We are pledged unto His kingdom,
Who for us hath borne
Cross and spear, for us did suffer
Crown of thorn.
Then, for Him who rose triumphant
To the heavenly Lamp,
Gird thy sword though night surround thee,
Wild and damp.
When at last, in mortal weakness,
Sword and spear must fall,
Christ, unto Thy Grand Encampment,
Take us all.
The Curl of Gold.
How wildly blows the wintry wind, deep lies the drifting snow
On the hillside, and the roadside, and the valleys down below;
And up the gorge all through last night the rushing storm flew fast,
And there old walls and casements were rattling in the blast.
Lady, I had a dream last night, born of the storm and pain,
I dreamed it was the time of spring; but the clouds were black with rain.
I thought that I was on the bay, a good way out from shore
Alone, and feeling much afraid at the wild tempest's roar,
I tried to reach the distant land, but could not find the way,
And suddenly my boat capsized far out upon the bay.
I shrieked in wildest agony amid the thunder shock,
When I heard you saying unto me, "Beneath us is a Rock,
Trust not to me, these waves are strong, but lift your tear-dimmed eye--
That star will lead us to the rock that higher is than I."
And through the drenching wave and surf, together on we passed,
Till the bright green slopes of Hamilton shone clearly out at last.
It seemed so strange, we stepped ashore, your garments were all dry,
And, holding hands as we do now, I heard you say "good-bye."
Dear lady, now I see it all, those blessed words you said
Were with me in the storm last night, like angels round my bed.
"So many and great dangers that we cannot stand upright,"
"Defend us by thy mercy, from all perils of this night."
Lady, I am a mother, none know it here save you;
Don't blush for me, there is no shame, I am a wife, leal and true.
Lady, true love is born of heaven, we may deem it dead and past,
And sit with bowed down head alone, the heart's door closed and fast;
When suddenly we hear a voice, and spite of bolt or bar,
Like its dear Master, there it stands, stretching its arms afar;
Though buried up it rises, though dead it lives anew,
And breathes again its Master's words, "Sweet peace be unto you,"
Folks say, "There is a mystery about that poor sick girl,"
Lady, there's mystery round us all, that angels will unfurl,
I have one favor now to ask, within this paper's fold,
There's a little lock of baby's hair, just half one curl of gold,
When I am in my coffin, and soon now I'll be at rest,
Will you lay this little curl of gold upon my quiet breast,
God and the angels only know where the other half lies hid,
In the green sod of old Ireland, neath a baby's coffin lid,
Don't'leave me yet, it is near night, I feel so strange to-day,
You know the prayers for dying ones, oh kneel once more and pray,
Thank God for sending one to me, where the wild tempests roll,
You won't forget--the little curl--Saviour receive my soul.
Holy Communion.
We were wearied in the battle,
Tempted, and pained, and tried
By day the din and the carnage,
By night the rain's fierce tide;
But we heard a loving message,
From the Prince's tent it came,
"Each meet in the banqueting house.
In memory of my name."
We gathered; a motley regiment,
Some young in the war of life,
Some chiefs in the Royal Army,
Some old and sick with strife,
Some limped in the sacred pathway,
Some were foot sore and worn,
Some had their lances all shivered,
Some had their banners torn.
And we all looked dim and dusty;
We all were stained with sin;
But we held the Prince's message,
And the porter said "Come in."
We went to the banqueting house;
We sat at the Prince's board,
There we polished each his helmet,
We sharpened each his sword.
Our Prince--we talked of his strife,
The forlorn hope He had led,
How He opened the gates of life,
And rescued from Death the dead;
And with Him we saw a bright host,
Our comrades gone on before,
The right wing of our army
Upon the farther shore.