Christian Poem

Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith,
    All things are vanity. The eye and ear
    Cannot be filled with what they see and hear.
Like early dew, or like the sudden breath
Of wind, or like the grass that withereth,
    Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear:
    So little joy hath he, so little cheer,
Till all things end in the long dust of death.
To-day is still the same as yesterday,
    To-morrow also even as one of them;
And there is nothing new under the sun:
Until the ancient race of Time be run,
    The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem,
And morning shall be cold, and twilight gray.        - Christina G. Rossetti

Christian Poem

The night was dark and dreary,
    And the autumn-wind went by
With a sound like Sorrow's wailing
    In its sadly mournful cry;--
The yew trees, old and drooping,
    Shook in the angry blast,
And the moon looked, pale and tearful,
    Through the clouds that hurried past.

In a dreary room and fireless,
    With mouldy walls and damp,
A grey, old man was seated
    Beside a flickering lamp;--
An old man, worn and wasted,
    With bent and shivering form,
And haggard looks, sat trembling
    At the moaning of the storm.

The casements, old and creaking,
    Shook in the angry blast;
And the pale, thin face grew paler,
    As the shrieking winds went past;
For hovering fiends seemed clutching
    His treasures from his grasp,
And unseen fingers tight'ning
    On his throat their icy clasp.

Again the strong wind rattled
    The broken window-pane,
And the dying taper wavered
    In the rude blast yet again--
For one brief instant wavered,
    Then paled its sickly light,
And the shuddering wretch was shrouded
    In impenetrable night.

The dull, grey light of morning
    Illumed the mountain-height,
And Earth lay, cold and shiv'ring,
    In the blanched, autumnal light,
But a sunbeam struggled faintly
    Through the Miser's broken shed,
And lit the pale, set features
    Of the still, unshrouded dead.

For there, alone, and trembling
    With the horrors of affright,
He had met the king of terrors
    'Mid the darkness of the night;
And with gold enough to satiate
    A monarch's haughty pride,
In fear, and rags, and misery
    Of want the wretch had died!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

HONOR TO LABOR!--it giveth health; Honor to labor!--it bringeth wealth; Honor to labor!--our glorious land Displayeth its triumphs on every hand. It has smoothed the plains, laid the forests low, And brightened the vales with the harvest's glow,-- Reared cities vast with their marts of trade, Where erst undisturbed lay the woodland shade,-- Brought up from the depths of the teeming mine, Its treasured stores in the light to shine,-- Sent Commerce forth on his tireless wings In search of all precious and goodly things-- Forth to the ice-bound Northern seas, And to bright isles fanned by the Southern breeze, Where the Orange deepens its sunset dyes, And the Cocoa ripens 'neath glowing skies,-- To the sunny islands of Austral climes,-- To lands undreamt of in elder times,-- Till every region, and clime, and zone, Has yielded its treasures to bless our own. Honor to Labor!--it diveth deep To dim sea-caves where bright treasures sleep, And dareth with curious quest explore The ancient wonders of Ocean's floor. It fearless roams over Deserts vast, Where destruction rides on the Simoom's blast, And trackless sands have for ages frowned O'er cities in ancient song renowned. It climbs where the dazzling glaciers lie, Changeless and cold, 'neath a glowing sky, And leaves the trace of its triumphs proud Above the regions of storm and cloud. The Ocean, once an untravelled waste, By feet adventurous never passed, Spread forth to the solemn skies alone Its restless waters to man unknown. Imagination, with eager quest, Went forth o'er its bosom with vague unrest, To loneliest regions devoid of light, Where dark Cimmerii dwelt in night,-- Or peopled its realms, undiscovered, lone, With phantoms of horror and shapes unknown. But Labor came, and with kindling glance Boldly he traversed the far expanse, Scatt'ring the shadows of ancient night, And lifting a glad New World to light. Now, a realm of life is the glorious Sea-- A peopled realm of the bold and free-- Where the proud ship glides like a thing of life, And laughs at the storms and the billows' strife,-- Vast highway of nations, above whose deeps Commerce with tireless navies sweeps, And Life goes forth in its glad unrest, Buoyantly treading the waves' white crest. Honor to Labor!--his strong right hand Old, frightful chasms has boldly spanned, And hung his teeming thoroughfares high 'Twixt rushing torrent and bending sky. He has harnessed Steam to the flying car, And sent it from ocean to ocean afar,-- Pierced strong-ribbed mountains that barred his way, And oped through their caverns a broad highway,-- Taught the lightning to carry his messages forth From West to East, and from South to North, And flash his thoughts through the depths profound Of Ocean, the Earth's circumference round,-- Made Light his servant to do his will-- With faultless pencil and subtlest skill Limning the features most dear in life, Of friend, or husband, or child, or wife, And compressing into a single hour The work of months of artistic power. Honor to Labor!--with steady eye He has fearlessly traversed the midnight sky, And followed the mazy, perplexing dance Of planets and moons thro' the far expanse,-- Their orbits, periods, weight and size, Studied with heedful and cautious eyes, And forced the haughty, imperial sun To answer his inquiries one by one. He has tracked the comet's erratic flight Through the silent star-fields of primal night,-- Walked through the depths of old nebulae With flashing glance and with footstep free, And seen spin round him in wildering flight Systems and suns, while the infinite Of God's great universe stretched away Farther far than e'en thought might stray "Honor to Labor!"--the mariner sings, As forth to the breezes his sails he flings;-- "It has made us lords of the boundless deep-- Fearlessly over the waves we sweep!" "Honor to Labor!"--the traveller cries, As forth in the rushing tram he flies;-- "We may rival the speed of the bird's swift wing As he joyously soars thro' the skies of Spring, And the fetterless wind on its pinions free, Is scarcely more fleet in its course than we!" "Honor to Labor!"--the student cries, As he gazes around him with joyful eyes,-- "Honor to Labor!--the teeming press Pours forth its treasures the world to bless! From the pictured pages where childhood's eye Findeth a world of bright imagery, To the massive tome 'mid whose treasures vast, Lie the time-dimmed records of ages past, We may wander, and revel, yet ever find Supplies exhaustless for heart and mind We may turn to the Past--to the ages fled-- And converse hold with the gifted dead,-- Old climes of historic fame explore, And gather the gems of their buried lore,-- With Prophet-bards seek inspiring themes, Or muse alone by old fabled streams,-- With the Poet take our enraptured flight, And woo the Muse on Parnassus' height,-- Take fair Philosophy by the hand, And roam with her through her native land,-- May win from the God-inspired of Earth Heavenly treasures of priceless worth,-- Till the mental stores of all ages flown, And all gifted minds, we have made our own.". Honor to Labor of body or mind, That hath for its object the good of mankind! The Farmer, who cheerily ploughs the soil, And gathers the fruit of his hopeful toil,-- The strong Mechanic, whose manly brow Weareth of labor the healthful glow,-- The bold Inventor, beneath whose hands The useful engine completed stands,-- The Artist, who, with unrivalled skill, Creations of loveliness forms at will,-- The Teacher, who sows in the minds of youth Seeds of precious undying truth,-- The pale-faced Student, who, worn with toil, Consumes o'er his studies the midnight oil,-- The man of Science, with earnest mind, Who toils to enlighten and bless mankind-- To themselves, their race, and their country true. Honor, all honor, to such is due!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

