The moon shines brightly down, o'er hill and dale
As it shone down, One Hundred years ago,
On these same scenes. The stars look down from Heaven
As they did then, as calm, serene, and bright—
Fit emblems of the God, who changes not.
Only in him can we find sure repose
'Mid change, decay and death, who is the same
To-day as yesterday, forevermore.
Through the clear air peal forth the silvery notes,
Of thy old Bell, thou venerable pile,
Thou dear old Church, whose birthday rare,
We come to celebrate with tender love.
One Hundred years! How long; and yet, how short
When counted with the centuries of the past
That help to make the ages of the world:
How long when measured by our daily cares,
The joys, the sorrows that these years have brought
To us and ours. "Our fathers, where are they?"
The men of strength, one hundred years ago,
As full of courage, purpose, will, as we,
Have gone to join the "innumerable throng"
That worship in the Father's House above.
Their children, girls and boys, like the fair flowers,
Have blossomed, faded, and then passed away,
Leaving their children and grandchildren, too,
To fill their places, take their part in life.
How oft, dear Church, these walls have heard the vows
That bound two hearts in one. How oft the tread
Of those that bore the sainted dead to rest.
How oft the voices, soft and low, of those
Who, trusting in a covenant-keeping God
Gave here their little ones to God. A faith
Which He has blessed, as thou canst truly tell,
In generations past, and will in days to come.
How many servants of the most high God,
Beneath thy roof have uttered words divine,
Taught by the Spirit, leading souls to Christ
And reaping, even here, their great reward.
Many of these have entered into rest
Such as remains for those who love the Lord.
Others to-day, have gathered here to tell
What God has done in years gone by, and bear
Glad testimony to the truth, that in this place
His name has honored been.—'Tis sad to say
Farewell. But 'tis decreed, that thou must go.
Time levels all; and it will lay thee low.
But o'er thy dust full many a tear shall fall,
And many a prayer ascend, that the true God,
Our Father's God, will, with their children dwell,
And that the stately pile which soon shall rise,
Where now, thou art, a monument shall be
Of generations past, recording all
The truth and mercies of a loving God.
Oct. 14th, 1891.
Miss Frances Bell Coursen.
The rhythmic, airy verses of Miss Coursen, full of the spirit of trees, flowers, the clouds, the winds and the insinuating and lovely sounds of nature, charm us into writing the author down as one of Morristown's young poets. The verses have attractive titles which in themselves suggest to us musical thoughts, such as "To the Winds in January"; "June Roses"; "In the Fields"; and "What the Katydids Say". We quote the latter for its bright beauty.
WHAT THE KATYDIDS SAY.
"Katy did it!" "Katy didn't!"
Doesn't Katy wish she had?
"Katy did!" that sounds so pleasant,
"Katy didn't" sounds so bad.
Katy didn't—lazy Katy,
Didn't do her lessons well?
Didn't set her stitches nicely?
Didn't do what? Who can tell?
But the livelong autumn evening
Sounds from every bush and tree,
So that all the world can hear it,
"Katy didn't" oh dear me!
Who would like to hear forever
Of the things they hadn't done
In shrill chorus, sounding nightly,
From the setting of the sun.
But again, who wouldn't like it
If they every night could hear,
"Yes she did it, Katy did it",
Sounding for them loud and clear?
So if you've an "awful lesson",
Or "a horrid seam to sew",
Just you stop and think a minute,
Don't decide to "let it go".