THE DEATH OF MOSES.—CHAPTER IX.

His work was done; his blessing lay Like precious ointment on his people’s head, And God’s great peace was resting on his soul. His life had been a lengthened sacrifice, A thing of deep devotion to his race, Since first he turned his eyes on Egypt’s gild And glow, and clasped their fortunes in his hand And held them with a firm and constant grasp. But now his work was done; his charge was laid In Joshua’s hand, and men of younger blood Were destined to possess the land and pass Through Jordan to the other side.

Only the casket left! The jewel gone, Whose noble presence filled these stately halls, And made this spot a shrine, where pilgrims came— Stranger and friend—to bend in reverence Before the great pure soul that knew no guile; To listen to the wise and gracious words That fell from lips whose rare, exquisite smile Gave tender beauty to the grand, grave face. Upon these pictured walls we see thy peers— Poet, and saint, and sage, painter and king,— A glorious band; they shine upon us still; Still gleam in marble the enchanting forms Whereon thy artist eye delighted dwelt; Thy favorite Psyche droops her matchless face, Listening, methinks, for the beloved voice Which nevermore on earth shall sound her praise. All these remain—the beautiful, the brave, The gifted silent ones,—but thou art gone! Fair is the world that smiles upon us now; Blue are the skies of June, balmy the air That soothes with touches soft the weary brow.

The Lord is risen! In the early dawn Nature awakens to the glad surprise, And incense sweet from blossoming vale and lawn Fills the fair earth, and circles to the skies. O, Death, where thy terrors, thy darkness and gloom! And where, evermore, is thy victory, O grave! Behold, the Great Conqueror illumines the tomb, Where shall rest the redeemed He hath suffered to save. O’er sin hath He triumphed, o’er ruler and foe, O’er scorn and rude insult, o’er mockery and shame; Whose pain and whose anguish we never can know, But whose love through it all remaineth the same. Alleluia! He is risen, the song has begun, Alleluia! Let the music reach each echoing shore, He is risen! He is risen! the theme of every tongue, To whom be endless glory, both now and evermore.

Men who dare mighty deeds with dauntless will, Oft meet defeat,—not glorious victory; But the uplifting souls to undreamed heights, May not of poorest laurels worthy be. There is a heroism born of pain, Whose recompense in noble impulse lies; And sometimes tears that e’en from grief did flow Are changed to joy-drops in pathetic eyes. From out the din of mighty orchestras, The sweetest, purest tones are oft evolved; So, from the discord of our restless lives, May come sweet harmony when all is solved.

The Sun-god was reclining on a couch of rosy shells, And in the foamy waters Nereids tinkled silver bells, That lent the soft air sweetness, like an echoed seraph-song, Floating with snow-flake hush the aisles of Paradise along. The Sun-god wove bright flowers, gold and purple in their hue, And to the smiling Nereids tenderly the blossoms threw; The sapphire seas were shadowy, like an eye with dreamy thought, Where all the soul’s mute rapture—a prisoned star—is caught. The billows’ rainbow splendor, like a strange enchanting dream, In fading, softened slowly to a trembling pearly gleam; And soon the wondrous Sun-god, and the Nereids and the sea Had vanished; one gray-tinted cloud alone remained for me.

A leaf from Freedom’s golden chapter fair, We bring to thee, dear father! Near her shrine None came with holier purpose, nor was thine Alone the soul’s mute sanction; every prayer Thy captive brother uttered found a share In thy wide sympathy; to every sign That told the bondman’s need thou didst incline, No thought of guerdon hadst thou but to bear A loving part in Freedom’s strife. To see Sad lives illumined, fetters rent in twain, Tears dried in eyes that wept for length of days— Ah! was not that a recompense for thee? And now, where all life’s mystery is plain, Divine approval is thy sweetest praise.

Where the hoary-headed winter Dwells among the leafless branches, Filling all the earth with whiteness, Freezing all the streams and brooklets, And with magic fingers working With his frosty threads of lace work Wraps the land in sweet enchantment. Thus the site of Wilberforce is, Wilberforce, the colored Athens. But another name she beareth, Which the Indians call Tawawa. I will tell you of Tawawa; She the pride in all of Piqua, Pride of all the Shawnee nation, Child of love and admiration. In the bosom of the forest, Of Ohio’s primal forest, Stood a wigwam, lone and dreary, With its inmates sick and weary; Snow-drifts covered all the doorway; Still the snow kept falling, falling, And the winds were calling, calling Round the wigwam of Winona. Far had gone the good Owego To the lakes in north Ohio, Looking for some ven’son for her: Scarce was everything that winter. Thus Winona, weeping, sighing, On her bed of deerskin lying, Pressing fondly to her bosom, With a mother’s love, a blossom, Which the Spirit sent to cheer her, Sent to coo and nestle near her; Cried Winona, in her anguish, For she feared the child would languish, “Oh, sweet Spirit, hear thy daughter; Give us bread, as well as water!” Then a vision passed before her, And its scenes did quite restore her, For she saw the dogwood blossom. Now she had her father’s wisdom, So she knew that these white flowers Came to speak of brighter hours, Speak of sunshine and of plenty. “Ah, my wee, wee pickaninny, I will call you the white flower, My Tawawa, whitest flower!”

