Life (Chant Version) — Life - Read by TM

LIFE

Our lives seem filled with things of little worth;

A thousand petty cares arise each day Which bring our soaring thoughts from heaven to earth, Reminding us that we have feet of clay;

Yet we will not from path of duty stray If we amidst them all cleave to the right;

Nor great nor small are actions in His sight;

Through lowly vale He shows our feet the way.

Our early dreams may not be realized;

The roseate sky now proves quite commonplace;

The constellations we so highly prized Have vanished all--nor left the slightest trace Of former glory in its azure face, But high o'er all beams out the polar star To guide us safe through rock and sandy bar;

Life is complete and its cap-stone is grace.

TO MR.

RUDYARD KIPLING[1]

True laureate of the Anglo-Saxon race, Whose words have won the hearts of young and old;

So free from cant, and yet replete with grace, Or prose or verse it glows like burnished gold;

Thy muse is ever loyal to the truth, And those who know thee best forget thy youth.

Unbend thy bow and rest with us awhile;

Thy active mind requires a healthy brain;

Death's shadow has gone back upon the dial, And thou art left a higher goal to gain;

The future will eclipse the brilliant past;

Fear not; thy ideal will be reached at last.

To do the grandest work one must needs be Endowed by Nature for the master task;

Yea more, he must possess the light to see Those mysteries which nature seems to mask, And this can gain but in the royal way-- 'Tis dread experience leads from gloom to-day.

The Master saw a struggling youth, and smiled, Pleased with his work in main; but, knowing too His latent power, if it could be beguiled From hiding-place, much greater work would do, He took His servant's hand and led the way Through vale of sorrow up to brighter day.

By other path this height is ne'er attained, Nor books nor schools its hidden wealth unveil.

Philosophy and art have treasures gained, But in this quest they must forever fail-- Experience only can the gift impart, Bring needed light and regulate the heart.

To solace those who grieve one must have felt In his own heart the rending pangs of pain;

The heart that suffers not will never melt At others' woes, though free from selfish stain;

What we have felt and seen we truly know, And thus endowed, our tears for others flow.

So leave thy much-loved lyre awhile unstrung Till health again invigorate thy frame;

With brain renewed, with vigorous heart and lung Take up thy work once more, and greater fame-- A richer man by far than e'er before, For thou hast treasure on the other shore.

[Footnote 1: These lines were written directly after Mr. Kipling's recovery from severe illness.

] MEN BELOW DECK

The battleship its anchor weighs, And belches forth its thunder;

Its commodore all classes praise, And at his victories wonder;

And well they may--for braver man Ne'er wielded sword or sabre;

But tell me, brother, if you can, Who did the lowly labor.

Below the deck in engine-room, As oilers and coal-heavers?

Amidst the smut and ghastly gloom, Who worked the iron levers?

And thus it is in other lines;

Brave men are often hidden "Below the deck," in shops and mines, To higher plane unbidden.

The men on deck the praise receive, But meagre thanks the others;

As honest men they seldom grieve, And envy not their brothers;

A common cause they gladly serve, Though in a lowly station, From path of duty never swerve-- Loyal to God and nation.

For when the smoke has cleared away, And din of battle ended, On upper deck, in bright array, By angel bands attended, The whole ship's crew will then appear, From high and lowly station, And each the words "well done" shall hear, 'Midst shouts of acclamation.

"OTHERS SAVE WITH FEAR" Some men there are who stand so straight, So equipoised, that others' fate Seems to depend on their behest;

And useless all our every quest To gain perfection or renown, Unless we touch the flowing gown Of these high-priests, whose shadows fall Within themselves, if fall at all.

Others are not as straight as these, But more like rough and gnarled trees;

But little beauty they display;

Shadows they cast across the way;

And from them men with scorning turn, Or, if they speak, their accents burn Like capsicum on chafed skin, And leave a smarting wound within.

Once noble men, when turned aside By fleshly lust or sinful pride, Each one becomes a broken bell On which the angry fiends of hell Ring out their discord, harsh and loud, As if with demon powers endowed.

Colossal once through grace they were;

Colossal still, though cleft and bare.

On northern rocks is often seen The impress of some southern sheen, The brightness of a warmer bloom, Unknown to winter's frost and gloom.

The fossil flower of epoch fair Has left its lasting impress there.

So in some men whose hearts are cold You find a trace of days of old.

While we deplore the Arctic chill, The frigid heart, the ice-bound will, We must admire the fossil trace, Still seen, of early days of grace.

