PART II. POEMS OF SENTIMENT |
THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS. What is it lures the tender heart,
From paths of joy and pleasures sweet,
To rush into the crowded mart,
And lift the fallen to their feet?
What is it prompts the loving soul,
To go among the poor and sick,
Where sorrow and the empty bowl,
Stir one’s compassion to the quick?
Why should one go where hunger reigns,
And meet the dreaded starving face,
Where life is full of aches and pains,
And sickness finds a brooding place?
Why go where dread disease prevails,
And screams and groans afflict the heart,
Where death the struggling life assails,
And feel the pang of sorrow’s dart?
Why go not to the palace grand,
Where fruits and wines await the guest,
With works of art on ev’ry hand,
And bask in comfort, peace and rest?
Why go not where the flowers bloom,
And birds make music in the trees,
Where all is joy, there is no gloom,
And life and health ride on the breeze?
Is it for love of doing good,
And working out the Master’s plan,
Or doing as all others should,
To elevate our fellow man?
There is a motive in the mind,
That moves to noble, gen’rous deeds,
To sacrifice and actions kind,
And to relieving human needs.
Some ruling thought, some spirit fair,
Or inward spring I can not see,
Whate’er it is, love must be there.
O that I knew what it can be.
Arouse, my soul, increase my sight,
Awake, my muse, stay my blindness,
Ah! now I see by brighter light,
’Tis the milk of human kindness.
There is a fountain whence it flows,
A source from whence it takes its start,
Reviving hopes as on it goes,
That fountain is the human heart.
God bless the hearts that feed the stream,
That fills the soul with tenderness,
God bless the lives that yield the cream,
From the milk of human kindness.
THE WORKING GIRL. Text: A newspaper item said that shop girls are often insulted on the streets by men who assume that they are immoral because they are poor. I am only a working girl, ’tis true,
And my mother a widow poor and weak;
I am glad when I find some work to do,
For the bloom has faded from mother’s cheek.
There are four little ones to clothe and feed,
And mother must work sixteen hours a day;
She struggles hard to provide what they need,
And I know is wearing her life away.
I am old enough to go out and work,
And healthy and strong, thanks to mother’s care,
I could not bear my duty to shirk,
And mother’s burdens I am pleased to share.
The money I earn pays for coal and rent,
And mother furnishes the food we eat,
Ev’ry dollar she gets is wisely spent,
And our cottage is always clean and neat.
Mother takes washing and sewing to do,
And works like a slave until late at night,
I help her each evening an hour or two,
And don’t complain for I know it is right.
I go to the church and the Sunday School,
And perform all my duties well and true,
I strive hard to live by the golden rule,
And that’s about all a poor girl can do.
We’re not so unhappy as you might think,
For love reigns supreme in our humble dome,
And tho often near to starvation’s brink,
No money could coax me to leave my home.
Mother is cheerful and good as can be,
And sings to us nightly songs that are choice,
No sound ever heard is so dear to me,
As the rich sweet sound of my mother’s voice.
I met a strange man on the street one day,
With a dashing style and a brazen cheek,
Who said “Good night, my dear, just come my way,”
And alarmed me so that I could not speak.
I hastened to mother’s protecting arms,
And asked if a poor girl must be on guard,
Who claims neither beauty, nor loving charms,
And whose dress cost only five cents a yard.
“I’ll tell you, my dear, for I understand,
Why that bold bad man set your head awhirl.
He saw that poverty held you in hand,
And you were only a poor working girl.”
“But tell me, mother, have the poor no rights,
Must one be rich to command respect?
Our minister tells us that God delights,
In the honest and poor of ev’ry sect.”
“I know, my dear, what the ministers preach,
But I state the fact so well as I can,
Tho Christ has proclaimed what his priests shall teach,
They have not overcome the sin in man.
“Some men are good as they know how to be,
While others repel life’s chastening rod,
The rich meet temptations we never see,
The good honest poor are nearest to God.”
Thanks, my dear mother, your life is my guide,
I will work night and day just as you do,
When temptation comes I’ll thrust it aside,
Grow nearer to God and nearer to you.
