POEMS:
WITH
A SKETCH
OF THE
Life and Experience
OF
ANNIE R. SMITH.
BY
MRS. REBEKAH SMITH.
MANCHESTER, N. H.
JOHN B. CLARKE, PRINTER.
1871.
PREFACE.
A small volume of poems entitled, “Home Here and Home in Heaven,” by Annie R. Smith, appeared shortly after her death, in 1855. Her numerous friends wishing some account of her life and last sickness, have from time to time desired me to prepare such a sketch for publication. I have also been requested to publish in connection therewith, a collection of my own poetical efforts. This is the immediate occasion of the appearance of the present volume, the publication of which, circumstances have conspired to delay till the present time. It lays no claim to literary merit, but professes to be only a description in rhyme of some of the ordinary experiences of life, and the common feelings of the heart. I have appended some additional pieces written by Annie R. Smith, and some by Uriah Smith, which I have desired to see published in this form. It is commended to the charitable consideration of friends, with the hope that its appearance may prove a gratification and a benefit to some.
Mrs. Rebekah Smith.
West Wilton, N. H.
POEMS.
Life’s Conflict.
In the deep recess of the inmost heart,
Where Satan tempts and angels come to shield,
Are foes by which we would be overcome,
Were Christ not with us on the battle-field.
The tempter, seeking whom he may devour,
Would sift as wheat, and finally prevail;
But Jesus intercedes and prays for us,
That faith in these dread conflicts may not fail.
These calls unheeded, who the end can know?
The Spirit grieved and angels forced to leave,
The victims, though unconscious, hastening where
No pardoning love is found, and no reprieve.
If yet there’s hope, one mighty effort make
To conquer, and the enemy defeat;
Watch unto prayer, in Jesus Christ abide,
And hasten to be made in him complete.
No true enjoyment here aside from this.
No other name on earth e’er to be given,
Through him we must be cleansed and purified,
Or closed to us will be the gates of Heaven.
Christian Love.
Jesus sees, he feels, he pities; he for us keen anguish knew,
He was numbered with transgressors; harmless, but his friends were few.
Those immersed in love’s deep ocean, nothing will or can offend;
They will bow in sweet submission, knowing Heaven will them defend.
Let us then our suffering brother seek where’er his lot is cast;
Priests and Levites having seen him, on the other side have passed;
But of God he’s not forsaken; He has known each bitter pang;
He has seen his tears and sorrows, and has known from whence they sprang.
Jesus sees when best to succor, every wrong will bring to light;
He will have obedient children who in doing good delight,
Who will move in love and pity, bleeding wounds to soothe and bind,
Good Samaritans, who ever seek some path of love to find.
Courage new is then imparted, chilling words no more oppress;
Oh! for more true kindred spirits, who would make our sufferings less.
Lord forgive thine erring people; form them for thyself alone;
Then they’ll bear each other’s burdens, calling nought they have their own.
Then each suffering child of sorrow would be watched with tender care,
Love and pity for the erring would be felt and witnessed there.
Strife and jealousy would vanish; love be felt that works no ill;
Peace, sweet peace, and joy and gladness, would each home and bosom fill.
Love Not the World.
Love not the world, trust not its joys; uncertain is their stay;
Its treasures I’ve so highly prized, on wings have flown away.
Its riches I would not recall, their loss would not deplore;
Content I’ll be if but my Lord salvation’s joys restore.
Nature inclines us all to seek, a rich and grand career;
Undue attachment will but make our losses more severe.
Hardly we know how much we love our friends and things below,
Till called to see them one by one from our possession go.
How often then the stricken heart deplores no comfort left,
Forgetting we have blessings still, of which we’re not bereft.
Let houses, lands and splendor go, surroundings all upset,
If home is where we’ve friends to love, and friends to love us yet.
With such a home, no matter where, how unadorned the place,
If but my Lord’s, he’ll visit there, and with his presence grace.
Thus consecrated to the Lord, his glory will be there.
How blest the place where oft is heard the voice of praise and prayer.
