Part 3

Thus beauty unto ruin clings, And light from deepest darkness springs; The Soul its noblest strength must gain Through ministries of grief and pain; Great victories only come through strife, And death is but the gate of life.

The ocean waves that darkly flow, Sweep over priceless pearls below; The tempest cloud, when wild winds rest, Builds up the rainbow on its breast, And truths, unseen when all is bright, Shine like the stars in sorrow’s night.

O Thou, in whom the vine bears fruit! In whom the violets take their root, For Thee the summer roses blow; For Thee the fair white lilies grow; And from Thine all-sustaining heart The Soul’s immortal currents start.

O, when the circle, made complete, Shall in thy boundless being meet, We feel, we know, that we shall be Made perfect in our love to Thee; That good will triumph in that hour, And weakness be exchanged for power.

“ECCE HOMO.”

“When the Son of Man cometh, shall he find faith in the earth?”

LUKE xviii. 8.

The merry Christmas time, With song and silvery chime, Had come at last; And brightly glowed each hearth, While winter, o’er the earth, Its snows had cast. High in the old cathedral tower, The ponderous bell majestic swung, And with its voice of solemn power A summons to the people rung.

Then, forth from lowly walls, And proud, ancestral halls, Came rich and poor, And faces wreathed with smiles Thronged the cathedral aisles As ne’er before. Rich silks trailed o’er the marble pave, And costly jewels glittered bright, For groined arch and spacious nave Were radiant with excess of light.

The deep-toned organ’s swell Like billows rose and fell, In floods of sound; And the “Te Deum” rung, As if by angels sung, In space profound. Forth the majestic anthem rolled In harmony complete, and then Pealed forth the angels’ song of old, Of “peace on earth, good will to men.”

As the full chorus ceased, Up rose the white-robed priest, With solemn air; With hands toward heaven outspread, He bowed his stately head In formal prayer. Then, like some breathless, holy spell, Upon the hushed and reverent crowd, A deep, impressive silence fell, And hands were clasped, and heads were bowed.

“Saviour of All!” he cried, “Thou who wast crucified For sinful man! We worship at thy feet, For thou hast made complete Salvation’s plan. Come to thy people, Lord, once more, And let the nations hear again The song the angels sung of yore, Of ‘peace on earth, good will to men.’”

As if his prayer was heard, A sudden trembling stirred The walls around. The doors, wide open flung, On ponderous hinges swung, With solemn sound. And then, straight up the foot-worn aisle, A strange procession made its way, In garments coarse, of simplest style, A strange, incongruous array.

The first, most rudely clad, A leathern girdle had About him bound. The next, in humblest guise, Raised not his mournful eyes From off the ground. And next to these the dusky browed, And others, flushed with sin and shame, And women, with their faces bowed In deep contrition, slowly came.

No voice was heard, or sound, From the vast concourse round, Outspreading wide. But onward still they passed, Until they gained at last The altar side. Then said the lowly one, “O ye! Who celebrate a Saviour’s birth, Should he return again, would he Find faith among the sons of earth?”

Quick, with an angry frown, The haughty priest looked down Upon the crowd. “Who are ye, that ye dare Invade this house of prayer?” He cried aloud. “This temple, sacred to the Lord, Not thus shall be profaned by you: Your deeds with his do not accord-- Begone! Begone, ye vagrant crew!”

The lowly one replied, “These, standing by my side, Came at my call; Nor need they have one fear, With me to enter here-- God loves them all. Thou hypocrite! thou dost reject _Me_, through thy most _unchristian creed_, And making truth of none effect, Thou dost dishonor me indeed.”

Around the stranger’s head A radiant halo spread Its glories bright; His meek and tender face Beamed with transcendent grace, And heavenly light. There, mighty in his power for good, So gentle and divinely sweet, The “Christus Consolator” stood, With weeping sinners at his feet.

“We must go hence,” he said, “To find the living bread. Come, follow me! My Father’s house above Is full of light and love, And all is free.” High in the old cathedral tower, The brazen bell majestic swung, As if some strange, mysterious power To sudden speech had moved its tongue.

O Christ! thou friend of men! When thou shalt come again, Through Truth’s new birth, May all the fruits of peace Be found in rich increase Upon the earth. Then shall the song of sweet accord, Sung by the heavenly hosts of yore, To hail the coming of their Lord, Sound through the ages evermore.

PETER McGUIRE; OR, NATURE AND GRACE.

IT has always been thought a most critical case, When a man was possessed of more Nature than Grace; For Theology teaches that man from the first Was a sinner by Nature, and justly accurst; And “Salvation by Grace” was the wonderful plan, Which God had invented to save erring man. ’Twas the only atonement he knew how to make, To annul the effects of his own sad mistake.

