Part 18

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 passion and appetite 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 compassion; 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 God 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 shores, 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 God's justice Will grind out the grist of their fate.