PART III. POEMS OF FEELING |
TO MY SOUL. When passions lure thee to deeds of shame,
And sorely tempt thee to stain thy name,
Arouse thy manhood, let virtue win,
And carefully shun the path of sin,
Turn away! turn away, my soul!
When boon companions present the cup
Of sparkling liquor for thee to sup,
Reject the offer, don’t stop to think,
For snakes lie hidden in the first drink,
Keep away! keep away, my soul!
When the gambler tempts thee to his den,
Where a dollar ventured brings back ten,
Tell him begone, you’ve a better plan,
You’ll work for wealth like an honest man,
Be honest! be honest, my soul!
When rogues approach thee with scheme and plan
For helping them rob your fellowman,
With indignation, rebuke and scorn,
Make the rascals wish they’d ne’er been born,
Act bravely! act bravely, my soul!
When brazen women with tricks and snares,
Seek to entrap thee within their lairs,
Beware! O beware! The fatal spell
That hurries men down to death and hell,
Fly away! Fly away, my soul!
When cares and troubles distract thy brain,
And weigh thee down with sorrow and pain,
Cling to thy virtues with all thy strength,
And life’s great battle you’ll win at length,
Be manly! be manly, my soul!
When fortune crowns thee with earned success,
Cease not to think, or to labor less,
But kindle anew the fires of youth,
And bravely uphold the cause of truth,
Be noble! be noble, my soul!
And should you perchance be called a fool,
For striving to live by Christian rule,
Be not discouraged, but brave and strong,
Adhere to the right, denounce the wrong,
Have courage! have courage, my soul.
The pleasures of earth and heaven too,
Are due to the good, the wise and true,
Then rejoice, my heart, the way is clear,
To a life of love and right good cheer,
Be happy! be happy, my soul!
DEAR ROLLA. Verses on the death of a child about three years old, written to comfort his parents. Dear Rolla, tho gone, is just gone on before,
To welcome you home to a happier shore;
The time will soon come when you, too, will away
For the home of the Lord with Rolla to stay.
Christ loves little children and calls them away
To keep their sweet charms for a happier day,
Like the flowers you plant to adorn and bloom,
He has gone to sweeten your heavenly home.
By Christ he was called, by God he was given,
You gain by the loss an interest in heaven,
Your hearts now are broken, your reason most wild,
So deep is your grief o’er the loss of your child.
In God, your kind Father, rest hope and belief,
And He in His mercy will bring you relief,
Have faith in His power, believe in His love,
And He’ll lead you in safety to heaven above,
Where Rolla’s charming voice so sweet and so true,
Is calling, “Pa and ma, I’m waiting for you.”
TO THE MEMORY OF A GOOD WOMAN. Gone from a life full of sorrow and care,
Gone to that realm where the good only go,
Gone from a world where true pleasure is rare,
Gone to that place so delightful to know.
Now she will find the rest so long needed,
Now she is free from all toil and burthen,
Now she will meet the Lord she has heeded,
Now her sweet soul is happy in heaven.
No one can fill the place she left vacant,
No mother now teach her children the way,
No grief can come to her home so distant,
No perils of life endanger her stay.
O may her spirit shine forth like a star,
O may its light ever brighten our path,
O may it lead where she awaits us afar,
O may her love ever save us from wrath.
Sweet be thy home, dearest mother and friend,
Sweet as the peace that can never depart,
Sweet be thy life in the world without end,
Sweet as the love that o’erflowed from your heart.
MEMORIAL LINES. On the death of Mrs. Maggie Blood, an exceedingly bright and popular young wife. O God! why teach us how to love so strong?
Why make our hearts so warm, soft and tender?
Why fill the world with happiness and song,
Since we must all to cold death surrender?
Why take from us this good and noble life,
In spite of love and skill in human arts?
This precious daughter, sister, loving wife,
And make us weep and mourn with broken hearts?
Why take the brightest and best in the land,
And leave those behind we can better spare?
Is it to place them at Thy own right hand,
Where bliss eternal they will ever share?
Does heaven demand this great sacrifice,
That we should have cause to love it the more,
Think less of this earth with its sin and vice,
Take more interest in the other shore?