When my work in this life has all been done,
I will wend my way to the gates of pearl,
And present this plea to the Holy One:
“Dear Lord, I am only a working girl.”
THE WAYWARD GIRL. Suggested by reading the testimony of the severe whippings given with the “cat o’ eight tails” in the Industrial School for Girls at Adrian, Michigan. Written May, 1899. Strip off my clothes, expose my back,
From shoulder to the hip,
Hold fast my hands in vise like rack,
Nor once let go the grip.
Now raise your weapon high in air,
And strike with all your might,
On my poor back now white and fair,
Nor hide the brutal sight.
A single lash is not enough
To bring the color quick,
A “cat o’ eight tails” strong and tough,
Will sooner make me sick.
Rain down the blows nor halt to rest,
Till you are out of breath,
Another brute with equal zest,
Will whip me most to death.
See now the color pinky bright,
But just over my heart,
There still remain some streaks of white,
Don’t miss this vital part.
Measure your blows and deal them straight,
Bring out the redder hue,
Nor let your cruel strokes abate,
Till all is black and blue.
Now burns my back as if by fire,
Red roasted in a flame,
What more can cruel fate require,
Of my poor trembling frame?
I shrink with fear, I scream with pain,
I pray “O spare my life,”
So squeals the pig and squeals in vain,
For deeper goes the knife.
My voice is hushed, I faint, I choke,
Death hovers closely by,
Down falls another last hard stroke,
“Take that, you wretch, and die.”
O Michigan, my Michigan,
Let your heart strings unfurl,
Blot out the stain of Adrian,
And pity the wayward girl.
THE ROSE CURE. Written for Rose Gearing, a grandchild seven years old, while at Lorain, O., November, 1897. One day I went out walking,
And the road was hard and long,
No friend was with me talking,
And no bird gave out a song.
The air was raw and chilly,
The warm summer days had past,
My path was rough and hilly,
The flowers were fading fast.
The winds were blowing madly,
Lake Erie was lashed to foam,
And I was feeling sadly,
Two hundred long miles from home.
I tried to stop that feeling,
And remove it from my mind,
But what would do the healing,
Was a thing I had to find.
I thought of a nice river,
Where the water ever flows,
But God the mighty giver,
Soon reminded me of Rose.
My heart with joy went beaming,
My spirits were lifted up,
Away went idle dreaming,
I had found the healing cup.
Hereafter when in sadness,
Bewailing ill-fortune’s blows,
My thoughts will turn with gladness,
To the love of my sweet Rose.
And when I need elixir,
That is pleasant, safe and sure,
I’ll go to my sweet mixer,
And quickly take—The Rose Cure.
I know of nothing neater,
Than my darling’s love for me,
And none more pure, or sweeter,
Than my love for her shall be.
TO A SNOW DROP. The following verses were suggested by seeing a large and beautiful drop of snow, in the form of a star, descend slowly and gradually melt away on my clothing. The first three verses came to me spontaneously and come the nearest to being an inspiration of anything I have written up to January, 1888. I had only to write down the words, which were ready without the labor of composition. I mention this fact not because there is any merit in the verses, but because I had a touch of inspiration, and have ever since believed that writers and speakers are sometimes inspired with thoughts that come to them without passing thru the process of thinking. Written December, 1859. A little thing of icy clearness.
Came dropping from the sky above,
Filling joyful hearts with gladness,
And others with the tears of love.
For while hearts are upward bending,
Humbly praying for food to eat,
Others joy and mirth are blending,
Making their many pleasures sweet.
Yet this little drop keeps falling,
And covers up man’s darkest deeds,
As if ’twere its only calling,
To drive temptation from our heads.
Then let this pure emblem’s features,
Teach what we owe to God above
And to all our fellow-creatures,
Make a payment with our love.
A FAMILY SONG. Tune: A Life on the Ocean Wave. A home with my darling wife,
Along with my children dear,
Away from trouble and strife,
From sorrow, danger and fear;
Let some be gloomy and sad,
I shall be happy and free,
My wife be joyful and glad,
And our children full of glee.
