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    PART III.-- THE RACE PROBLEM.   Table of Contents     APPENDIX.

Heard (Henderson), Josephine D.
Morning Glories




Why stand aghast,
THIS weeping, wondering throng?
The warrior hath his armor bright lain down,
And now in rapturous song His Master's praise he sings,
While angels sweep their harps of thousands' strings,
The strains prolong:
His fight is over!

He hath need of rest.
His weary bleeding feet,
That trod the field with ever patient tread,
The dewy banks have pressed. They tread the streets
of gold,
His eyes the Saviour's face and smile behold.
Say not that he is dead, but
He hath need of rest!

A goodly fight;
A glorious victory won!
At Jesus' feet the trophies are laid down,
And on the warrior's brow is placed the crown,
For which he bravely, boldly fought,
And heaven's glorious plaudits sought.
Now, with the ransomed blest
His soul finds rest!

Weep ye no more,
Nor stand with bated breath;
Christ will his promise to the faithful keep,
The mighty warrior is but fallen asleep.
He feels no more earth's care and toil and pain,
Our loss is but his everlasting gain.
Arrayed in white, in realms of perfect bliss,
He finds a needed rest.

Eternal joys are his,
Who to the end proves true:
Ye fellow-warriors in the gospel field!
Fight on, nor dare the battle yield;
Press hard the conflict to the gate,
Walk in the narrow path and straight;
Your upward way from morn to even press,
At last ye too shall find
Eternal rest!


THE fight was at its hottest,
The battle 'gainst the wrong;
The valiant in the contest,
Both vigorous and strong.
Engaged in deadly conflict,
A solid phalanx stood,
A breastworks made of soldiers,
Even soldiers unto God.

Amidst the clang of armor,
And crash of cannon's roar,
There came a sound which echoed,
And spread from shore to shore.
Andrew Brown has fallen,
No confiscate was he;
A captain bold and fearless--
No thought but victory.

He's just received promotion,
To the army in the sky;
He's reached a higher station,
We shall join him by and by.
Then, comrades, do not mourn him,
Drive sorrow from your breast,
Our loss is his eternal gain,
He's o'er the hill at rest.


Lines Suggested by the Death of our Beloved Bishop, James A.
Shorter , who Died, July 1, 1887.

IT came upon the noontide air,
Like thunder-bolt from clearest skies;
Stout hearts were clad in sore despair,
And floods of tears flowed from all eyes.
Across the States and o'er the plain,
And to the distant Isles it sped;
From mountain height to sea's domain,
Flashed the sad message, " Shorter's Dead!"

From lip to lip the sad news ran,
From every breast arose a sigh;
Awestricken stood the stoutest man,
Till hope bade all look up on high.
God still is just, allwise is He--
What He hath taken He can send;
Bow down in meek humility
And own Him! Trust Him to the end!

Our Shorter dies--do we say dead?
Nay, only sleeps to wake again!
Though earth affords an humble bed,
With Kings and Princes he shall reign!
He slept not at his duty's post,
Who was a mighty army's head--
He led an ever conquering host--
He sleeps--say not that he is dead!

Heaven stood in need of saint to fill
Some holy office on that day;
And angels, at their sovereign's will,
Quickly to earth they sped away.
They sought one pure and true and good;
They found in Shorter what they sought;
Pure in his life and love he stood,
And to our sire this message brought:

Thy God to-day hath need of thee,
They whispered gently in his ear;
He looked the shining ones to see,
And smiled while they were hovering near.
His ever-ready sword in hand,
Directed e'er towards evil's breast,
Now laid he down at God's command,
And entered into peaceful rest.

The startled millions paused in pain,
Tempted to ask the reason, why
Their noble captain should be slain?
Then out of heaven came this cry:
"White is the harvest on the plain,
And ripe this shock of wheat has grown;
Ye angels reap this perfect grain,
Which I, with mine own hand hath sown.


I SEND a message, my worthy Chief,
For I cannot come to thee now.
Though my heart is o'erwhelmed with its weight
of grief,
At God's stern decree I must bow.
They tell me that thou hast fallen asleep,
That thou didst discharge thy whole duty;
They say it is folly to sit here and weep,
For thy life was complete in its beauty.
And purity crowned thy declining years,
And holiness circled thy head--
'Tis folly they say to sit down here in tears,
And grieve o'er the tomb of the dead.

I hear the soft tones of Thy fatherly voice,
Saying: "Cling to the cross, my dear child,"
If after life's labors your soul would rejoice,
In the sunshine of God's presence mild.
No more shall Thy soft voice fall sweet on my ear,
No more in this life shall we meet--
Till Christ in His heavenly Kingdom appear,
And our warfare on earth is complete.

So I send thee this message to-night when I pray,
I'll give it to the angels for thee--
They'll hasten to take it, they will not delay,
To bear it to heaven for me.
I would not arouse thee, I would not awake,
From this thy merited rest;
Sleep soundly thou loved one, thy comfort now take
Upon thy Redeemer's breast!


I FROM my window looked at early dawning,
The sweet breeze stirred and kissed my face;
O, glad is every heart, I thought on this fair morning,
Earth seemed so restful in the morn's embrace.

In grateful attitude I stood imploring,
Sufficient strength for daily care,
My heart was pained at sight of badge of mourning,
That from my neighbor's door, swayed on the air.

