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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 sent 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.

"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 funnin'."

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."

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."