Part 7

Out of the scattered fragments Of castles I built in the air I gathered enough together To fashion a cottage with care; Thoughtfully, slowly, I planned it, And little by little it grew-- Perfect in form and in substance, Because I designed it for you.

The castles that time has shattered Gleamed spotless and pearly white As they stood in the misty distance That borders the Land of Delight; Sleeping and waking I saw them Grow brighter and fairer each day; But, alas! at the touch of a finger They trembled and crumbled away!

Then out of the dust I gathered A bit of untarnished gold, And a gem unharmed by contact With stones of a baser mold; For sometimes a priceless jewel Gleams wondrously pure and fair From glittering paste foundations Of castles we see in the air.

So, I turned from the realms of fancy, As remote as the stars above, And into the land of the living I carried the jewel of love; The mansions of dazzling brightness Have crumbled away, it is true; But firm upon gold foundations Stands the cottage I built for you!

Verses

You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well. How could the hand be enemy of the arm, Or seed and sod be rivals? How could light Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf, Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile? Are we not part and parcel of yourselves? Like strands in one great braid we intertwine And make the perfect whole. You could not be Unless we gave you birth: we are the soil From which you sprang, yet sterile were that soil Save as you planted. (Though in the Book we read One woman bore a child with no man's aid, We find no record of a man-child born Without the aid of woman! Fatherhood Is but a small achievement at the best, While motherhood is heaven and hell.) This ever-growing argument of sex Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense. Why waste more time in controversy, when There is not time enough for all of love, Our rightful occupation in this life? Why prate of our defects--of where we fail, When just the story of our worth would need Eternity for telling; and our best Development comes ever through your praise, As through our praise you reach your highest self? Oh! had you not been miser of your praise And let our virtues be their own reward, The old established order of the world Would never have been changed. Small blame is ours For this unsexing of ourselves, and worse Effeminizing of the male. We were Content, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain. All we have done, or wise or otherwise, Traced to the root, was done for love of you. Let us taboo all vain comparisons, And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand, Companions, mates and comrades evermore; Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.

Verses

A widow had two sons, And one knelt at her knees, And sought to give her joy And toiled to give her ease; He heard his country's call And longed to go, to die If God so willed, but saw Her tears and heard her sigh.

A widow had two sons, One filled her days with care And creased her brow and brought Her many a whitened hair His country called--he went. Nor thought to say good-by, And recklessly he fought, And died as heroes die.

A widow had two sons, One fell as heroes fall, And one remained and toiled, And gave to her his all. She watched "her hero's" grave In dismal days and fair, And told the world her love, Her heart was buried there.

Our Mission

In the legends of the Norsemen, Stories quaint and weird and wild, There's a strange and thrilling story, Of a mother and her child. And that child, so runs the story, In those quaint old Norsemen books, Fell one day from dangerous play ground, Dashed in pieces on the rocks; But with gentle hand that mother Gathered every tender part, Bore them gently, torn and bleeding, On her loving mother heart. And within her humble dwelling, Strong in faith and brave of soul, With her love-song low and tender Rocked and sang the fragments whole. Such the mission of the Christian, Taught by Christ so long ago; This the mark that bids us stay not, This the spirit each should know: Rent and torn by sin the race is, Heart from heart, and soul from soul; This our task with Christ's sweet love-song, Join, and heal, and make them whole.

--Rev. E. M. Bartlett

Verses

Lord over all! Whose power the sceptre swayed, Ere first Creation's wondrous form was framed, When by His will Divine all things were made; Then, King, Almighty was His name proclaimed.

When all shall cease--the universe be o'er, In awful greatness He alone will reign, Who was, Who is, and Who will evermore In glory most refulgent still remain.

Sole God! unequalled and beyond compare, Without division or associate; Without commencing date, or final year, Omnipotent He reigns in awful state.

He is my God! my living Savior He! My sheltering Rock in sad misfortune's hour! My standard, refuge, portion, still shall be, My lot's disposer when I seek His power.

Into His hands my spirit I consign Whilst wrapped in sleep, that I again may wake, And with my soul, my body I resign; The Lord's with me--no fears my soul can shake.

THE CREATION

ANNIE L. BURTON

The earth, the firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, Were made by God's creative power Six thousand years ago or more. Man, too, was formed to till the ground; Birds, beasts, and fish to move around; The fish to swim, the birds to fly, And all to praise the Love most high. This world is round, wise men declare, And hung on nothing in the air. The moon around the earth doth run; The earth moves on its center, too; The earth and moon around the sun As wheels and tops and pulleys do. Water and land make up the whole, From East to West, from pole to pole. Vast mountains rear their lofty heads, Rivers roll down their sandy beds; And all join in one grand acclaim To praise the Lord's almighty name.

MY FAVORITE HYMNS

The Ninety and Nine

There were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold, But one was out on the hills away, Far-off from the gates of gold-- Away on the mountains lone and bare, Away from the tender Shepherd's care.

"Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine: Are they not enough for Thee?" But the Shepherd made answer: "This of mine Has wandered away from me, And, although the road be rough and steep, I go to the desert to find my sheep."

But none of the ransomed ever knew How deep were the waters crossed; Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through Ere he found His sheep that was lost. Out in the desert he heard the cry-- Sick and helpless, and ready to die.

"Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way That mark out the mountain's track?" "They were shed for one who had gone astray Ere the Shepherd could bring him back." "Lord, whence are Thy hands so rent and torn?" "They are pierced tonight by many a thorn."