The bow of Joseph, thou! Thy light And Egypt's wrong; Reminds me of Mosaic priests, Their hyssop-branch, their bleeding beasts, Their bitter herbs, unleavened feasts, Reminds me of that night of gloom, The Twelve, the One, the upper-room; The Bread and Wine; Of Olivet remindeth me, Of Kedron and Gethsemane; Of Thee, Redeemer mine! Thy cross, Thy cries, Thy victory, Stupendous love divine! O Paschal-moon, to wax and wane, Though short thy date, how wide thy reign Afar and near! Thou art the Church's harvest-moon. Shine on! We catch thy heavenly tune WATCHWORDS. WE are living, we are dwelling Hark! the waking up of nations, Will ye play, then! will ye dally With your music, with your wine? Up! it is Jehovah's rally! God's own arm hath need of thine. Hark! the onset! will ye fold your Worlds are charging, heaven beholding! What! still hug thy dreamy slumbers? Fear not! spurn the worldling's laughter; To be more than tempts thee now. On! let all the soul within you For the truth's sake go abroad! Strike! let every nerve and sinew Tell on ages, tell for God! THE INNOCENTS. Refrain thy voice from weeping and thine eyes from tears, for.... thy children shall come again to their own border. Jeremiah, xxxi. 17. I. READING the stones that marked a field of death, II. A mother by a new-made bed that knelt I saw, and turned my steps with rev'rent fear; Yet lingering in the church-yard walks, I felt, Dear Lord! how many hearts are hoarded here. III. How many buds and blossoms of the spring, By frosts too early nipp'd, lie thickly strown; Or like the swallows oft, on eager wing, That come untimely and too oft are flown. IV. Yet 'neath these heaps of buried hopes that tell Are sown not less the seeds of life's return; God's ore is treasured in each narrow cell, Where gold refines and only dross can burn. V. Oh, weep not, mother, o'er that bed of love Where innocence awaits the trumpet's sound, While many a mother mourns her dead above, And weeps no more for children under ground. VI. But come this way when holy hymns are sung, And sounds the air with Paschal-anthems rife, To charge with notes of joy thy plaintive tongue, And sing the Resurrection and the Life. VII. For sweetly sleeps the chrisom-child at rest, And fain with such the Christian heart would lie! If so God wills, of all His gifts 'tis best, Fresh from the fount, in the Christ new-born, to die. M CHARLES SHEPARD PARKE. CHARLES SHEPARD PARKE. R. PARKE was born in Buffalo, N. Y., August 6th, 1861. He has resided in Buffalo ever since. He entered the Buffalo High School in 1876, and two years later went abroad for a year's travel and study in England, France and Germany. Returning in 1879, he re-entered the High School and was graduated in 1881. Mr. Parke began his career as a book-keeper in 1883. In 1885 he became associate editor of the Roller Mill, a monthly trade-journal. In 1886 he became editor and part owner, a position he retains at the present time. Mr. Parke was a furtive maker of verse in 1885, but did not contribute much to the local newspapers till 1890. Since that time he has written considerable. He published in 1892 a dainty little volume, "Ventures in Verse." H.A. K. A SYLVAN CEREMONY. "KNEEL," whispered the breeze. On wistful knees In the swaying grass I sank, While, all around, A soft choral sound Swelled from bower and bank. Two slender blows, And I arose Of sordid aims bereft, Of a green grass-blade Ennobled and enfeoffed. Now am I lord Of weald and sward, Fellow to leaf and flower! Brook, bee and bird Have passed the word That owns me from this hour! GIRLISH LAUGHTER. O, CHIDE her laughter not; So natural, so joyous and so free- Or delicately simpering te-hee. Those swelling notes bespeak A conscience clear, an open heart and whole. And lave the tender edges of the soul! OVERHEARD IN AUGUST. 41 THE Song of Kissisqua, the brooklet, the silvertoned babbler, Rehearsing the gossip of rushes to broad pebbly reaches, Anon lightly telling of flower-loves far in the glen. The song of the westerly breeze, full of sweet meadow thoughts, Orchard airs, garden fancies, fresh mem'ries of plenty afield, With soft undertone of lament for the passing of summer. The song of the cloudlet, whose shadow slips down the green vale, An exquisite strain, that just floats to the far edge of hearing, A measure so fine that its melody dies at a look. MY "MACKINAW." FAREWELL, my faithful Mackinaw, Farewell! It is October, When proper men put off the straw And on the Derby sober. Farewell! Two frolic seasons through Thou'st been a merry thatch; But scorching sun and stiffening dew Have done thee. Now the match! Farewell! 'T were better thou shouldst burn Than crown some graceless bummer. I'll save thy cinders in an urn Marked "Ashes of the Summer." Farewell! for I'm a proper man, And so, the match-but stay! Come shine or shower, old hat of tan, I'll wear thee one more day! ANSWERED. I STOOD On the sounding shore, I questioned the fnrious sea: "O, why in white anger uptossed?" And out of the wild uproar The answer came hissing to me: "Because I'm incessantly crossed!" |