LEFT BEHIND. WILT thou forget me in that other sphere- No longer hold the old embraces dear When some sweet seraph crowns thee with her kiss? Nay, surely from that rapture thou wouldst miss Some slight, small thing that thou hast cared for here. I do not dream that from those ultimate heights Thou wilt come back to seek me where I bide; But if I follow, patient of thy slights, And if I stand there, waiting by thy side, Surely thy heart with some old thrill will stir, And turn thy face toward me, even from her. ROSES AT SEA. LOVE-children of the summer and the sun, Will hopes, like buds, turn blossoms? Who shall tell? Your fragrant soul escapes; can Memory bind? HELP THOU MY UNBELIEF. BECAUSE I seek Thee not, oh, seek Thou me! Oh, sieze me, snatch me from my fate, and try I should not need Thee, Lord, as now I need, Whose dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears, Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place; Because I seek not, pray not, give Thou heed! nearly forty years his fame as both poet and vocalist has been steadily rising, until now, when his head is crowned with the whitening locks of the ideal poet, he stands without a rival. Many singers, like Russell and Dempster in secular song, and Phillips, Bliss and Sankey in the religious realm, have achieved success in special fields, while poets like Mackay, Massey and Whittier have won lasting fame as the reform poets of a transition era; but in no instance, either in America or Europe, have the song-writer, the song-singer and the reformer been blended in such conspicuous union as to achieve enduring fame, save in the unique history and experience of Mr. Clark. Mr. Clark was born in Constantia, N. Y., June 28, 1830, on the borders of the beautiful Oneida Lake. His parents were leading members of the Episcopal Church, in the creed of which their children, four sons and two daughters, were educated, James Gowdy being the third child. At the age of three years he would sit on his mother's knee and sing Kirke White's "Star of Bethlehem" to the tune of "Bonny Doon," without missing a word or note. At the age of twenty-one he was in the concert field, with a local reputation extending over several counties. He soon attracted the attention of Ossian E. Dodge, of Boston, who appointed him musical composer of "Ossian's Bards," a quartette troupe of which Mr. Dodge was organizer and proprietor. About this time Mr. Clark composed and issued in sheet form, "The Old Mountain Tree,” "The Rover's Grave," "The Rock of Liberty," "Meet Me by the Running Brook," and other compositions, which are still favorites with the public. A few years later followed the words and music of such grand spiritual lyrics as "The Mountains of Life," "The Beautiful Hills," etc., songs which never grow old, and which have been received by all classes as perfect, of their kind, and as constituting a new and original departure in sacred song. When the Civil War broke out, Mr. Clark enlisted in a New York regiment and was promptly detailed to the recruiting service. He traveled night and day, speaking and singing till he was prostrated with lung fever, from which he was finally restored to health by his life-long friend, Dr. James C. Jackson, of "Our Home," Dansville, N. Y. The latter convinced the poet-singer that he must forever give up the idea of camp life. Mr. Clark then returned to the concert field, giving one-third of the gross receipts of his work to the sanitary commissions and aid societies. His patriotic songs stirred the hearts of the people like a bugle blast. He did more to arouse the Union sentiment than any other singer of his day, and at the same time contributed many thousand dollars to the cause of his country. This period called forth his war lyrics. Since the war period the sign of the ripe grain has appeared in Mr. Clark's whitening head and beard, and his poems have shown greater richness and depth. The greatest of his later poems, and probably the most profound and finished efforts of his life, are "The Mount of the Holy Cross" and "The Infinite Mother." The latter is the first worthy effort to express in song the idea of the motherhood of God. And as such it is a forerunner and a prophecy, and is altogether the best poetic contribution yet made to the cause of woman's enfranchisement and emancipation. should become as popular with all women organizations as "The Voice of the People" is with the labor associations. And this "Voice of the People" is the greatest of Mr. Clark's reform lyrics. It catches and reproduces the thunder of the coming storm, and the roar and tramp of the great hungry "Army of the Rear." It As a poet, Mr. Clark's gift is threefold. Nature gave him the whole gift of song-a favor she has bestowed upon few of any age-viz.: the genius to produce genuine poems, the power to wed them to a high order of music, and the voice and presence to render them to delighted audiences. His But Mr. Clark is not only "The