The Copy

Looking o'er this written page,
Many blurs and blots are seen;
Crooked strokes, at every stage--
Oh, that it again were clean,
As at first I found it, when
I defiled it with my pen!

Gladly would I all erase;
But along the lines of blue
You could still the failure trace
In the paper's darkened hue;
Though the words could not be seen,
You could trace where they had been.

I will try to do my best,
Though my ideal be not gained;
On the Master's scrip shall rest
Eager eyes, till is attained
Some resemblance to His hand;
If no more I can command.

Like my life, this written sheet,
So unlike the pattern given;
Crooked strokes, I oft repeat;
Oh, that from it could be riven
All the blurs and blots of sin;
All the self that's found within.

I can not the past erase.
Christ shall blot the crooked out,
Leaving not the slightest trace
Of my sin, the lines about;
And will give me grace to write
Pages pleasing in His sight.

I will try to do my best,
As He gives me strength and light,
Leaving with Him all the rest;
He will keep life's pages white;
And the copy shall be shown
Perfected, before His throne.

Joseph Horatio Chant

Joseph Horatio Chant was a Canadian poet known for his religious and nature-inspired verse. He worked as a farmer and later became an ordained Methodist minister, which influenced his poetry. Chant's work gained modest recognition for its sincere exploration of faith and the Canadian landscape, contributing to the country's early literary heritage. He lived and wrote during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Joseph Horatio Chant

Perfect Work

Joseph Horatio Chant, Simple Poetry

The Royal Way

Joseph Horatio Chant, Simple Poetry

I Was There

Joseph Horatio Chant, Simple Poetry

The Water Lily

Joseph Horatio Chant, Simple Poetry

English

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The Rainbow.

The shower is past, and the sky
O'erhead is both mild and serene,
Save where a few drops from on high,
Like gems, twinkle over the green:
And glowing fair, in the black north,
The rainbow o'erarches the cloud;
The sun in his glory comes forth,
And larks sweetly warble aloud.

That dismally grim northern sky
Says God in His vengeance once frowned,
And opened His flood-gates on high,
Till obstinate sinners were drowned:
The lively bright south, and that bow,
Say all this dread vengeance is o'er;
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Ever blessed be those innocent days,
Ever sweet their remembrance to me;
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Invocation

O Thou, who art the source of joy and light,
The great Revealer of the will Divine;
Thyself Divine, all nature owns Thy might,
And bows in homage at a beck of Thine,
Afford me light to guide my unskilled hand,
And by Thy Spirit all my thoughts command.

To Thy great name I dedicate my powers,
Yielding to Thee what Thou with blood hast bought,
Resolved that Thou shalt have my days and hours,
And for Thy sake shall every work be wrought;
O deign to use me, if it be Thy will,
And my poor heart with love and gladness fill.

If this strange impulse which I feel within
To write this book proceeds, O Lord, from Thee,
Let it not die, nor be defiled by sin,
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The Big Bear Creek

The waters of the Big Bear creek
Glide slowly on their way;
The western lakes they surely seek,
Which they will reach some day;

But sluggishly they seek their end--
They scarcely seem to move;
Yet through the fields and round each bend
Their progress daily prove.

By debris borne upon their breast,
And strewn along each shore,
They slowly move, but never rest,
Yet turbid evermore.

But when they reach the Johnson bend
And the Sni Chartna meet,
The turbid and the sky-blue blend--
The union is complete.

And soon is lost all trace of mud;
Of azure tint the whole;
With heaven's own hue the rolling flood
Has gained the long-sought goal.

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To The Rev. J. Gilpin, On His Improved Edition Of The "Pilgrim'S Progress."

When, Reverend Sir, your good design,
To clothe our Pilgrim gravely fine,
And give him gentler mien and gait,
First reached my ear, his doubtful fate
With dread suspense my mind oppressed,
Awoke my fears, and broke my rest.
Yet, still, had England said, "You're free,
Choose whom you will," dear sir, to thee,
For dress beseeming modest worth,
I would have led our pilgrim forth.

But when I viewed him o'er and o'er,
And scrutinized the weeds he wore,
And marked his mien and marked his gait,
And saw him trample sin, elate,
And heard him speak, though coarse and plain,
His mighty truths in nervous strain,
I could not gain my own consent
To your acknowledged good intent.

I had my fears, lest honest John,
When he beheld his polished son

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Ashamed, But Not Afraid

O God, I am ashamed to die,
But not the least afraid;
Tho' death's dark shadow draweth nigh,
Atonement has been made

For every member of our race,
And I on it rely,
And hope immortal blooms thro' grace;
I'm not afraid to die.

But Thou hast done great things for me,
And I have nothing done.
To set my sin-bound spirit free,
Was sacrificed Thy Son;

And every day by Thy kind hand
Rich blessings are bestowed;
Oh, how can I before Thee stand,
Or rest in Thine abode

With self-respect, or feel at home
With no returns to show,
My whole life like the worthless foam
On time's incessant flow.

Oh, that in life's great harvest field,
I may some reaping do;
Early and late the sickle wield,
And prove a reaper tr...

Joseph Horatio Chant