The Works Alexander Brown Bell

He lived his life amid a war of words 

That evil tongues kept jangling soon and late, 

Yet grappled like a Titan with his fate 

Till evermore he felt his finer chords 

Responsive to the joy that life affords. 

No more he sat him down disconsolate. 

The benediction of the Paraclete 

Brought joy into his life from hidden hoards. 

For, stumbling darkly ‘neath a clouded sky, 

Burning with shame that he no comfort gleaned 

From aught of good he could around descry, 

Made weak by all he felt and saw of wrong, 

Rough-flung by Earth upon himself, he leaned 

Hard back against the Eternal, and was strong.

A soul lay shuddering under blow on blow 

That fell upon it hard and pitiless. 

Then cried it out aloud in its distress: 

"How long, 0 Lord, how long must this be so?" 

O wayward, foolish soul. dost thou not know 

Life's buffets are one side of God's caress? 

He'll blast, if need be, to make fix to bless, 

And slay in love life on thee to bestow. 

The forge and furnace, Lord, alike are Thine, 

And Thine the hammer-blows that shape and weld, 

And Thou the smith by whose strong arms we're held 

And beaten into fitness. Why repine 

At sorrow? Strike and spare not, Lord, We choose 

To be a sword true-tempered for Thy use. 

Death in Life

He chewed that bitter cud of all, remorse, 

Yet fled from fancy on to fancy's end, 

And all the purpose of his life would bend 

To catch life's flying pleasures in their course. 

So, into folly flinging all his force, 

He, with the shadows that her steps attend, 

Did all the noble fires of youth expend, 

Until he grew more soulless than a corpse. 

And all the powers of joy were shrivelled up, 

And even appetite began to pall, 

And thought grew mordant; for he felt that all 

The sweetness had departed from life's cup.

O miserable he. of whom 'tis said 

His body lives around a soul that's dead.

A soul a-weary on a bed of pain 

Lay helpless, watching pass the idle hours 

From Springtime, with its glorious rush of flowers, 

To Autumn, with sere leaves and golden grain. 

And aye her thoughts ended in one refrain: 

“Oh that I had the strength to use the powers 

That throb so quick within me Nature's dowers 

I must hand back to her, unused, again."

That soul a-weary lay and slept one night, 

And to her couch there came a spirit veiled. 

Starting, she looked upon his form,and paled, 

But lo Death's sable skirts were lined with light. 

He stooped and kissed her as her spirit fled, 

Shining transformed, "Not Death, but Life," he said. 

"Thou art the Christ", said Peter; and again: 

“I know Him not", denying with an oath. 

Then the cock crew, and his loved Master, loath 

Even in that hour of stress to show His pain, 

But looked on the blasphemer; and amain, 

As ‘twere a sea, wind-churned to angry froth, 

Peter's heart smote him for his broken troth. 

He fled into the dark, and wept like rain. 

Anon the thought of all his failure crept 

Into his heart, devouring like a fire, 

“O unfit for apostleship he wept, 

“To go a-fishing's all thou mayst aspire"-- 

Remorse had wrought humility so deep; 

Yet Christ re-crowned him with:"Go, feed My sheep."

No pride of place nor pomp of pride showed he, 

But stooped his eyes before the gaze of men 

Who marvelled at his greatness much, and then 

Marvelled even more at his humility. 

The least of those around him he would see, 

Though monarchs sought his counsel, and his pen 

Senates controlled, and all things to his ken 

Seemed open, as he owned divinity.

Whence came his kindly voice, and gentle mien, 

And tender heart and heavenly, though none knew, 

Not even himself, God saw from what they grew, 

What made him sorrow-worn, though serene-- 

The thought of ill, once loved though long eschewed, 

And secret sins, long fought, but unsubdued. 

Unfolding 'neath the light of woman's smile 

He grew in grace and gladness day by day. 

Life's purple clothed him, and o'er all his way 

Roses were strewn. Nothing that could defile 

Was suffered near him; and the hours to while 

With dance and song, to laugh, jest, and be gay, 

To play at being loved, and love for play 

Were all he thought of. ‘Twas the Tempter's wile. 