 "Time for bed!"--the weary day
With its toils has passed away
Sol has wrapped his forehead bright
In the curtains of the night,
And his glorious lamp again
Lowered behind the western main
Leaving all heaven's pure expanse
Radiant with his parting glance

    Just a few, faint stars are seen
Ranged around the midnight queen--
A select and glorious band
Who alone may waiting stand
Hound the monarch of the night,
Bearing up their urns of light,
Her majestic path to cheer
Till the shadows disappear.

    "Time for bed!" the folded flowers
Hang their heads in forest bowers;
Nestled in each downy nest
Day's sweet songsters calmly rest;
And the night-bird's plaintive hymn
Echoes through the forest dim;
Dew-drops on the birchen-bough
In the star-beams sparkle now,
Scarce a zephyr stirs the rose
So profound is Earth's repose.

    "Time for bed!" put by thy books,
Learner, with thy studious looks;--
Poet, lay the pen away,
Candle-light will spoil thy lay;--
Leave it till the morning hours
Come with sunshine to the flowers,--
Leave it till from shrub and tree
Birds pour forth their minstrelsy,--
Till the sun on wood and wold
Turns the drops of dew to gold,--
Till the bee comes forth to sip
Nectar from the flow'rets lip,--
Till the light-winged zephyrs wake
Dancing ripples on the lake,
And the cloudlets in the height
Don their fleecy robes of white;--
Then, with graceful Euterpe,
Seek the spreading greenwood tree,
And with joy, and light, and love,
AH around thee and above,
Tune thy lyre to praiseful mirth
With all happy things of Earth!

    "Time for bed!"--thou man of toil,
Why consume the midnight oil?--
Night was made for slumbers blest,
Thou art weary, therefore rest!

    "Time for bed!"--poor "Martha," thou
Long enough hast labored now;
All the day's bright hours are numbered,
Yet art thou "with toiling cumbered."
Lay that tedious work away
Till the blest return of day,--
Thou art care-worn and oppressed,
Thou art weary "Martha," rest!

