A Few Tributes

At the suggestion of several friends, I have finally concluded to add here a few of the tributes in song that kindred spirits have sent to me on various occasions. Between them and myself there has been a firm bond of sympathy and a keen appreciation of the kind words exchanged on birthdays and at Christmas time. I do not vouch tor all of the things that these admiring and indulgent friends have said about me; I can only wish that all their words of praise were indeed well founded.

The first of these tributes was sent to me by a dear lady over the sea, whose name and sweet hymns have long been well known to our American people, Miss Frances Ridley Havergal. She and William F. Sherwin corresponded regularly for several years; and in one of her letters to my friend she inquired after “Fanny Crosby.” Mr. Sherwin, in deference to my aversion to being called “the blind hymn-writer,” replied, “She is a blind lady, whose heart can see splendidly in the sunshine of God’s love.” Miss Havergal was deeply touched by this reply, and immediately wrote me a poem, which for thirty years has been a gracious benediction to me. It is in grateful remembrance of the dear singer, who took a portion of her busy hours to write me from the depths of her heart that I quote a part of her poem

here:
“Sweet blind singer over the sea,
Tuneful and jubilant, how can it be,
That the songs of gladness, which float so far,
As if they fell from an evening star,
Are the notes of one who may never see
‘Visible music’ of flower and tree.

How can she sing in the dark like this?
What is her fountain of light and bliss?

Her heart can see, her heart can see!
Well may she sing so joyously!
For the King Himself, in His tender grace,
Hath shown her the brightness of His face;

Dear blind sister over the sea!

An English heart goes forth to thee.

We are linked by a cable of faith and song,

Flashing bright sympathy swift along;

One in the East and one in the West,

Singing for Him whom our souls love best,

Sister! what will our meeting be,

When our hearts shall sing and our eyes shall see?”

From the time that I received the poem, from which I have just quoted, until the death of the gifted English singer, seven years afterward, we frequently exchanged letters; and when “Bells at Evening” was published in 1897 I asked that her poem entire be included among my own works as a token of my appreciation of Miss Havergal’s kindness.

On my birthday, March 24, 1893, Ira D. Sankey 9eat me the following beautiful poem:

“O friend beloved, with joy again
We hail thy natal day,
Which brings you one year nearer home,
Rejoicing on the way.

“How fast the years are rolling on — We cannot stay their flight;
The summer sun is going down,
And soon will come the night.

“But you, dear friend, need fear no ill;
Your path shines bright and clear;
You know the Way, the Truth, the Life,
To you He’s ever near.

“And when you pass from time away
To meet your Lord and King,
In heaven you’ll meet ten thousand souls,
That you have taught to sing.

u A few more years to sing the song
Of our Redeemer’s love;
Then by His grace both you and I
Shall sing His praise above.”

TO FANNY

“The sun of life will darken,

The voice of song will cease,
The ear to silence harken,

The soul lie down in peace, — But with the trumpet’s sounding,
Ten thousand suns will glow,
And endless hymns abounding
Like streams of love will flow.”

Robert Lowry.
March 24, 1897

For the last twenty years, or more, Mr. Hubert P. Main has sent me annually a poem for my birthday. Many of them were written in a humorous, or cheerful vein, like the following: —

“O Fanny, you’re the worstest one,
As ever yet I’ve knew,
You ask for things inopportune,
You du, you know you du!

“It’s every year along in March,
When tree-toads ‘gin to roam,
You set me wilder than a hawk
A howlin’ for a pome.

“I’m pestered, bothered, sick to death,
I have so much tu du
On books, and services, and sich: — I hev no time for you.

“Still March the twenty-four comes round,
In spite of earth or heaven;
And you keep coming also, tew,
For now you’re seventy-seven.”

“Lord bless you, Fanny; this I’ll say
Since while my mill is runnin’,
I’m in dead earnest, too, and pray
You will not think me funninV

One of these annual poems was addressed in the following unique lines:

“To Fanny Crosby, with a J,
A poem for her natal day;
Be gentle with it, postman, dear,
You only cart it once a year;
But hurry, hurry, please ‘cut sticks,
And leave at Ninth Street, Seventy-six.”

On March 24, 1887, William J. Kirkpatrick wrote:

“Dear Fanny, I would send a line
Of warm congratulation;
And join the many friends that hail
Your birthday celebration.

“To bless and cheer our rising race
With songs of exultation,
O, may your useful life be spared
Another generation.”

t04 MEMORIES OF EIGHTY YEARS

On my eighty-third birthday, in March, 1903, Dr. John Gaylord Davenport of Waterbury sent me the following beautiful sonnet:

“Dear saint of God, another year has thrown Its light and shade along thine earthly way, And thou art lifting still thy tuneful lay And waking echoes still in souls unknown! How wondrously that melody has grown, Recalling those whose feet have gone astray And guiding toward the realms of perfect day Those whom the gracious Lord has made His own. Sing on, dear friend! Long teach us how to raise The note of aspiration and of love; Chanting the honors of our glorious King, Till all the world be jubilant with praise, And thine own music, keyed to bliss above, In every tongue of earth shall grandly ring.”