Now this was the doctrine of good Parson Brown, Who preached, not long since, in a small country town. He was zealous, and earnest, and could so excel In describing the tortures of sinners in Hell, That a famous revival commenced in the place, And hundreds of souls found “Salvation by Grace;” But he felt that he had not attained his desire, Till he had converted one Peter McGuire.

This man was a blacksmith, frank, fearless and bold, With great brawny sinews like Vulcan of old; He had little respect for what ministers preach, And sometimes was very profane in his speech. His opinions were founded in clear common sense, And he spoke as he thought, though he oft gave offense; But however wanting, in whole or in part, He was sound, and all right, when you came to his heart.

One day the good parson, with pious intent, To the smithy of Peter most hopefully went; And there, while the hammer industriously swung, He preached, and he prayed, and exhorted, and sung, And warned, and entreated poor Peter to fly From the pit of destruction before he should die; And to wash himself clean from the world’s sinful strife, In the Blood of the Lamb, and the River of Life.

Well, and what would you now be inclined to expect Was the probable issue and likely effect? Why, he swore “like a Pirate,” and what do you think? From a little black bottle took something to drink! And he said, “I’ll not mention the Blood of the Lamb, But as for that River it aren’t worth a----;” Then pausing--as if to restrain his rude force-- He quietly added, “a mill-dam, of course.”

Quick out of the smithy the minister fled, As if a big bomb-shell had burst near his head; And as he continued to haste on his way, He was too much excited to sing or to pray; But he thought how that some were elected by Grace, As heirs of the kingdom--made sure of their place-- While others were doomed to the pains of Hell-*fire, And if e’er there was _one_ such, ’twas Peter McGuire.

That night, when the Storm King was riding on high, And the red shafts of lightning gleamed bright through the sky, The church of the village, “the Temple of God,” Was struck, for the want of a good lightning rod, And swiftly descending, the element dire Set the minister’s house, close beside it, on fire, While he peacefully slumbered, with never a fear Of the terrible work of destruction so near.

There were Mary, and Hannah, and Tommy, and Joe, All sweetly asleep in the bedroom below, While their father was near, with their mother at rest, (Like the wife of John Rogers with “one at the breast.”) But Alice, the eldest, a gentle young dove, Was asleep all alone, in the room just above; And when the wild cry of the rescuer came, She only was left to the pitiless flame.

The fond mother counted her treasures of love, When lo! one was missing--“O Father above!” How madly she shrieked in her agony wild-- “My Alice! My Alice! O, save my dear child!” Then down on his knees fell the Parson, and prayed That the terrible wrath of the Lord might be stayed. Said Peter McGuire, “Prayer is good in its place, But then it don’t suit _this_ particular case.”

He turned down the sleeves of his red flannel shirt, To shield his great arms all besmutted with dirt; Then into the billows of smoke and of fire, Not pausing an instant, dashed Peter McGuire. O, that terrible moment of anxious suspense! How breathless their watching! their fear how intense! And then their great joy! which was freely expressed When Peter appeared with the child on his breast.

A shout rent the air when the darling he laid In the arms of her mother, so pale and dismayed; And as Alice looked up and most gratefully smiled, He bowed down his head and he wept like a child. O, those tears of brave manhood that rained o’er his face, Showed the true Grace of Nature, and the Nature of Grace; ’Twas a manifest token, a visible sign, Of the indwelling life of the Spirit Divine. Consider such natures, and then, if you can, Preach of “total depravity” innate in man. Talk of blasphemy! why, ’tis profanity wild! To say that the Father thus cursed his own child. Go learn of the stars, and the dew-spangled sod, That all things rejoice in the _goodness_ of God-- That each thing created is good _in its place_, And Nature is but the _expression_ of Grace.

HYMN OF THE ANGELS.

O SACRED Presence! Life Divine! We rear for thee no gilded shrine-- Unfashioned by the hand of Art, Thy temple is the child-like heart. No tearful eye, no bended knee, No servile speech we bring to Thee; For thy great love tunes every voice, And makes each trusting soul rejoice. Then strike your lyres, Ye angel choirs! The sound prolong, O white-robed throng! Till every creature joins the song.

We will not mock Thy holy name With titles high, of empty fame, For Thou, with all Thy works and ways, Art far beyond our feeble praise; But freely as the birds that sing, The soul’s spontaneous gift we bring, And like the fragrance of the flowers, We consecrate to Thee our powers. Then strike your lyres, Ye angel choirs! The sound prolong, O white-robed throng! Till every creature joins the song.

All souls in circling orbits run, Around Thee as their central sun; And as the planets roll and burn, To Thee, O Lord! for light we turn. Nor Life, nor Death, nor Time, nor Space, Shall rob us of our name or place, But we shall love Thee, and adore Through endless ages--Evermore! Then strike your lyres, Ye angel choirs! The sound prolong, O white-robed throng! Till every creature joins the song.

