CONSIDER. The jewel in the Lotus!" hidden like a gem Within this quaint conceit, Is a pure thought; is the fair lotus flower, On any stream as sweet As the most lonely, loveless child, whose birth Not even mother welcomed to the earth? Lotus, the ooze is black, and lizards hide Deep in thy river-bed. From source as impure, lo! the lily heart Of the child oft is fed. Lotus, thy leaf-stalk springeth from dark ooze, Yet, thou hast beauty, but a child must lose That dewy whiteness that makes beautiful The tremulous child heart, O, mystery of life, God's lilies pure May crown the stems that start Humbly above the poorest child we see, Its angel, that the jewel in the flower When every child-face lifted, softly glows The face is half transparent with pure light, Sun shone upon; pure chalices of hearts And from within, the softened gleams do show Just as the sunlight thro' the lilies' heart? The light on tender lips, and in soft eyes; The petals of the lotus! Ours the bitter loss And will not see the jewel that our God Consider thou the jewel! Only God's dear hand Can touch our eyes, shut lid, And make its white threads tremble tenderly To see God's jewels hid In caskets that the rudest hands have marred. And touched by mildew, blighted everyway, scath! Are we so wise to always count our pearls? The fitness of the souls to whom we give? In answer to the treading of rough hoofs; And all the windings of the woodland paths, Had swung their censers, are so sweet, so sweet! There nothing is beside As sweet and simple as the brier-rose, In thought, the drops of sweetness wrung from it, Or crushed out in the press Of careless feet. True hearts make their own pearls, Whenever, in the stress Of woe, or fear, they send the pure tears forth. How many drops exude From every heart. Are any really lost? Few of the multitude Notice their gleam, or stay their feet at all, For heaven's Golden Vials are they kept MORRIS C. PENNOCK. BORN: CHESTER CO., PA., MAY 22, 1829. IN his early childhood his parents emigrating westward, settled on a farm near Salem, Ohio, where, during youth and early manhood, his time was mainly devoted to agricultural labors, private study, and teaching MORRIS C. PENNOCK. in the public schools of the county. From these alone did he receive any assistanee in his own education. In 1857 he entered a store in Salem, and in the fall of 1862 removed to what is now the city of Alliance, Ohio, where he has since been engaged in the hardware and banking business. In 1856 he was married to Miss Emma E. Wright, who died in 1862, and he was again married in 1868 to Mrs. Elizabeth A. Keith nee Colestock, who still gracefully presides in their pleasant home. Mr. Pennock's tastes are decidedly literary and artistic; and during the earlier years of life his leisure hours were frequently employed in poetic composition, mostly of a rural and domestic character. Many of his articles were published in The National Era of Washington City, The Saturday Evening Post of Philadelphia, and in several local journals. KITTIE. O, darling little Kittie, The child of our delight! And watch her trip along; And rest upon her head. O, darling little Kittie So thoughtful yet so gay! Your heart is warm and trustful And gentle as the day; To you the world's an Eden, Your life a happy dream, The sky a sea of glory, And all things what they seem. Bright morning of existence, SPRING. Spring is here! spring is here With her light and song! With her skies so deeply clear, With her blossoms ever dear, And her tuneful throng; O'er the upland, down the glade, Through the orchard's springing shade, And the gardens newly made See her trip along! Merry spring! dancing spring! Round her verdant throne; While the wild bee's drowsy hum, And the pheasant's muffled drum On the fragrant zephyrs come With a soothing tone. Melting spring, gushing spring! Through its breath thy blossoms bring From thy smiles its soul distills, Cheering spring,- blessed thing! Far too dear to tell. A DOMESTIC ODE. There's a dainty little lady With a bright and cheerful air, With a voice of sweetest music And with silken, sunny hair, Who has floated down the current Where time's rippl'ing waters shine Till her life has reached its summer And has drifted into mine. Deep in toils and cares domestic In a swift but quiet way; With her love for Christ the Savior, With her faith of head and heart She's a Mary in devotion Seeking well the better part. Not a bee that sips its nectar From the painted blooms of spring, Better loves the richer glories That the days of summer bring; Not a bird that soars in music Chanted by its kindred throng, Worships more than she the rapture Wafted on the voice of song. Other steps may be more graceful And a foot more swift in mercy Not a duchess clad in purple, And a loving heart her throne, Where she sits and reigns triumphant With a magic all her own. Thrones may fall and kingdoms perish Shall out-reach the years of life; LOOK UP. Whilst thou art onward sailing With hearts around thee failing The stormy sky in wrath; What if the way be clouded And fenced around with snares, In vain, for sweet relief? Look to that power, ever, And when deep sorrow's waves Seem drowning hope forever, Trust in the arm that saves. See, not a sparrow falling, Escapes his watchful sight, Think then a true heart calling On him, he e'er will slight? Ah no, but still forgiving And gracious to the last, He'll give it hope while living, And peace when life is past. His livid features wore a smile, His wrinkled hands were clasped in prayer, While living death, a master vile, Made all his flesh a thoroughfare For swift and myriad-footed pain. And all the while he sang his strain; Then spake the king with stirring call, And bade him halt, and with his train The king moved on with care withal, And questioned him with pitying gaze. ..How sing you thus these words of praise When life is death?" A moment's pause. Then smiling answered he: ..I raise My voice in songs of joy, because, That as my frame decays I grow |