John Henry Kimble.

The shade of death had haunted him Through many a weary day; With dread disease his youthful frame Was wasting slow away. He took his violin and sighed,— “I am too weak to play.”

But, rising in his cushioned chair, He grasps, with trembling hand, The neck and bow, and tunes the strings And thinks of concerts grand; And hears the crowd applauding loud As when he led the band.

Inspired with supernatural power He plays a melody, Forgetting all the terrors of His mortal malady; And, as of yore, his soul once more Is with the gay and free.

Something responsive in the soul Wakes with melodious sound A lively melody that makes The languid pulse rebound, While recollection takes the mind Through many a happy round.

Now fast, now slow, he draws the bow To suit his changing will; A march, a waltz, a polka, and An intricate quadrille, Each in its turn is rendered with An artist’s ready skill.

With failing strength he strikes at length His favorite—“Home, Sweet Home;” His dreamy spirit ceases with The pleasing past to roam, And, through the future, seems to rise Up, up to Heaven’s high dome.

And mingling with his violin He hears the joyful strains That vibrate o’er angelic hosts, Where song supernal reigns! Oh! glimpse of glory! lifting him Above all mortal pains.

The last sweet note of that sweet tune Within the room has died— And now he’s playing on the harp Upon the other side Of death’s dark river, safe and free, Among the glorified.

You look with joy to-day along life’s vista clear, And great will be your deeds through many a happy year, And smiling friends will come to crown with glad acclaim A hero, when you reach the glittering heights of fame.

Your life will be above the common herd, I trow, You will not toil and drudge as they are doing now: Success attend your steps; a word I would not say To chill your warmest hopes, or shade your sunny way.

Your mark is high, my child, then aim your arrow straight, The world has need to-day, of heroes good and great, You feel so strong; and wish life’s battle would begin, You’ll find a chance ere long, to do your best and win.

But may be you will fail, ’tis ten to one you will, And men will laugh, to see your lack of pluck and skill, Perhaps you will not have one mighty thing to do; But many little things will prove if you are true.

To carry brick and stone for someone else’s wall, To do the hardest part and get no praise at all, To see a weaker man upheld by circumstance, And find the path hedged high, just when you would advance;

Or, in the jostling crowd, to slip, and fall, and see, How many men will scoff at your adversity, And though your heart may ache, you must not shed a tear, But plan, and push, and work, and smother all your fear.

No darling mother then can sympathize with you,— No father when you stick, will kindly pull you through; Through years of grasping toil the wealth you gain, and fame, May vanish all, and leave you poverty and shame.

But you need not be lost, all people are not bad, The Lord has servants good, as He has ever had; They’ll find you in your grief, and lend a helping hand, And point the road that leads up to the “Better Land.”

Remember this, my child, wherever you may go, That God rules over all, though it may not seem so; And what you sow, you’ll reap, with joy or misery, If not in time, O, surely in eternity.

A dear old friend of mine is very ill, I hear, I have not seen his face for many a weary year. Ah, many toilsome days we’ve spent with little train, And he was poor and weak, but never would complain.

I knew his fears and hopes, he knew my hopes and fears. We shared each other’s joys and wept each other’s tears! He had his faults, and I oft sinned in word and deed; But through our troubles all, we seldom disagreed.

And when we did, we soon were truly reconciled; So, while we might have quarrelled, we compromised and smiled. But fortune bade us part; we bid good-bye at last, Each toiled as bravely on as both had in the past.

I’ve written him, and he has answered prompt and true; But we have never met as we had promised to. For he was busy there and I was busy here, And so our lots were cast apart from year to year.

But when a mutual friend told me this afternoon That he was very sick and wished to see me soon, I left my home at once and on the earliest train I’m speeding to his home across the distant plain.

He looks for me! and I, to reach him scarce can wait, O, for the lightning’s speed! that I may not be late. The fields seem spinning round, the trees seem flying past, The engine thunders on, the station’s reached at last.

And to my friend I haste, to greet him as of yore, Rejoicing in his thrift, I pause beside his door. A servant asks me in, and there upon his bed, Behold my dear old friend, who sent for me—just dead!

I speak his name once more, and check the rising tears, And kiss his honest face, changed little through the years. “He asked for you,” they said, but could no longer wait; Alas! alas! to be but fifteen minutes late.

