What is Love but entire devotion ? O maid ! stay not thy lover, O friend ! stay not thy brother, O wife ! give the heart newly wedded, O mother ! the first of thy bosom. Baptise them with tears, but take not away From their lips the cup God presses to-day, Of action and honour and glory. What is love but entire devotion, What is love, O Lord, What is Love ? VII. Give us Peace, O Lord, Give us Peace ! But ah ! peace that shall first be pure. For the wicked no peace, O Lord. Give us friends, ere we have won them, Wife and child, ere worth) 1 of them, This bright star ere we become it, Give us heaven ere we deserve it, NATIONAL. 135 But never till we are pure From a public crime and shame all pure Give us Peace, O Lord, Give us Peace. WHAT THE BIRDS SAID. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. THE birds, against the April wind, Flew Northward, singing as they flew ; They sang, " The land we leave behind Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew." " O wild birds, flying from the South, What saw and heard ye, gazing down ?" " We saw the mortar s upturned mouth, The sickened camp, the blazing town ! "Beneath the bivouacs starry lamps, We saw your march-worn children die ; In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps, We. saw your dead uncoffined lie. We heard the starving prisoner s sighs ; And saw, from line and trench, your sons Follow our flight with home-sick eyes, Beyond the battery s smoking guns." " And heard and saw ye only wrong And pain," I cried, " O wing- worn flocks ? "We heard," they sang, " the Freedman s song, The crash of Slavery s broken locks ! We saw from new, uprising States The Treason-nursing mischief spurned, 136 GEMS FROM THE STATES. As, crowding freedom s ample gates, The long-estranged and lost returned. O er dusky faces, seamed and old, And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil, "With hope in every rustling fold, We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil. "And, struggling up through sounds accursed, A grateful murmur clomb the air, A whisper scarcely heard at first, It filled the listening Heavens with prayer. And sweet and far, as from a star, Replied a voice which shall not cease, Till, drowning all the noise of war, It sings the blessed songs of peace !" So to me, in a doubtful day Of chill and slowly-greening Spring, Low stooping from the cloudy grey, The wild birds sang or seemed to sing. They vanished in the misty air, The song went with them in their flight ; But lo ! they left the sunset fair, And in the evening there was light. GOD NEVER MADE A SLAVE. W. G. SNETHEN, A NEGRO. COLUMBIA S sons, though slaves ye be, God your Creator made you free, He life to all and being gave, But never never, made a slave ! NATIONAL. 137 His works are wonderful to see, All, all proclaim the Deity ; He made the earth, and formed the wave, But never, never made a slave ! He made the skies with spangles bright, The moon to shine by silent night, The sun, and spread the vast concave, But never, never made a slave ! The verdant earth on which we tread Was by His hand all carpeted ; Enough for all He freely gave, But never, never made a slave ! All men are equal in his sight, The bond, the free, the black, the white ; He made them all, them freedom gave, He made the man, man made the slave ! UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION. BY J. G. WHITTIER. THY hill-tops, New England, shall leap at the cry. And the prairie and far-distant West shall reply It shall roll o er the land till the furtherest glen Gives back the glad summons again and again. Oppression shall hear in its temple of blood, And read on its walls the handwriting of God ; Niagara s torrents shall thunder it forth ; It shall burn in the sentinel-star of the North. 138 GEMS FROM THE STATES, It shall blaze in the lightning and speak in the thunder, Till Slavery s fetters are riven asunder, And Freedom her rights has triumphantly won, And our country her garments of beauty put on. The forests shall hear it, and lift up their voice, And bid the green prairies and valleys rejoice ; And the Father of Waters join Mexico s sea In the anthem of Nature for millions set free ! GOD MARCHING ON. BY JULIA WARD HOWE. MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord ; He is trampling out the vintage, where the grapes of wrath are stored ; He has loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword ; His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps ; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal ; NATIONAL. 139 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on. He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat ; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat ; O ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubi lant, my feet ! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was borne across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me ; As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. THE MOWER IN OHIO. BY JOHN JAMES PIATT. THE bees in the clover are making honey, and I am making my hay ; The air is fresh, I seem to draw "a young man s breath to-day. The bees and I are alone in the grass, the air is so very still, I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen mill. 1 40 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Yes, the air is so still that I hear almost the sounds 1 cannot hear That, when no other sound is plain, ring in my empty ear. The chime of striking scythes, the fall of the heavy swathes they sweep They ring about me, resting, when I waver half asleep ; So still I am not sure if a cloud, low down, un seen there be, Or if something brings a rumour home of the cannon so far from me : Far away in Virginia, where Joseph and Grant, I know, Will tell them what I meant when first I bade my mowers go ! Joseph, he is my eldest one, the only boy of my three Whose shadow can darken my door again, and lighten my heart for me. Joseph, he is my eldest, how his scythe was strik ing ahead ! William was better at short heats, but Jo in the long run led. William, he was my youngest ; John, between them, I somehow see, When my eyes are shut, with a little board at his head in Tennessee. NATIONAL. 141 But William came home one morning early, from Gettysburg, last July (The mowing was over already, although the only mower was I) ; William, my captain, come home for good to his mother ; and I ll be bound We were proud, and cried to see the flag that wrapt his coffin around ; For a company from the town came up ten miles with music and gun ; It seemed his country claimed him then as well as his mother her son. But Joseph is yonder with Grant to-day, a thou sand miles or near, And only the bees are abroad at work with me in the clover here. Was it a murmur of thunder I heard that hummed again in the air? Yet, may be, the cannon are sounding now their onward to Richmond there. But under the beech by the orchard, at noon, I sat an hour it would seem It may be I slept a minute too, or wavered into a dream ; For I saw my boys, across the field, by the flashes as they went, Tramping a steady tramp as of old, with the strength in their arms unspent ; 1 42 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Tramping a steady tramp, they moved like soldiers that marched to the beat Of music that seems a part of themselves, to rise and fall with their feet ; Tramping a steady tramp, they came with flashes of silver that shone, Every step, from their scythes that rang as if they needed the stone (The field is wide and heavy with grass) and coming toward me, they beamed With a shine of light in their faces at once, and surely I must have dream d ! For I sat alone in the clover field, the bees were working ahead, There were three in my vision remember, old man ; and what if Joseph were dead ! But I hope that he and Grant (the flag above them, both, to boot) Will go into Richmond together, no matter which is ahead or afoot ! Meantime alone at the mowing here an old man somewhat gray I must stay at home as long as I can, making myself the hay. And to another round the quail in the orchard whistle blithe But first I ll drink at the spring below, and whet again my scythe. NATIONAL. 