When earth is deprived of the good and true,
Do they join Thy hosts in the world above?
O tell us, God, is Maggie there with You,
Safe, well and happy in the realm of love?
How will it be known when the answer comes,
Must we show our faith ere we can hear it?
Then drive the sorrow from our saddened homes,
For Thou, O God, hast power to do it.
TO THE MEMORY Of Mrs. Fidelia Whitaker, the excellent wife of my old and good friend, Byron Whitaker of Detroit, Michigan. Mrs. Whitaker had many fine qualities, and commanded my respect and esteem to a high degree. Come listen, friends, the while I paint
Upon your hearts a picture true,
Of one whose love was never faint,
But full and strong and true to you.
No master’s skill can I command,
To imitate a face so fair,
But love will help to guide my hand,
And draw the lines with tender care.
First I will mark those large bright eyes,
So full of life, so full of cheer,
Sparkling with love yet meek and wise,
Touching our hearts to draw them near.
That noble brow I next observe,
Fountain of thoughts so pure and sweet,
Teaching us all the way to serve
Our fellow men whene’er we meet.
Now as a whole I will define,
That pleasant smile, that charming face,
That beams with joy in ev’ry line,
And wraps our hearts in love’s embrace.
Oft have we felt the friendly glow,
That bubbled from her gen’rous soul,
Like as a spring whose overflow,
Yields cooling draughts to make us whole.
Her tender voice no more is heard,
Her friendly acts and pleasant way,
Her gentle hand and soothing word,
Are gone away, all gone away.
But graven on our aching hearts,
Her loving face is firmly cast,
And fortune’s sway, nor sorrow’s darts,
Can wash it out while life doth last.
BRAVER THE SICK. Brave are the soldiers who go forth to fight,
Tho chances of death are one in a hundred,
Brave are the sailors who stand for the right,
Tho the hours of battle are soon numbered.
Brave are the life savers who plunge in the main,
And rescue the drowning and land them on shore,
But braver the sick who long suffer pain,
And bear it as Christ once bore it before.
DO NOT DIE TONIGHT. Written in answer to the poem “If I Should Die Tonight.” Do not die tonight.
Your friends would sadly miss your pleasant face,
Their joy depart and sorrow take its place,
Their hearts would mourn for one they loved so long,
And solemn hymns displace the joyful song.
Kind loving words might stay their grief awhile,
But naught could take the place of thy sweet smile
If you should die tonight.
Do not die tonight.
Your friends all know how your warm heart doth bleed,
In sympathy and love for all in need,
How oft by kind words and good deeds you prove,
The depth, and strength, and wealth of human love;
Beautiful flowers will bloom by your side,
And all your friends rejoice you have not died,
If you will stay and do not die tonight.
Do not die tonight.
Your wayward friends will all return to you,
Forgetting days when they were not so true,
And eyes that chilled with cold and selfish glance,
Will beam with love and glow with radiance,
And evermore will bless your happy way,
And change your night into bright and cheerful day,
If you will stay and do not die tonight.
Do not die tonight.
Your friends will fondly kiss your sweet white brow,
And dearly love you, warmly love you now,
They know how nobly you have done your part,
How sweet your friendship, true and warm your heart,
Henceforth their love will be more manifest,
So please postpone the day of death and rest,
And do not die, pray do not die tonight.
MEMORIAL LINES On the death of my niece, Mary McElroy, of Lapeer, Michigan, a bright, intelligent and amiable girl, twenty-one years old. Grieve not, dear parents, your duty is done,
Your daughter is safe in the land of rest,
You brought into life this beautiful one,
And led her in ways, the wisest and best.
Grieve not, dear brothers, Mary is not lost,
She has only gone to a better home,
Where bliss eternal is had without cost,
There she will patiently wait till you come.
Cherish her memory, think of her kindly,
Follow her good ways in actions and talk,
Let her light guide you, wander not blindly,
O walk the same path that Mary did walk.
Grieve not, loving friends, Heaven is brighter
Richer and sweeter since Mary is there,
Let the tears you shed make your hearts lighter,
For Mary’s sweet voice will plead for your care.