    "Time for bed!"--shut up the stove,
To its place the table move,
Lay the books into their case,
Wheel the sofa to its place,
Wind the clock, brush up the floor,
Close the shutters, lock the door,
That will do--put out the light,
Toil and trouble, all good night!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

We had finished our pitiful morsel,     And both sat in silence a while; At length we looked up at each other.     And I said, with the ghost of a smile,-- "Only two little potatoes     And a very small crust of bread-- And then?"--"God will care for us, Lucy!"     John, quietly answering, said. "Yes, God will provide for us, Lucy!"     He said, after musing a while-- I'd been quietly watching his features     With a feeble attempt at a smile-- "For, 'trust in the Lord, and do good,'     Our Father in Heaven has said, 'So shalt thou dwell in the land,     And verily thou shalt be fed!'" Scarcely the words had he spoken,     When a faint, little tap at the door Surprised us,--for all the long morning     The rain had continued to pour. I am sure I shall never remember     The pelting and pitiless rain Of that desolate day in November,     Without a dull heart-throb of pain. For work had grown scarcer and scarcer,     Till there seemed not a job to be done; We had paid out our very last sixpence,     And of fuel and food we had none. John had tried--no one ever tried harder--     For work, but his efforts were vain; And I wondered all faith had not failed him     That morning when out in the rain. "Come in!" said John, speaking quite softly.     And opening the door a small space, For there stood a thin, little beggar     With such a blue, pitiful face! "O sir, if you please sir, I'm hungry,     Do give me a small bit of bread!" "Come in, then, you poor, little woman,     I am sure you are freezing!" John said. We each caught a hand cold and dripping,     And drew the poor trembler in; But she sank at our feet like a baby,     Half-frozen, and drenched to the skin. John ran for our last bit of fuel;     And I, to an old box, where lay Our own little Maggie's warm clothing,--     Our Maggie--dead many a day! I tore off her old, dripping tatters,     And rubbed her blue, shivering form; And then put those precious clothes on her,     And made her all glowing and warm. "O ma'am, if you please, I'm so hungry!"     Again the dear innocent said; So John brought our two cold potatoes     And our one little morsel of bread. "Here, take this,"--he said; and she snatched it,     And ate till the last bit was done; And we two looked on, never grudging     Our all to the famishing one. I looked up a half-minute after,     But John had slipped out in the rain; And the wind was still howling and raging     Like some great, cruel monster in pain. Soon the pale, little eyelids grew heavy,     And I watched till the weary one slept;-- Then I, a poor weak-hearted woman,     Held her closer, and oh, how I wept! With our fire all burned out to black ashes,--     Our very last bit of food gone,-- Poor John, too, out facing the tempest,--     And I left there shiv'ring alone! But the little, warm head on my bosom     Seemed so strangely like hers that I lost; And the soft, little hands I was holding,     So like the dear hands that I crossed In their last quiet rest,--and those garments--     Ah, those garments!--I mused till it seemed, I had got back my own little Maggie;--     And then, for long hours. I dreamed. "Why Lucy, my girl, you are sleeping!--     Come, rouse up, and get us some tea!"-- It was John, who'd returned, and was speaking--     "Poor wife, you're as cold as can be! See, here are some coals for the firing;     And here is a nice loaf of bread,-- A steak, and a morsel of butter,     Some tea and some sugar"--he said. "Nay now, do not ask any questions!--     Let me just lay this lammie in bed, And when we have had a nice supper,     I'll tell you, dear, all how it sped." And so, when the supper was over--     That supper!--I'll never forget The warm, glowing fire--oh, so cozy--     I can see every coal of it yet-- We knelt down, and John thanked the dear Father     For all He had sent us that day;-- Yes: e'en for thee dear, pretty baby     His own little lamb gone astray! And then, in a few words, John told me     Of his desperate walk in the storm-- Every minute believing, expecting,     That God would His promise perform;-- Of the merchant up town who had hailed him,     (One of his men being sick,) And hired him to run of a message;     And, because he'd been trusty and quick, Had trebled his wages, and told him     To come the next morning again; "Just because," added John, softly laughing,     "I'd been willing to work in the rain!" Well, long ere the morning dawned on us,     The child had grown frantic with pain; And for many long days she lay moaning     With the fever that burned in her brain. Every morning John prayed by her pillow,     Then went to his work; and I stayed, And kept my sad watch the long day through,     And at night he returned to my aid. At length the fierce struggle was over,     She lived, and we both were content, For we knew God had given her to us--     His lamb, through the wintry storm sent The fever had burned every record     Of home and friends out of her mind; And though we sought long, yet we never     Any traces of either could find. And so she grew up by our fireside,     And we called her--not Maggie--oh no!-- That name we had laid up in Heaven,     And no one must wear it below!-- But we just called her, Pet; and her husband     Calls her nothing but Pet to this day:-- She's a grown woman now, and a mother,     How swiftly the years glide away! Well, John never has lacked for employment,     And we never have wanted a home; We never said nay to a beggar,     Or refused one that asked it a crumb. Pet grew up a dear, loving woman--     "God's light in our house," John would say-- And when a good man came and took her,     He took us, too, the very same day. But here she comes now with the baby,     And grandmother never says nay; So here's a good bye to my story,     For baby has come for a play!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