143 LAUS DEO. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. On hearing the bells ring for the Constitutional Amendment abolishing Slavery in the United States. IT is done ! Clang of bell and roar of gun Send the tidings up and down. How the belfries rock and reel, How the great guns, peal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town ! Ring, O, bells ! E very stroke exulting tells Of the burial-hour of crime. Loud and long, that all may hear, Ring for every listening ear Of Eternity and Time ! Let us kneel : God s own voice is in that peal, And this spot is holy ground. Lord forgive us ! What are we, That our eyes this glory see, That our ears have heard the sound ? For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad ; In the earthquake He has spoken ; He has smitten with His thunder The iron walls asunder, And the gates of brass are broken ! 144 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Loud and long Lift the old exulting song, Sing with Miriam by the sea : He has cast the mighty down ; Horse and rider sink and drown ; He has triumphed gloriously ! Did we dare, In our agony of prayer, Ask for more than He has done? When was ever His right hand Over any time or land Stretched as now beneath the sun ? How they pale, Ancient myth, and song, and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise ! Blotted out ! All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin ; Freer breathe the universe, As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin ! It is done ! In the circuit of the sun Shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth ! NATIONAL. 145 Ring and swing, Bells of joy! on morning s wing Send the song of praise abroad ; With a sound of broken chains Tell the nation that He reigns Who alone is Lord and God ! A SONG FOR THE TIMES. BY W. II. FURNESS. YOU all have heard of old John Brown, A man he was right up and down, Who, when he saw a thing was true, Went straight to work to put it through, Put it through. He took good care to count the cost, How much there might be gained or lost, And found, he said, that either way The plan he had was sure to pay, Sure to pay. The wise ones called John Brown a fool Because he kept the Golden Rule : What he wished you for him to do, He was at hand to do for you, Do for you. What bad men make to pass for Law With old John Brown weighed not a straw, And though enforced with all their might, Shook not his faith that Right is right, Right is right. 1 46 GEMS FROM THE STATES. It worked like madness in his brain To see his brother drag a chain, And, let him who would forbid or scoff, Straight goes John Brown to strike it off, Strike it off. The slaves were black, but none the less His soul was moved by their distress ; He never stopt to mind the skin, But only saw the soul within, The soul within ; Saw all their wrongs and all their shame, Felt for the bound as bound with them, Far better he were in his grave Than live and never help the slave, Help the slave. To stay his hand, to shut his mouth, They seized and hung him in the South. His mouth is hushed, his hand is still, But old John Brown they could not kill, Could not kill. For now the soul of old John Brown From Northand West comes marchingdown, With wild hurrahs and roll of drums And roar of cannon, lo, it comes ! Lo, it comes ! O, great good soul of old John Brown, Through all the land go thundering on, Till all our armies, all our towns Shall all be full of brave John Browns, Brave John Browns. NATIONAL. 147 OUR DEAD. OUR graves are strovvn as seeds are sown, From Lapland to Japan, Where summer wears her broidered zone On isles so fair they half atone For Paradise to man ; Where cradle breezes rock the palms, Some dear ones fell asleep, Where Burmah s voices swell the psalms, Or stars shine down the tropic calms To double in the deep ; Where far Nevada s silver shines By Ophir s golden gate Where white with snow the emerald pines Stand sentry on the Arctic lines, Some peaceful sleepers wait. Some camped amid Oneida s Hills, Some marked in Federal Blue, Where battery throbs and bugle thrills Made pulses leap like mountain rills, The iron tempest through. And the drummers beat the rattling roll Where glory kept the gate, And death took toll of many a soul, Rent silver cord and golden bowl, For death is glory s mate. 1 _jS GEMS FROM THE STATES. Their names are on life s roll to-day, We will not bid " Good-night," They halt for us beside the way, We may not mourn, but only say " Good morn ! Tis growing light." BETWEEN THE CENTURIES. BY JANE M. READ. Two men were passing through a village street. This one with furrowed brow, long, snow-white hair, And flowing beard, was like the trees we meet In dim old forests ; trees whose strong trunks bear The marks of storms that beat on them in vain ; For life s rough storms, again and yet again, Had burst on him, and then had passed away, Revealing glories of departing day. That one was proud and dark and full of thought, With footstep firm, and eye whose glances keen Would never quail in hours with danger fraught, And hand to wield the sword with regal mien. A heart that falteied but at deeds of wrong, For truth and right, remaining leal and strong, Beat in his breast, as beats the surging sea On the long shore that skirts the rocky lea. The man of years looked ever on the past, And each new scene recalled it to his mind ; NATIONAL. 149 The young man s thoughts were on the future cast ; Conversing, thus, the two were oft combined. They paused at length beside a crystal stream, And each was silent, busy with his dream. Some moments passed and then the old man spoke, And words like these upon the stillness broke : " Walking through the quiet street That I often wandered down, Years ago, with glad young feet, When the world seemed fair and sweet, Many scenes of old I meet In this calm New England town. " Pausing by the brooklet s side, Where I oft have paused before, Narrow, now, the waters glide That I thought the rolling tide Of a river, vast and wide, In the happy days of yore. " As the waters onward go, Rippling, dashing, whirling, fleet, Soft their murmurings whisper, low, Stories of the long ago, Told in hours that tender glow, When the day and evening meet. " Mid these tales of old, that dart Through the brain and pass away, One there is with magic art, For it speaks, and tells the heart How each patriot bore his part In our country s new-born day. 1 50 GEMS FROM THE STATES. " When the brave stood firm and true In that time of hope and dread, Farmers bade their wives adieu, Left their harvests where they grew, Waving neath the bending blue, Marched to war with hurried tread. " But the folks must eat or die ; So the miller stayed at mill, Ground the corn and wheat and rye. Yet he murmured with a sigh, Others fight ! Why may not I ? Tossed in spirit as the rill. " Then his wife, courageous, said : I will tend the mill for thee ; Thus the hungry shall have bread : May our Father o er your head Watch in love. Away he sped, Softly saying : Pray for me ! " Lingering in the door, she stayed Till he passed the distant hill And was hidden in the glade, Where the strong oak s pleasant shade Caused the sunlight s gleam to fade ; Then she turned her to the mill. " So the women reaped the grain, And the old men bound the sheaves And in sunshine and in rain, Little children down the lane Drove the cows safe home again, Waving whips with willow leaves. " Till at last the war was o er, And through valley, over hill, NATIONAL. 