No storms shall darken our path,
The way is open and straight,
Ne’er yield our reason to wrath,
But aim for Heaven’s wide gate;
’Twill open and let us in,
And the Lord be glad to see,
Living in Heaven with Him,
My wife and children and me.
THANKSGIVING DAY. In this beautiful world,
Where love’s flag is unfurled
And given free scope to wave and entwine;
It does not become man
To complain of the plan,
Established by a Creator divine.
And on Thanksgiving Day
While we sing and we pray,
And give thanks for the rich stores we possess;
Our hearts should open wide,
To the poor by our side,
And take measures to relieve their distress.
For happy is the part,
Where there’s love in the heart,
To lighten the sorrows of one in need;
And peace comes to the breast,
When we help the distrest,
And, O God, what joy comes from a good deed.
PARENTAL ADVICE. Composed for the occasion of the marriage of my daughter, Flora, to Howard C. Beck, June 17th, 1891. Howard and Flora, there’s a beautiful land,
Where trees and flowers grow pretty and sweet,
Where many kind friends will lend you a hand,
And line with pleasure a path for your feet.
’Tis not among stars that twinkle with light,
’Tis not in the moon so cheerless and cold,
’Tis not just beyond great shadows of night,
To reach it requires no silver or gold.
This beautiful land is easily found,
Its gates are open to virtue and worth,
Where peace and good will and reason abound,
This beautiful land is this lovely earth.
If you would enjoy this beautiful land,
And crown with glory the days you have spent,
Let heart beat to heart and hand join with hand,
And travel thru life in peace and content.
Your aim should be high, your walk should be straight,
Your lives fill with joy your parents and friends,
Your record keep bright and honor your state,
And tread the true path where happiness tends.
Howard, should Flora once chance to go wrong,
With kind loving words the stain wash away,
When she shows weakness then you should be strong,
And quarrels never will darken your way.
Flora, should Howard a moment be weak,
And stray from the path that leads men above,
Don’t hasten to bring a blush to his cheek,
But cover his fault with mantles of love.
Thus in harmony and peace may you dwell,
Your knowledge expand, your pleasures increase,
Always be happy and always be well,
And end your journey in Heaven and peace.
THE DOCTOR.
BROTHERLY LOVE. O may our hearts in love unite,
Our spirits shun all temptation,
Our souls incline to truth and right,
Our minds in love to all creation.
Each other’s faults let us retrieve,
And our portion of love divide,
Each other’s loads a share receive,
And bear with them on ev’ry side.
Let conscience dictate, our minds obey,
Our erring footsteps be retraced,
Our fallen brother gone astray,
Be welcomed back, in love embraced.
Then will God be pleased to bless us,
And fill our lives with love and light,
Then will He sweet mercy grant us,
While we uphold the truth with right.
THE MINISTER’S WIFE. Written on the occasion of the marriage of my daughter, Worthy, to Rev. G. N. Kennedy, October 17th, 1892. A beautiful crown awaits you,
In the realm of your chosen life,
No higher duty commands you,
Than to be a minister’s wife.
The road you are now to travel,
Is high over the common plain,
But when you have reached its level,
You must rise above it again.
You must go onward and upward,
Nor halt in your journey thru life,
There’s always work in Christ’s vineyard,
For the faithful minister’s wife.
’Tis a difficult role to fill,
And the work will never be done,
But if you take hold with a will,
Then half the victory is won.
Grapple with boldness and courage,
The duties to which you’re assigned,
And use all your strength and knowledge,
In work for the good of mankind.
Always be pleasant and cheerful,
Forgiving, consoling and kind,
Speak soothing words to the tearful,
Bring light to the hearts of the blind.
Help, O help the poor and the sick,
Help them with tears, labor and love,
Help them out when sorrows are thick,
Help them in the kingdom above.
There’s a veil that obstructs our view,
From the beautiful higher life,
You should try hard to break it thru,
For you are a minister’s wife.