Come home! come home! O loved and lost, we sigh Thus, ever, while the weary days go by, And bring thee not. We miss thy bright, young face, Thy bounding step, thy form of girlish grace,             Thy pleasant, tuneful voice,-- We miss thee when the dewy evening hours Come with their coolness to our garden, bowers,-- We miss thee when the warbler's tuneful lay Welcomes the rising glories of the day             And all glad things rejoice! Come home!--the vine that climbs our cottage eaves, Hath a low murmur 'mid its glossy leaves When the south wind sweeps by, that seems to be Too deeply laden with sad thoughts of thee--             Of thee, our absent one!-- The roses blossom, and their beauties die, And the sweet violet opes its pensive eye By thee unseen; and from the old, beech tree Thy robin pours his song unheard by thee,             Dally at set of sun! Dearest, come home! Thy harp neglected lies, Breathing no more its wonted melodies; Thy favourite books, unopened, in their case, Just as thy hands arranged them, keep their place,             And vacant is thy seat Beside the hearth. At the still hour of prayer Thou com'st no more with quiet, reverent air; And when, around the social board, each face Brings its warm welcome, there's one vacant place--             One smile we may not meet. Come home!--thy home was never wont to be A place where clouds might rest; yet, wanting thee, All pleasant scenes have dull and tasteless grown, And shadows lower-shadows, erewhile unknown             Of ever-deepening gloom. The halls where erst thy happy childhood played, The pleasant garden by thy fair hands made, The bower thy sunny presence made so fair, Are all unchanged,--yet grief is everywhere;--             Dear one, come home! Come home?--come home?--alas, what have I said? Beyond the stars, beloved, thy feet have sped! No more to press these garden paths with mine, Or walk beside my own at day's decline--             No more--no more to come To these old summer haunts! But I shall stay A little while; and then, at fall of day, I, too, like thee, shall sleep, and wake to see Thy Lord and mine, and so shall ever be             With Him and thee at home!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

The gliding years have rolled along,
    And once again we come,
With greeting hand and choral song,
    To our old college-home;--
Sweet college-home! dear college-home!
    We gladly gather here,
            Old friends to greet,
            Old faces meet,
    And sing our songs of cheer!

A welcome true for those we meet,
    For those we miss, a sigh;
Of some we ne'er again may greet,
    We speak with tearful eye;
Some rest with God, whose feet once trod
    These halls with ours of yore;
            And some there are
            Who wander far
    On many a distant shore!

God, bless and keep the ones who roam,
    And us who meet again;
And lit us each for that bright home
    Where comes no parting pain;--
Oh, aid us still, thro' good or ill
    Still earnest for the right,
            With spirits true,
            To dare and do,
    With Heaven and thee in sight!

And as the lingering years go by,
And changeful seasons come,
Still let thine eye rest lovingly
    On this old college-home;--
Sweet college-home! dear college-home!
    We gladly gather here,
            Old friends to meet,
            Old faces greet,
    And sing our songs of cheer!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

"Giving up three for one!"--mother,
    You said in the long ago,
When father, yourself, and John, mother,
    I left, o'er the deep to go.
"Giving up three for one!"--mother,
    You said, and it sank in my heart;
For tho' strong was my love for the one, mother,
    It was hard from the three to part.

But to-day, as I sit alone, mother,
    Rocking my little one's bed--
(Not Winnie's bed, dear, but her brother's--)
    I am thinking of what you said;
And a sweet thought glads my heart, mother--
    Can you guess what the thought can be?
'Tis, that tho' I'd but one in the start, mother,
    Yet now I have three for three.

Yes, three for three, my mother,
    God is good to your wandering child,
So far from her father and brother,
    And you, in this western wild!
And tho' her heart oftentimes yearneth
    For its loved ones over the sea,
Yet ever it gratefully turneth
    To its home-ties--three for three.

Aye, three for three, sweet mother,
    Say, am I not happy to-day?
Tho' something must ever be wanting,
    While far from you all away;--
Then thank the dear Lord, my mother,
    Who, afar o'er the lonely sea,
Is blessing your absent daughter,
    With home ties--three for three!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

Eloise! Eloise!
        It is morn on the seas,
And the waters are curling and flashing;
        And our rock-sheltered seat,
        Where the waves ever beat
With a cadenced and rhythmical dashing,
                Is here--just here,
                But I miss thee, dear!
And the sun-beams around me are flashing
        O seat, by the lonely sea,
        O seat, that she shared with me,
                Thou art all unfilled to day!
                And the plaintive, grieving main
                Hath a moan of hopeless pain
                That it had not yesterday.