151 Joyful marched the troops, and bore Banners rent, and stained with gore ; And the miller came once more Home to Mary and the mill." He paused, and then resumed in thoughtful tone : "A hundred years have well-nigh passed away ; And as those years on swiftest wings have flown, How much of good has fallen to decay ! The brave firm hearts that fought for truth and right, The strong true hands that bore our colours bright, The men who toiled to make our freedom sure, And records left that ever shall endure, Where, where alas ! are now those heroes brave ? They re gone as zephyrs gliding o er the plain ; Gone to the cold, the dark, the silent grave, To wake no more at freedom s pleading strain, Or raise their voice in darker hours of need, When vice shall thrive in bold and dangerous deed. True men have saved thee, country of my birth \ Then weep to lay their cherished forms in earth. " Ah ! yes, my friend," exclaimed the dark-eyed youth, " Let not those deeds be buried in the dust ; But, stilljSome hearts there areof changeless truth, Some precious gems preserved mid cankering rust, Think not, because the fathers pass from earth, The sons forget their deeds of lustrous worth. Now hear the vision I have seen to-day, While you thus dreamt of scenes long passed away : 152 GEMS FROM THE STATES. " I gazed upon the streamlet s flow, I heard its ceaseless drone ; The sunlight gleamed with gentle glow, And every wavelet whispered low, In soft and singing tone. " And fast as glides that sparkling crest, My thoughts have drifted fleet ; Strange fancies rise within my breast, A thousand dreams, a wild unrest, A sound like tramping feet. "I know a time of dread draws near ; Low lies the leaden cloud ; And every heart is filled with fear, Lest, soon, in gloom, our freedom dear, The darkness may enshroud. " No hope remains within my heart ; The flesh is faint and frail ; While, from the noiseless shadows, start, Wild, chilling doubts that swiftly dart, And cause my cheeks to pale. " But lo ! one comes and speaks to me ; Come, follow where I lead. We wander over hill and lea, Through crowded streets, along the sea, Unseen, with silent speed. " As thus we pass, I see this sight, That Christians kneel in prayer, And plead that freedom s hand of might May bear aloft a fadeless light, Kept by their Father s care. NATIONAL. 153 "And, when the Sabbath evening bell Rings out its solemn call, Thoseprayers,like waves that landward swell, The earnest heartfelt pleadings tell That come alike from all. " Then spoke m y guide in accents low, With sweet and silvery tone : Those prayers to God s great throneshall go ; His arm is mightier than the foe ;. His ear attends each moan. " He spoke the clouds crept far away, The tempest passed us o er, I saw the brooklet s restless play, And, in the peaceful summer day, The sun shone forth once more." In silence, then, they watched the parting smile The sun threw backward past the wooded hill ; The gray rocks answered with a blush the while, And crimson tints adorned the gliding rill : The beauty faded, and they turned their feet As calmly fell the shades of twilight sweet ; They passed away as men have passed before ; They came, they paused, and then were seen no more. INDIANS AT THE BLACK HILLS. BY S. A. J. " DRIVE them away, or shoot them at bay, Like a wild beast in his lair ! Their hills have gold, and the young and old Must go, we care not where. 15 [ GEMS FROM THE STATES. " Let them haste their flight ere they feel our might, For this is our day and hour ; They must stand aside till the fair young bride Of Destiny wins her dower." Let the white man pause, though he heeds no laws, And bate his boastful breath, As the arrow stays at the mournful gaze Of the antelope in death. While the low sun burns, the red man turns To utter a parting word : " We may yield our right to your greater might, But above us reigns one Lord. " The hunted deer, if pressed too near, May turn from the path aside, And his foe may lean o er the rocky steep ; Alas ! for the fair young bride. " Is the eagle blind, as the bats that find A home in the caverns deep, That no sign he sees in the bending trees Of the storm that his nest shall sweep ? " Let his guiding wing no fierce brood bring To prey on the wounded deer, Lest the Highest bend His bow to end Their lofty and proud career. " We may pass away as the dying day, Or foam from the crested wave, But think not long will the bitter wrong Lie hid in our lonely grave. NATIONAL. 155 " There may be yet, when our sun is set, Some far-off hunting-ground That we may share ; but where, O where, Will the pale-face then be found ? " He will call on the hills that now he wills For his own, on his head to fall, When the righteous King to the light shall bring The deeds and the doom of all." THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. PALE is the February sky, And brief the midday s sunny hours ; The wind-swept forest seems to sigh For the sweet time of leaves and flowers. Yet has no month a prouder day, Not even when the summer broods O er meadows in their fresh array, Or autumn tints the glowing woods. For this chill season now again Brings, in its annual round, the morn When, greatest of the sons of men, The glorious Washington was born. Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, Calmly the mighty Hudson flows ! By snow-clad fell and frozen field Broadening the lordly river goes. 156 GEMS FROM THE STATES. The wildest storm that sweeps through space, And rends the oak with sudden force, Can raise no ripple on his face, Or slacken his majestic course. Thus, mid the wreck of thrones, shall live Unmarred, undimmed, our hero s fame, And years succeeding; years shall give Increase of honours to his name. WHITTIER S HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF THE CENTENNIAL EXHIBITION. OUR fathers God, from out Whose hand The centuries fall like grains of sand, We meet, to-day, united, free, And loyal to our land and Thee, To thank Thee for the era done, And trust Thee for the opening one. Here, where of old, by Thy design, The fathers spake that word of Thine Whose echo is the glad refrain Of rended bolt and fallen chain, To grace our festal time, from all The zones of earth our guests we call. Be with us while the New World greets The Old World, thronging all its streets, Unveiling all the triumphs won By Art or toil beneath the sun ; And unto common good ordain This rivalship of hand band rain. NATIONAL. Thou Who hast here in concord furled The war-flags of a gathered world, Beneath our western skies fulfil The Orient s mission of good-will, And, freighted with love s golden fleece, Send back the Argonauts of peace. For art and labour met in truce, For beauty made the bride of use, We thank Thee, while withal we crave The austere virtues strong to save, The honour proof to place or gold, The manhood never bought or sold ! O ! make Thou us, through centuries long, In peace secure, in justice strong ; Around our gift of freedom draw The safeguards of thy righteous law, And, cast in some diviner mould, Let the new cycle shame the old ! CENTENNIAL HYMN. 15V S. A. J. LIKE her cwn royal biid, with its wide-spreading pinions, Our broad land extendeth from river to sea, To sunrise and sunset, inviting