Poems by Mary Baker Eddy Part 5
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Then if we've done to others Some good ne'er told before, When angels shall repeat it, 'Twill be an item more.
_DEDICATION OF A TEMPERANCE HALL_
Author of all divine Gifts, lofty, pure, and free, Temperance and truth in song sublime An offering bring to Thee!
A temple, whose high dome Rose from a water-cup; And from its altar to Thy throne May we press on and up!
And she--last at the cross, First at the tomb, who waits-- Woman--will watch to cleanse from dross The cause she elevates.
Sons of the old Bay State, Work for our glorious cause!
And be your waiting hearts elate, Since temperance makes your laws.
"Temples of Honor," all, "Social," or grand, or great, This blazoned, brilliant temperance hall To Thee we dedicate.
"Good Templars" one and all, Good "Sons," and daughters, too, We dedicate this temperance hall To G.o.d, to Truth, and you!
Lynn, Ma.s.s., _August 4, 1866_.
_LINES_
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer.--_Moore._
Was that fold for the lambkin soft virtue's repose, Where the weary and earth-stricken lay down their woes,-- When the fountain and leaflet are frozen and sere, And the mountains more friendless,--their home is not here?
When the herd had forsaken, and left them to stray From the green sunny slopes of the woodland away; Where the music of waters had fled to the sea, And this life but one given to suffer and be?
Was it then thou didst call them to banish all pain, And the harpstring, just breaking, reecho again To a strain of enchantment that flowed as the wave, Where they waited to welcome the murmur it gave?
Oh, there's never a shadow where suns.h.i.+ne is not, And never the suns.h.i.+ne without a dark spot; Yet there's one will be victor, for glory and fame, Without heart to define them, were only a name!
Lynn, Ma.s.s., _February 19, 1868_.
_TO THE SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILDREN_
_Who sent me the picture depictive of Isaiah xi._
Jesus loves you! so does mother: Glad thy Eastertide: Loving G.o.d and one another, You in Him abide.
Ours through Him who gave you to us,-- Gentle as the dove, Fondling e'en the lion furious, Leading kine with love.
Father, in Thy great heart hold them Ever thus as Thine!
s.h.i.+eld and guide and guard them; and, when At some siren shrine They would lay their pure hearts' off'ring, Light with wisdom's ray-- Beacon beams--athwart the weakly, Rough or treacherous way.
Temper every trembling footfall, Till they gain at last-- Safe in Science, bright with glory-- Just the way Thou hast: Then, O tender Love and wisdom, Crown the lives thus blest With the guerdon of Thy bosom, Whereon they may rest!
Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., _April 3, 1899_.
_HOPE_
Tis borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour; It falls on the heart like the dew on the flower,-- An infinite essence from tropic to pole, The promise, the home, and the heaven of Soul.
Hope happifies life, at the altar or bower, And loosens the fetters of pride and of power; It comes through our tears, as the soft summer rain, To beautify, bless, and make joyful again.
The harp of the minstrel, the treasure of time; A rainbow of rapture, o'erarching, divine; The G.o.d-given mandate that speaks from above,-- No place for earth's idols, but hope thou, and love.
_TO ETTA_
Fair girl, thy rosebud heart rests warm Within life's summer bowers!
Nor blasts of winter's angry storm, Nor April's changeful showers,
Its leaves have shed or bowed the stem; But gracefully it stands-- A gem in beauty's diadem, Unplucked by ruthless hands.
Thus may it ripen into bloom, Fresh as the fragrant sod, And yield its beauty and perfume An offering pure to G.o.d.
Sweet as the poetry of heaven, Bright as her evening star, Be all thy life in music given, While beauty fills each bar.
Lynn, Ma.s.s., _December 8, 1866_.
_NEVERMORE_
Are the dear days ever coming again, As sweetly they came of yore, Singing the olden and dainty refrain, Oh, ever and nevermore?
Ever to gladness and never to tears, Ever the gross world above; Never to toiling and never to fears, Ever to Truth and to Love?
Can the forever of happiness be Outside this ever of pain?
Will the hereafter from suffering free The weary of body and brain?
Poems by Mary Baker Eddy Part 5
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