  MISCELLANEOUS. May e’en thy failings lean to virtue’s side. Hours are golden links—God’s token— Reaching heaven, but one by one; Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere thy pilgrimage be done. House beautiful—your book, from end to end, And every page a room to lodge a friend; Fain would I enter with a seemly grace, Attired and mannered as befits the place; But best endeavor falls below the aim And rests at last, content to leave a name. The brave man is not he who feels no fear, For that were stupid and irrational; But, he whose noble soul its fear subdues. And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from. Make it a temple set apart From earthly use, for Heaven’s employ— Adorned with prayer and love and joy; So shall your Sovereign enter in And new and noble life begin. We could count time by heart-throbs; he most lives who thinks most, speaks the noblest, acts the best. We ourselves shape the joys and fears Of which the life to come is made, And fill our future atmosphere With sunshine or with shade. When the name that I write here is dim on the page, And the leaves of your album are yellow with age, Still think of me kindly, and do not forget That, wherever I am, I remember you yet. The massive gates of circumstance Are turned upon the slightest hinge, And thus some seeming pettiest chance, Oft gives to life its after tinge. Oh, for a home in Zululand, or Arctic regions cold, A peasant’s cot or hermit’s hut, midst solitude untold, With Kaffirs or with Hottentots, in Egypt or Leone— ’Twere bliss to live in any spot where albums are unknown. But the time of adversity tries and proves them. Gems of price are deeply hidden, ’Neath the rugged rocks concealed; What would ne’er come forth unbidden, To thy search may be revealed. While the fading flowers of pleasure, Spring spontaneous from the soil, Thou wilt find the harvest’s treasure Yields alone to patient toil. If recollections of friends brighten moments or sadness, What a fund of delight is here treasured for thee! If advice and kind wishes bring goodness and gladness, How perfect and happy thy future must be. The tissues of the Life to be— We weave with colors all our own, And in the field of Destiny, We reap as we have sown. There is seldom a line of glory written upon earth’s face, but a line of suffering runs parallel with it; and they that read the lustrous syllables of the one, and stoop not to decipher the spotted and worn inscription of the other, get the least half of the lesson that earth has to give. Leaf green on ground of white, My name, I fain would write That you remember still In June or in December chill, We two are friends. Oh, wayward mortal who these books invented, Why was’t thou not by some kind hand prevented? And thereby kept from many a luckless swain, The direful knowledge that he lacked a brain— Lacked it, at least, where poetry was needed, Like the poor wight who here has not succeeded. Through days of doubt and darkness, In fear and trembling breath, Through mists of sin and sorrow, In tears and grief and death; Through days of light and gladness, Through days of love and life, Through smiles and joy and sunshine, Through days with beauty rife; The Lord of life and glory, The King of earth and sea, The Lord who guarded Israel; Keep watch, sweet friend, o’er thee. Truth—Freedom—Virtue—these have power; If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain, And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour. Is always neatly clad, Thou surely will make the tidiest wife That ever husband had. Among the many friends who claim A kind remembrance in thy heart, I too, would add my simple name, Among the rest. May God’s mercy ever guide thee, Safe o’er all thy thorny road; And His grace what’er betide thee, Lead thee home to His abode. The large are not the sweetest flowers; The long are not the happiest hours; Much talk doth not much friendship tell; Few words are best—I wish you well. Let your life be like a snowflake, which leaves a mark, but not a stain. Begirt with roses of the royal June, A resurrected day swings highest morn In every year; and so through life I pray Nay never failing changes, bring their day, And flames of love in swinging censers rise While all thy thoughts leads on toward the skies. Of friends, however humble, scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it cast, Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. Make good use of time, if thou lovest eternity; yesterday cannot be recalled—to-morrow cannot be secured—to-day only is thine, which, if once lost, is lost forever. In time we transact business for eternity; whatever, therefore, we do now, should be done well. May each thought be pure, and sincere, Addressed upon these spotless pages; Reflections fond, they’ll always prove, Youthful friend, through many ages. They who have light in themselves, will not revolve as satellites. Through time we’ll change, and then, This little book will somewhat bind us; You’ll take it up, and think of me And all the joys we’ve left behind us. As the shadow of the sun is largest when his beams are lowest, so we are always least when we make ourselves the greatest. Across the page of spotless white Friends trail the pen, and in our sight Grow precious all the lines they write. As for some white-sailed ship at sea, So, little book, my watch for thee; Return with freight of love to me. Every hour comes to us charged with duty, and the moment it is past, returns to Heaven to register itself how spent. There’s a Divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will. Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow, Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart. Write your name by kindness, love and mercy upon the hearts of those you come in contact with, and you will never be forgotten. Let Fate do her worst; there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, she cannot destroy; They come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled, You may break—you may shatter the vase, if you will; But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. Count that day lost whose low descending sun Views from thy hand no worthy action done. ’Tis but a trifle that you ask, But this you will admit, That trifles, more than greater tasks, Will sometimes strain our wit. I wish thee health, and wealth, and joy, As others have before: And were I in poetic mood, I’d surely wish thee more. Our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. Here’s a sigh for those who love me, And a smile for those who hate, And whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate. In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, Thou art such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen, about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee. Having plenty laid up for a rainy day; And when you are ready to settle in life, May you find a good husband and make a good wife. I write here a name which I hope shall be known To all of the ages which follow my own. ‘How conceited!’ you say; but my lines shall remain; ’Tis my hope, you’ll discover, not I, that is vain. Our lives are albums; each new day’s a page As spotless as the leaf on which I write. Whene’er those books of ours shall be read, May few unwise inscriptions meet the sight. On the broad highway of action Friends of worth are far and few; But when one has proved her friendship, Cling to her who clings to you. Were mine the power I’d twine for thee A crown of jewels rare; Each gem should be a kingdom, Each pearl an humble prayer. There are few friends in this wide world That love is fond and true; But ---- when you count them o’er Place me among the few. That twines around the humblest cot, And in the sad and lonely hours It whispers low: “Forget me not.” When asked in an album to write, I feel quite inclined to refuse; For what should I dare to indite That would a young lady amuse? Not wit, for I have none of that, Nor romance—my fancy is tame; And compliments sound so flat, I’m forced to write merely my name. May you always be happy, And live at your ease; Get a kind husband, And do as you please. True friends, like ivy and the wall, Both stand together or together fall. Beauty is but a vain, a fleeting good, A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly, A flower that dies when almost in the bud, A bright glass that breaketh suddenly; A fleeting good, a glass, a gloss, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within the hour. Wherever thou shalt be; And joy and pleasure light the spot That may be home to thee. How sweet to have a faithful friend, In whom we can confide: To bless us if we act aright, And if we err to chide. Hope the best, get ready for the worst, and take what God sends. Be content with the lot God has marked out for you. Love, honor and obey Him in all things, and your last days will be peaceful and happy. May the morn of thy life be bright and joyous, the noontide peaceful and happy, and the sunset gloriously hopeful, is the wish of your friend. Life, Death and Immortality—these three—the first, the Road—the second, the Gate. May you walk safely the first, pass triumphantly the second, and rest forever in the third. May the Angels twine for thee A wreath of immortality. In here, as you request; And, if to you its all the same, I’ll add a line—though rather tame— For Critics eyes, as my bequest. My wishes and my hopes for you, Find glad expression here; Although, indeed, it’s very true, There is no room for all that’s due To one we hold so dear. Good health—first wish of all— Of all God’s gifts the best; A happy heart, that loves to call On Him who notes the sparrow’s fall And promises sweet rest. Although beset by worldly care, Fix all your hopes on Heaven, And view by faith the glories fair, Which, in that world