the nations To come neath her shadow, and rest and be free. The white sails are coming across the blue waters, They gather, a cloud, on our far-reaching strand, i 5 8 GEMS FROM THE STATES. The strangers they bear are Thy sons and Thy daughters, O Maker and Lord of this beautiful land ! When they look on our country, a vast, new creation, With wonder its greatness and glory to see, We will show them Thy Gospel and speak of sal vation, The gifts that have made us so blest and so free. We will tell them Thy spirit anoints the true priesthood, That virtue makes him who receives her a king, That pillars of State are the school and the temple Which permanent peace and prosperity bring. Thou hast given us gold as the stones of the mountain, And knowledge as waters that cover the sea, Thou hast given Thy love in our hearts a sweet fountain, And shall not these gifts be devoted to Thee ? Our vales are exalted, our hills are made lowly, The crooked made straight and the rough places plain ; The horses of fire impatient are panting To carry the tidings of One that was slain. When Thy Gospel is borne to each home in our nation, And children are praising the Saviour s dear name, NATIONAL. 159 A song of thanksgiving, as loud as the ocean, Shall rise from our people to God and the Lamb. The light that first came from the East to our border, And spread o er our land like a banner un furled, The light that increases in lustre by giving, Shall flow through our Golden Gate over the world. INDEPENDENCE BELL. HOW THE BELL RANG, JULY 4, 1776. There was tumult in the city, In the quaint old Quaker town, And the streets were rife with people, Pacing restless up and down ; People gathering at the corners, Where they whispered each to each, And their sweat stood on their temples, With their earnestness of speech. As the bleak Atlantic currents Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, So they beat against the State House, So they surged against its door ; And the mingling of their voices Made a harmony profound, Till the quiet street of Chestnut Was all turbulent with sound. " Will they do it ? " " Dare they do it ? " " Who is speaking ? " " What s the news ? 1 63 GEMS FROM THE STATES. " What of Adams ? " What of Carroll ? " " O ! God grant they won t refuse ! " " Make some way there ! " " Let me nearer " I am stifling !" " Stifle then ! When a nation s life s at hazard We ve no time to think of men." So they beat against the portal, Man and woman, maid and child ; And the July sun in heaven On the crowd looked down and smiled. The same sun that saw the Spartan Shed his patriot blood in vain, Now beheld the Soul of Freedom, All unconquered, rise again ! So they beat against the portal, While all solemnly, inside, The delegates to Congress, With but reason for their guide, O er a simple scroll debated, Which, though simple it might be, Could shake the cliffs of England With the thunder of the Free ! At the portal of the State House, Like some beacon in the storm, Round which waves are wildly beating, Stood a slender, boyish form, With his eyes fixed on the steeple, And his ears agape with greed, To catch the first announcement Of the signing of the deed. Far aloft in that high steeple Sat the bellman, old and gray, NATIONAL. 161 He was weary of the tyrant, And his iron-sceptred sway ! So he sat, with one hand ready On the clapper of the bell, When his eye could catch the signal, The happy news to tell. See, see ! the dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthy line, As the boy beside the portal Hastens forth to give the sign ! With his little hands uplifted, Breezes dallying with his hair, Hark ! with deep, clear intonation, Breaks his young voice on the air ; Hushed the people s swelling murmur, Whilst the boy cries joyously : " Ring, ring ! " he shouts, " Ring ! grandpa, Ring ! O, ring for Liberty ! " Quickly, at the given signal, The old bellman lifts his hand, Forth he sends the good news, making Iron music through the land ! How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! How the old bell shook the air, Till the clang of Freedom ruffled The calm-gliding Delaware ! How the bonfires and the torches Lighted up the night s repose, And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix, Glorious Liberty arose ; M 1 62 GEMS FROM THE STATES. The old State House bell is silent, Hushed is now its iron tongue ; But the spirit it awakened Still is living ever young ; And when we greet the smiling sunlight, On the Fourth of each July, Let us not forget the bellman, Who, betwixt the earth and sky, Rang out loudly " Independence ! " Which, please God, shall never die ! AMERICA S SECOND CENTENNIAL, 1976. BY C. THURBER. ANOTHER century, from God s hand, Has sifted like a grain of sand, Since, on our country s hundreth year, The nations sent their children here To see what Freedom s sons had done, And show what victories they had won. Not one of all that glad array That gathered then is here to-day ; New voices shout, new bosoms beat, New crowds are thronging every street, And that sweet Quaker bard that sung Is singing with a heavenly tongue. The Freedom that our sires proclaimed, The legal fabric that they framed, The States of which the tale is told By stars upon her banner gold, Are still our joy, our strength, our pride, More pure, more strong, and multiplied. NATIONAL. 163 Heads, hearts, and hands on every shore Have been at work as ne er before, And feats achieved, and victories won, And, greater far than all, begun But ne er produced, though trying hard, A sweeter than our Quaker bard. The sabre s flash and cannon s roar Is seen and heard, in war, no more, For Justice scale, despised so long, Decide the weight of right and wrong ; And war surrenders, now, to peace, A richer than a golden fleece. <v The patriot, not the partisan, The hero, sage, the honest man, These only rise to power and place, And knavery dares not show its face The treasury, howe er full it be, Is safe without a lock and key. So may all lands, from age to age, Become more pure and great and sage, That when his trump the Angel blows, And each to his own homestead goes, The home he leaves may have become Sweet, almost, as his heavenly home. M 2 MISCELLANEOUS SUNDAY MORNING THOUGHTS DURING SERVICE. BY GEORGE A. BAKER. Too early, of course ! How provoking I told ma just how it would be : I might as well have on a wrapper, For there s not a soul here yet to see. There ! Sue Delaplaine s pew is empty I declare if it isn t too bad ! I know my suit cost more than hers did, And I wanted to see her look mad. I do think that sexton s too stupid He s put someone else in our pew And the girl s dress just kills mine completely, Now what am I going to do ? The psalter, and Sue isn t here yet ? I don t care, I think it s a sin For people to get late to service, Just to make a great show coming in. MISCELLANEO US. Perhaps she is sick and can t get here She said she d a headache last night ; How mad she ll be after her fussing ! I declare it would serve her just right. Oh, you ve got here at last, my dear, have you ? Well, I don t think you need be so proud Of that bonnet, ifVirotdid make it, It s horrid fast looking and loud. What a dress ! --for a girl in her senses To go on the street in light blue ! And those coat sleeves they wore them last summer, Don t doubt, tho , that she thinks they re new. Mrs. Gray s polonaise was imported So dreadful ! a minister s wife, And thinking so much about fashion ! A pretty example of life ! The altar s dressed sweetly I wonder Who sent those white flowers for the front ? Some girl who s " gone " on the assistant, Don t doubt it was Bessie Lament. Just look at her now, little humbug ! So devout I suppose she don t know That she s bending her head too far over, And the ends of her switches all show. What a sight Mrs. Ward is this morning ! That woman will kill me some day, With her horrible lilacs and crimsons. Why will these old things dress so gay ? 