                        Eloise! Eloise!
        It is noon; and the breeze
Through the shadowy woodland is straying;
        And our green, mossy seat,
        Where the flowers kissed thy feet
While the zephyrs around thee were playing,
                Is here--just here;
                But I miss thee, dear!
And the breezes around me are straying.
        O seat, by the greenwood tree,
        O seat, that she shared with me,
                Thou art all unfilled to-day!
                And the sighing, shivering leaves
                Have a voice like one that grieves
                That they had not yesterday.

                        Eloise! Eloise!
        It is eve; and the trees
With the gold of the sunset are glowing;
        And our low, grassy seat,
        With the brook at its feet
Ever singing, and rippling, and flowing,
                Is here--just here;
                But I miss thee, dear!
And the sunset is over me glowing.
        O seat, by the brooklet free,
        O seat, that she shared with me,
                Thou art all unfilled to-day!
                And the brook, to me alone,
                Hath a tender, grieving tone,
                That it had not yesterday.

                        Eloise! Eloise!
        It is night on the seas,
And the winds and the waters are sleeping;
        And the seat where we prayed,
        'Neath our home's blessed shade,
With the soft shadows over us creeping,
                Is here-just here;
                But I miss thee, dear!
And the drear night around me is sleeping.
        O seat, where she prayed of yore,
        O seat, where she prays no more,
                I am kneeling alone to-night!
                And the stern, unyielding grave
                Will restore not the gift I gave
                To its bosom yesternight.        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

"ALL PERSON'S HELD AS SLAVES, within said designated States and parts of States, ARE, AND HENCEFORWARD SHALL BE FREE!" --Proclamation of Emancipation, Jan. 1st, 1863.

"Shall be free! shall be free!"--lo, the strong winds have caught it,
    And borne it from hill top to hill top afar,
And echo to answering echo has taught it,
    Through the din of the conflict, the thunder of war!
It has flashed like the lightning from ocean to ocean,
    Across the black face of the skies it has blazed,
And strong men have thrilled with unwonted emotion,
    And shouted for joy as they listened and gazed!

"Shall be free! shall be free!"--the poor, manacled "chattel"
    Has caught the sweet word amid fetters and blows;
It has burst on his ear through the tumult of battle,
    Through the shoutings of friends and the cursings of foes;
And lifting his poor, fettered hands up to heaven,
    He has joined in the song that ascended to God;
Or, kneeling in trembling rapture, has given
    Thanksgiving to Him who has broken the rod!

"Shall be free! shall be free!"--there are ears that have listened,
    There are lips that have prayed through long, agonized years,
There are eyes that with hope's fitful radiance have glistened
    Yet, as hope was deferred, have grown heavy with tears
Joy! joy!--thou hast heard it at last, lonely weeper,
    Look up, for the prayer of thy anguish is heard.
Look up, ye bruised spirits, for God is your keeper,
    And the heart of His boundless compassion is stirred.

"Shall be free! shall be free!"--O Humanity, listen
    The Dawn that long since on the pale "Watcher" shone
Now higher, and brighter, and clearer has risen,
    As the Day star rides on toward the glories of noon.
Those words that rang out from the isles of the ocean,
    Sarmatia has echoed from mountain to sea
And America, from her red field of commotion,
    He echoes the same stirring words--"Shall be free!"

Hark!--all the wild air is astir with the tempest!
    The swift lightnings leap in red arrows on high!
Winds shriek to mad winds, and the hoarse thunder answer
    As it ploughs its dread path through the shuddering sky!
There are hisses of serpents, and howlings of demons,
    And moanings of anguish by land and by sea,
But, clearer than angel tones, high o'er the tumult,
    Rings out the glad utterance--"they shall be free!"

And lo! dimly seen, on the crest of the billow
    Lashed white by the storm, undismayed and serene,
Moves that form that once bent o'er the sufferer's pillow,
    And touched the dim eyes till strange glories were seen
And sweetly, to ears that will patiently listen,
    That voice which spake "peace" to turbulent sea,
Now speaks through the roar of the tempest uprisen,
    In tones unmistakable,--"THEY SHALL BE FREE!"        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

Good night, good night!--the day
Slowly has borne away,
                 Music and light;
Once more the starry train
Sweeps over vale and plain,
Soft falls the dews again--
                 Good night-good night!

Day's weary toils are done,
Set is the glorious sun,
                 Faded the light;--
Now, to the weary breast
Ever a welcome guest,--
Comes the sweet hour of rest--
                 Good night--good night!

Evening's cool shadows lie
Calmly o'er earth and sky;
                 And, from the height
Of the far, wooded hill,
Sends the lone whip-poor-will,
Softer and sweeter still,
                 Plaintive good night.

Gently let slumber lie
On every weary eye
                 Tired of the light!
E'en as the folded flowers
Sleep in the forest bowers,
Rest, through the silent hours--
                 Good night--good night!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

Laughing and singing
With rhythmical flow,
Leaping and springing,
O light-hearted Sault!--
Tossing up snowy hands
In thy glad play,
Shaking out dewy locks
Bright with the spray,--
Joyously ever
Thy bright waters go,
Yet wearying never,
O beautiful Sault!

