Women's Rights

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Believe it not, though oft you're told

That hearts once warmed with love grow cold;

That loves' the plaything of an hour,

A fair, though quickly fading flower.

No!  'tis a holy, sacred thing,

And doth a glorious halo fling

Around the darkest path of life,

And lives through envy, toil and strife.

It sheds its gentle, cheering beams,

And brightly o'er life's dark wave gleams,

Within the lowly, vine clad cot,

It often soothes the peasant's lot.

It makes the poor man's hearth more bright,

When hallowed by its mystic light;

It gilds the palace spire with gold,

And brings the heart wealth all untold.

How could we live here without love?

Or what would turn our thoughts above?

'Tis love to God and love to man,

That fills the measure of our span.

By Nannie Grey

Eph. 2: 4-5, "But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved),"

1 John 4:10-11, "In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.  Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another."

Written for the "Evening Bulletin."

Picture: https://pixabay.com/en/jesus-god-bible-holy-clouds-3149505/

And now dear children, must I speak,

     That saddening word farewell?

It is a sound that always falls

     Like some funereal knell.

A death-dirge to the fondest joys

     These parting words convey;

But hope, with rose-hued finger points

     To some bright future day.

When we, perchance, again shall meet,

     With hearts unchanged by time;

And mingle in these soft delights

     That flow like antique rhyme.

If not on earth, then up above –

     Where partings never come –

May Pastors – Teachers – children, all –

     Meet in our Father’s home.

Our “Father’s home”- in the beauteous land,

     Where the trees of Paradise grow,

And where fast by the “great white throne”

     The “river of life” doth flow.

The “river of life,” whose crystal waves

     Mirror the brightness and love

Of the smile of the Lord, as it glows o’er the plains

     Of that sun-bright clime above.

In that sun-bright clime, where white robed saints,

     With their golden harps do sing;

That glorious land, where eternal joys

     Flow from the throne of our King.

In that blessed Home, where done with life,

     When banished our sorrows forever,

In a hymn of praise may we all unite

     On the banks of that beautiful river.

Farewell! May the Savior’s kindly hand

     Lead you ‘mid paths of roses,

And bring you at last to that blissful place

     Where the soul of each saint reposes.

Bring you, with songs of rapturous joy.

     From this world of sorrow and gloom,

And crown each brow, in that brilliant land,

     With flowers of immortal bloom.

by Mrs. E. D. Hundley

(Dedicated to the Baptist Sunday School and 

Published by Request of the School)

Picture:  

First Baptist Church Sunday School children enjoy a game during a 1907 picnic in an Ames park. (Farwell T. Brown Photographic Archive) 

http://www.ameshistory.org/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/

1907_baptist_children_park.jpg?itok=67OLEdGr

 Rev. 21:1-3, "And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding from the throne of God and of the Lamb.  In the middle of its street, and on either side of the river, was the tree of life, which bore twelve fruits, each tree yielding its fruit every month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it, and His servants shall serve Him."

Rev. 21:1-4, "Now I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. Also there was no more sea.  Then I, [a]John, saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.  And I heard a loud voice from heaven saying, “Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God Himself will be with them and be their God.  And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” 

Should sorrows dim thine eyes 

Veiling the light of day

Should clouds, unbidden, rise 

And pleasures flee away.

‘Tis but the rain on grass
Which noon-tide will dispel

The breath upon the glass

‘Tis gone – and all is well.

The sun destroys the mists

Drinks up the passing rain

And in the promised bow

Calls back the drops again.

The mirror shines more bright

For being breathed upon

As all the stars of Heaven delight

To glow, when the day is done.

‘Tis thus with thee, when care

Lies heavy on thy heart,

When life’s a dull despair

Where gladness has no part.

Look up! The morrow breaks,

The “Son of God” is there

The glory of the morning wakes,

And life and love are fair.

Ah! Fairer than the light 

And brighter than the sun,

The love divine, immortal life

And a day that’s never done.

Beyond these clouded skies,

Beyond these turbid springs

The “Son of Righteousness” shall rise

With healing on His wings.