166 GEMS FROM THE STATES. And there s Jenny Welles with Fred Tracy She s engaged to him now horrid thing ! Dear me ! I d keep on my gloves sometimes. If I did have a solitaire ring ! How can this girl next to me act so The way that she turns round and stares, And then makes remarks about people ; She d better be saying her prayers. Oh dear ! what a dreadful long sermon ! He must love to hear himself talk ; And it s after twelve, how provoking ! I wanted to have a nice walk. Through at last ! Well, it isn t so dreadful After all for we don t dine till one. How can people say church is poky ? So wicked ! I think it s real fun. A CHICAGO man s young wife entertained him with selections from Wagner, after which he expressed himself as resigned to go to bed, where he slept very soundly. Towards midnight cats assembled in the back-yard, and howled frightfully. The sleeper did not get up and throw boot-jacks at them, but turned on one elbow and whispered in his dreams, " Sing it once more, Elvira ; sing it once more." She sings it no more, nor anything else, but rather thinks of chopping her piano into firewood and turning her music-book into paper-curls. MIS CELL A NEO US. 1 67 OUTWITTED. BY RACHEL POMEROY. THE Muhlheim monks were jolly and fat Trust their larder and pouch for that ; In many a league you might not see So opulent a monastery. Their board was sumptuous every day, The king in his palace fared plainer than they ; And as for their cellar, so luscious a hoard Deep in its fragrant vault was stored, Some brother at prayer, smacking lips wine-wet Half-a-doze would liker than not forget To count his rosary bead by bead, Mumbling the date of a vintage instead. The monks were wily and hated work, Drones, agreeing to gorge and shirk ; Next to their bellies they loved their store ; Studying always to make it more ; And ever with all their getting there grew The fatal lust of adding thereto , Greedy and sly ; on every side Stretched the convent acres wide ; Yet were not the sluggards satisfied. Still they ogled with covetings great Piece of Count Rupert s brave estate One hundred acres a goodly slice That mightily tickled their avarice. They raked the records o er and o er Never had monk so delved before Out of their parchments thing to claim 168 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Fraudulent power to clutch the same. The judges perceived where justice lay, Yet loth to cross the church were they ; Those being the old-fashioned times, you see, When facts and piety didn t agree : And Rupert was looking with -some dismay To find his inheritance wrenched away ; When lo ! on a cunning device he hit, And my gentlemen monks at the bait-hook bit. " Give me leave to sow one crop alone, And harvest the seed when fully grown ; Thereafter, for that ye crave it sore, I ll give you the land for evermore." Verily, here was a piece of luck ! The brethren chuckled, the bargain was struck ; And, the surer to clench it in every way, They drew up a contract that very day, Which, nice in phrase and legal in plan, Was signed by monks and by nobleman. Count Rupert has sowed ; they watch to know What choice of grain the crop may show Will he wheat, or barley, or oat devise To deck his land for the sacrifice ? The ground is sprouting with tender green Sure never before such grain was seen ! Tis the seed of oaks he has planted it thick None but the sower of acorns may pick ; The contract hath writ it ; twas worded plain ; Silly gray cowls, do you dare complain ? Our foxy monks their match had met ; Caught for the nonce in the trap they set. I trow they never cared again To play the trick attempted then, MISCELLANEOUS. 169 Nor won the prize they coveted ; For, certes, every soul was dead, And Rupert himself in the tomb laid down, Ere his trees to the cloister roof were grown. And before the oak forest felt decay, The cloister walls had crumbled away. THE BELL OF ATRI. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, " I climb no further upward, come what may," The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train. And with the blast of trumpets loud and long, Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John. How swift the happy days of Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was wore away, 1 70 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer s hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A Knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts ; Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold. He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favourite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a narked stall. And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. At length he said : " What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear ? Let him go feed upon the public ways ; I want him only for the holidays." So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street ; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by briar and thorn. MISCELLANEOUS. 171 One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer-time, With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarm of the accusing bell! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung, Reiterating with persistent tongue, In half-articulate jargon, the old song : " Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong ! " But ere he reached the belfry s light arcade He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed, dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony. " Domeneddio !" cried the Syndic straight, " This is the Knight of Atri s steed of state ! He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best." Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; 1 72 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own. And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King ; then said : " Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way ; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds ! These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honour, what repute, Can come to you from starving this poor brute ? He who serves well and speaks not merits more Than they who clamour loudest at the door. Therefore, the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed To comfort his old age, and to provide Shelter in stall, and food, and field beside. The Knight withdrew abashed ; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, And cried aloud : " Right well it pleaseth me ! Church bells at best but ring us to the door ; But go not in to Mass ; my bell doth more ; It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws ; And this shall make, in every Christian clime, The Belief Atri famous for all time." MISCELLANEOUS. 