    Kingly Superior
Leaps to thy arms,
And all his broad waters
Are bright with thy charms;
They sparkle, and glitter,
And flash in their play,
Chasing ripple and rainbow
Away and away!
Weary, I ween,
Of his solemn repose,
Gaily the mighty Flood
Flashes and glows;
And, buoyantly, brightly,
Fleet-footed or slow,
Doth dance with thee lightly,
Unwearying Sault!

    If I were a fairy
I'd dance with thee too,
Daily and nightly,
Unfalt'ring and true;--
In sunlight and starlight,
In darkness and day,
As free as the breezes,
As glad in our play!
We'd sing in the darkness,
We'd laugh in the light,
We'd whirl in the eddies
At noonday and night,--
We'd toss up the waters
In sunshine, to see
How they'd fling us back di'monds
And gold in their glee;--
Such amethysts, topazes,
Rubies and pearls,
As we'd strew o'er the tide
In our innocent whirls,
And never be lonely,
Or weariness know--
Ourselves, and us only--
O light-hearted Sault!

    Yet the dance is thine own,
And the song and the glee,
Thou dwellest alone,
Untrammelled and free
Our ships may not glide
O'er thy bosom,--our feet
May not trace out one path,
Or explore one retreat!
We may hollow our channels
To left or to right,
And glide on our way
With thy gambols in sight,
Yet this, and this only,
Of thee we may know,
Thou lone, but not lonely,
Free, fetterless Sault!

    Farewell, ye bright waters,--
We part, and for aye!--
My pathway leads on
O'er the billows away;--
These feet will grow weary
In life's busy mart,
These eyes be oft tear-dim,
And heavy this heart;
But thou wilt sing on
In thy joyous unrest,
Unchanging, unwearying,
Buoyant and blest
While the slow-footed centuries
Glide on their way,
And nations grow hoary,
And sink in decay,--
Thou, tireless and tameless,
Unchecked in thy flow,
Shalt sing on as ever,
O beautiful Sault!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

Before them lay the heaving deep
    Behind, the foemen pressed;
And every face grew dark with fear,
    And anguish filled each breast
Save one, the Leader's, he, serene,
    Beheld, with dauntless mind,
The restless floods before them seen.
    The foe that pressed behind.
"Why hast thou brought us forth for this?"
    The people loudly cry;--
"Were there no graves in Egypt's land,
    That here we come to die?"
But calm and clear above the din
    Arose the prophet's word,--
"Stand still! stand still!--and ye shall see
    The salvation of the Lord!"

"Fear not!--the foes whom now you see,
    Your eyes no more shall view!--
Peace to your fears!--your fathers' God
    This day shall fight for you;
For Egypt, in her haughty pride
    And stubbornness abhorred,
This day, in bitterness shall learn,
    Jehovah is the Lord!"

He spake; and o'er the Red Sea's flood
    He stretched his awful wand,
And lo! the startled waves retired,
    Abashed, on either hand;
And like a mighty rampart rose
    To guard the narrow way
Mysterious, that before the hosts
    Of ransomed Israel lay!

Oh! strange and solemn was the road
    Which they were called to tread,
With myst'ries of the ancient deep
    Around their footsteps spread,--
With ocean's unknown floor laid bare
    Before their wondering eyes,
And the strange, watery wall that there
    On either hand did rise!

Yet fearlessly, with steadfast faith,
    Their Leader led them on;
While, from behind, a heavenly light
    Through the dread passage shone;--
Light for that lone and trembling band
    Gleamed out with radiance clear,
While Egypt's host came groping on
    Through darkness dense and drear!

'Tis past; and on Arabia's coast
    The tribes of Israel stand,
While fierce and fast Egyptia's host
    Approach that quiet strand;--
Though darkness, like a funeral pall,
    Hangs o'er that dreary path,
Still on they desperately press
    In bitterness and wrath.

Then slowly, once again, arose
    The Hebrew prophet's hand,
And o'er the waiting deep outstretched
    Once more that awful wand;--
The rushing waters closed in might
    Above that pathway lone,
And Pharaoh, in his haughty pride,
    And all his hosts were gone!

Wail, Egypt, wail!--thy kingly crown
    Is humbled in the dust!
And thou, though late, art forced to own
    That Israel's God is just!
And thou, O Israel, lift thy voice
    In one triumphant song
Of praise to Him in whom alone
    Thy feeble arm is strong!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

    Merrily!
                    Merrily!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
What can the meaning of these things be?
Tiniest buds and leaflets green--
Who shall tell me what these things mean?
                    Merrily!
                    Merrily!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Much I guess they were meant for me!

                    Tsu-ert!
                    Tsu-ert!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
So I shall eat them up you see
Somebody, somewhere, is kindly stirred
To think of me, a poor, brown bird!--
                    Merrily!
                    Merrily!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Somebody, somewhere, thinks of me!