By E. D. Hundley

Picture:  https://www.pexels.com/photo/agriculture-cloudiness-clouds-cloudy-464346/

'Tis a truth that's worth preserving

Labor gives the truest rest - 

Work for God - for others striving

And you shall be truly blest.

In the vineyard of the Master

He is calling "only come"

Where the golden grapes are ripening

Waiting for their "Harvest Home"

If you cannot reach the topmost  

You can dust the lower leaves

All the fields are white about you 

You can find the glittering sheaves.

You may gleam, where stronger workers

Leave the scattered stalks of wheat 

Only mow in lowly meadows

And your rest will be as sweet.

For the sunshine of God’s presence

Beams on every humble saint

Toiling in the world’s great harvest

Day by day, without complaint,

But remember, o’er the ocean

In heathen lands, so far away,

Millions of God's own creation 

Never have been taught to pray.

What shall we to our Father render?

For His great and gracious love,

Shall we not for others labor

'Till we reach the courts above.

The Poem, "What Shall We Render Unto God For All His Love For Us?" is a rearrangement of her previous poem, "Harvest Home, A Truth That's Worth Preserving."  Some verses were eliminated, and others, changed.

"This poem was composed by Mrs. E. D. Hundley for the Women's Missionary Society of the First Presbyterian Church and was read at a 'Historical Meeting' 4 December 1903."

"Mrs. Hundley also composed the poem on the tablet erected to Dr. J. H. Smith that is on the wall of the church near the pulpit, and she was called 'The  Poet Laureate' of the Church."

Picture:   
https://images.pexels.com/photos/910411/pexels-photo-910411.jpeg 

Beware, young ladies, whom you choose;

Be cautious, too, whom your refuse;

All is not gold that glitters bright,

Nor are all gems that shine with light.

Choose not a book, for leaves be gilt,

Nor yet a blade for burnished hilt;

Full many a gem of purest ray,

All dust begrimed is hid away.

Full many a flower of radiant bloom,

Is kept from sight by weedy gloom –

Thus ‘tis with man, too oft is seen,

A noble’s heart ‘neath rustic green.

And many a heart of blackest dye,

Is veiled beneath a courtier’s eye –

Too oft the good are hid in shade,

While palace lights illume the bad.

Trust not to him who humbly kneels,

And on your hand his fealty seals –

Who swears “your eyes are brighter far

Than Heaven’s most brilliant, beaming star –

Your hair more dark than raven’s wing;

Your breath the sweetest gale of spring;

Your cheek the rose’s blushing glow;

Your forehead white as Alpine snow.”

Be wedded!  Then he swears your eyes,

Are always drenched like April skies;

Your cheeks are pale, and all your face, 

Is quite bereft of former grace.

You need not say, “‘twas late at night,

Watching beneath the moon’s cold light,

For him that made your eyes so weak,

And chased the roses from your cheek.”

No! choose a man sincere and kind, 

Whom fortune’s favors cannot blind –

Who pledges vows with honest tongue,

And leaves your beauties all unsung.

A man whose heart is brave and strong,

Who loves the right, eschews the wrong;

Whom worldly honors cannot taint,

No sinner, nor pretended saint.

Then when your youth and beauty’s gone,

And age, with trembling steps comes on,

His love and truth, undimmed and bright,

Shall doubly bless life’s winter night.

Whose virtue, like the flower’s perfume,

Shall last when faded is the bloom;

And you shall bless the day you chose

The fragrance, rather than the rose.

Bt Nannie Grey

     We give the following (previous) precedence over other communications in our hands, in reply to the all important question concerning the proper kind of a husband, for two reasons – 1st it is from Nannie Grey, our favorite poetess, and 2nd, it is advice of the right sort, clothed in a pleasant guise. There are some expressions in the first two stanzas which might be improved, but the reader will be amply compensated who reads the entire poem.      