173 THE TWO ARMIES. BY O. W. HOLMES. As life s unending column pours, Two marshalled hosts are seen Two armies on the trampled shores That death flows back between. One marches to the drum-beat s roll, The wide-mouthed clarion s bray, And bears upon a crimson scroll, " Our glory is to slay." One moves in silence by the stream, With sad, yet watchful eyes, Calm as the patient planet s gleam That walks the clouded skies. Along in front no sabres shine, No blood-red pennons wave ; Its banner bears the single line, " Our duty is to save." For those no death-bed s lingering shade, At Honour s trumpet-call, With knitted brow and lifted blade, In glory s arms they fall. For these no flashing falchions bright, No stirring battle cry ; The bloodless stabber calls by might Each answers, " Here am I ! " 174 GEMS FROM THE STATES. For those the sculptor s laurelled bust, The builder s marble piles, The anthems pealing o er their dust, Through long cathedral aisles. For these the blossom-sprinkled turf That floods the lonely graves When spring rolls in her sea-green surf In flowery foaming waves. Two paths lead upward from below, And angels wait above, Who count each burning lifedrop s flow, Each falling tear of Love. Though from the Hero s bleeding breast, Her pulses Freedom drew, Though the white lilies in her crest Sprang from that scarlet dew While Valour s haughty champions wait Till all their scars are shown, Love walks unchallenged through the gate To sit beside the throne ! MAKING TRACKS. A light snow had fallen, and the boys desired to make the most of it. It was too dry for snow-balling, and not deep enough for coasting. It did very well to make tracks in. There was a large meadow near the place where they were assembled. It was proposed that they should go to a tree which stood near the centre MIS CELL A NEO US. 175 of the meadow, and that each one should start from it, and see who could make the straightest track that is, go from the tree in .the nearest approach to a straight line. The proposition was assented to, and they were soon at a tree. They ranged themselves around it, with their backs to wards the trunk. They were equally distant from each other. If each had gone forward in a straight line the paths would have been like the spokes of a wheel the tree representing the hub. They were to go till they reached the boundaries of the meadow, when they were to retrace their steps to the tree. They did so. I wish I could give a map of their tracks. Such a map would not present much resemblance to the spokes of a wheel. " Whose is the straightest ? " said James Alli son to Thomas Sanders, who was at the tree first. " Henry Armstrong s is the only one that is straight at all." " How could we all contrive to go so crookedly, when the ground is so smooth, and nothing to turn us out of our way ? " said Jacob Small. " How happened you to go so straight ? " said Thomas. " I fixed my eye on that tall pine tree, on the hill yonder, and never looked away from it till I reached the fence." " I went as straight as I could, without looking at anything but the ground," said James. " So did I," said another. " So did I," said several others. It appeared that nobody but Henry had aimed at a particular object. They attempted to go 176 GEMS FROM THE STATES. straight without any definite aim. They failed. Men cannot succeed in anything good without a definite aim. In order to mental improvement there must be a definite aim. In order to do good there must be a definite aim. General pur poses, general resolutions will not avail. You must do as Henry did fix upon something distinct and definite as an object and go steadily forward to it. Thus only can you succeed. LITTLE WORRIES. THOUGH many ills may hamper life When fortune turns capricious, The great but nerve us for the strife, The small ones make us vicious. Fierce griefs are soon outstripped by one Who through existence scurries ; It s harder far a race to run With nimble " little worries." A button bids your shirt good-by When late for dinner dressing ; You have a kite you cannot fly, And creditors are pressing. And run to catch and lose a train (That fatalist of hurries) ; Your newest hat encounters rain Life s full of " little worries." From day to day some silly things Upset you altogether ; There s naught so soon convulsion brings As tickling with a feather. MISCELLANEO US. Gainst minor evils let him pray Who fortune s favour curries For one that big misfortunes slay Ten die of " little worries." THE FARMER FEEDETH ALL. BY CHARLES G. LELAND. MY lord rides through the palace gate, My lady sweeps along in state, The sage thinks long on many a thing, And the maiden muses on marrying ; The minstrel harpeth merrily, The sailor ploughs the foaming sea, The huntsman kills the good red deer, And the soldier wars without e en fear ; But fall to each, whate er befall, The farmer he must feed them all. Smith hammereth cherry red the sword, Priest preacheth pure the Holy Word, Dame Alice worketh broidery well, Clerk Richard tales of love can tell, The tap-wife sells her foaming beer, Dan Fisher fisheth in the mere, And courtiers ruffle, strut, and shine, While pages bring the gascon wine ; But fall to each, whate er befall, The farmer he must feed them all. Man builds his castle fair and high, Wherever river runneth by, Great cities rise in every land, Great churches show the builder s hand, N 1 78 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Great arches, monuments, and towers, Fair palaces and pleasing bowers ; Great work is done, be t here or there, And when man worketh everywhere ; But work or rest, whate er befall, The farmer he must feed them all. "THAY AMEN AND THIT DOWN." UNFORTUNATELY for the Sunday schools, there are a number of middle-aged gentlemen, who, thinking themselves endowed by nature with oratorical ability, visit Sunday schools to display their speech-making qualities. These gentlemen are very properly termed Sunday- school bores, for they bore the children, bore the superintendent, bore the teachers, and bore every person with whom they are thrown in contact. One of these gentry had a round of four or five schools which he visited regularly, and as regularly bored his hearers, ending invariably with Amen ! Visiting one of the schools during his regular rounds, he made his appearance at the superin tendent s desk, who felt greatly annoyed, yet, out of courtesy, asked him if he desired to say a few words to the school. " Wa al, yes, I ll say just a word or two ! ;) and straightening himself up, with one hand on the corner of the desk, and the other feeling for pins at the bottom of his vest, he began : " Wa al, chil un, the superintendent wants me to speak ta yer ! " and feeling vigorously for pins, u Neow what shall I say what shall I talk about ? " MISCELLANEO US. 1 79 A bright little fellow, about four years of age, sitting in the front seat, who evidently had heard the orator before, jumped to his feet and lisped out, loud enough to be heard all over the school room : " Thay Amen, and thit down ! " The speaker collapsed. THE GOBBLER S DEATH. BY DR. BEETLE. WHAT mean those sobs we hear around ? What mean those falling tears ? Tis that another turkey dies, Though rich and full of years. The headsman stands with ready axe, Beside the cruel block ; And to this saddest of all scenes The little turkeys flock. " Oh, father turkey, must you die ? " His wives and children say ; " Must we bemoan a gobbler s death On each Thanksgiving Day?" He makes a gesture to the throng : " Would st shun the dreadful fate Of me, my sire, and grandsire too ? Then heed each thing I state ! " Keep lean, keep thin, my children dear, Beware the extra feed ! Beware the kitchen maiden s voice, Who calls to scattered seed ! " N 2 i8o GEMS FROM THE STATES. Then lo the executioner He turns a gentle eye : " Tis but a little neck," he says, " One stroke in death I lie ! " He calmly kneels before the block (The crowd give forth a groan) ; One moment waits, his handk chief drops, The dreadful deed is done. JACK IN THE PULPIT. BY JOHN G. WHITTIEK. UNDER the green trees Just over the way Jack in the pulpit Preaches to-day ; Squirrel and song-sparrow, High on their perch, Hear the sweet lily bells Ringing to church. Come hear what his reverence Rises to say, In