Harvests
Other harvests there are than those that lie
Glowing and ripe ’neath an autumn sky,
Awaiting the sickle keen,
Harvests more precious than golden grain,
Waving o’er hillside, valley or plain,
Than fruits ’mid their leafy screen.
Not alone for the preacher, man of God,
Do those harvests vast enrich the sod,
For all may the sickle wield;
The first in proud ambition’s race,
The last in talent, power or place,
Will all find work in that field.
Man toiling, lab’ring with fevered strain,
High office or golden prize to gain,
Rest both weary heart and head,
And think, when thou’lt shudder in death’s cold clasp,
How earthly things will elude thy grasp,
At that harvest work instead!
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Blind Man Of Jericho
He sat by the dusty way-side,
With weary, hopeless mien,
On his furrowed brow the traces
Of care and want were seen;
With outstretched hand and with bowed-down head
He asked the passers-by for bread.
The palm-tree’s feathery foliage
Around him thickly grew,
And the smiling sky above him
Wore Syria’s sun-bright hue;
But dark alike to that helpless one
Was murky midnight or noon-tide sun.
But voices breaking the silence
Are heard, fast drawing nigh,
And falls on his ear the clamor
Of vast crowds moving by:
“What is it?” he asks, with panting breath;
They answer: “Jesus of Nazareth.”
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Beneath The Snow
’Twas near the close of the dying year,
And December’s winds blew cold and drear,
Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet
In gusty whirls through square and street,
Shrieking more wildly and fiercely still
In the dreary grave-yard that crowns the hill.
No mourners there to sorrow or pray,
But soon a traveller passed that way:
He paused and leant against the low stone wall,
While sighs breathed forth from the pine-trees tall
That darkly look down on the silent crowd
Of graves, all wrapped in a snowy shroud.
Solemn and weird was the spectral scene—
The tombstones white, with low mounds between,
The awful stillness, eerie and dread,
Brooding above that home of the dead,
While Christmas fires lit up each hearth
And shed their glow upon scenes of mirth.
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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A Worldly Death-Bed
Hush! speak in accents soft and low,
And treat with careful stealth
Thro’ that rich curtained room which tells
Of luxury and wealth;
Men of high science and of skill
Stand there with saddened brow,
Exchanging some low whispered words—
What can their art do now?
Follow their gaze to yonder couch
Where moans in fitful pain
The mistress of this splendid home,
With aching heart and brain.
The fever burning in her veins
Tinges with carmine bright
That sunken cheek—alas! she needs
No borrowed bloom to-night.
The masses of her raven hair
Fall down on either side
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Wood Fairy’s Well
“Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden,
Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array,
Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden,
And birds make sweet music throughout the long day.
Each step thou hast taken has been over flowers,
Of forms full of beauty—of perfumes most rare,
Why comest thou home, then, with footsteps so weary,
No smiles on thy lip, and no buds in thy hair?”
“Ah! my walk through the wild-wood has been full of sadness,
My thoughts were with him who there oft used to rove,
That stranger with bright eyes and smiles full of gladness
Who first taught my young heart the power of love.
He had promised to come to me ere the bright summer
With roses and sunshine had decked hill and lea.
I, simple and trusting, believed in that promise,
But summer has come, and, alas! where is he?”
“Yes, simple and trusting—ah! child, the old story!
Say, when will thy sex learn that man can forget?
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Bound For California
With buoyant heart he left his home for that bright wond’rous land
Where gold ore gleams in countless mines, and gold dust strews the sand;
And youth’s dear ties were riven all, for as wild, as vain, a dream
As the meteor false that leads astray the traveller with its gleam.
Vainly his father frowned dissent, his mother, tearful, prayed,
Vainly his sisters, with fond words, his purpose would have stayed;
He heard them all with heedless ear, with dauntless heart and bold—
Whisp’ring to soothe each yearning fear “I go to win you gold.”