GONE HOME.

THEY called her, from the better land, And one bright spirit led the way; She saw the angel’s beckoning hand, And felt she could no longer stay. O white-robed Peace! thy gentle cross Gave to her trusting heart no pain, And that which is our earthly loss, Is unto her, eternal gain.

“God is a Spirit”--we can trust That she has left earth’s shadows dim, And laid aside her earthly dust, To grow in likeness unto Him. “God is a Spirit”--“God is Love”-- And closely folded to his breast, Her spirit, like a tender dove, Shall in His love securely rest.

O, it was meet that flower-wreathed Spring, With forms of living beauty rife, Should see the perfect blossoming Of this bright spirit into life. The flowers will bloom upon her grave, The holy stars look down at night, But where bright palms immortal wave, She will rejoice in cloudless light.

O, sweeter than the breath of flowers, Or dews that summer roses weep, Deep in these loving hearts of ours Her blesséd memory we will keep. Bright spirit, let thy light be given, With tender and celestial ray, Beaming like some pure star from heaven, To guide us in our earthly way.

Clad in thine immortality, E’en now we hear thee joyful sing-- “O Grave, where is thy victory! O Death, where is thy sting!” Pass on, sweet spirit, to increase In every bright, celestial grace, Till in the land of love and peace, We meet thee, dear one, face to face.

THE CRY OF THE DESOLATE.

“It is only with Renunciation, that life, properly speaking, can be said to begin.”

“Light dawns upon me! There is in man a HIGHER than love of _Happiness_; he can do without happiness, and instead thereof find _Blessedness_.”--THOS. CARLYLE.

O GOD of the Eagle and Lion! Thy strength to my being impart; Not for wings, nor for sinews of iron, I ask, but thy life in my heart. I grope in the dark, and seek blindly The hand that shall lead to the light; There is no one to answer me kindly-- There is no one to teach me the right.

An arrow from Fate’s deadly quiver Seemed carelessly sped, at no mark, But with anguish I tremble and shiver, For it wounded my soul in the dark. I have suffered in silence unbroken, I have stanched the red wound with my hand; O God! was the arrow Thy token? Did Fate but obey Thy command?

There is no one on earth that can render My heart its full measure of love; There is no one on earth that is tender And true as the angels above. Take me up to Thy bosom, O strong One! O wise One! I _am_ not afraid! For I know that Thou never wilt wrong one Of those whom Thy wisdom hath made.

These vestments of flesh that oppress us, Have stifled the soul’s vital breath, Like the torturing garment of Nessus,[1] We part from them only in death. O Thou marvelous Soul of Existence! Are we doomed by the might of Thy will, Unchanged by our feeble resistance, Thy fathomless law to fulfill?

O Fashioner! Thou who hast guided The tempest of atoms at strife, Hath not Thy compassion provided A fountain of strength for each life?

And doth not Time’s changing phantasma Still move at Thy sovereign control, As when in Earth’s cherishing plasma Was planted the germ of the soul?

Then lead me, for O, I am lonely! And love me, for I am Thine own-- Yes, Great One and True One! Thine only-- And with Thee am never alone. O God of the Eagle and Lion! Thy strength to my being impart; Not for wings, nor for sinews of iron I ask--but Thy life in my heart.

THE SPIRIT-MOTHER.

THROUGH our lives’ mysterious changes, Through the sorrow-haunted years, Runs a law of Compensation For our sufferings and our tears. And the soul that reasons rightly, All its sad complaining stills, Till it learns that meek submission, Where it wishes not nor wills.

Thus, in Sorrow’s fiery furnace Was a faithful mother tried, Till, through Love’s divinest uses, All her soul was purified. O ye sorrow-stricken mothers! Ye whose weakness feeds your pain! Listen to her simple story-- Listen! and be strong again.

“It was sunset--and the day-dream Of my life was almost o’er; For my spirit-bark was drifting Slowly, slowly from the shore. Dimly could I see the sunlight Through my vine-wreathed window shine, Faintly could I feel the pressure Of a strong hand clasping mine.

“But anew the life-tide started, At my infant’s feeble cry; Back my spirit turned in anguish, And I felt I could not die. Deeper, darker fell the shadows, Like the midnight’s sable pall, And that infant cry grew fainter-- Fainter--fainter--that was all!

“Suddenly I heard sweet voices Mingling in a tender strain-- All my mortal weakness left me, All my anguish and my pain. On my forehead fell the glory Of the bright, celestial morn, I was of the earth no longer, For my spirit was re-born.

“Pure, sweet faces bent above me, Tenderly they gazed and smiled, And my Angel-Mother whispered, ‘Welcome, welcome home, my child!’ Then, in one melodious chorus, Sang the radiant angel band, ‘Welcome! O thou weary pilgrim! Welcome to the Spirit Land!’