hi:, queer little pulpit This fine Sabbath day. Fair is the canopy Over him seen, Painted by nature s hand Black, brown, and green ; Green is his pulpit, Green are his bands ; In his queer little pulpit The little priest stands. MIS CELL A NEO US. 1 8 1 In black and gold velvet, So gorgeous to see, Comes with his bass voice The chorister bee ; Green fingers playing Unseen on wind lyres, Bird voices singing, These are his choirs. The violets are deacons. I know by this sign, The cups that they carry Are purple with wine. The columbines bravely As sentinels stand On the lookout, with All their red trumpets in hand. Meek-faced anemones, Drooping and sad, Great yellow violets, Smiling out glad, Buttercups faces, Beaming and bright, Clovers with bonnets, Some red, some white ; Daisies, their fingers Half clasped in prayer, Dandelions, proud of The gold of their hair ; Innocents, children, Guileless and frail, Their meek little faces Upturned and pale ; Wild wood geraniums All in their best, 1 82 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Languidly leaning In purple gauze dressed ; All are assembled This sweet Sabbath day, To hear what the priest In his pulpit will say. Lo, white Indian pipes On the green mosses lie ; Who has been smoking Profanely, so nigh ? Rebuked by the preacher, The mischief is stopped, But the sinners in haste Have their little pipes dropped ; Let the wind with the fragrance Of fern and black birch Blow the smell of the smoking Clear out of the church. So much for the preacher, The sermon comes next : Shall we tell how he preached it, And where was the text ? Alas, like too many Grown-up folks who worship In churches man-builded, to-day, We heard not the preacher Expound or discuss ; We looked at the people And they looked at us ; We saw all their dresses, Their colours and shapes, The trim of their bonnets, The cut of their capes ; MIS CELL A NEO US. 18; We heard the wind organ, The bee and the bird, But of Jack in the Pulpit We heard not a word. THE TWO RIVERS. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round ; So slowly that no human eye hath power To see it move ! Slowly in shine or shower The painted ship above it, homeward bound, Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground ; Yet both arrive at last ; and in his tower The slumbrous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. Midnight ! the outpost of advancing day ! The frontier town and citadel of night ! The watershed of Time, from which the stream Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, One to the land of promise and of light, One to the land of darkness and of dreams ! COMMON THINGS. BY CLARA B. HEATH, THEY lie around on every side, For every day some blessing brings, We look upon them without pride, For what are they but common things ? So common that we have not known The loss that we should feel to-day 1 84 GEMS FROM 7 HE STATES. If they were gathered, one by one, And hidden from our sight away. So common that we use or waste As if they were our very own ; We sweeten this or that to taste, And revel in our joys full blown. We lay them down, or take them up, No thankful thought about them clings, We do not care to fill our cup, Life s golden cup, with common things. We want some rare and precious pet That common people cannot buy ; We want the best that we can get, No matter if the price is high. Our birds are all too commonplace, Bring us some foreign one that sings. Some beauty that our halls would grace ; We ve had enough of common things ! W r e want the best the world affords, Pray who should have it if not we ? We want the gold the miser hoards, We want the pearls that gem the sea. The world moves slow, we long to fly, How many of us sigh for wings ! Yet we should pass them coldly by, Were they once classed with common things. Whatever is most rich and grand, Whatever others most desire, We fain would hold within our hands To things like these our thoughts aspire. MISCELLANEOUS. 185 We would have stars to light our way ; Our choice of all Dame Fortune brings ; Let us remember, when we pray, That many lack for common things. THE STUBBORN BOOT. " BOTHER !" was all John Clatterby said, His breath came quick and his cheek was red ; He flourished his elbows and looked absurd, While over and over his " Bother !" I heard. Harder and harder the fellow worked, Vainly and savagely still he jerked ; The boot, half on, would dangle and flap " Bother !" and then he bursted the strap. Redder than ever his hot cheek flamed, Harder than ever he fumed and blamed ; He wriggled his heel and tugged at the leather Till knees and chin came bumping together. " My boy," said I, in a voice like a flute, " Why not ahem ! try the mate of that boot Or the other foot ?" "I m agoose/ laughed John As he stood, in a flash, with his two boots on. In half the affairs Of this busy life (As that same day I said to my wife) Our troubles come From trying to put The left-hand shoe On the right-hand foot ; 1 86 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Or vice versa, (Meaning reverse, sir), To try to force, As quite of course, Any wrong foot In the right shoe Is the silliest thing A man can do. UNDER THE SNOW. BEAUTIFUL, beautiful snow ! Like raiment all spotless and pure, Enshrouding the emerald garment Which nature so gracefully wore. The buds and blossoms of spring-time, Sweet summer, with trailings of light, The bending harvest of autumn, All shrouded with mantles of white. The leaves of the trees in the forest Fell withered and dry to the ground ; The waters of lake, stream and river, Lie chained while the ice-king is crowned. Cold snow, so icy and chilling, What else lieth under the snow, From our homes and hearts only riven, To rest in the darkness below ? Closed eyelids lie under the snow, With fringes of gold and of brown ; The light went out from beneath them And the darkness now presses them down. MISCELLANEOUS. 187 Folded hands lie under the snow, Their earth-work all finished at last ; How often we think how we felt them, Grow chilly, then cold in our clasp. Tired feet lie under the snow, Grown wearied with wandering all day ; But they reached the portals at even And entered the shining way. Dead hearts lie under the snow, Once bound to our own as by chains ; They loved us so long and so well ; Their memory only remains. Beautiful, beautiful snow ! What lies under the snow to-night ? A life that will wake into being From under the mantle of white. The buds and blossoms of spring-time, Sweet summer, with burdens of bloom, The bending harvest of autumn, Will rise from the dust of the tomb. The loved and lost who are resting Where we laid them with sorrow and pain, WilLonly rest till the summons Shall bid them come forth again. And we, sleeping calmly beside them, Shall wake at the Master s voice ; How warm will be every hand-clasp ! How every heart will rejoice ! 