Page:Poems Stephens.djvu/7

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MAY.

The slumbering May awoke one morn,
 And whispered to' the birds and flowers,
Come let us roam o'er all the world,
 And prove what love and grace are ours.

The fields are now all cold and brown,
 My breath will warm them as I pass,
And you full soon can follow on,
 Above the quickened springing grass.

Eight glad were they at this request,
 They longed to beautify the earth;
And soon each lonely nook and glen
 Resounded with sweet songs of mirth.

The blackbirds sang among the pines,
 The robins warbled in the glade,
And e'en the modest little wren
 Its simple song once more essayed.

And violets bloomed beside the brook,
 And daisies starred the grassy plain,
And song, and warmth, and flowers made earth
 A dear delightful throne again.

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OUR HEROES.

We sometimes say the world has selfish grown—
 That mortals are of meaner mold
Than were the heroes and the martyrs, all,
 Who blessed the wondrous days of old.

Or else their story only was a myth,
 Contrived by some ideal mind,
So prone are we to doubt a worth exists,
 That we have sought in vain to find.

But now our cavils evermore are hushed,
 Our doubts to rest forever laid;
And by the world, as 'twere one grateful heart,
 A well-deserved tribute's paid.

For none more generous were than Periton,
 Who loved his life, but dared to brave
The awful water's madly raging flood
 His fellow creatures' lives to save.

While yet all mindful of his peril stern,
 Was rushing onward to his death,
Nor paused once, in all his faithful work,
 "A warning cry his latest breath."

And saintly Crossett, who for love of souls
 Relinquished all the joys of home,
And toiling, suffering, but still hoping on,
 Was glad in heathen lands to roam,

If work of his could only bring true peace
 To some poor sinner's troubled breast,
Ah, he was great, his labors still are known,
 Though he has passed to promised rest.

And Damien, happy owner well possessed
 Of every grace of form and mind,
A gift of love to all our erring race,
 A hope to suffering human kind.

The outcast, and the leper stricken ones
 Were objects of his tenderest care.
The sick, the poor, the friendless and forlorn,
 Found him a friend, their griefs to share.

We'll call these heroes, rightfully they're named,
 No lives were purer, more sublime,
No sacrifice of self was more complete,
 A blessed memory's their's through time.

THE STARS.

Oh wondrous stars! six thousand years
 Those pure unchanging beams of light,
Have travell'd through immensity,
 The crowning glory of the night.

For you were there on that glad morn,
 When first creations work was done;
Tour songs of praise ascended with
 The shouts of joy then just begun.

And when God bless'd as "very good"
 The creatures of His mighty hand,
Ye had begun your tireless race
 In grandeur too a matchless band.

While our Eden's perfect bloom,
 Around that sinless happy pair,
Tour calm effulgence gently spread
 A lustre as divinely fair.

And when was made that fearful plunge
 From innocence to guilt so vast,
That angels wept o'er ruined man,
 No clouds athwart your beams were cast.

But ye through sure appointment led
 The path to where the Savior lay;
A sacrifice complete for all,
 A sacred teacher of the Way.

And while within the garden lone
 He knelt in agonizing prayer;
When dear disciples soundly slept,
 You kept the solemn watches there.

Nor can we doubt, but o'er the Mount
 Where Christ for sinners did atone;
You pierced the awful darkness through,
 And 'round the cross in glory shone.

So when the angel roll'd the stone
 Back from the portal of His tomb.
Ye were the first, with chasten'd beams,
 "To enter that sepulchral gloom."

And as He then revealed to man
 A helper for each trying hour;
So ye are ever showing forth
 Eternal majesty and power.

And bidding us who fear to doubt,
 Yet long to change our faith for sight;
Be faithful and we yet shall find
 Beyond your spheres a source of light.

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CHANGE.

A summer day, how fair it broke,
 With ceaseless song, and cloudless skies,
And fragrance wafted on the breeze,
 From flowrets of a thousand dyes.

And thought was busy everywhere,
 Each mortal had a separate plan
Of pleasure, or of good to win,
 Or how to spend life's little span.

So in a quiet country home
 Was heard the voice of childhood sweet,
And hopeful hearts, and loyal ones,
 Went forth the ways of life to meet.

We know they were in joyful mood,
 But what has joy to do with earth?
And theirs were pure and noble souls,
 But death spares not for youth or worth.

A moment's agony intense
 That every nerve and fibre thrilled—