After the shower the fields are green, The winds are hushed, the air is cool, The merry children now are seen Barefoot wading the wayside pool, Loitering on their way to school, After the morning shower.

After the shower the farmers walk Around their homes with thanks sincere. The shower is foremost in their talk, See! how it makes their crops appear, The finest seen for many a year. Thanks for the gentle shower.

Westward the dark clouds roll away To vanish in the ether blue, Eastward the curtains light and gay Exclude the glorious sun from view Till, as they shift, he flashes through And lights the charming scene.

Against the melting clouds, behold The lofty arch, the beauteous bow, The sacred sign to saints of old, As bright as when first seen below, How fair the matchless colors glow After the cooling shower.

Washed by the countless, crystal drops, Awhile from swarming insects free, The cattle clip the clover tops Forth wandering o’er the fertile lea, The birds sing with unusual glee After the drenching shower.

Over the hills and valleys green Wild flowers are blooming fresh and fair, In cottage lawns and yards are seen The good results of woman’s care, Tulips and pinks and lillies rare Fresh from the timely shower.

I weep for the loss of a leader in thought, Whose lessons of truth, with simplicity taught, Have bless’d and encouraged the humble and poor, Who always were welcomed with joy at his door.

How happy the hours when we gathered around, To hear his solutions of problems profound; And bright through my mem’ry what pleasure returns When I think of his rendering of Byron and Burns.

The “Saturday Night,” and “To Mary in Heaven,” With true Scottish accent were touchingly given, And reckless “Don Juan’s” most comical plight,— And pathos of “Harold” he gave with delight.

The pages of Hebraic sages divine, Made vocal by him with new beauties did shine; His choice conversation with children and men, Was often enriched with a song from his pen.

In public debate, whosoever arose, His well-grounded argument firm to oppose, Though sharp the contention, was forced to declare, That he was an honorable champion there.

And, those he offended, as everyone must, Whose thoughts are progressive, whose actions are just, With kindness he reasoned all errors to show, And made a staunch friend of a bickering foe.

He owned like a hero the penalty dread— “By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread,” And his toil through summer, and mid-winter snows, Has made the wild wilderness bloom as the rose.

The choicest of fruits in profusion appeared, On trees that he planted, and vines that he reared; And few things delighted him more than to send, A rare little treat to an invalid friend.

He scorned false pretences and arrogant pride, The follies of fashion he loved to deride; But acknowledged true merit wherever ’twas shown, By a serf in his hut, or a king on his throne.

His faults be forgotten, we’ve all gone astray, Lord, show us in mercy, the straight, narrow way, Peace, peace to his ashes, and sweet be his rest, With angels of light, in the home of the blest.

Rosy morn is brightly breaking, Cheerful birds melodious sing, Earth with thankful songs awaking Hails with joy the merry Spring, Silver clouds in sunlight glowing Slowly float the azure dome, Tender flowers are sweetly blowing Round each cozy cottage home.

Dreary winter’s icy fingers Have released the bending tree, Genial life reviving, lingers O’er the cold and sterile lea. From the rocky, snow-clad mountains, Where the breath of sunny Spring Has unfettered muffled fountains, Hear the songs of gladness ring.

In the morn of playful childhood, With dear friends ’mid sylvan bowers, O’er the fields and through the wildwood, Culling all the choicest flow’rs; Twining wreaths, each other crowning, Dew-drops bright for royal gems, Ne’er a thought of worldly frowning On the precious diadems.

Marched we on with true devotion, While the scenes of after years, Stirr’d the spirits deep emotion, With alternate hopes and fears. While before us lay life’s prizes, Dazzling in the sunlight gleam,— How we gazed with sad surprises, When they vanished like a dream.

Many happy hearts grew weary, Rosy cheeks grew pale and white, Pleasant paths grew dark and dreary, Swept by storms of withering blight; How the changing years have fleeted, Strewing wrecks on either side, Cherished schemes have been defeated, And the cares of age abide.

But when cheery Spring advances, Crowned with gems of beauty rare, Pleasure like a fairy, dances O’er the landscape everywhere, And the tide of life flows higher, Gloom’s dark curtains are withdrawn, And again youth’s hidden fire, Thrills me as in life’s fresh dawn.