Part 7 (1/2)

A n.o.ble heart is sleeping here, Beneath this lowly mound; With reverence let us draw near, For this is holy ground.

The mortal frame that rests below This consecrated sward, Was late with heavenly hope aglow, A temple of the Lord.

His charity was like a flood, It seemed to have no bound, But reached the evil and the good, Wherever want was found.

The poor and needy sought his door, The wretched and distressed, He blessed them from his ample store, With shelter, food and rest.

Giving his substance to the poor, He lent it to the Lord; While each returning harvest brought Him back a rich reward.

Thus pa.s.sed his useful life away, Dispensing good to all, Till on the evening of his day, He heard his Master call.

”Brave soldier of the cross, well done, You've fought a n.o.ble fight; Come up, and claim the victor's crown, And wear it as your right.”

”For all your works of christian love And heaven-born charity, Are registered in Heaven above As so much done to Me.”

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON THE FLY LEAF OF A CHILD'S BIBLE.

Dear Mollie, in thy early days, While treading childhood's dreamy maze, Peruse this book with care: Peruse it by the rising sun; Peruse it when the day is done, Peruse it oft with prayer.

Search it for counsel in thy youth, For every page is bright with truth And wisdom from on high.

Consult it in thy riper years, When foes without and inward fears Thy utmost powers defy.

And when life's sands are well nigh run And all thy work on earth is done, In patience wait and trust, That He whose promises are sure Will number you among the pure, The righteous and the just.

CHRISTMAS GREETING, 1877.

Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society.

The rolling seasons come and go, As ebbs the tide again to flow, And Christmas which seemed far away A year ago, is near to-day.

And day and night in quick succession, Are pa.s.sing by like a procession.

While we like straws upon a stream, Are drifting faster than we deem, To that unknown, that untried sh.o.r.e, Where days and nights will be no more, And where time's surging tide will be, Absorbed in vast eternity.

Where then shall we poor mortals go?

No man can tell, we only know We are but strangers in the land.

Our fathers all have gone before, And shortly we shall be no more.

This hall where we so often meet Will soon be trod by other's feet, And where our voices now resound, Will other speakers soon be found.

And thus like wave pursuing wave, Between the cradle and the grave The human tide is p.r.o.ne to run, The sire succeeded by the son.

May we so spend life's fleeting day, That when it shall have pa.s.sed away, We all may meet on that blessed sh.o.r.e, Where friends shall meet to part no more.

ANNIVERSARY POEM.

Read at the anniversary of the seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson.