Library Collections: Document: Full Text

Oh, let not our hearts be troubled,
But trust our Redeemer's love,
Who kindly now is preparing
A mansion for us above;
Not here is our home, but yonder,
Not here is our rest, but there,
Where Jesus our Lord bath beckoned
Our beautiful Baby Clare.

Though Papa will miss his darling,
So gentle and pure and sweet,
And "Dan-ma" will hear no longer
The tread of her tiny feet,
Oh, think of the blest reunion,
No parting nor pain is there,
But safe in the arms of Jesus
Is our beautiful Baby Clare.

A TRIBUTE
(To the Memory of Col. Samuel B. Sumner)

It cannot be, and yet the low sad moan
Of midnight winds with melancholy tone
A requiem chant, that from his tomb they bore;
Weep gentle muse for Sumner is no more.
Yet he doth live, no heart so kind as he,
So brave and noble can forgotten be.
Immortal genius and heroic fame,
With sparkling jewels, crown our poet's name:
True to the land of his ancestral birth,
He sang her praise in strains of peerless worth;
Held up her flag in battle's dread affray,
Through many a weary march and toil-worn day;
And on the field, as oft his comrades tell,
He did his duty, and he did it well.
His end was calm as evening's sunset glow,
How like to hers, who three short years ago
Looked in his face, then closed her tranquil eye,
And in that look bade those she loved, "good bye."
Perchance 'twas she who came on pinions bright
Or floating downward on a beam of light,
Drew him away to that sweet realm above,
Life's Great Beyond, its paradise of love.
O, hearts bereaved, there is a morn of peace,
When every wave and every storm shall cease;
A world of joy without one throb of pain,
A home of bliss where loved ones meet again,
O kindred spirit, rest; thy work is o'er,
Thy lips are mute, thy harp resounds no more
Yet will its echoes come at hush of night,
When silver stars unveil their pensive light,
And we shall hope in heaven with thee to dwell,
Where they who meet shall never say farewell.

IN EDEN'S VALE OF FLOWERS
(Affectionately dedicated to my nephew and niece Mr. and Mrs. William Tait, on the death of their infant son, Morris William Tait, August, 1893.)

I know you are sad and lonely,
Through tears I hear you say:
"From Papa, Mamma and Mary
Our boy has gone away:
Our boy like the ivy clinging
Around each breaking heart,
Our dear little baby, Morris,
'Tis hard from him to part."

Oh, yes, but your precious darling
In yonder home of rest,
Is "safe in the arms of Jesus,"
"Safe on His gentle breast"
And, oh, could the vail be lifted,
That hides your babe so fair,
How soon you would lose forever
The cross that now you bear!

I know of a beautiful garden,
Where He, our Lord and King,
Came down with the blush of the morning
The dew of love to bring;
And, seeing a pure white lily,
Too frail for earthly bowers,
He carried it in His bosom
To Eden's vale of flowers.

Oh, think what a radiant picture
What joy its light portrays,
Our Saviour is tender hearted,
And kind in all His ways;
Though sometimes the paths before us,
With clouds are dark and dim,
'Tis only that He may draw us
In closer bonds to Him.

Not so far is the silent river,
Not far is the golden shore,
Not long till we shall gather,
Where parting comes no more;

There music from harps and voices,
Rolls on in tuneful strain,
Where Papa, Mamma and Mary
Will clasp their boy again.

A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE

Unselfish, noble, true and constant friend,
Take thou my greeting on thy birthday morn,
That breaks resplendent from the orient sky,
With hope and promise of a golden year,
Sweet as the echo of the crystal bells,
That sing responsive to the angels' song;
I hear the music of the sacred nine,
For they would usher in this welcome hour,
And waft this tribute on the vernal breeze.
One little sparkling gem today I bring,
A gem whose lustre will forever shine,
I found it in an urn by friendship sealed,
And closely guarded by her watchful eye;
Her gift and mine to crown thy natal morn;
Accept it then, and may it breathe for thee
In words I would not have the power to speak
What thou hast been and what thou art to me.

A REVERIE

The winds a carol murmur, soft and low,
While silver stars, that gem the arch of nights
In answering tones, repeat the choral strain:
Sleep on, O minstrel, calm be thy repose,

Pure as thy spirit, guileless as thy heart;
May golden dreams of past and future years,
Of deeds accomplished, laurels nobly won,
Beguile thy slumber with their magic power,
And bear thee onward to the classic vales,
Where thou in thought bast wandered o'er and o'er,
Hast laved thy brow in sweet Arcadian springs,
And caught the music of Apollo's lyre:
Sleep on, O minstrel, angels guard thy rest,
Till in her chariot drawn by flaming steeds,
Comes the fair goddess of the blushing morn,
And in her beauty smiling bids thee wake.

1903

NIGHT AND MORNING

Lo, the vesper hour hath flown,
Voices of the dewy night
Hold me captive with delight
To their mystic tone.

Strangely wild, yet passing sweet,
Falls their music on my ear,
While a fountain soft and dear
Murmurs at my feet.