Be a helpmeet to your husband,
Relieve him of burdens and care,
And the noble work of his hand,
Will bring you in glory to share.
Wherever duty may place you,
In all the relations of life,
Remember, father commands you,
Be a model minister’s wife.
NOTHING TO SAY. You ask me some verses to write,
But when I have nothing to say,
I had much rather keep quiet,
Than write in a roundabout way.
But as nature is always kind,
Perhaps she’ll assist me today,
And thus I’ll be able to grind
Some verses on—nothing to say.
’Tis a splendid maxim, I’m told,
And I do not doubt what they say,
It will do for young and for old,
Never speak when you’ve nothing to say.
Now if you will let me advise,
This maxim you’ll always obey,
Do just like the good and the wise,
Never speak when you’ve nothing to say.
THE HEART. The heart like a sponge may drink to its fill,
But unlike the sponge there is room in it still,
Fill it with sorrow and pack it with pain,
One touch of sweet love revives it again.
Crush it, abuse it, it bleeds like a sieve,
Tender it kindness, it holds all you give,
Pound it, and shake it, until it is sore,
Its love is as sweet as ever before.
Sad it becomes without love to bless it,
Deeply it mourns for friends to caress it,
Deprived of love it loses its power,
Watered with hope it blooms like a flower.
Dear is the heart that friends safely can trust,
Peaceful the bosom when the heart is just,
Blest is the heart when its love is secure,
Happy the friends loved by hearts that are pure.
MY DARLING FLORA’S MARGARET. The following poem was written to soothe and comfort my daughter Flora, when lying low with typhoid fever in Detroit, while her then only child, Margaret, thirteen months old, was at my house in St. Clair. The acts attributed to the child actually occurred. Come to my arms, my little sprite,
And help me in some verses write
How one can be so strong and bold,
And little more than one year old;
Many good things I learn from thee,
How sweet to smile and cheerful be,
That would adorn my life’s own page,
Tho I am fifty times your age.
Her father’s pride, her grandma’s pet,
My darling Flora’s Margaret.
What does she say when looking wise,
And gazing straight into my eyes,
Wondering if I understand,
The pretty sounds at her command?
Men of great wealth may own their towns,
And kings and queens may wear their crowns,
I would not care for crowns or herds,
Could I interpret baby words.
Her father’s pride, her grandma’s pet,
My darling Flora’s Margaret.
But listen! something jars the wall,
My pretty pet has had a fall,
And quick she rises from the floor,
Smiling as sweetly as before;
She seems to know life’s just begun,
And oft she’ll fall ere it is done,
And thus she teaches fallen men,
With cheerfulness to rise again.
Her father’s pride, her grandma’s pet,
My darling Flora’s Margaret.
I love to see her bright blue eyes,
That shine like Venus in the skies,
I love to see her dimpled hands,
That do whate’er her will commands;
I love to see and count her toes,
And gently touch her handsome nose,
I love her smile, I love her charms,
And love to take her in my arms.
Her father’s pride, her grandma’s pet,
My darling Flora’s Margaret.
She slaps me hard to make me cry,
Then watches for the swelling eye,
And when she sees that I am sad,
Kisses me quick to make me glad,
Then rubs her cheek against my face,
And clasps me in a fond embrace,
O that my life could be so good,
As bubbling, loving, babyhood.
Her father’s pride, her grandma’s pet,
My darling Flora’s Margaret.
They tell me that Heaven is grand,
A beautiful and happy land,
Imagination hath its dream,
And unknown things delightful seem;
I ask no land more grand than this,
Where babies live to swell our bliss,
With sickness out this world would be,
A happy land for all like me.
Her father’s pride, her grandma’s pet,
My darling Flora’s Margaret.