Restless he paced the deck until he saw the sails unfurled
Of the ship which was to bear him to that new and distant world;
And when his comrades stood with him and watched the lessening land,
His clear laugh rose the loudest ’mid that gay gold-seekers’ band.
In changing moods of grief and mirth the ocean way was passed,
And all were weary, when the cry of “Land” was heard at last.
Like birds escaped from thraldom long, the happy, smiling crowd
Thronged to the deck with eager looks, rejoicing long and loud.
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Child’s Dream
Buried in childhood’s cloudless dreams, a fair-haired nursling lay,
A soft smile hovered round the lips as if still oped to pray;
And then a vision came to him, of beauty, strange and mild,
Such as may only fill the dreams of a pure sinless child.
Stood by his couch an angel fair, with radiant, glitt’ring wings
Of hues as bright as the living gems the fount to Heaven flings;
With loving smile he bent above the fair child cradled there,
While sounds of sweet seraphic power stole o’er the fragrant air.
“Child, list to me,” he softly said, “on mission high I’m here:
Sent by that Glorious One to whom Heav’n bows in loving fear;
I seek thee now, whilst thou art still on the threshold of earth’s strife,
To speak of what thou knowest not yet, this new and wond’rous life.
“Dost cling to it? dost find this earth a fair and lovely one?
Dost love its bright-dyed birds and flowers, its radiant golden sun?
I come to bid thee leave it all—to turn from its bright bloom,
And, having closed thine eyes in death, descend into the tomb.
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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When Will It End?
Written during the Civil War in the United States.
O when will it end, this appalling strife,
With its reckless waste of human life,
Its riving of highest, holiest ties,
Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs,
Its ruined homes from which hope has fled,
Its broken hearts and its countless dead?
In fair Virginia the new-made graves
Lie crowded thick as old ocean’s caves;
Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow,
What matters it?—They lie cold and low;
And Maryland’s heights are crimsoned o’er,
And its green vales stained, with human gore.
The stalwart man in the prime of life,
Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife;
The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy,
Of some mother’s fond breast the pride and joy,
And the soldier-love, the idol rare
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Final Reckoning
’Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red
Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead;
And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately, high,
Whose wealthy, high-born master had lain him down to die.
Many friends were thronging round him, breathing aching, heavy sighs—
Men with pale and awe-struck faces, women, too, with weeping eyes,
Watching breathless, silent, grieving him whose sands were nearly run,
When, with sudden start, he muttered: “God! how much I’ve left undone!”
Then out spoke an aged listener, with broad brow and locks of snow,
“Patriot, faithful to thy country and her welfare, say not so,
For the long years thou hast served her thou hast only honor won.”
But, from side to side still tossing, still he muttered: “Much undone!”
Then the wife, with moan of anguish, like complaint of stricken dove,
Murmured: “Husband, truer, fonder, never blessed a woman’s love,
And a just and tender father both to daughter and to son”—
But more feebly moaned he ever: “Oh! there’s much, there’s much undone!”
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Our Saviour And The Samaritan Woman At The Well
Close beside the crystal waters of Jacob’s far-famed well,
Whose dewy coolness gratefully upon the parched air fell,
Reflecting back the bright hot heavens within its waveless breast,
Jesus, foot-sore and weary, had sat Him down to rest.
Alone was He—His followers had gone to Sichar near,
Whose roofs and spires rose sharply against the heavens clear,
For food which Nature craveth, whate’er each hope or care,
And which, though Lord of Nature, He disdained not to share.
While thus He calmly waited, came a woman to the well,
With water vase poised gracefully, and step that lightly fell,
One of Samaria’s daughters, most fair, alas! but frail,
Her dark locks bound with flowers instead of modest, shelt’ring veil.
No thought of scornful anger within His bosom burned,
Nor, with abhorrent gesture, His face from her He turned;
But as His gaze of purity dwelt on her, searching, meek,
Her bright eyes fell, and blushes hot burned on her brow and cheek.
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poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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