Gleams of Sunshine Part 2

Some men there are who stand so straight, So equipoised, that others' fate Seems to depend on their behest; And useless all our every quest To gain perfection or renown, Unless we touch the flowing gown Of these high-priests, whose shadows fall Within themselves, if fall at all.

Others are not as straight as these, But more like rough and gnarled trees; But little beauty they display; Shadows they cast across the way; And from them men with scorning turn, Or, if they speak, their accents burn Like capsic.u.m on chafed skin, And leave a smarting wound within.

Once n.o.ble men, when turned aside By fleshly l.u.s.t or sinful pride, Each one becomes a broken bell On which the angry fiends of h.e.l.l Ring out their discord, harsh and loud, As if with demon powers endowed.

Colossal once through grace they were; Colossal still, though cleft and bare.

On northern rocks is often seen The impress of some southern sheen, The brightness of a warmer bloom, Unknown to winter's frost and gloom.

The fossil flower of epoch fair Has left its lasting impress there.

So in some men whose hearts are cold You find a trace of days of old.

While we deplore the Arctic chill, The frigid heart, the ice-bound will, We must admire the fossil trace, Still seen, of early days of grace.

Hiding from sight as best we can The traces of the fallen man, We feast our eyes upon the fair, Though fossil, lines that linger there.

How to restore is our concern, As we o'er their declensions mourn.

Can such dire ruin be repaired?

Only if G.o.d's strong arm be bared.

But we must do a brother's part, And try to thaw the frozen heart; Not by the fire of wrath above, But by the melting coals of love.

As bullets smooth are farther shot, Because rough angles they have not, So gentle ways and loving speech Are sure the erring heart to reach, While jagged deeds and words unkind, Like pebbles rough, much friction find; They fall before they reach the goal, And seldom help the needy soul.

To truth be loyal, but take a care That with true zeal _tact_ have a share.

The lightning when it strikes the tree Runs with the grain, as oft you see; Those who at angling are adepts, Choose well their bait and guard their steps; So if you would the sinner gain, Bait well your hook, or mark the grain.

TREAD SOFTLY

In the courts of truth tread softly, Though your tread be firm and bold; Your steps may awaken echoes, Resounding through years untold.

The trend of the age is onward, And you should not lag behind; If men's minds are bound with fetters, Perchance you may some unbind.

Our creed, say you, needs revising, In line with the growth of light; Be sure you have made real progress Before you a.s.sume the right, By stroke of pen, to unsettle The faith of the long ago; For many who err in judgment Stand fast to the truth they know.

You bring from the mine rare jewels, That you think the world should see; But, perhaps, their estimation With your own may not agree; They may lack discrimination, And their worth may not discern; So polish them at your leisure, And give the world time to learn.

Before you dig up the old tree That sheltered in ages past The earth's n.o.blest men and women From the fury of the blast, See that your sapling is rooted, And no borer at its base, And its boughs both strong and spreading, To cover an erring race.

Bear down on the lever gently, Or the rock may be o'erturned!

Or, perchance, your lever shattered, And little experience learned!

Take time to adjust your fulcrum, Then thrust home your iron bar; Bear down and the rock is lifted, Is lifted without a jar.

Your views are, perhaps, exotic-- Young shoots from a tropic brain, They need to be better rooted To endure the wind and rain; You may well admire the markings On each graceful stem and leaf, But if taken from the hot-house, They will surely come to grief.

Before they have wholly perished They may please admiring eyes, The old be thrown on the dunghill, To receive your floral prize; They adorn the porch and window, And brighten the wayside bed, But we waken some summer morning To find our new treasures dead.

'Tis better to make haste slowly, Than to antedate your day; The farmer waits for the suns.h.i.+ne, To trans.m.u.te the gra.s.s to hay.

When the fields are ripe for harvest Fear neither the heat or rain, But thrust in your sharpened sickle, And gather the golden grain.

"IT WAS MY FAULT"[2]

Those men are deemed heroes who rush on the foe Regardless of danger, and seek not to know What others may do; Stern duty demands it--why should they falter If all they hold dear is laid on the altar, And conscience be true?

The greatest of all is the man who can say When battle is over and foe gained the day, "The fault was in me: My plan miscarried through miscalculation; On me rests the blame, and not on the nation: My soldiers are free."

In George Stewart White, and men of like mind, Our nation can rest, for in them you will find A true manliness; Their failures acknowledged are failures no more; Defeat to such men only opens the door To future success.

[Footnote 2: General White's words.]

KEPT THE FLAG FLOATING

"Thank G.o.d, we have kept the flag floating."--_General White._

Some men, like French, display much dash; They boldly rush upon the foe, Their sword-blades like the lightning flash, As they on helm or hauberk clash; Nor fear the foeman's blow.

We praise them for their gallant deeds; They are the men the Empire needs.

But true as they are those who stand Within the fort beleaguered round; Resources few at their command, Their army but a feeble band, Yet bravely hold their ground; And o'er their blood-bespattered coats The Union Jack in triumph floats.

Reduced their strength through lack of food, And fever germs on vitals preyed; Yet they o'er trouble did not brood, By night or day of cheerful mood; This burden on them weighed-- To keep the flag afloat--in brief, Till Buller came to their relief.

Brave White, accept our meed of praise!

We crown thee equal to the best Of heroes of the olden days, Whose deeds inspired the poets' lays!

We need no further quest; But this with grat.i.tude we note, Thy valour kept the flag afloat!

Valor like thine does not surprise When we review thy n.o.ble past; A hero is the one who tries, Though he may not to ideal rise-- His plan may fail at last-- Yet is too brave to lay the blame On others, but takes all the shame.

"The fault was mine," thy language then, Revealing the divinest grace Possessed by truly n.o.ble men, And, prophecy of triumph, when With foe brought face to face, The choice remains, defeat or death, The flag will float till latest breath.

MARY

She brought her alabaster flask Well-filled with precious nard; Nor did she deem the act a task, Nor look for great reward; She only thought of His great love, And felt her gift was small For Him who left His home above To suffer death for all.

But her blest Lord more highly prized The loving heart that gave; For loveless gifts are e'er despised, Yet men oft seek to pave The way that leads to glory land With deeds devoid of grace; But only those who love can stand Approved before His face.