Verses and Rhymes by the way | Page 9

away, Who only can heal
up the wound, Give answer while I pray!
Do Thou send comfort down, All goodness as Thou art, Even in Thy
last passion, Thou Didst soothe a mother's heart.
I would not take her back, From Thee, from Heaven and bliss, Though
yearning for her twining arms, And happy loving kiss
I miss her bounding step, Her voice of bird like glee, Yet thank Thee I
had such a child To give her back to Thee
Father, my child! my child, Is laid beneath the sod! and, oh! with
quivering lips I try To kiss the chastening rod
Father, Thy will be done Oh make my will the same! And teach me in

this trying hour, To glorify Thy name.

SERVANTS.
They are but servants, say the words of scorning, As though they meant
to say, we're finer clay, Yet, all the universe holds solemn warning,
Against this pride in creatures of a day
In fashion's last new folly, flaunting slowly, With white plumes tossing
on the Sabbath air They pass with scornful words a sister lowly. Do
scornful lips know anything of prayer?
Alas! poor human nature's inconsistence, Up to God's house we go, that
we be fed; And there, as beggars begging for assistance, Say "Give us,
Lord, this day our daily bread."
Without a price, the priceless blessings buying Which are laid up for us,
with Christ in God; To Him we come as little children crying, That He
may guide us by His staff and rod,
We leave His presence on the Sabbath morning, Feeling forgiven,
feeling satisfied; Then pass our lowlier sisters full of scorning Ruffling
ourselves as those that dwell in pride.
Yet He to whom we come with wishes fervent, When He came down as
bearing our relief, It was His will to come in form a servant, Being
despised, being acquaint with grief
Earth's mighty conquerors, it is said, have founded Orders of merit,
after fields were won. And victors' brows the laurel wreath surrounded,
To tell of daring deeds most bravely done.
Trifles as fading as the classic laurel, Became the guerdon of each
mighty deed, Titles and stars rewarded mortal peril, And men for such
as these would gladly bleed
But He, our holy, sinless, suffering Saviour, When He sat down upon a
conqueror's throne, Ordained the soldiers of the cross that ever They
wear the name in which He victory won
Servants to do all things He hath commanded, To bear the service
which our Lord has borne, To suffer for His name, with false words
branded, To pay with loving service bitter scorn
What was beforetime low, is now the highest, And that is glory that the
world calls shame, Those who can say "I serve" to Him are nighest
Because the Son hath worn a servant's name
Lift up your heads heed not the words of scorning, From those whose

earnest life is not begun, Blessed are they who on the judgment
morning Hear from the Master, "Servant, 'tis well done"

ALAS, MY BROTHER!
(P McD)
We waited for him, and the anxious days Melted to years and floated
slowly by We spoke of him kind words of lofty praise, Of yearning
love and tender sympathy.
We laid by what was his with reverent care-- Started in dreams to greet
him coming home-- But hope deferred left no relief but prayer, And
heart-sore longings breathed in one word--Come.
We never dreamed of murderous ambush laid By savage redskins
greedy for the prey-- Of him, our darling, in the forest laid Alone, alone,
ebbing his life away.
He who would not have harmed the meanest thing, Who carried
gentleness to such excess That, to the stranger and the suffering, His
purse meant help, his touch was a caress.
Ah me! that cruel far off land of gold, That lured him off beyond the
ocean foam, To roam a stranger among strangers cold-- His blank life
only cheered by news from home.
The home that he was never more to see, While yet his heart was
planning his return, Short, sharp and swift the message came, and he
Passed to his long home o'er the mystic bourne.
And while we watched for him the grass was green Upon his grave,
swept by the summer air; There grow strange flowers--passes the
hunter keen, The stately caribou and grizly bear.
But never more his mother's eyes he'll bless, Or with a fond embrace
his sisters meet; No brother's hand will he in welcome press, Nor his
hound's bay tell of his coming feet.
To us remains the mourner's _never more_, And aching hearts and eyes
with sorrow dim; Thou who at Bethany their sorrow bore, Draw nigh
us also while we weep for him.

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