Read Ebook: The American Missionary — Volume 32 No. 08 August 1878 by Various

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Who hath not heard in dusky summer dawns, Ere winds Aurora's horn, the dreamy spell Just rippled by some drowsy sentinel. Who from his leafy outpost on the lawns Chimes sleepily his call that all is well? A moment--pipes another silvery note: Aurora's crystal wheels flash up the sky; The sentries cry the Dawn and joyously Glad Welcome peals from every dewy throat, And every leafy bough chimes melody.

So, in the gloom and silence of the night, My heart in slumber steeped, unheeding lay, Not recking how the hours might fleet away; When on my Heavens dawned a radiant light, And straight I wakened to a shining day.

THE POET ON AGRADINA

The spacious cities hummed with toil: The monarch reared his towers to the skies; Men delved the fruitful soil And studied to be wise; Along the highway's rocky coil The mailed legions rang; Smiling unheeded 'mid the moil, The Poet sang.

The glittering cities long are heaps: The starry towers lie level with the plain; The desert serpent sleeps Where soared the marble fane; The stealthy, bead-eyed lizard creeps Where gleamed the tyrant's throne; The grandeur dark oblivion steeps: The song sings on.

THE SHEPHERD OF THE SEAS

From Raleigh's Devon hills the misty sea Climbs ever westward till it meets the sky, And silently the white-fleeced ships go by, And mount and mount up the long azure lea, Peaceful as sheep at night that placidly Climb the tall downs to quiet pastures high, Assured no foes dare lurk, no dangers lie Where still abides their shepherd's memory. Well did men name him "Shepherd of the Seas," Who knew so well his shepherd's watch to keep, Driving the Spanish wolves with noble rage: Forsaking Pomp and Power and Beds-of-ease To herd his mighty flock through every Deep And make of every sea their common pasturage.

SLEEP

IN MEMORIAM: A. B. P.

Thou best of all: God's choicest blessing, Sleep; Better than Earth can offer--Wealth, Power, Fame: They change, decay; thou always art the same; Through all the years thy freshness thou dost keep; Over all lands thine even pinions sweep. The sick, the worn, the blind, the lone, the lame, Hearing thy tranquil footsteps, bless thy name; Anguish is soothed, Sorrow forgets to weep. Thou ope'st the captive's cell and bid'st him roam; Thou giv'st the hunted refuge, free'st the slave, Show'st the outcast pity, call'st the exile home; Beggar and king thine equal blessings reap. We for our loved ones Wealth, Joy, Honors crave; But God, He giveth his beloved--Sleep.

TO A LADY AT A SPRING

Long aeons since, in leafy woodlands sweet, Diana, weary with the eager chase, Was wont to seek full oft some trysting-place Loved of her rosy train; some cool retreat Of crystal springs, deep-verdured from the heat Of sultry noon, wherein each subtle grace Of snowy form and radiant flower-face, Narcissus-like, goddess and nymph might greet. Diana long hath fleeted 'yond the main; The founts which erst she loved are all bereft; No more 'mid violet-banks her feet are set; Silent her silvern bugle, fled her train; One spot alone of all she loved is left: This poplar-shaded spring is Goddess-haunted yet.

UNFORGOTTEN

Oh! do not think that thee I can forget: Though all the Centuries should o'er me roll-- Though Space should spread more far than Pole from Pole, Or star from furthest star betwixt us; yet, I still would hold thee in my heart's core set: More rare than rarest Queens whom Kings extol When Death hath throned them high above regret. Through endless Time when Memory the stone Rolls back from silent years long sepulchred, To call the Past forth from the sullen tomb, Howe'er far 'yond her voice all else hath flown, Shalt thou appear--her living summons heard-- Fresh as Eternal Spring in all thy radiant bloom.

THE OLD LION

"THE WHELPS OF THE LION ANSWER HIM"

The Old Lion stood in his lonely lair: The sound of the hunting had broken his rest: He scowled to the Eastward: Tiger and Bear Were harrying his Jungle. He turned to the west; And sent through the murk and mist of the night A thunder that rumbled and rolled down the trail; And Tiger and Bear, the Quarry in sight, Crouched low in the covert to cower and quail; For deep through the midnight like surf on a shore, Pealed Thunder in answer resounding with ire. The Hunters turn'd stricken: they knew the dread roar: The Whelp of the Lion was joining his Sire.