beyond the air, To faithful ones are given. Although I am advised not to write fast, I hope the thought I would express may last. You ask for your Album a rhyme; With pleasure I hear and obey; Refusal were folly or crime— For who could to ---- say “nay?” Is the sincere wish of your friend. Be kind to all; be intimate with few; And may the few be well chosen. Evils in the journey of life are like the hills which alarm travelers upon their road; they both appear great in the distance, but when we approach them, we find them far less insurmountable than we had conceived. Miss ----! O Miss ----! What can I write that’s new Among so very many Pretty compliments to you? In poetry, I fear I’d fail— I’m very sure I’d stammer— You cannot drive the ponderous nail With a small ten-cent tack hammer. Since, then, so high I cannot soar, Nor chirp notes like the lark, Please cancel what I’ve said before, I’ll simply make my mark. It has been beautifully said: The water that flows from a spring does not congeal in winter; and those sentiments which flow from the heart cannot be chilled by adversity. Roses, without thorns, for thee. I’ll just write a few words here; so that when You turn these and life’s pages o’er again, Your memory back to the time will go, When you and I were “O” and “Jo.” How we worked together in ’79, Wafting lightning over the W. U. Line To W. M.—called “our quod,” you know— When you and I were “O” and “Jo.” How Lu talked by the hour to us, (And we stood it like martyr’s making no fuss), How we used to get “snatched”—we hated that so— When you and I signed “O” and “Jo.” I’ll not wish you all sunshine; for life is made Up of installments of sunlight and shade. May you never be worse off through life, as you go, Than when on W. M. wire we signed “O” and “Jo.” May the hinges of our Friendship never rust. May your days in joy be passed With friends to bless and cheer, And each year exceed the last In all that earth holds dear. Would break like a bubble, And into the waters of Lethe depart, Did not we rehearse it And tenderly nurse it, And give it a permanent place in the heart. Resolve to be merry, All worry to ferry, Across the famed waters that bid us forget. And no longer fearful, But happy and cheerful, We feel life has much that’s worth living for yet. May we always remain as good friends as we are neighbors. The night has a thousand eyes;— The day but one; Yet the light of the whole world dies With the setting sun. The mind has a thousand eyes— The day but one; Yet the light of the whole world dies When love is done. On this spotless page my pen essays to trace a record of affection; and, as I write, a wish is in my heart that, for thee, every life-leaf will be written with the golden pen of love. Though many friends have signed their names, And some have left their mark, I see a place for me remains To add my small remark. My wish for thee is: joy through life; And bliss supreme, when some one’s wife. I pray the prayer of Plato old: God make thee beautiful within; And let thine eye the good behold In everything, save sin. A few true friends to aid us and love us, And cordial hands to warmly clasp our own; O! surely God hath never made us To live distrustingly, selfish, and alone. A verse you ask this fine day: Of course I’ll write you one. The task of writing finds its pay In joy that it is done. Why ask a name; Small is the good it brings; Names are but breath— Deeds—deeds alone—are things. And on this page you cast your eye, Remember ’twas a friend sincere That left this kind remembrance here. With best wishes for your future cheer. Dear ----, may your life be blest With friendship, love and happiness; May all your friends prove true, And cheer you all the journey through. May Future, with her kindest smile, Wreath laurels for thy brow; May loving angels guard and keep thee Ever pure as thou art now. If writing in Albums remembrance insures, With the greatest of pleasure I’ll scribble in yours. In after years when you recall The days of pleasures past, And think of joyous hours and all Have flown away so fast, When some forgotten air you hear Brings back past scenes to thee, And gently claims your listening ear Keep one kind thought for me. Accept my friend these lines from me, They show that I remember thee, And hope some thought they will retain Till you and I shall meet again. For thee, my fair and gentle friend, I ask not wealth or fame, I only ask thy path may be Free from life’s toil and care. Among the many friends that claim A kind remembrance in thy breast, I too would add my simple name. Among the rest. Never grow weary doing good. I want a warm and faithful friend, To cheer the adverse hour; Who ne’er to flatter will descend, Nor bend the knee to power; A friend to chide me when I’m wrong; My inmost soul to see; And that my friendship prove as strong For him as his for me. |
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