Hiding from sight as best we can The traces of the fallen man, We feast our eyes upon the fair, Though fossil, lines that linger there.

How to restore is our concern, As we o'er their declensions mourn.

Can such dire ruin be repaired?

Only if God's strong arm be bared.

But we must do a brother's part, And try to thaw the frozen heart;

Not by the fire of wrath above, But by the melting coals of love.

As bullets smooth are farther shot, Because rough angles they have not, So gentle ways and loving speech Are sure the erring heart to reach, While jagged deeds and words unkind, Like pebbles rough, much friction find;

They fall before they reach the goal, And seldom help the needy soul.

To truth be loyal, but take a care That with true zeal _tact_ have a share.

The lightning when it strikes the tree Runs with the grain, as oft you see;

Those who at angling are adepts, Choose well their bait and guard their steps;

So if you would the sinner gain, Bait well your hook, or mark the grain.

TREAD SOFTLY

In the courts of truth tread softly, Though your tread be firm and bold;

Your steps may awaken echoes, Resounding through years untold.

The trend of the age is onward, And you should not lag behind;

If men's minds are bound with fetters, Perchance you may some unbind.

Our creed, say you, needs revising, In line with the growth of light;

Be sure you have made real progress Before you assume the right, By stroke of pen, to unsettle The faith of the long ago;

For many who err in judgment Stand fast to the truth they know.

You bring from the mine rare jewels, That you think the world should see;

But, perhaps, their estimation With your own may not agree;

They may lack discrimination, And their worth may not discern;

So polish them at your leisure, And give the world time to learn.

Before you dig up the old tree That sheltered in ages past The earth's noblest men and women From the fury of the blast, See that your sapling is rooted, And no borer at its base, And its boughs both strong and spreading, To cover an erring race.

Bear down on the lever gently, Or the rock may be o'erturned!

Or, perchance, your lever shattered, And little experience learned!

Take time to adjust your fulcrum, Then thrust home your iron bar;

Bear down and the rock is lifted, Is lifted without a jar.

Your views are, perhaps, exotic-- Young shoots from a tropic brain, They need to be better rooted To endure the wind and rain;

You may well admire the markings On each graceful stem and leaf, But if taken from the hot-house, They will surely come to grief.

Before they have wholly perished They may please admiring eyes, The old be thrown on the dunghill, To receive your floral prize;

They adorn the porch and window, And brighten the wayside bed, But we waken some summer morning To find our new treasures dead.

'Tis better to make haste slowly, Than to antedate your day;

The farmer waits for the sunshine, To transmute the grass to hay.

When the fields are ripe for harvest Fear neither the heat or rain, But thrust in your sharpened sickle, And gather the golden grain.

"IT WAS MY FAULT"[2] Those men are deemed heroes who rush on the foe Regardless of danger, and seek not to know What others may do;

Stern duty demands it--why should they falter If all they hold dear is laid on the altar, And conscience be true?

The greatest of all is the man who can say When battle is over and foe gained the day, "The fault was in me: My plan miscarried through miscalculation;

On me rests the blame, and not on the nation: My soldiers are free."

In George Stewart White, and men of like mind, Our nation can rest, for in them you will find A true manliness;

Their failures acknowledged are failures no more;

Defeat to such men only opens the door To future success.

[Footnote 2: General White's words.

] KEPT THE FLAG FLOATING

"Thank God, we have kept the flag floating."

--_General White.

_ Some men, like French, display much dash;

They boldly rush upon the foe, Their sword-blades like the lightning flash, As they on helm or hauberk clash;

Nor fear the foeman's blow.

We praise them for their gallant deeds;

They are the men the Empire needs.

But true as they are those who stand Within the fort beleaguered round;

Resources few at their command, Their army but a feeble band, Yet bravely hold their ground;

And o'er their blood-bespattered coats The Union Jack in triumph floats.

Reduced their strength through lack of food, And fever germs on vitals preyed;

Yet they o'er trouble did not brood, By night or day of cheerful mood;

This burden on them weighed-- To keep the flag afloat--in brief, Till Buller came to their relief.

Brave White, accept our meed of praise!

We crown thee equal to the best Of heroes of the olden days, Whose deeds inspired the poets' lays!

We need no further quest;

But this with gratitude we note, Thy valour kept the flag afloat!

Valor like thine does not surprise When we review thy noble past;

A hero is the one who tries, Though he may not to ideal rise-- His plan may fail at last-- Yet is too brave to lay the blame On others, but takes all the shame.