Poet-Singer of America;" he is also a writer of vigorous prose and a reformer of cosmopolitan sympathies. He has a mission and a call, and if ever a man found his vocation and "kept himself true to beauty and to truth," that man is James G. Clark. His mission has been to comfort and revive depressed spirits, to arouse humanity to progress and legitimate reform, to sing out the wrong and sing in the right. Personally, he is abreast of his poetry. manhood is as admirable as his song. In fact, the man is greater than the poet. He is a reformer in his life, living what he sings. He is as clean as his work; is with the people in their struggle for a new and nobler birth. He caters to no class, sect or party. Socially, politically and religiously, he is an independent. In brief, he is a man, and his poetry, his singing and life-long labor in the great reforms of the country are the natural expression of his manhood. A. P. M. INNOVATION. TIE my wrists with hempen strands While brazen force around me stands! You can not with your fetters bind To live and wait through slavery's years Still my pulse and stop my breath! So hung the form of Old John Brown; Because the grander light is born! That girdles with its mighty hands Lead me forth! I'm ready now! And through the day I see the Truth The sunbeams on her forehead play; Earth clasps the hand that Heaven extends, THE INFINITE MOTHER. I AM mother of Life and companion of God! And through me all matter takes impress and soul. I loved you, O earth, in those cycles profound, I nursed you, O earth, ere your oceans were born, And all that appeared of your form or your face Was a bare, lurid ball in the vast wilds of space. When your bosom was shaken and rent with alarms, I calmed and caressed you to sleep in my arms, I sung o'er your pillow the song of the spheres breast, As you lay on my heart like a maiden at rest; When fevered, I cooled you with mist and with shower, And kissed you with cloudlet, and rainbow, and flower, Till you woke in the heavens arrayed like a queen, There was love in your face, and your bosom rose fair, And the scent of your lilies made fragrant the air, And your blush in the glance of your lover was rare As you waltzed in the light of his warm yellow hair, Or lay in the haze of his tropical noons, Or slept 'neath the gaze of the passionless moons; And I stretched out my arms from the awful unknown, Whose channels are swept by my rivers alone, Lived, struggled and died, and returned to their rest. All creatures conceived at the Fountain of Cause I throb in their veins and I breathe in their breath, I laugh with the infant, I roar with the sea, I roll in the thunder, I hum with the bee; 'T is mine to protect you, fair bride of the sun, Till the roses that crown you shall wither away, But your sons and your daughters, unconquered by strife, Shall rise on my pinions and bathe in my life, While the fierce glowing splendors of suns cease to burn, And bright constellations to vapor return, And new ones shall rise from the graves of the old, Shine, fade and dissolve like a tale that is told. THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. SWING inward, O, gates of the future! Swing outward, ye doors of the past! For the soul of the people is moving And rising from slumber at last. The black forms of night are retreating, The white peaks have signaled the day, And freedom her long roll is beating, And calling her sons to the fray. And woe to the rule that has plundered And trod down the wounded and slain, While the wars of the Old Time have thundered, And men poured their life-tide in vain. The day of its triumph is ending, The evening draws near with its doom, And the star of its strength is descending, To sleep in dishonor and gloom. Though the tall trees are crowned on the highlands With the first gold of rainbow and sun, While far in the distance below them The rivers in dark shadows run, They must fall, and the workmen shall burn them Where the lands and the low waters meet, And the steeds of the New Time shall spurn them With the soles of their swift-flying feet. Swing inward, O, gates! till the morning The soil tells the same fruitful story, That are muzzled when treading the corn, Must the Sea plead in vain that the River And woe to the robbers who gather In fields where they never have sown, And the throne of their god shall be crumbled, For the Lord of the harvest hath said it, Swing inward, O, gates of the future! And rending his fetters at last. From the dust where his proud tyrants found him, Unhonored, and scorned, and betrayed, He shall rise with the sunlight around him, And rule in the realm he has made. THE MOUNTAINS OF LIFE. THERE's a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told, Where they know not the sorrows of time, Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold, And life is a treasure sublime; 'Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul, Where ages of splendor eternally roll; |