THE DRAGON OF THE SEAS

APRIL, 1898

They say the Spanish ships are out To seize the Spanish Main; Reach down the volume, Boy, and read The story o'er again:

How when the Spaniard had the might, He drenched the Earth, like rain, With Saxon blood and made it Death To sail the Spanish Main.

With torch and steel; with stake and rack He trampled out God's Truce Until Queen Bess her leashes slip't And let her sea-dogs loose.

God! how they sprang and how they tore! The Gilberts, Hawkins, Drake! Remember, Boy, they were your sires: They made the Spaniard quake.

Dick Grenville with a single ship Struck all the Spanish line: One Devon knight to the Spanish Dons: One ship to fifty and nine.

When Spain in San Ulloa's Bay Her sacred treaty broke, Stout Hawkins fought his way through fire And gave her stroke for stroke.

A bitter malt Spain brewed that day, She drained it to the lees: The thunder of her guns awoke The Dragon of The Seas.

From coast to coast he ravaged far, A scourge with flaming breath: Where'er the Spaniard sailed his ships, Sailed Francis Drake and Death.

No coast was safe against his ire; Secure no furthest shore; The fairest day oft sank in fire Before the Dragon's roar.

He made th' Atlantic surges red Round every Spanish keel, Piled Spanish decks with Spanish dead, The noblest of Castile.

From Del Fuego's beetling coast To sleety Hebrides He hounded down the Spanish host And swept the flaming seas.

King Philip, of his ravin' reft, Called for "the Pirate's" head; The great Queen laughed his wrath to scorn And knighted Drake instead.

And gave him ships and sent him forth To sweep the Spanish Main, For England and for England's brood, And sink the fleets of Spain.

And well he wrought his mighty work, Till on that fatal day He met his only conqueror, In Nombre Dios Bay.

There in his shotted hammock swung Amid the surges' sweep, He waits the look-out's signal cry Across the quiet deep,

And dreams of dark Ulloa's bar, And Spanish treachery, And how he tracked Magellan far Across the unknown sea.

But if Spain fire a single shot Upon the Spanish Main, She 'll come to deem the Dragon dead Has waked to life again.

THE BENT MONK

Ever along the way he goes, With eyes cast down as in despair, And shoulders stooped with weight of woes And lips from which unceasing flows An agoniz?d prayer.

His form is bent; his step is slow; His hands with fasting long are thin; And wheresoe'er his footsteps go, Men hear his muttered prayer and know He weeps for deadly sin.

This monk was once the knightliest Of knights who ever sat in hall: With wondrous might and beauty blest; And whoso met him lance-in-rest Had need on Christ to call.

Men say this monk with hair so hoar, And eye where grief hath quenched the flame, Once loved a maiden fair and pure, And for she would not wed him swore He 'd bring her down to Shame.

They say he wooed her long and well; And splendid spoils both eve and morn Of song and tourney won, they tell, He gave her till at last she fell, Then drave her forth with scorn.

The world was cold; her father's door Was barred--they thus the tale repeat-- Her name was heard in jousts no more; And so, one day the river bore And laid her at his feet.

Her brow was calm, the sunny hair Lay tangled in the snowy breast, And from the face all trace of care And sin was cleansed away, and there Shone only utter rest.

The old men say that when the wave That burden brought, then backward fled, He stooped, no sign nor groan he gave, As mourners by an open grave; But fell as one struck dead.

He seemed, when from that swound he woke, A man already touched by Death, As when the stalwart forest oak, Blasted beneath the lightning's stroke Lives on, yet languisheth.

And ever since he tells his beads, And sackcloth lieth next his skin, And nightly his frail body bleeds With knotted cord that intercedes With Christ for deadly sin.

And still along the way he goes, With eyes cast down as in despair, And shoulders stooped with weight of woes, And lips from which forever flows An agoniz?d prayer.

THE MESSAGE

An ancient tome came to my hands: A tale of love in other lands: Writ by a Master so divine, The Love seems ever mine and thine. The volume opened at the place That sings of sweet Francesca's grace: How reading of Fair Guinevere And Launcelot that long gone year, Her eyes into her lover's fell And--there was nothing more to tell. That day they op'ed that book no more: Thenceforth they read a deeper lore.

Beneath the passage so divine, Some woman's hand had traced a line, And rever

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