Poems | Page 5

joy and woe.
May the memory of the giver
In this home where age may rest,?Float like fragrance through the ages,
Ever blessing, ever blest.
12 A DOUBLE STANDARD.
When the gates of pearl are opened
May we there this friend behold,?Drink with him from living fountains,
Walk with him the streets of gold.
When life's shattered cords of music
Shall again be sweetly sung;?Then our hearts with life immortal,
Shall be young, forever young.
A DOUBLE STANDARD.
Do you blame me that I loved him?
If when standing all alone?I cried for bread a careless world
Pressed to my lips a stone.
Do you blame me that I loved him,
That my heart beat glad and free,?When he told me in the sweetest tones
He loved but only me?
Can you blame me that I did not see
Beneath his burning kiss?The serpent's wiles, nor even hear
The deadly adder hiss?
A DOUBLE STANDARD. 13
Can you blame me that my heart grew cold
The tempted, tempter turned;?When he was feted and caressed
And I was coldly spurned?
Would you blame him, when you draw from
me?Your dainty robes aside,?If he with gilded baits should claim
Your fairest as his bride?
Would you blame the world if it should press
On him a civic crown;?And see me struggling in the depth
Then harshly press me down?
Crime has no sex and yet to-day
I wear the brand of shame;?Whilst he amid the gay and proud
Still bears an honored name.
Can you blame me if I've learned to think
Your hate of vice a sham,?When you so coldly crushed me down
And then excused the man?
Would you blame me if to-morrow
The coroner should say,
14 A DOUBLE STANDARD.
A wretched girl, outcast, forlorn,
Has thrown her life away?
Yes, blame me for my downward course,
But oh! remember well,?Within your homes you press the hand
That led me down to hell.
I'm glad God's ways are not our ways
He does not see as man;?Within His love I know there's room
For those whom others ban.
I think before His great white throne,
His throne of spotless light,?That whited sepulchres shall wear
The hue of endless night.
That I who fell, and he who sinned,
Shall reap as we have sown;?That each the burden of his loss
Must bear and bear alone.
No golden weights can turn the scale
Of justice in His sight;?And what is wrong in woman's life
In man's cannot be right.
OUR HERO. 15
OUR HERO.
Onward to her destination,
O'er the stream the Hannah sped,?When a cry of consternation
Smote and chilled our hearts with dread.
Wildly leaping, madly sweeping,
All relentless in their sway,?Like a band of cruel demons
Flames were closing 'round our way
Oh! the horror of those moments;
Flames above and waves below--?Oh! the agony of ages
Crowded in one hour of woe.
Fainter grew our hearts with anguish
In that hour with peril rife,?When we saw the pilot flying,
Terror-stricken, for his life.
Then a man uprose before us--
We had once despised his race--?But we saw a lofty purpose
Lighting up his darkened face.
16 OUR HERO.
While the flames were madly roaring,
With a courage grand and high,?Forth he rushed unto our rescue,
Strong to suffer, brave to die.
Helplessly the boat was drifting,
Death was staring in each face,?When he grasped the fallen rudder,
Took the pilot's vacant place.
Could he save us? Would he save us?
All his hope of life give o'er??Could he hold that fated vessel
'Till she reached the nearer shore?
All our hopes and fears were centered
'Round his strong, unfaltering hand;?If he failed us we must perish,
Perish just in sight of land.
Breathlessly we watched and waited
While the flames were raging fast;?When our anguish changed to rapture--
We were saved, yes, saved at last.
Never strains of sweetest music
Brought to us more welcome sound
THE DYING BONDMAN. 17
Than the grating of that steamer
When her keel had touched the ground.
But our faithful martyr hero
Through a fiery pathway trod,?Till he laid his valiant spirit
On the bosom of his God.
Fame has never crowned a hero
On the crimson fields of strife,?Grander, nobler, than that pilot
Yielding up for us his life.
THE DYING BONDMAN.
Life was trembling, faintly trembling?On the bondman's latest breath,?And he felt the chilling pressure?Of the cold, hard hand of Death.
He had been an Afric chieftain,?Worn his manhood as a crown;?But upon the field of battle?Had been fiercely stricken down.
18 THE DYING BONDMAN.
He had longed to gain his freedom,?Waited, watched and hoped in vain,?Till his life was slowly ebbing--?Almost broken was his chain.
By his bedside stood the master,?Gazing on the dying one,?Knowing by the dull grey shadows?That life's sands were almost run.
"Master," said the dying bondman,?"Home and friends I soon shall see;?But before I reach my country,?Master write that I am free;
"For the spirits of my fathers?Would shrink back from me in pride,?If I told them at our greeting?I a slave had lived and died;
"Give to me the precious token,?That my kindred dead may see--?Master! write it, write it quickly!?Master! write that I am free!"
At his earnest plea the master?Wrote for him the glad release,
"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." 19
O'er his wan and wasted features?Flitted one sweet smile of peace.
Eagerly he grasped the writing;?"I am free!" at last he said.?Backward