1 88 GEMS FROM THE STATES. Then beautiful, beautiful snow ! Come down with your garments so white, And lovingly fold each sweet promise Of a future which seemeth so bright, "KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP." BY PHCEBE GARY. THERE has something gone wrong, My brave boy, it appears, For I see your proud struggle To keep back the tears. That is right. When you cannot Give trouble the slip, Then bear it, still keeping " A stiff upper lip ! J Though you cannot escape Disappointment and care, The next best thing to do Is to learn how to bear. If when for life s prizes You re running, you trip, Get up start again, " Keep a stiff upper lip. THE SEED. THE farmer planted a seed, A little dry, black seed ; And off he went to other work For the farmer was never known to shirk- And cared for what he had need. MISCELLA NEO US. 1 89 The night came, with its dew The cool and silent dew ; The dawn came and the day, And the farmer worked away At labours not a few. Home from his work one day One glowing summer day His children showed him a perfect flower ; It had burst in bloom that very hour ; How, I cannot say. But I know if the smallest seed In the soil of love be cast, Both day and night will do their part ; And the sower who works with a trusting heart Will find the flower at last. COURAGE TO DO RIGHT. WE may have courage, all of us, To start at honour s call, To meet a foe, protect a friend, Or face a cannon-ball ; To show the world one hero lives, The foremost in the fight But do we always manifest The courage to do right ? o o To answer No ! with steady breath, And quick, unfaltering tongue, When fierce temptation, ever near, Her syren song has sung ; 1 9 o GEMS FROM THE STATES. To care not for the bantering tone, The jest, or studied slight ; Content if we can only have The courage to do right. To step aside from Fashion s course, Or custom s favoured plan ; To pluck an outcast from the streets, Or help a fellow-man ? If not, then let us nobly try, Henceforth, with all our might, In every case to muster up The courage to do rierht. BONE, AND SINEW, AND BRAIN. BY JOHN BOYLE O REILLY. YE white-maned waves of the Western sea, That ride and roll to the strand ; Ye strong-winged birds, never forced alee By the gales that sweep toward land ! Ye are symbols of death and of hope that saves, As ye swoop in your strength and grace, As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves Of a past and puerile race ! Cry " Presto, change ! " and the lout is lord, With his vulgar blood turned blue ; Go dub your knight with a slap of a sword, As the kings of Europe do ; Go grade the lines of your social mode, As you grade the palace wall ; The people for ever to bear the load And the gilded vanes o er all. MIS CELL A NEO US. 191 But the human blocks will not lie as still As the dull foundation stones ; But will rise like a sea with an awful will, And engulf the golden thrones. For the days are gone when a special race Took the place of the gilded vane ; And the merit that mounts to the highest place Must have bone, and sinew, and brain ! Let the cant of "the march of mind" be heard Of the time to come when Man Shall lose the mark of his brawn and beard In the future s levelling plan. Tis the dream of a mind effeminate, The whine for an easy crown ; For there is no meed for the good and great In the weakling s levelling down. A nation s boast is a nation s bone, As well as its might of mind ; And the culture of either of these alone Is the doom of a nation signed. But the cant of the ultra-suasion school Unsinews the hand and thigh, And preaches the creed of the weak to rule, And the strong to struggle and die. Our schools are pressed to the fatal race, As if health were the nation s sin, Till the head grows large, and the vampire face Is gorged on the limbs so thin. Our women have entered the abstract fields, And avaunt with the child and home ! While the rind of science a pleasure yields, Shall they care for the lives to come ? 1 92 GEMS FROM THE STATES. And they ape the manners of manly times In their sterile and worthless life, Till the man of the future augments his crimes With a raid for a Sabine wife ! Ho ! white-maned waves of the Western sea, That ride and roll to the strand ! Ho ! strong-winged birds, never blown alee By the gales that sweep toward land ! Ye are symbols both of a hope that saves As ye swoop in your strength and grace, As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves Of a suicidal race ! Ye have hoarded your strength in its equal parts, For the men of the future reign Must have faithful souls and kindly hearts, And bone, and sinew, and brain. BETTER WHISTLE THAN WHINE. As I was taking a walk early in December, I noticed two little boys on their way to school. The smaller one tumbled and fell, and, though he was not very much hurt, he began to whine in a babyish way not a regular roaring boy- cry, as though he were half-killed, but a little cross whine. The older boy took his hand in a kind and fatherly way, and said : " Oh, never mind, Jimmy ; don t whine; it is a great deal better to whistle." And he began in the merriest way a cheerful boy whistle. Jimmy tried to join in the whistle. " I can t whistle as nice as you, Charlie," said he ; " my lips won t pucker up good." " Oh, that is because you have not got all MISCELLANEO I ~S. 1 93 the whine out yet." said Charlie : " but you try a minute, and the whistle will drive the whine away." So he did, and the last I saw or heard of the little fellows, they were whistling away as earnestly as though that were the chief end of life. I learned a lesson which I hope I shall not soon forget, and it called out these few lines, which may possibly cheer another whiner of mature years, as this class is by no means con fined to the children : " It is better to whistle than whine ; It is better to laugh than to cry, For though it be cloudy, the sun will soon shine Across the blue, beautiful sky. " It is better to whistle than whine. Oh man with the sorrowful brow ! Let the words of the child scatter murmurs of thine, And gather his cheerfulness now. " It is better to whistle than whine. Poor mother ! so weary with care, Thank God for the love and the peace that are thine, And the joy of thy litttle ones share. " It is better to whistle than whine. Through troubles you find in your way, Remember that wise little fellow of mine, And whistle your whining away. O 194 GEMS FROM 2 HE STATES. " God bless that brave boy for the cheer He brought to this sad heart of mine ; When tempted to murmur, that young voice I hear, It is better to whistle than whine ! " CHERRIES. UNDER the tree the farmer said, Smiling and shaking his wise old head : " Cherries are ripe ! but then, you know, There s the grass to cut and the corn to hoc ; We can gather the cherries any day ; But when the sun shines we must make our hay; To-night, when the chores have all been done, We ll muster the boys for fruit and fun." Up in a tree a robin said, Perking and cocking his saucy head : " Cherries are ripe ! and so, to-day, We ll gather them while you make the hay ; For we are the boys with no corn to hoe, No cows to milk and no grass to mow." At night the farmer said : " Here s a trick ! Those roguish robins have had their pick." CLEAR THE WAY. MEN of thought ! be up and stirring Night and day : Sow the seed withdraw the curtain- Clear the way ! MISCELLANEO US. 1 93 Men of action, aid and cheer them, As ye may ! There s a fount about to stream, There s a light about to beam, There s a warmth about to glow, There s a flower about to blow ; There s a midnight blackness changing Into grey ! Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way ! Once the welcome light has broken, Who shall say What the unimagined glories Of the day ? What the evil that shall perish In its ray ? Aid the dawning, tongue and pen Aid it, hopes of honest men ; Aid it, paper aid it, type Aid it, for the hour is ripe ; And our earnest must not slacken Into play. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way ! Lo ! a cloud s about to vanish From the day ; And a brazen wrong to crumble Into clay. Lo ! the right s about to conquer Clear the way ! With the Right shall many more Enter smiling at the door ; 196 GEMS FROM THE STATES. With the giant Wrong shall fall Many others great and small, That for ages long have held us For their prey. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way ! A 000569436 9