Grieve not for Mary, her sorrows are past,
She trod the bright path of truth and honor,
No life e’er so sweet forever can last,
Tho decked with the crown love placed upon her.
Gloomy this sad world now seems without her,
Wretched and lonely to hearts in distress,
Cut down in spring-time, life all about her,
Deep is the sorrow we cannot express.
Loving and truthful, pleasant and cheerful,
Pride of her father, charm of her mother,
Delight of her friends, spirits so youthful,
Heart always open unto each brother.
Gentle as ev’ning, bright as the morning,
Sweet as the flowers that shine by her side,
She will bloom again at the great dawning,
When Heaven’s broad gates are opened out wide.
Take her loving soul, kind God, to Heaven,
Surround her with joys as sweet as can be,
Return her ten fold the love she has given,
Welcome, kind Savior, dear Mary to Thee.
AN ADDRESS TO DEATH. The following article was suggested and started while sympathizing with a neighbor’s family in the loss of a young child stricken suddenly by death, but was not completed until after the death of a much loved lady school teacher, when it was finished on the request that I write something for the memorial exercises, February, 1894. I was very busy at the time and this, my first literary wrestle with Death, was hot and fast. Hail, Death! But why need we hail thee?
Thou comest without our call;
Yea, thou comest when wanted not.
Thou comest when and where thou wilt,
And choosest whom thou wilt.
Thou art no respecter of time, or conditions.
Thou takest thy victims from every age and station.
None so venerable that thou would’st spare them;
None so strong thou canst not conquer them:
None so pure as to be exempted;
None so humble as to escape thy notice.
The good and the bad are at thy mercy;
Nay, not that, for thou hast no mercy.
Wherever man goest, thou goest,
The deepest caverns of earth;
The highest mountain top;
The darkest, densest forest;
A thousand miles of stormy sea afford no protection.
Go whither man may, thou pursuest him;
Side by side thou marchest with him, like a treacherous friend, ready at any moment to become his murderer.
The barricades of parental love that shield the tender lives of innocent childhood, are as cobwebs before thy relentless power for destruction.
Naught can stay thy gluttonous appetite for victims.
If thou hadst discretion we would fear thee less; but thy cruel drag net is set for all, and there is no escape from thy devouring grasp.
We charge thee, Death, with unwonted cruelty.
There are those whom thou might’st spare for the general good,
These are the young, the happy, and the useful; innocent babes in their mother’s arms; prattling darlings on their father’s knees;
happy boys and girls in the temples of learning, active and ambitious young men and young women, these, all these are some only whom thou could’st pass by for a time when reaping thy harvest.
There is another class, Death, whom I would plead for: it is that noble class engaged in the high calling of training the youthful mind and fitting it for the duties of life.
If thou would’st spare any, spare these.
Enter not, O cruel Death! Enter not the school house door.
Rob us not of the noble teachers, whose loving-kindness, gentle words, and pleasant smiles, have drawn around them the heart strings of affectionate children, unused to sorrows, untrained in the mysteries and miseries of life.
Lacerate not their tender hearts.
Break not these strong ties of affection.
Stand off! Keep away! Lay not your tyrant hands on loving childhood’s noble friend.
But I plead in vain.
My prayer comes too late.
It would have come too late had it come sooner.
All human ingenuity, all human power falls before thee, Death.
Thou ridest rough shod over all man’s contrivances to hold thee back.
Thou enterest every gate, every house, and to thy shame it would be said if thou hadst shame, or any sensation, thou hast crossed the threshold of the school house door.
A hundred hearts are mourning, two hundred eyes are weeping, for the flower of their concentrated love, the golden rod of their admiration, a noble woman, a kind teacher, a loving friend, has been torn from them mercilessly, wantonly, cruelly—and thou art the robber.
Thou art exposed, Death; this act betrays thee; thou art a monster.
Come now, Death, we challenge thee to combat.
Be a heartless monster no longer.
Choose thee “foemen worthy of your steel.”
Choose the white haired, the aged who fear thee not.
Withdraw, coward! From the unequal contest thou wagest against the young, and
the feeble, and those who love this life not knowing its hardships.
Come on, tyrant! Cross arms with your equals!
We, the aged; we, the experienced; we, who are weary of the world; we, who are sinking down, being crushed into the earth by the heavy burthens of life, care not for thee.