The Bulletin

Richmond, Virginia

Picture: 

https://www.pexels.com/photo/silhouette-photo-of-man-kneeling-in-front-of-woman-giving-flower-912473/

Mother, who paints the beautiful skies

With crimson and amber and violet dyes?

Who stretches the silvery lines of gray

That out on the azure faint away?

Who draws the curtains around the sun

Like a cloth of gold when day is done,

Weaving the clouds into pearly bars

Like a fluey* net, for the twilight stars?

                                T'is a Master's hand, my child.

When these rainbow glories are fading away

As the angel closes the gates of day

Who numbers the stars on their mystic round

As they solumnly float, without voice or sound?

Who sprinkles the glittering gems of dew

Like diamond drops from the bending blue.

And pencils the earth in the dreamy night

With the flowers of frost in  ?  bright?

                                 T'is a Master's hand, my child.

Who dabbles the East in the early morn

And flushes, rose-tinted the silvery dawn?

Who hangs in the heavens, the clouds of wrath,

And clears though mid-ocean, the lightening's path?

Who shakes, with His thunder, the earth and sky

And loosens the winds, with their terrible cry?

Who speaks, and the  ?   bends at His nod?

But Oh!  I'll not ask that, I know it is God.

                                     A yes, it is God, my child.

T'is God in the sunset; His smile is our light,

In clouds and thick darkness, He veilest the night,

But better than beauty of clouds or of sun

Or the glittering lights of the day that is done,

Than morning or mid-night hoarfrost* or snow

Or aught that is found, above or below,

Is the goodness of God, who in mercy has given

The "day-star on high," our beacon to Heaven,

                                      T'is God's best gift, my child.

By E. D. Hundley

*See glossary

These lines were suggested by a little child's question when looking at the sunset.  She said, "Who paints the skies?"

http://www.rgbstock.com/images/bydownloads/after%20rain/

Should sorrows dim thine eyes

Veiling the light of day,

Should clouds, unbidden rise

And pleasures flee away,

'Tis but the rain on grass

Which noon-tide voice dispel,

The breath upon the glass,

'Tis gone -- and all is well.

The sun destroys the mist,

Drinks up the passing rain

And in the promised bow, 

Calls back the drops again.

The mirror shines more bright

For being breathed upon,

As all the stars of Heaven delight

To glow when day is done.

'Tis thus with thee, when care

Lies heavy on thy heart

When life's a dull dispair

Where gladness has no part,

Look up!  the morrow breaks,

The "Son of God" is there,

The glory of the morning wakes

And life and love are fair.

Picture:  
https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2017/08/10/00/13/nature-2616353_960_720.jpg  

There comes a twilight to the day of life,

When we sit down, as tired of toil and strife

And look around; our sun of youth is set

But golden beams of beauty linger yet.

There falls a softness on our hoary* years

As if the clouds, of sorrow, dropt* in tears,

A misty dimness veils our weary eyes

But Faith's bright finger points us to the skies.

'Tis sometimes sad to cast a long look back,

'Tis bitter, oft, to view life's weary track

O'er which our tired feet have often roved

Along whose way, lies graves of those we've loved,

Where many a flower we dreamed to see bloom bright

Has faded in its petals, saw the light

Where in the dark and gloom, in tears we trod

Forgetting to look upward, to our God.

But, yet how soon has Hope's fair rainbow bent

Across our skies, when sorrow's storm was spent,

How sweetly shone the re-appearing light

Which, contrast to the darkness, made more bright,

Fair smiled the flowers, after the tearful rain

And blithely sang, life's pleasure birds again,

Love's halo cast is joy-inspiring ray

And life was brightest, at the noon of day.

Now, we have traveled to the hill's descent -

Where sunset rays, with twilight shades are blent,*

The calm, cool waves of thought glide gently on

Now passion's fierce tornadoes all are gone;

The zephyrs,* of good conscience, fan our brow

And all is peaceful rest and twilight now;

We meekly sit, where soften shadows play

Watching and waiting for eternal day.

By E. D. Hundley

* See Glossary 

Picture:
https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2017/11/20/19/25/fall-2966489__340.jpg