SONGS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Let me make the songs for the people, Songs for the old and young; Songs to stir like a battle-cry Wherever they are sung.

Not for the clashing of sabres, For carnage nor for strife;

70 SONGS FOR THE PEOPLE.

But songs to thrill the hearts of men With more abundant life.

Let me make the songs for the weary, Amid life's fever and fret, Till hearts shall relax their tension, And careworn brows forget.

Let me sing for little children, Before their footsteps stray, Sweet anthems of love and duty, To float o'er life's highway.

I would sing for the poor and aged, When shadows dim their sight; Of the bright and restful mansions, Where there shall be no night.

Our world, so worn and weary, Needs music, pure and strong, To hush the jangle and discords Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.

Music to soothe all its sorrow, Till war and crime shall cease; And the hearts of men grown tender Girdle the world with peace.

LET THE LIGHT ENTER. 71

LET THE LIGHT ENTER.

The dying words of Goethe.

"Light! more light! the shadows deepen, And my life is ebbing low, Throw the windows widely open: Light! more light! before I go.

"Softly let the balmy sunshine Play around my dying bed, E'er the dimly lighted valley I with lonely feet must tread.

"Light! more light! for Death is weaving Shadows 'round my waning sight, And I fain would gaze upon him Through a stream of earthly light."

Not for greater gifts of genius; Not for thoughts more grandly bright, All the dying poet whispers Is a prayer for light, more light.

Heeds he not the gathered laurels, Fading slowly from his sight; All the poet's aspirations Centre in that prayer for light.

72 AN APPEAL TO MY COUNTRYWOMEN.

Gracious Saviour, when life's day-dreams Melt and vanish from the sight, May our dim and longing vision Then be blessed with light, more light.

AN APPEAL TO MY COUNTRYWOMEN.

You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian Who weeps in her desolate home.

You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia From kindred and friends doomed to roam.

You can pity the men who have woven From pa.s.sion and appet.i.te chains To coil with a terrible tension Around their heartstrings and brains.

You can sorrow o'er little children Disinherited from their birth, The wee waifs and toddlers neglected, Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.

For beasts you have gentle compa.s.sion; Your mercy and pity they share.

For the wretched, outcast and fallen You have tenderness, love and care.

AN APPEAL TO MY COUNTRYWOMEN. 73

But hark! from our Southland are floating Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain, And women heart-stricken are weeping Over their tortured and their slain.

On their brows the sun has left traces; Shrink not from their sorrow in scorn.

When they entered the threshold of being The children of a King were born.

Each comes as a guest to the table The hand of our G.o.d has outspread, To fountains that ever leap upward, To share in the soil we all tread.

When ye plead for the wrecked and fallen, The exile from far-distant sh.o.r.es, Remember that men are still wasting Life's crimson around your own doors.

Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters, Just a plea, a prayer or a tear, For mothers who dwell 'neath the shadows Of agony, hatred and fear?

Men may tread down the poor and lowly, May crush them in anger and hate,

74 AN APPEAL TO MY COUNTRYWOMEN.

But surely the mills of G.o.d's justice Will grind out the grist of their fate.

Oh, people sin-laden and guilty, So l.u.s.ty and proud in your prime, The sharp sickles of G.o.d's retribution Will gather your harvest of crime.

Weep not, oh my well-sheltered sisters, Weep not for the Negro alone, But weep for your sons who must gather The crops which their fathers have sown.

Go read on the tombstones of nations Of chieftains who masterful trod, The sentence which time has engraven, That they had forgotten their G.o.d.

'Tis the judgment of G.o.d that men reap The tares which in madness they sow, Sorrow follows the footsteps of crime, And Sin is the consort of Woe.

THEN AND NOW. 75

THEN AND NOW.

"Build me a nation," said the Lord.

The distant nations heard the word, Build me a nation true and strong, Bar out the old world's hate and wrong; For men had traced with blood and tears The trail of weary wasting years, And torn and bleeding martyrs trod Through fire and torture up to G.o.d.

While in the hollow of his hand G.o.d hid the secret of our land, Men warred against their fiercest foes, And kingdoms fell and empires rose, Till, weary of the old world strife, Men sought for broader, freer life, And plunged into the ocean's foam To find another, better home.

And, like a vision fair and bright The new world broke upon their sight.

Men grasped the prize, grew proud and strong, And cursed the land with crime and wrong.