Come on! Strike us! Spare the young, strike us!
We know that thou wilt win the final battle.
We know that we shall soon be numbered among thy victims, and yet we dare thee to tackle us.
We can not stop thy murderous progress, and yet we seek to check thy course.
We fain would keep thee busy, wrestling with the old and gray, and give thee no time to search for the young the hopeful, and the happy.
We, the old, crippled by disease;
Worn out with trials and disappointments;
With great sorrows in our hearts, that never can be taken away.
We who have suffered from thy cruelties, and know full well thy unconquerable power, nevertheless defy thee.
We dare thee! We taunt thee! We challenge thee to mortal combat!
We are weak and wounded, and are fast nearing the brink of the dark chasm of eternity, and we implore thee, monster, tyrant, demon that thou art, to busy thyself with blotting out our poor lives, that the young and innocent, the pure and useful, and all those who are healthy and happy, and all those who love this life, and have friends to love, and friends that love them, may be spared to enjoy this beautiful world.
A TRIBUTE To the Memory of Mrs. Hon. Justin R. Whiting, a brilliant woman. May 22nd, 1900. First among the first, leader of leaders,
In the front ranks of life she found her place;
A student of books, at home with readers,
In household duties well up in the race.
In social life a bright ornament,
Pleasant and cheerful, quick witted and wise,
Graceful in manners, not prone to dissent,
Respecting custom and family ties.
Sincere in religion, true to her church,
A Christian by rule, a Christian at heart,
Liberal, diligent, full of research,
Ever and always found acting her part.
Active and foremost in charity’s work,
Helping the poor, her heart full of pity,
From mercy’s appeals she never would shirk,
Nor stay her hands at bounds of the city.
Grand was her example in cheerfulness,
Courteous alike to the proud and humble,
Casting off sunbeams of sweet loveliness,
Honoring a name time will not crumble.
Kind as a neighbor and true as a friend,
Strong hearted and brave when sorrow prevailed,
Ready to assist and willing to lend,
And quick with relief when sickness assailed.
Devoted and kind, a dutiful wife,
Ready to labor and ready to share,
With her good husband the burdens of life,
And lighten his load of worry and care.
In his ambitions helping with good will,
To grand achievements of honor and fame,
Working with courage, genius and skill,
To raise and uphold the family name.
But as a mother her best work was done,
She gave her children the tenderest love,
And taught them the way their lives must be run,
To reach a haven in the realms above.
Each childish sorrow appealed to her heart,
And sweet soothing words soon washed it away,
In her children’s plans she took active part,
And led them wisely in study and play.
Great their affliction, deep is their sorrow,
But slowly and surely time will it heal,
Love is a blessing they cannot borrow,
We will not ask them to tell how they feel.
CAPTAIN ARCHIE MORRISON. On the 31st day of May, 1900, a bolt of lightning struck one of the spars on a new steamer nearly finished, but still on the stocks, at St. Clair, Michigan, and instantly killed three men, of whom Archie Morrison was one. Mr. Morrison was a good man. I knew him well, and wrote the following testimonial to his character, to comfort his family and friends. Come, death, in a flash from the sky!
Come in the lightning’s stroke!
Our Archie was prepared to die,
He well had worn his yoke.
No notice, or threat was needed,
He lived in peace with God,
The golden rule he had heeded,
And virtue’s path had trod.
He had no forgiveness to ask,
He did not give offense,
No person could bring him to task,
He needed no defense.
True as a magnet to the pole,
He did what conscience said,
He took the advice of his soul,
And followed where it led.
With carefulness he steered his ship,
To a port of safety,
And well may those who make the trip,
Follow pilot Archie.
For him no pity need be sought,
His sorrows are all past,
His noble character he brought
Safe to heaven at last.
But there are those who deeply mourn,
His wife and children weep,
Their greatest grief must now be borne,
Their hearts are wounded deep.
That sudden, cruel, bolt came down,
And blasted all their hope,
But they have many friends in town,
Who’ll with their trouble cope.
Rally, good friends, to their relief,
And all take active part,
Wash out all color of their grief,
And mend each broken heart.
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