And yet the lure, full-cunning, failed. It chanced 

A tale of woe went to his heart; and all 

The world's sorrow rose before him as he danced 

One night with high-born ladies at a ball, 

Till sudden from his lips the laughter died-- 

He saw what all the mirth meant; how it lied. 

If God were cruel think you He'd have made 

The world so fair? And is the world less fair 

When Winter flings her snow-dust in the air, 

And frost the earth in iron bonds has laid? 

So, living here,though sin blight, sorrow fade, 

And weary hearts with sorrow sigh, and care, 

And all seems disappointment everywhere, 

Mine eyes' sweep leaves my soul still undismayed. 

For, as the sower in the new-turned soil 

Casts grain in faith, though all around is drear, 

With no green blade to kindle hope in toil, 

Nor finds the desolation breed one fear, 

God has His winter for the soul, and sows 

The seeds of love and gladness ‘mid its snows. 

I know not how in Heaven the Eternal speaks, 

Standing among His angels; but to me, 

On earth here, while I hearken for Him, He 

Comes on the dawn-wind, kisses both my cheeks, 

And tells me of His love. Then, after weeks 

Of sadness, in a linnet's song, so free 

And full of joyance, or the majesty 

Of some grave sunset, with clouds piled like peaks

 Of snow-clad mountains bathed in rosy light, 

He tells of grace and glory. Most of all 

He speaks to me through children, in whose eyes 

Himself has looked, within them hid the might 

Of his great pureness, and from many a fall, 

And slip, and sin, they hold me. So I rise.

We keep God very busy up in Heaven.

He made all good, and fair to look upon; 

But man sinned, and the perfectness was gone. 

And now the Eternal to strange shifts is driven 

To crush the fruits of evil till they're riven 

And goodness trickles out. Our life's in pawn: 

He pays the debt, and bids us up and on, 

Forgiving us if only we have striven. 

We rage, and from our wrath God brings forth peace, 

And saves us from ourselves in our despite, 

Redemption working out for us, and ease, 

From sin and suffering by His love's wise might. 

Only to Him the agony is known, Treading 

His dark Gethsemane alone. 

May mild-eyed Peace, with dove-like wings outspread, 

Descend on thee this holy Christmastide; 

And may she never wander from thy side 

What time the years are flying o'er thy head. 

May Joy, the golden-crowned, to Plenty wed, 

Befriend thee still, though mocking Care deride, 

And evermore with thee and thine abide, 

That thou mayst aye from paths of ill be led. 

May Love, that seraph-soul all wrapt in flame, 

Inspire thee to attain the grandest height 

Where all they who have won the nobler name 

Enjoy God's smile in everlasting light, 

That thou, too, with thine harp before the Throne 

Mayst chant to Him who bought thee for His own. 

It was an evening in December wild; 

The waves upon the beach hushed earth to rest; 

The stars from out the heavens' azure pressed 

With eager glance to see the Holy Child. 

He came to earth; and, with looks maiden-mild, 

The Virgin Mother rocked Him on her breast, 

Anon her Saviour's tiny form caressed 

Till He looked up into her face, and smiled. 

Since thus it was Emanuel was born, 

Thus drew forth love in even His earliest years, 

While on his Mother's face, pale and pain-worn, 

A happy pride shone glorious through her tears, 

O wondrous Motherhood to be so blessed, 

Thy mystic worth by God Himself confessed.

May this New Year, whose eye hath oped on thee, 

The happy harbinger of many more, 

With bright, and ever-brightening joys in store, 

To thee, and thine, and all thou lovest be. 

And, as its days pass o'er thee, may they see 

A Spring of blessed thoughts pass on before, 

Through Summer's richness, through ripe Autumn's store, 

To Winter's snowy crown of purity. 

I pray not for thee thou mayst know no sorrow, 

For they who know not sorrow know not bliss; 

But, linking each today with each tomorrow, 

Instead of joy untinged I'll pray for this: 

That thou mayst see, when crosses crush thee down, 

Gilding the dust, some glory from thy crown. 

I lie and dream. My working days are o'er; 

I'm but a worn-out tool, a broken loom, 

Waiting the day when I shall dream no more, 

And silence reigns within a darkened room. 

So let it be. I am content to go. 

The days still left to me are short and few; 

But one long day's before me, and I know

When that day comes I'll see my dreams come true.