Hang up the harp! I hear them say, Nor sing again an Afric lay, The time has passed; we would forget— And sadly now do we regret There still remains a single trace Of that dark shadow of disgrace, Which tarnished long a race’s fame Until she blushed at her own name; And now she stands unbound and free, In that full light of liberty. “Sing not her past!” cries out a host, “Nor of her future stand and boast. Oblivion be her aimed-for goal, In which to cleanse her ethnic soul, And coming out a creature new, On life’s arena stand in view.” But stand with no identity? All robbed of personality? Perhaps, this is the nobler way To teach that wished-for brighter day. Yet shall the good which she has done Be silenced all and never sung? And shall she have no inspirations To elevate her expectations? From singing I cannot refrain. Please pardon this my humble strain. With cheeks as soft as roses are, And yet as brown as chestnuts dark, And eyes that borrow from a star A tranquil yet a brilliant spark; Or face of olive with a glow Of carmine on the lip and cheek, The hair in wavelets falling low, With jet or hazel eyes that speak; Or brow of pure Caucasian hue, With auburn or with flaxen hair And eyes that beam in liquid blue— A perfect type of Saxon fair. Behold this strange, this well-known maid, Of every hue, of every shade! Oh ye, her brothers, husbands, friends, Be brave, be true, be pure and strong; For on your manly strength depends Her firm security from wrong. O! let your strong right arm be bold, And don that lovely courtesy, Which marked the chevaliers of old. Buttress her home with love and care, Secure her those amenities Which make a woman’s life most dear. Give her your warmest sympathies, Thus high her aspirations raise For nobler deeds in coming days.

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 shall 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 could.

Robes of bright blue around her form are swaying, And in her bosom dewy violets lie; While the warm sun rays on her girdle playing, Give it the rainbow’s soft and varied dye. Over the meadow where the grass is growing, She sprinkles early flowers of every hue; Weeping, she strews them, and the bright tears flowing, Bathe every leaflet with a shining dew. With stately step, and crowned with crimson roses She comes; and sighing, April bows her head; Then May the white lids on the sweet eyes closes, And lays fair April with her flowers—dead.

Swiftly beyond recall, The years are fleeting fast; The brittle threads of time, Will gently break at last. O man of wisdom, canst thou tell, Why human hearts love here to dwell? Is it because earth yields So many treasures rare? Is it because life gives So many pleasures fair? Cease, doubting soul; it may be fate That bids thee through the years to wait. Bright flowers and pricking thorns Bestrew this life’s highway, Where weary feet still tread The changing paths of day. But there is bliss for all the tears That seem to dim the fleeting years. We know, beyond the veil, There is some hidden joy; ’Tis worth this life to live, That we may then employ Our trembling lips, in praise sublime, Beyond the boundless space of time. And shall we then despise The day of smallest things? Ah, no! these souls of ours Shall soon on angel’s wings Be borne aloft, when years shall cease, To rest in perfect joy and peace.

Soft breezes blow, and swiftly show, Through fragrant orange branches parted, A maiden fair, with sun-flecked hair Caressed by arrows, golden darted. The vine-clad tree holds forth to me A promise sweet of purple blooms, A chirping bird, scarce seen, but heard, Sings dreamily, and sweetly croons, At Bay St. Louis. The hammock swinging, idly singing, lissome, nut-brown maid Swings gaily, freely, to and fro. The curling, green-white waters, casting cool, clear shade, Rock small, shell boats that go In circles wide, or tug at anchor’s strain, As though to skim the sea with cargo vain, At Bay St. Louis. The maid swings slower, slower to and fro, And sunbeams kiss gray, dreamy half-closed eyes; Fond lover creeping on with footsteps slow, Gives gentle kiss, and smiles at sweet surprise. The lengthening shadows tell that eve is nigh, And fragrant zephyrs cool and calmer grow, Yet still the lover lingers, and scarce-breathed sigh Bids the swift hours to pause, nor go, At Bay St. Louis.

Oh Lord, the work thou gavest me With this day’s rising sun, Through faith and earnest trust in Thee, My Master, it is done. And ere I lay me down to rest, To sleep—perchance for aye— I’d bring to thee at Thy request A record of the day. And while I bring it willingly And lay it at Thy feet, I know, oh, Saviour, certainly, That it is not complete. Unless Thy power and grace divine, Upon what I have wrought, Shall in its glorious fulness shine, Oh Lord, the work is naught.