"The fault was mine," thy language then, Revealing the divinest grace Possessed by truly noble men, And, prophecy of triumph, when With foe brought face to face, The choice remains, defeat or death, The flag will float till latest breath.

MARY

She brought her alabaster flask Well-filled with precious nard;

Nor did she deem the act a task, Nor look for great reward;

She only thought of His great love, And felt her gift was small For Him who left His home above To suffer death for all.

But her blest Lord more highly prized The loving heart that gave;

For loveless gifts are e'er despised, Yet men oft seek to pave The way that leads to glory land With deeds devoid of grace;

But only those who love can stand Approved before His face.

A WORLD REDEEMED

This world is but the shadow Of the world that is to be, A ripple on the surface Of a deep, unfathomed sea.

God's plans are always perfect, But long ages intervene From the planning of the temple To the glow upon its sheen;

But we can be co-workers In accomplishing his plan;

For in God's purpose is a place For every son of man.

The germ may be developed In a more salubrious clime, All obstacles surmounted In the onward march of time, And nature's forces harnessed Will their destiny fulfil, And things now deemed supernal Respond to human will;

For God has so adjusted The laws of this earthly sphere, That by man's help his plans unfold, And order doth appear.

The words of God's own prophets Concerning these latter days Of mighty transformations, To our great Redeemer's praise;

When wastes shall glow in beauty, And the savage beast be kind, Though they have prior fulfilment In the realm of soul and mind;

Will then be more than figure, Though that we all count sublime;

The earth will wear its regal robes In every land and clime.

This life is but a sample Of the life that is to be;

There we know the perfect lesson, Here we learn the a--b--c;

And the life beyond is fashioned By the thoughts and deeds of this;

Fitting it for realms of darkness, Or for never-ending bliss;

For those alone will sorrow Who receive His grace in vain, But those who wrought with God will prove That godliness is gain.

ALASKAN BOUNDARY SETTLEMENT

My neighbor's farm and mine lie side by side, And nothing should our mutual trust divide;

But they who made th' original survey Were guided by the stars, the records say, So that the line that marks out our domain Is indistinct, and puzzling doubts remain.

Our farms are large, and portions near the line With rocky soil and stunted spruce and pine, With scarce a wigwam or a ranger's hearth, We left untilled, and deemed of little worth;

The petals of this desert rose unfold, When man discovers mines of yellow gold.

"Where is the boundary line?"

is now the cry.

Each stakes his claim and gives his reason why;

One sought an exit to the main highway, The other closed the gates and gained the day In custom duties on the shining ore, And stores for man and beast that inland pour.

Each claimed his own, whatever that may be, Yet, neighbors true, we feared to disagree.

We studied maps and treaties old and new, Yet each his own line-fence declared was true;

Then, to avoid unseemly strife, we chose To settle our dispute as friends, not foes.

My neighbor chose three men in his employ, I three, at least, accepted them with joy;

Not chosen these to arbitrate our case, But from material at command to trace, In harmony with law, the primal line For boundary fence, between his farm and mine.

I _lost my case_--all but one narrow lane!

All other gates are closed, but why complain?

Diminished somewhat is my large estate, But self-respect remains--nor place for hate;

O'er our line-fence we grasp each other's hand, And for the right, united, ever stand.

MY PRIMROSE

My sweet primrose with thy open face, And with fringe-like leaves, without a trace Of coarseness, either in flower or stem, Among all my plants thou art the gem.

My lovely lilies soon disappear;

Thy bloom is constant through all the year;

In summer's heat and winter's cold, Undimmed the light of thy floral gold.

Or if thy color be pink, or blue, Or white as snow, thou art ever true;

My room is bright with thy smiling eyes, And thy fragrance rare I also prize.

Thou hast done thy part, my little pet-- Let me keep thy roots forever wet, But guard with care all thy tender leaves And growing crown, which the earth-crust heaves.

Thou dost heaven-ward tend, aspiring high, To kiss the stars in the vaulted sky, And they look down from the azure blue, My sweet primrose--they are smiling, too.

NIAGARA'S RAINBOW

Upon the "table-rock" I stand, And gaze into the depths profound, In ecstacy at sights so grand, And deafened by the sound Of rushing waters, as they leap Like maddened steeds, down hillside steep.

The falling spray my head bedews, As gently as a vernal shower;

Or, as the Holy Ghost imbues In consecrated hour, The soul that inly yearns for love, And seeks it from the throne above.

But I see more than chasm deep, Than falling spray and rushing tide.