THE RICH, SWEET SOUND OF THE HUMAN VOICE. Many sounds are heard by the human ear,
Sounds that are delicate, or loud and clear,
The rustling of leaves by the gentle breeze,
Or the hurricane crashing thru the trees;
Sounds in the mountains and sounds on the sea
And sounds wherever man happens to be;
But of all known sounds the sound of man’s choice
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
The sweet little birds can charm by the hour,
By the songs they sing with all their power,
How freely they stretch their dear little throats
As they pour out floods of delicious notes,
And few are the sounds man ever has heard,
More pleasing to him than songs of the bird,
And still he can say, the sound of his choice,
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
The cracking bud of the bursting flower,
The spattering rain drops from the shower,
The bark of the dog when he barks in play,
The rumble of wheels on the hard highway,
The babble of brooks as they run along,
And the cataract’s never ending song;
Are sounds that are cheering, and still man’s choice,
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
The rattle of war when great armies clash,
The howling tornado’s terrible crash,
The splashing of waves on the ocean shore,
The startling grandeur of the thunder’s roar,
The alarming sound of the cannon’s boom,
And the bursting volcano threat’ning doom;
Are sounds that are thrilling, but still man’s choice,
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
The sweet violin in a master’s hand,
Gives delightful music at his command;
It is made to imitate many sounds,
That man often hears in his daily rounds,
(The human voice and the warble of birds,)
And to almost express these sounds in words;
But tho ’tis charming, the sound of man’s choice,
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
The pianoforte can delight and please,
When a Paderewski fingers the keys;
The great church organ has inspiring notes,
That expand the music from human throats;
The cornet’s shrill notes are stirring and clear,
And fill the music loving soul with cheer;
But of all known sounds the sound of man’s choice,
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
The martial music of the fife and drum,
That calls the nation’s defenders to come,
And the thrilling chorus brass bands produce,
Are grand when applied to the country’s use,
Even the bagpipe’s persistent humming,
Is sweet when it means relief is coming,
But nevertheless the sound of man’s choice,
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
Not a sound of instrument ever heard,
Nor loveliest note of the singing bird,
Nor sounds produced by the wave, or the wind,
Compare to the voice of a Jenny Lind;
And when Patti sings, O heaven! how sweet
Is the entrancing voice her hearers greet,
Thus proving it true, the sound of man’s choice
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
It may be the voice of a loving friend,
Kindly offering your sorrows to mend,
The voices of children engaged in play,
And happily passing the time away,
Or the gentle voice of a sister dear,
O’erflowing with tenderness, love and cheer,
And then it must be, the sound of man’s choice,
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
It may be a father warning his son,
And kindly teaching him the course to run,
Or a mother pleading in accents mild,
“O God, have mercy on my darling child;”
The voice of a father, sister, or brother,
And tender voice of a loving mother,
Make clear the fact that the sound of man’s choice,
Is the rich, sweet sound of the human voice.
THE MAN FOR THE TIMES. The man for the times is one with a soul,
And a heart that is tender and sound,
Who keeps his conscience in his own control,
And who bends his ear to the ground.
His mind should be clear and his body strong,
And his habits correct and clean;
He should stand for right and fight against wrong,
And rise above everything mean.
His views should be broad, liberal and wise,
And his acts conform to his views,
Quick to listen to humanity’s cries,
And give every creature his dues.
Bomb proof against bribes and corruptions base,
With record and honor unstained,
Proving always the right man for the place,
With no conduct to be explained.
Wide awake to the progress of events,
Marching with the leaders of thought,
Watching what science creates and prevents,
And what wonders are being wrought,
Master of electricity and steam,
Also compressed and liquid air,
And the power contained in wind and stream,
And know how these forces compare.
The wireless telegraph and telephone,
Should be simple toys in his hand,
And all sciences that to man are known,
He should fairly well understand.
He should keep posted in man’s inventions,
And his rapid progress in art,
And in all proper works and intentions,
Take a leading and manly part.
With courage and noble ambition,
He should grasp the problem of life,
And raise the standard of man’s condition,
Or perish in the throes of strife.
His heart should be fired with burning love
For his suffering fellowman,
And his soul fragrant with balm from above,
Should elevate the human plan.
Large hearted, whole souled and lofty in aim,
Not worshiping dollars and dimes,
But working always for honor and fame;
Such will be—the man for the times.
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