“But, o’er all those glad rejoicings, Rose again my infant’s cry, For my heart had borne the echo Through the portals of the sky. And I murmured, O ye bright ones! Still my earthly home is dear; Vain are all your songs of welcome, For I am not happy here.

“Strike your harps, ye white-robed Angels! But your music makes me wild, For my heart is with my treasure, Heaven is only with my child! Let me go, and whisper comfort To my little mourning dove-- Life is cold; O, let me shield him With a mother’s tenderest love!

“Swift there came a pure, white angel, Through the glory, shining far, In her hand she bore a lily, On her forehead beamed a star. Very beautiful and tender Was the love-light in her eyes, Like the sunny smile of Summer, Beaming in the azure skies.

“And she said, ‘O, mourning sister! Lo! thy prayer of love is heard, For the boundless Heart of Being By thine earnest cry is stirred. Heaven is life’s divinest freedom, And no mandate bids thee stay; Go, and as a star of duty, Guide thy loved one on his way.

“‘Life is full of holy uses, If but rightly understood, And its evils and abuses May be stepping-stones to good. Never seek to weakly shield him, Or his destiny control, For the wealth that grief shall yield him, Is the birthright of his soul.’

“Musing deeply on her meaning, Turned I from the heavenly shore, And on love’s swift wings descending, Sought my earthly home once more. There my widowed, childless sister Sat with meek and quiet grace, With her heart’s great, wasting sorrow, Written on her pale, sweet face.

“And she sang in dreamy murmurs, Bending o’er my Willie’s head, ‘Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed.’ Soft I whispered, ‘Dearest sister-- Darling Willie--I am here.’ Sweetly smiled the sleeping infant, And the singer dropped a tear.

“Thenceforth was my soul united To that life more dear than mine; And I prayed for strength to guide me, From the source of Life Divine. Slowly did I see the meaning In life’s purposes concealed-- All the uses of temptation, Sin and sorrow, stood revealed.

“Through my loved one’s youth and manhood, In the hour of sinful strife, I could see the nobler issues, And the grand design of life. I could see that he was guided By a mightier hand than mine, And a mother’s love was weakness, By the side of Love Divine.

“Then I did not seek to shield him, Or his destiny control-- Life, with all its varied changes, Was the teacher of his soul. Nay, I did not strive to alter What I could not make nor mend, For the love so full of wisdom, Could be trusted to the end.

“I could give him strength and courage, From the treasures of my love-- I could lead his aspirations To the holy heart above; I could warn him in temptation, That he might not blindly fall; I could wait with faith and patience For his triumph--that was all.

“’Mid the rush and roar of battle, In the carnival of death, When the air grew hot and heavy, With the cannon’s fiery breath, First and foremost with the bravest, Who had heard their country’s call, With the stars and stripes above him, Did my darling Willie fall.

“Onward--onward rushed his comrades, With a wild, defiant cry, As they charged upon the foeman, Leaving him alone to die. Faint he murmured, ‘O, my mother! Angel mother! art thou near?’ And he caught the whispered answer, ‘Darling Willie, I am here!

“‘O, my loved one! my true-hearted! Soon your anguish will be o’er; Then, in heaven’s eternal sunshine, We shall dwell for evermore.’ Swiftly o’er his pallid features, Gleams of heavenly brightness passed, And my Willie’s noble spirit Met me face to face at last.

“In a soldier’s grave they laid him, Underneath the sheltering pines, Where the breezes made sweet music, Through the gently swaying vines. Now in heaven, our souls united, All their aspirations blend, And my spirit’s holy mission Thus hath found a joyful end.”

Through our lives’ mysterious changes, Through the sorrow-haunted years, Runs a law of Compensation For our sufferings and our tears; And the soul that reasons rightly, All its sad complaining stills, Till it gains that calm condition, Where it wishes not, nor wills.

FACE THE SUNSHINE.

O, a morbid fancy had David Bell, That over his path like a wizard spell, A great, black shadow forever fell. He turned his back on the sun’s clear ray; From a singing bird, or a child at play, With a nervous shudder he shrank away; And he shook his head, As he gloomily said, “This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

In the solemn shade of the forest wide, Or in the churchyard at eventide, Like a gloomy ghost he was seen to glide. There, nursing his fancies all alone, He would sit him down with a dismal moan, In the dewy grass by some moss-grown stone, And shake his head, As he gloomily said, “This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

Never a nod or a smile would greet Old David Bell, in the field or street, From the sturdy yeoman he chanced to meet. The children fled from his path away, And the good wives whispered, “Alack a day! The Devil hath led his soul astray!” For he ever said, As he shook his head, “This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”