Sublime, indeed, the awful leap;

The awe will long abide-- God's _rainbow hangs in colors bright_, A thing of beauty in my sight.

Our cousins on the other side And we too often disagree;

Puffed up, I fear, at times, with pride, Each strong, and brave, and free;

But we forget the stormy past, Our lands and hearts are linked at last.

The "Union-Jack" hangs o'er my head, The "Stars and Stripes" my cousin rears, But old-time grievances are dead For all the coming years;

As separate flags they still may wave, But we are _one_ the world to save.

MY SISTER NELL AND I

We strolled down by the river side, My sister Nell and I, To watch the waters onward glide, And vessels passing by.

On Nature's floor of lovely green, Bedecked with flowers of gold, The purple sassafras as sheen, Which trumpet vines enfold.

We played our youthful games for hours, And told our childish tales;

Adorned each brow with fragrant flowers, And slept 'neath cooling gales.

For I was then but nine years old, And she was only seven;

Yet joys like ours can ne'er be told-- They savored much of heaven.

Close by the bank, in shady nooks, The waxen lilies grew;

We called them fish, and with our hooks To shore full many drew.

With these I made a wreath for Nell.

She was so good and pure, They seemed to suit her brow so well, Yet could not long endure The heated brow and dewless air-- The river suits them best;

But graced awhile her golden hair, As dove would silken nest.

Frail like the lilies, too, was Nell.

The fever's scorching blast Swept by, and my fair flowerette fell, And to the dust was cast.

But now she blooms in glory land, Close by the tree of Life;

Better to bloom at God's right hand Than in this world of strife.

I hope some day to meet her there, And as in days of yore We plucked the lilies, pure and fair, Up there we'll gather more.

GATHER THE WAYSIDE FLOWERS

'Tis well to have a goal in mind, A life-aim, high and true;

Clear as the day, and well defined, And ever kept in view.

But God has strewn along the way Bright flowers of every hue.

Gather the brightest while you may, For they were meant for you.

Heaven's joy transcends the joys of earth, But if earth's joys be pure They must have had a heavenly birth, And bless while they endure;

So pluck the flower before it fades-- Drink from the purling stream;

Nor look for sorrow's darkening shades, But for the morning gleam.

Life's burdens lose full half their weight If gay our spirits be;

The rest beyond we antedate, And serve, though ever free.

Our lamentations all will end, Exchanged for smile and song, And men will mark our upward trend By joy-points all along.

The poet wrote, "no room for mirth;"

Much less for sigh and frown.

"A vale of tears" may be this earth-- 'Tis so to every clown.

The desert blossoms as the rose, And joy flows everywhere;

The star of hope in brightness glows, No room for dark despair.

Before we reach God's heaven above, Enjoy His heaven below;

And by the ministries of love A Christlike nature show;

For he who lives a selfish life Must lose the joy of this;

For highest good, vain is our strife, If man share not our bliss.

HIDE THEIR SCARS!

A painter, high in worldy fame, Was sought to reproduce by art A likeness of the man whose name Sent darts of anguish through the heart Of mighty monarchs in his day;

For he by arms subdued the world.

Kingdoms and empires owned his sway And bowed beneath his flag unfurled.

But Alexander bore a scar, Deep marked upon his royal brow;

To paint him thus would greatly mar The monarch's beauty; as a slough Would mar the beauty of a lawn, Where queenly feet are wont to tread;

Or like the cloud at early dawn, Which hides some glory 'neath its spread.

To leave it out would not be true, For Alexander bore the scar;

The painter this resolved to do, Which would be true, yet would not mar: To paint the monarch's head reclined, With his fore-finger on his brow;

And thus much grace with art combined, Like ornament on vessel's prow.

The finger rested on the scar, As if mere chance had placed it there;

And hid from sight this fruit of war, And left a likeness true and fair.

So let us try, as best we can, To cover o'er each ugly scar Upon the brow of mortal man, So none may see it, near nor far.

"ASHAMED, BUT NOT AFRAID" O God, I am ashamed to die, But not the least afraid;

Tho' death's dark shadow draweth nigh, Atonement has been made For every member of our race, And I on it rely, And hope immortal blooms thro' grace;

I'm not afraid to die.

But Thou hast done great things for me, And I have nothing done.

To set my sin-bound spirit free, Was sacrificed Thy Son;

And every day by Thy kind hand Rich blessings are bestowed;

Oh, how can I before Thee stand, Or rest in Thine abode With self-respect, or feel at home With no returns to show, My whole life like the worthless foam On time's incessant flow.