                    Tsu-ert!
                    Tsu-ert!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
"A gentle lady?"--and can it be?--
Say it again, 'tis a pleasant word,
Thinking of me, your poor, brown bird!--
                    Merrily!
                    Merrily!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Bless the lady that thinks of me

                    Tsu-ert!
                    Tsu-ert!
         Tschee: tschee! tschee!
So I shall eat them up, you see!
Hi, a nip here! and ho, a nip there!
Bless me, mistress, how sweet they are!
                    Merrily!
                    Merrily!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Bless the lady who thinks of me!

                    Tsu-ert!
                    Tsu-ert!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Merrily, merrily, let it be!--
Hi, a nip here! and ho, a nip there!
Over, under, everywhere!
                    Merrily!
                    Merrily!
         Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Somebody, somewhere, thinks of me!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

   "Dr. Reid, a traveller through the highlands of Peru, is said to have found in the desert of Alcoama the dried remains of an assemblage of human beings, five or six hundred in number, men, women, and children, seated in a semicircle as when alive, staring into the burning waste before them. It would seem that, knowing the Spanish invaders were at hand, they had come hither with a fixed intention to die. They sat immoveable in that dreary desert, dried like mummies by the hot air, still sitting as if in solemn council, while over that Areopagus silence broods everlastingly."

With dull and lurid skies above,
    And burning wastes around,
A lonely traveller journeyed on
    Through solitudes profound;
No wandering bird's adventurous wing
    Paused o'er that cheerless waste,
No tree across those dreary sands
    A welcome shadow cast.

With scorching, pestilential breath
    The desert-blast swept by,
And with a fierce, relentless glare
    The sun looked from on high;
Yet onward still, though worn with toil,
    The eager wand'rer pressed,
While hope lit up his dauntless eye,
    And nerved his fainting breast.

Why paused he in his onward course?--
    Why held his shuddering breath?--
Why gazed he with bewildered eye,
    As on the face of death?
Before him sat in stern array,
    All hushed as if in dread,
Yet still, and passionless, and calm,
    A concourse of the dead!

Across the burning waste they stared
    With glazed and stony eye,
As if strange fear had fixed erewhile
    Their gaze on vacancy;
And woe and dread on every brow
    In changeless lines were wrought,--
Sad traces of the anguish deep
    That filled their latest thought!

They seemed a race of other time,
    O'er whom the desert's blast,
For many a long and weary age,
    In fiery wrath had passed;
Till, scathed and dry, each wasted form
    Its rigid aspect wore,
Unchanged, though centuries had passed
    The lonely desert o'er.

Was it the clash of foreign arms--
    Was it the invader's tread,--
From which this simple-minded race
    In wildest terror fled,--
Choosing, amid the desert-sands,
    Scorched by the desert's breath,
Rather than by the invaders' steel,
    To meet the stroke of death?

And there they died--a free-born race--
    From their proud hills away,
While round them in its lonely pride
    The far, free desert lay
And there, unburied, still they sit,
    All statute like and cold,
Free, e'en in death, though o'er their homes
    Oppression's tide has rolled!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Christian Poem

John Littlewit, friends, was a credulous man.
                In the good time long ago,
Ere men had gone wild o'er the latter-day dream
Of turning the world upside down with steam,
Or of chaining the lightning down to a wire,
And making it talk with its tongue of fire.

He was perfectly sure that the world stood still,
            And the sun and moon went round;--
He believed in fairies, and goblins ill,
And witches that rode over vale and hill
On wicked broom-sticks, studying still
            Mischief and craft profound.

"What a fool was John Littlewit!" somebody cries;--
                Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please!
        A humble man was John Littlewit--
                    A gentle, loving man;
He clothed the needy, the hungry fed,
Pitied the erring, the faltering led,
Joyed with the joyous, wept with the sad,
Made the heart of the widow and orphan glad,
And never left for the lowliest one
An act of kindness and love undone;--
        And when he died, we may well believe
                God's blessed angels bore
John Littlewit's peaceful soul away
To the beautiful Heaven for which we pray,
Where the tree of knowledge blooms for aye,
        And ignorance plagues no more.

Squire Loftus, friends, was a cultured man,
            You knew him-so did I:
He had studied the "Sciences" through and through,
Had forgotten far more than the ancients knew,
            Yet still retained enough
To demonstrate clearly that all the old,
Good, practical Bible-truths we hold
            Are delusion, nonsense, stuff!

He could show that the earth had begun to grow
Millions and millions of ages ago;
That man had developed up and out
From something Moses knew nothing about,--
Held with Pope that all are but parts of a whole
Whose body is Nature, and God its Soul;--
And, since he was a part of that same great whole,
Then the soul of all Nature was also his soul;--
Or, more plainly--to be not obscure or dim--
That God had developed Himself in him:--
That what is called Sin in mankind, is not so,
But is just misdirection, all owing, you know,
To defectiveness either of body or brain,
Or both, which the soul is not thought to retain,--
In the body it acts as it must, but that dead
All stain from the innocent soul will have fled!