It told me the "unbidden guest" had entered,
And claimed the darling of that fold,
In whom their blasted hopes had once been centered,
Life evermore within that home was drear and cold .

I sought the mother in affliction's hour,
My solace offered in her sore distress;
I pointed to the Christ, the only power
To cheer the heart bereft and comfortless.

And in my heart's great deep I pitied her,
Who, though bereft could sympathetic be:
Our mutual tears were shed--I childless was--
And in her inmost soul SHE pitied me!


In Memoriam of Mrs. Bishop Turner.

WE mourn to-day o'er our sister dead,
But sweet seemed the rest to the weary head;
The hands were calmly laid to rest,
O'er the pulseless bosom and painless breast.
The lips are silent and closely sealed,
The love of the Saviour, her smile revealed;
The weary feet that so often trod
Rough ways that led to the throne of God,
They tire no more, but forever are still;
They've reached the summit of Zion's hill!

Thrice had she come to the river before--
The boatman tarried to take her o'er,
But the voice of loved ones raised in prayer,
Prevailed with the Master her life to spare;
Then through life's day she gladly gleaned,
For the dear Saviour on whom she leaned--
A cup of cold water, or binding a wound,
Samaritan-like she was always found.

Her labors are ended, her trials are o'er,
Her soul has flown to the golden shore,
Where saints are rejoicing in white robes dressed,
And star-decked crowns on their brows are pressed.
Yes, she has passed on to the glory-land,
And bearing the sheaves she has gleaned in her hand;
The conflict is ended, her victory complete,
She casts her crown now at the Lord Christ's feet.


CAME a stranger late among us,
With us came and cast his lot;
In the Master's vineyard toiling,
In God's service chose a spot.
Though upon his features ruddy
There was yet the smile of youth,
In his manly bearing steady,
Deep impressed the light of Truth.

He had come to lands far distant,
And with strangers made his home,
But his feet from paths of duty
Never once was known to roam.
Firm of purpose, pleasing manner,
Touched with fire from above,
Holding up the blood stained banner,
Zealous, full of Christian love.

Like the Master daily went he
Here and thither doing good
In the haunts of vice and mis'ry,
On "the solid Rock" he stood.
Young, but in the battle leading
Older souls who faint had grown;
With the youthful daily pleading
That the Saviour they should own.

Soon, alas, his work was ended,
By the monster stricken down.
Yet on Christ his hopes depended,
And by faith he saw his crown.
In his dying gained the victory
O'er the grave, and hell, and death;
For his voice was raised in praises,
Even with his latest breath.

Gazing on our fallen brother,
Gazing not with tearless eyes,
Ah! we thought of his fond mother,
Could she in our midst arise
See how loving hands and tender,
Wrought the wreaths of lilies fair,
Stranger hearts groaning with anguish,
Stranger eyes wept many a tear.

Though her heart is sad, but sadder,
For we know it might have been,
Had her boy in shame have fallen,
In iniquity and sin.
But the congregation passing
Slowly by look to gain,
For the last knew that before them
Lay a Christian free from pain.

Pain of earth, and care and sorrow,
From the tempter's snare set free,
Rest thou! In the bright to-morrow
We shall meet in heaven with thee!
Fare thee well and fare thee sweetly,
With the saints in glad array,
Time moves on, bears us fleetly
Towards the Resurrection Day!


I STAND to-day on this historic ground,
Where many thousand heroes now at rest,
Lay in this sea-girt nook, while not a sound
Of life or drum disturbs each pulseless breast.

But in the earth's embrace they calmly sleep,
While peace o'er trees and verdant shrubbery waves,
God's white-robed sentinels doth keep
Their nightly vigil o'er their grassy graves.

And here they lie as in their ranks they stood
Upon the field of carnage, where they fell;
With noble purpose linked in brotherhood,
They broke the bondsman's fetters born of hell.

I read the names engraven here on stone,
Yet some "unknown" appear who fought for right;
But on the records kept on high, not one
"Unknown" is found. They're known there in God's

"Requiescat in pace" until the bugle call,
Shall summon ye with us to meet our God,
"Who taketh note of every sparrow's fall,
And chasteneth whom He loveth with the rod."


To Minister and Mrs. Lincoln, on the death of their son A. Lincoln.

AS o'er thy loved one now in grief ye bendeth,
A Nation bows with thee, its sorrow lendeth,
That ye, grief-stricken should's not weep alone,
Above the shrouded form of thy dear one.

But, as we shed with thee our silent tears,
For him who bore himself beyond his years,
Hope bids us cease and banisheth our pain,
And pleads your loss, his soul's eternal gain.

The reaper cuts the grain and lovely flowers,
Transplants them in a fairer land than ours.
The path to heaven rendered thus more plain,
Weep not, press on, ye all shall meet again.

He nobly lived nor feared the shad'wy vale,
Defied the white horse with it's rider pale;
The grave no terror hath, and death no sting,
For him who fully trusts in Christ the King.


WHEN I am gone,
Above me raise no lofty stone
Perfect in human handicraft,
No upward pointing gleaming shaft.
Say this of me, and I be content,
That in the Master's work my life was spent;
Say not that I was either great or good,
But Mary-like, "She hath done what she

    PART III.-- THE RACE PROBLEM.   Table of Contents     APPENDIX.