Be I but meet for such a place, where angels camp around,
Where truth and duty are proclaimed, and works of love abound.
The poor and friendless there resort and find their wants supplied,
No lack whose trust is in the Lord; for such he will provide.
There all of every name and race, in need of friendly aid,
Find equal welcome to the board where no distinction’s made.
Thus treasures are laid up above, where endless life is given;
They who are rich in works of love, may hope for rest in Heaven.
Preparation for Heaven.
Our every sin must be confessed,
All guile be taken from the breast;
A holy life must we maintain,
If with the Saviour we would reign.
Be trimmed our lamps, our light appear,
Proclaim we Jesus draweth near;
That mercy’s closing hour is nigh,
Will be the angel’s last loud cry.
Now are we drawing near the port,
Decisions soon all made in court,
The scene will close, the Lord will come,—
And who with him will have a home?
To self we must be crucified,
Be purified, made white and tried,
Without one spot, and guileless be,
To stand before his Majesty.
Oh! be our sleeping powers awake;
Eternal bliss is now at stake;
One wrong unrighted, spot or stain,
Will bind in sin’s destructive chain.
Haste then, from every error flee;
Strive till you gain the victory.
Triumph in Jesus’ name alone,
And sit with him upon his throne.
This right with his own blood he bought;
Oh! bliss beyond all human thought,
Where ransomed throngs the Lord adore,
And sing free grace forevermore.
Submission.
The Saviour knows our every grief;
He knows the time to give relief:
When we are purified and tried,
And our whole wills are sanctified.
How to destroy our dross and tin,
And cleanse us from each stain of sin,
What to inflict, the Lord knows best;
’Tis only ours to stand the test.
What though we suffer grief and pain,
And earth’s fair prospects strew the plain,
Let us submit, whate’er befall,
And make our God our all in all.
What though we’re wrongfully accused,
Oft times e’en slanderously abused?
Say not these ills we cannot bear,
But in our Saviour’s suffering share.
What he endured no tongue can tell,
When on Him our transgressions fell;
Meekly he bore them on the tree,
And paid the debt for you and me.
He purchased holiness and Heaven,
Or we could ne’er have been forgiven.
The Saviour’s blood redemption cost,
Without which all our race was lost.
Shall we then sink beneath the rod,
Inflicted by a holy God
To purify and make us white,
That he may be our sole delight?
No; though it sharply smites, resign,
And pray for grace and love divine;
For all this, Heaven will make amends,
And ofttimes quick deliverance sends.
The Lord in him would have us free;
Through Him we gain the victory,
All he will be to us we need,
That we a holy life may lead.
Be holy. Oh! how blest to know,
Our Father helps to make us so;
’Tis but for us to yield our will,
His word and promise he’ll fulfill.
No guilt or fear, no will, no choice;
In God alone we now rejoice,
And bless the hand that gave the blow,
And laid our earthly comforts low.
It Was True.
I loved th’ enchanting viol’s sound,
I loved the sprightly dance,
And all the dear, delightful scenes
Of nature’s wild romance.
I know the fascinating charms,
In all their depth and hight,
Presumed on days and months and years
Of exquisite delight.
Though seventy-six, I feel I still
These halls of mirth could grace;
I left them when in youth[1] and sought
In Christ a hiding place.
But oh! the bitter cup I drank
That tamed my wild career;
Death struck my parents from my side
And drowned my joy in tears.
My dear loved home of childhood’s years,
Where all was life and glee,
Became a house of mourning, and
Ere long no home for me.
I’ve since formed nearer, dearer ties,
And they too, have been riven.
By these repeated strokes I’ve learned
There’s nothing true but Heaven.
My treasure’s there, my heart is there,
The prize I mean to win;
But know the victory must be gained
O’er every darling sin.
And may refiner’s fire go through
Till I am purified;
Till patience is perfected here,
And all my graces tried.
I’d bear the fiery trial now,
Till holy made and pure,
That I Christ’s image may reflect,
And be in him secure.
A home in Heaven will then be mine,
A house not made with hands;
Where Jesus will his saints receive,
Who walk in his commands.