"How wise was Squire Loftus!" there's somebody cries;--
            Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please;
His wisdom was that of the self-deceived fool
Who quits the clear fount for the foul, stagnant pool,
Who puts out his eyes lest the light he descry,
Then shouts 'mid the gloom "how clear-sighted am I!"
Who turns from the glorious fountain of Day,
To follow the wild ignis fatuus' ray
Through quagmire and swamp, ever farther astray,
            With every step that he takes.

But he died as he lived; and the desolate night
He had courted and loved better far than the light,
Grew more and more dark, till he passed from our sight,
            And what shall I say of him more?--
Give me rather John Littlewit's questionless faith,
To illume my lone path through the valley of death--
The arm that he leaned on, the mansion of light
That burst through the gloom on his kindling sight,
            And I'll leave the poor sceptic his lore!--
Let me know only this--I was lost and undone,
But am saved by the blood of the Crucified One,
            And I'm wise although knowing no more!        - Mrs. J. C. Yule

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I do not undertake to say
That literal answers come from Heaven,
But I know this--that when I pray
A comfort, a support is given
That helps me rise o'er earthly things
As larks soar up on airy wings.

In vain the wise philosopher
Points out to me my fabric's flaws,
In vain the scientists aver
That "all things are controlled by laws."
My life has taught me day by day
That it availeth much to pray.

I do not stop to reason out
The why and how. I do not care,
Since I know this, that when I doubt,
Life seems a blackness of despair,
The world a tomb; and when I trust,
Sweet blossoms spring up in the dust.

Since I know in the darkest hour,
If I lift up my soul in prayer,
Some sympathetic, loving Power
Sends hope and comfort to me there.
Since balm is sent to ease my pain,
What need to argue or explain?

Prayer has a sweet, refining grace,
It educates the soul and heart.
It lends a lustre to the face,
And by its elevating art
It gives the mind an inner sight
That brings it near the Infinite.

From our gross selves it helps us rise
To something which we yet may be.
And so I ask not to be wise,
If thus my faith is lost to me.
Faith, that with angel's voice and touch
Says, "Pray, for prayer availeth much."

- Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Who calleth?

Who calleth?--Thy Father calleth,
Run, O Daughter, to wait on Him:
He Who chasteneth but for a season
Trims thy lamp that it burn not dim.

Who calleth?--Thy Master calleth,
Sit, Disciple, and learn of Him:
He Who teacheth wisdom of Angels
Makes thee wise as the Cherubim,

Who calleth?--Thy Monarch calleth,
Rise, O Subject, and follow Him:
He is stronger than Death or Devil,
Fear not thou if the foe be grim.

Who calleth?--Thy Lord God calleth.
Fall, O Creature, adoring Him:
He is jealous, thy God Almighty,
Count not dear to thee life or limb.

Who calleth?--Thy Bridegroom calleth,
Soar, O Bride, with the Seraphim:
He Who loves thee as no man loveth,
Bids thee give up thy heart to Him.

- Christina G. Rossetti

Poem

Living for Christ, I die;--how strange, that I,
Thus dying, live,--and yet, thus living, die!
Living for Christ, I die;-yet wondrous thought,
In that same death a deathless life is wrought;--
Living, I die to Earth, to self, to sin;--
Oh, blessed death, in which such life I win!

Dying for Christ, I live!--death cannot be
A terror, then, to one from death set free'
Living for Christ, rich blessings I attain,
Yet, dying for Him, mine is greater gain
Life for my Lord, is death to sin and strife,
Yet death for Him is everlas'ing life!

Dying for Christ, I live!--and yet, not I,
But He lives in me, who did for me die.
I die to live,--He lives to die no more,
Who, in His death my own death-sentence bore
"To live is Christ," if Christ within me reign,
To die more blessed, since "to die is gain!"

- Mrs. J. C. Yule

Book Club

I gotta tell ya, I wasn't looking forward to yesterday's trip to the DMV,BUT, I gotta say, it ended very well! I ended up going to a local car dealership here, that also has a DMV inside it and I was literally out in three minutes! I'm NOT kidding! I have to say, I was stunned myself! So, I know where I'm going from now on. :-)
I'm still writing my memoirs, and they will be published soon, but after some requests, I have decided to publish a book of my poems first. It seems that I have been asked to do a couple of projects, so I'm trying to get them all done, soon, I hope. I have also decided to start a "book of the month" club on here, and my website:
www.angelawilliamsauthor.weebly.com

I have literally my own library, and I am always being asked what I thought of this book or that one, after I've read it,I read, ALOT, so I thought it would be a fun thing to do. I will be posting a report on one I just finished soon. Hopefully within the next week.