Oh God, my soul would fly away Were it not fettered by this clay; I long to be with Thee at rest, To lean in love upon Thy breast. Here in this howling wilderness, With enemies to curse, not bless, I feel the need of Thy strong hand To guide me to that better land. How oft, oh God, I feel the sting Of those whose evil tongues would wring The heart of any trusting one As did the Jews to Thy dear Son. Yet in this hour of grief and pain, Let me not curse and rail again; But meek in prayer, Lord, let me go And say, “They know not what they do.” Lord, when this hard-fought battle’s o’er, And I shall feel these stings no more, Then let this blood-washed spirit sing Hosannah to my Lord and King.

Speak softly to the fatherless, And check the harsh reply That sends the crimson to the cheek, The teardrop to the eye. They have the weight of loneliness In this rude world to bear; Then gently raise the falling bud, The drooping floweret spare. Speak kindly to the fatherless— The lowliest of their band God keepeth as the waters In the hollow of his hand. ’Tis sad to see life’s evening sun Go down in sorrow’s shroud; But sadder still when morning’s dawn Is darkened by a cloud. Look mildly on the fatherless; Ye may have power to wile Their hearts from sadden’d memory By the magic of a smile. Deal gently with the little ones; Be pitiful, and He, The Friend and Father of us all, Shall gently deal with thee.

If this world were all, and no Glorious thought of a Divine Hereafter did comfort me, then Life with too much pain were Fraught and misery. I should not care to live another Day, with burdened heart and naught To cheer my soul upon its lonely way, From year to year. So many cares beset me on my way; So many griefs confront me in the Road, how wretched I, no hope, No faith to-day, in Heaven and God. The friends I love, for whom my life Is spent, do oft misjudge and rob Me of their love. Ah, if I had No hope in Jesus, sent down from above! Why should I care to stay in such A race? far rather give the Bitter struggle o’er and die, Caring not to face what the Future hath in store. But just beyond is Heaven’s Eternal shore, a mansion Waiteth for each sincere soul, A blessed rest forever more Is at the goal.

Finished now the weary throbbing, Of a bosom calmed to rest; Laid aside the heavy sorrows, That for years upon it prest. All the thirst for pure affection, All the hunger of the heart, All the vain and tearful cryings, All forever now depart. Clasp the pale and faded fingers, O’er the cold and lifeless form; They shall never shrink and shiver, Homeless in the dark and storm. Press the death-weights calmly, gently, O’er the eyelids in their sleep; Tears shall never tremble from them, They shall never wake to weep. Close the silent lips together, Lips once parted with a sigh; Through their sealèd moveless portals, Ne’er shall float a bitter cry. Bring no bright and blooming flowers, Let no mournful tears be shed, Funeral flowers, tears of sorrow, They are for the cherished dead. She has been a lonely wanderer, Drifting on the world’s highway; Grasping with her woman’s nature Feeble reeds to be her stay. God is witness to the anguish Of a heart that’s all alone; Floating blindly on life’s current, Only bound unto His throne. But o’er such Death’s solemn angel Broodeth with a sheltering wing; Till the helpless hands, grown weary, Cease around earth’s toys to cling. Then kind hands will clasp them gently, On the still and aching breast; Softly treading by they’ll whisper Of the lone one gone to rest.

Oh harvest sun, serenely shining On waving fields and leafy bowers, On garden wall and latticed vine Thrown brightly as in by-gone hours; Oh ye sweet voices of the wind, Wooing our tears, in angel tones; Friends of my youth, shall I not weep? Ye are still here, but they are gone. I see the maples, tossing ever Their silvery leaves up to the sky; Still chasing o’er the old homestead’s walls The trembling light, their shadows fly. Familiar forms and gentle faces Once glanced beneath each waving bough, And glad tones rung: shall I not weep That all is lone and silent now? Nay, for like heavenly whispers stealing, Comes now this memory divine, Where thy clear beams, Oh sun of autumn, Through the stained windows richly shine; A solemn strain, the organ blending, Like a priest’s voice, its glorious chord, Is on the charmed air ascending; “Come, let us sing unto the Lord.” And while the earth, year after year, Puts all her golden glory on, And like it, God’s most holy love Comes now, with every morning’s dawn, “Singing unto the Lord,” I love, With all the hosts that speak His praise. I may not walk the earth alone, Nor sorrow for departed days. I know the friends I loved so well, Through the years of their life-long race, Lifted sweet eyes of faith to God, And now they see His blessed face. Thou, Lord, forever be my song, And I’ll not weep for days gone by; But give Thee back each hallowed hour, A seed of immortality.