Be it mine to walk the narrow way,
Which my Redeemer trod,
And in the City have a place
Close by the throne of God.
There friends will meet to part no more,
Whose sins are here forgiven.
I would not rest until I know,
I have a home in Heaven.
[1]At eighteen.
No Resting Here.
No resting place! oh! sad, oppressive thought!
The overburdened heart opprest with grief,
Must bear its weight o’er sad reflection’s tide,
Fearing at last the fate of unbelief.
Is there one here, without one beam of hope?
Oppressed, desponding, bordering on despair?
Still sinking ’neath gloom’s dark and heavy cloud,
Not thinking e’er one cheering boon to share?
Lie still, e’en here, and search the hidden cause;
O’er every sin has victory been won?
Then trust in God o’er this dark, dreary way,
And say, Dear Lord, thy will, not mine, be done.
The broken heart, the humble, contrite one,
God will relieve from sin’s dark, heavy load;
He will reveal himself a present help,
And make for us a sure and safe abode.
For such as these a resting place remains,
When earth’s dark scenes and trials all are o’er;
A home in Heaven where saints and angels are
Chanting glad songs of glory evermore.
Deny Thyself.
The word we preach is nigh thee,
Is in thy mouth and heart,
To cease from every evil,
From every idol part.
The last decree, how solemn,
Except we conquer now,
No remedy can reach us,
Nor pay our broken vow.
While faithless, unrepentant,
We cannot be forgiven,
No mercy will be offered,
No home for us in Heaven.
As well give up to perish,
If we cannot deny
Our appetites and passions,
While Heavenly aid is nigh.
Soon there will be no promise
Of pardoning grace, now free.
Ere Jesus ceases pleading,
We must get victory.
Soon with no mediator
To help our ruined case,
The filthy must be filthy,
Beyond the reach of grace.
Baptism.
We fail not, when watching, our duty to know,
While Jesus makes out all our pathway below.
When he bids be buried with him ’neath the wave,
Let nought keep us back from the watery grave.
Go forward; these waters are ever the place,
Where Jesus is found with his presence to grace;
While angels make each of its subjects their care,
And the Spirit of God sheds its blessedness there.
Oh, blest institution! the Lord owns it still,
And moves on his people his word to fulfill;
In newness of life will he help to arise,
While they humbly press on toward the mark for the prize.
How heavenly the sight of an ordinance like this;
The pledge, it would seem, of perpetual bliss:
God honored below, while his people rejoice,
Making known to the world, they obey him from choice.
We’ll follow the footsteps of Jesus, our King,
Till we the glad songs of deliverance sing.
We’ll exalt him while here, we will love and adore,
And with the redeemed sound his praise evermore.
Despair of the Lost.
Of our strength we are shorn by indulgence in sin;
Where Jesus has reigned, now there’s no room within;
A host of his murderers dwell in the heart;
Rejected, though grieved, he’s obliged to depart.
As he goes who can know he will ever return?
That the blessing is lost we may soon have to learn,
With a wail of despair, a lamentable cry,
We may soon see ourselves forever passed by.
Too late! oh, too late! now my soul must be lost;
Though redemption was offered at infinite cost;
Though help has been laid on one mighty to save;
To self and the world I the preference gave.
Could the hope of salvation be given once more,
Would we not turn our backs on our Lord, as before?
Would not the same spirit still bear the same fruit?
And the Lord still to us our transgressions impute?
Oh! poor fallen man, rushing on to despair,
With high hopes all anchored in earth’s fatal snare,
To be swept away soon, with the refuge of lies,
While the soul in deep anguish the second death dies.
Depart from Sin.
Could the deluded votaries
Of fashion and of song,
But see their danger, they would cry,
We’ve ventured here too long.
Yes, ventured o’er a precipice,
Held by a brittle thread,
While “fiery billows roll beneath”
The slippery paths we tread.
We’ve ventured to reject the call,
In love and pity given,
To flee sin’s awful destiny,
And seek a home in Heaven.