During my summer visits at Assembly Park, New York, I have had the good fortune to meet a number of kindered spirits of note, among them Edmund Vance Cook, Miss Eliza E. Hewitt and the late Alton Lindsay. The latter was a young man of abundant promise, but was taken from his host of friends by an early death. Mr. Cook is still young and composing those poetic strains that have cheered the hearts of so many. Miss Hewitt and I began to correspond as early as 1801, and at several birthdays she has written sweet poems for the informal receptions that are annually held at the office of Biglow and Main in New York. In March, 1905, she sent the following:

“The friends are forming a garland,
Fragrant and lovely and sweet,
The roses and lilacs of friendship,
To lay at our loved one’s feet;

“And while the fair chaplet they’re twining,
May I bring a little flower,
A forget-me-not, meek and lowly,
To add to the joys of the hour?

“This love-wreath is for our dear ‘Fanny,’
Whose heart is so young and so true,
No wonder her songs, freely gushing,
Are as fresh as the morning dew!

“They sparkle with Spring’s happy sunshine,
They ripple like streams of delight,
They flow from the rocks of the mountain,
They touch us with love’s tender might.

“Because she sings of her Saviour,
And His spirit tunes her lyre,
Her work shall go on forever,
After she has been called up higher.

“So we’ll gather round our ‘Fanny,
With smiles and greetings sincere;
May she have just the sweetest birthday
She has had for many a year.

“Then we’ll all be happy with her,
And thank the dear Lord above,
For sending us one of His angels
To sing to us of His love.”

Mr. Cook wrote in 1899:

“Your brow is faded, poet, but we do not quarrel With Time, since Time himself has brought His recompense to you, — the fadeless laurel To crown your fadeless thought.

11 Your eyes are dark, O sister, but your inner vision Is keener than a merely mortal sight; Your poem of life has suffered no illusion, For all your life is light.

“Your days are many, singer, but their goodly number Has made you ever young, Years are not years to you, nor can they cumber The song your soul has sung.”

Mr. John R. Clements, who has written many sweet hymns, after the publication of my volume, “Bells at Evening,” in 1897, sent me the following delightful lines:

“Let chime again those ‘Bells at Evening,’
Sounding rich and clear;
The music soothes and sweetly thrills,
In harmonies so dear.

— — — — — — — — —

“We fondly think of her who plays
Deftly these even chimes,
And breathe a wish for length of days,
Good health and many rhymes.”

At one of the Round Table mornings during my stay at Assembly Park in 1899 Alton Lindsay recited the poem that is printed here in grateful remembrance of him:

“O sweet-voiced singer of immortal songs, Whose harmonies divine inspire the world To nobler living and a loftier faith, Arousing men to seek God’s highest truth, To praise His name and trust His promises; And feel the Christ-love glow within the heart, — O, gentle singer, lean thy gracious head And let me whisper low, as friend to friend, A loving secret that I cannot keep. Thy face, which mirror never shows to thee, Itself is mirror of thy holy life, Reflecting all the wealth of noble thought, And all the beauty of thy purity. The same glad joy which fills thy rapturous verse Is like a flood of sunlight on thy brow, Each hymn’s calm message of perpetual trust Is shining on thy placid contenance, And all the hope of thy great mother-heart Throbs ever in thy sweet and tender voice. We thank our Heavenly Father for the boon He gave to us in giving thee thy gift, —

*08 MEMORIES OF EIGHTY YEABS

Thy gift of song which hath enriched the world. Nor for the boon alone our praise we give, For, like the magi, we behold a star, Which guides us nearer to the Saviour’s side, A radiant star — thy pure, unselfish life.”

A TRIBUTE

11 This year of nineteen hundred three
My muse comes nestling close to me,
And breathes these words quite tenderly:
‘Our Fanny dear is eighty-three.’
So many years of usefulness!
So many years the world to bless!
So many years with pen and voice,
To make earth’s weary ones rejoice!

“Oh, what a blessed life is here — The thought with love my bosom stirs;
Unselfish, patient, loving, kind,
And beautiful in heart and mind;
We read within the sacred Word:
‘Blessed are those who fear the Lord,’
They strength shall gain; from day to day
On eagle’s wings shall soar away.

“Sweet blessings on our Fanny’s head,
May paths be smooth where she shall tread;
Of life’s best joys may she have plenty,
Who came to us in eigh teen-twenty!

“And may we meet at last in glory,
Together sing the dear old story,
That here we spread with best endeavor,
Hoping some precious sheaves to gather.”

Harriet E. Jones.

TO MISS FANNY J. CROSBY

(On her eighty-fifth birthday)

“Unselfish singer of our heart’s dear songs, We pay to thee our tribute and our love. Where man has wandered into grievous wrongs Thy heart has gone, so like the Heart above!

“O gracious singer, with the youthful years, Thy lays have cheered in palace and in cot, And now in memory’s garden-plot appears The fair and verdant flower forget-me-not!

“Thy songs are planted in the Church’s heart To grow and bring forth fruit an hundred fold: So may we also do our humble part To honor thee, thou rarest heart of gold!”

H. Adelbert White.