Oh, that in life's great harvest field, I may some reaping do;

Early and late the sickle wield, And prove a reaper true.

And when the summons comes from Thee, While I on Christ rely, Thou wilt not be ashamed of me, Nor I ashamed to die.

DUNBAR

Up to Dunbar our Cromwell went, Not to invade was his intent;

But they who first King Charles sold Now turn their backs on friends of old, And principles they then held dear Were sacrificed for self, I fear.

Another Stuart they receive, Who knew too well how to deceive;

The most perfidious of his race, Corrupt in life, and void of grace, The menial of the Papacy;

And yet content by oath to free Himself from Holy See's control, And covenant to save his soul By the Scotch Presbyterian mode, As to the crown this paved the road.

But Cromwell brooked not this control;

He wished man free to save his soul As conscience may to him dictate, Without subservience to the State.

He saw also thro' the disguise Of one well versed in fraud and lies, And saw how England's liberties Were threatened by this scheme of his.

So up to Dunbar Cromwell went;

To break this compact his intent, Conserve the rights of Britons true To worship God in desk and pew As conscience may to them dictate, Without control of king, or state, Or Papal "bull," or legate's rod-- Only accountable to God.

On Sunday night he reached Dunbar.

From darkened sky gleamed not a star;

The way he travelled o'er was drear, Made doubly so by Scotchmen's fear.

At his approach like sheep they fled, Made frantic by an awful dread Of red-hot irons, spear, and sword, Of breasts thrust thro', and bodies gored, Which they were told would be their lot When Cromwell came.

So from each cot They bore away what pleased them best, And to the flames consigned the rest.

But now Dunbar is reached; yet he Finds himself in extremity;

Midst swamps and bogs unfit to tent, By Lammermoor from hillside rent, Leslie in front defiant stands A noble army he commands Of thousands two score seven, or more, Ready on Cromwell shot to pour.

Behind the sea cut off retreat;

With such great odds can he compete?

The mountain sheep may safely tread The Lammermoor, but men may dread To cross this heath at any time;

Much more now, midst the rain and slime, Will Cromwell with the smaller score Dare to cross o'er to Dunbar shore?

Tho' shipped were half his guns and men The foe falls ere he turn again.

With foresight keen, like one inspired, He saw the end ere Leslie fired.

"THE LORD," said he, as rapt he stands, "HATH GIVEN THEM INTO OUR HANDS!"

'Tis the ninth month and second day, A wild, wet night, historians say.

Quit you like men, and bravely stand;

Death's wrestle now is close at hand;

Heed not the hoarse sea's doleful moan, As on the cliffs its waves are thrown.

Think not of life nor kindred dear-- Who goes to war should nothing fear But God, whose eye-lids never sleep-- His Israel He will safely keep.

Oh, pray!

but keep your powder dry-- Your part do, then on God rely.

Stand to your arms the whole night thro' Or lie awake with arms in view.

And you, ye Scots, your lights blow out, But stay not in your strong redoubt.

'Midst shocks of corn your shelter seek, And rest in sleep; your foe is weak, Yet ere another night comes 'round In deeper slumber shall be found Full many of your stalwart host, And stilled for aye their every boast.

In Cromwell's camp all night was heard The voice of prayer in tones which stirred The tender hearts of "Ironside" men, As never can be told by pen.

Ere shone the first faint streak of morn, The Scots beneath the shocks of corn, Stretched out full length in quiet sleep, Hear a loud blast, and upward leap To seize their arms and face the foe.

Too late the warning!

or, too slow Their movements when the trump was heard, Yet rang along the lines the word Of battle-cry by Leslie sent, "_The Covenant!

The Covenant!

_" While high and strong was Cromwell's boast, "_The Lord of Hosts!

The Lord of Hosts!

_" With master skill he struck the blow, And when shone out the crimson glow Of morning sun upon the sea, Brave Leslie's men began to flee.

"_They run!

Oh, I protest they run!

Let God arise!

Let God arise!

And scattered be His enemies!

_" Loud Cromwell cried.

_The work was done.

_ Then rose from England's host a cry Which rent the very heavens on high.

Now halt they on the battle field And to the Lord their homage yield-- And sing this song with hearts devout: "_O praise the Lord, ye nations all!

Laud Him all peoples on this ball!

His mercy toward us e'er is great;

His truth and grace for sinners wait, Let all the people shout!

_" MARSTON MOOR