Sang as only they can sing
Who behold the promised rest
"Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."
"Rock of ages, cleft for me,"-
Sung above a coffin lid;-
Underneath, all restfully,
All life's joys and sorrows hid;
Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul!
Nevermore from wind or tide,
Nevermore from billow's roll
Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips
Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, aye, still, the words would be,—
"Let me hide myself in Thee.”
THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH.
Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshipped there to-day!
It made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray;
The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago,
But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.
The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door;
He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor;
He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through
The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.
I wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring;
The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!"
The tune was " Coronation," and the music upward rolled,
Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.
My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire;
I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir,
And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall;
Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown hin Lord of all."
I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more;
I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;
I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form,
And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm.
The prech'en? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said;
I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;
He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye
Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.
The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple gospel truth;
It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth;
'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed;
'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed.
How swift the golden moments fled, within that holy place;
How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face;
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend,
"When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end."
I hope to meet that minister-that congregation, too
In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue;
I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray,
The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day.
Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought-the victory soon be won;
The shinin' goal is just ahead! the race is nearly run;
O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore
To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.
[Let the emotions be detected in the voice.]
"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt,-and tell
A fellow just a thing or two;
You've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there,—
I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks.
When you were home,-old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?
You did? Shake hands,-Oh, aint I glad;
For if I do look grim and rough,
I've got some feelin'-People think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,
And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,
One's apt to think about his folks.
And so you saw them-when ? and where?
The old man-is he hearty yet?
And mother-does she fade at all?
Or does she seem to pine and fret
For me? And Sis-has she grown tall?
And did you see her friend-you know
That Annie Moss-(How this pipe chokes!)
Where did you see her?-tell me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks.
You saw them in the church, you say;
It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? no? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out.
What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me, like a man,
What is the matter with our folks?"
"I said aй well, old comrade, true;
I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the young ones in His arms
Before the sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;
And so-fair Annie blooms no more!
And that's the matter with your folks.
See, this long curl was kept for you;
And this white blossom from her breast;
And here your sister Bessie wrote
A letter, telling all the rest,
Bear up, old friend." Nobody speaks;
Only the old camp-raven croaks,
And soldiers whisper: "Boys, be still;
There's some bad news from Granger's folks."
He turns his back-the only foe
That ever saw it-on this grief,
And, as men will, keeps down the tears
Kind Nature sends to Woe's relief.
Then answers he, " Ah, Hal, I'll try;
But in my throat there's something chokes,
Because, you see, I've thought so long
To count her in among our folks.
I s'pose she must be happy now,
But still I will keep thinking too,
I could have kept all trouble off
By being tender, kind, and true.
But maybe not. She's safe up there,
And, when His hand deals other strokes,
She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know,
And wait to welcome in our folks."
TELL ON HIS NATIVE HILLS.
[An excellent opportunity is here afforded for gesture.]
Oh, with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And bless him that the land was free! 'Twas free-
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free!
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plow our valleys, without asking leave!
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun
How happy was it then! I loved
Its very storms. Yes, I have sat
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own!
On yonder jutting cliff, o'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along,
And, while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,
I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer-flaws to those of mine, and just
Have wished me there-the thought that mine was free
Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,
BLOW ON!-THIS IS THE LAND OF LIBERTY!
[Careful study will enable the reader to decide how this may best be Let the spirits be light or depressed, as required by each passage. Frequent changes of style should be made throughout.]
Come over, come over the river to me,
If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree.
Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn,
Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare not plunge in.
But the dark rolling river, though deep as the sea,
I know cannot scare you, nor keep you from me;
For stout is your back and strong is your arm,
And the heart in your bosom is faithful and warm.
Come over, come over the river to me,
If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree.
I see him, I see him. He's plunged in the tide,
His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside.
O the dark rolling water shoots swift as the sea,
But blithe is the glance of his bonny blue e'e;
His cheeks are like roses, two buds on a bough;
Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie, now.
Ho, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye go,
But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark loch below!
Come over, come over the river to me,
My true-hearted laddie, my Charlie Machree.
He's sinking, he's sinking, O what shall I do!
Strike out, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes and ye're thro'.
He's sinking, O Heaven! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear ; I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, as soon as ye're here!
He rises, I see him,-five strokes, Charlie, mair,-
He's shaking the wet from his bonny brown hair;
He conquers the current, he gains on the sea,-
Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree!
Come over the river, but once come to me,
And I'll love you forever, dear Charlie Machree.
He's sinking, he's gone,—O God, it is I,
It is I, who have killed him—help, help-he must die.
Help, help !—ah, he rises,—strike out and you're free. Ho, bravely done, Charlie; once more now, for me!
Now cling to the rock, now give me your hand,—
Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, ye're safe on the land!
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