Part 5

There was good Mr. Honest, who lived but next door, He was true, and substantial, and sound to the core; He had made it the rule of his life, from his youth, To shun all evasions and speak the plain truth; But _the ladies_--who always are judges, you know, Declared him to be a detestable beau-- Not worthy of mention within the same day, With that _pink of perfection_--“dear Mr. De Splae.”

Withal he was pious--perhaps you will smile, And ask how he happened the church to beguile; Why, the churches accept men for better or worse, If there’s only a plenty of cash in the purse. Gold still buys remission as freely and fast, As it did in the Catholic Church in the past. ’Tis the same thing right over, and that was the way, That the church swallowed smoothly “_good_ Mr. De Splae.”

O, you ought to have heard him when leading in prayer! How he flattered the Father of All for his care, And confessed he was sinful a thousand times o’er, Which ’twas morally certain the Lord knew before. The ladies responded in sweet little sighs, With their elegant handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes, But the pure, unseen spirits turned sadly away From the loud-mouthed devotions of Mr. De Splae.

O, short-sighted mortal! Poor Mr. De Splae! His mask of deception was molded in clay, And when his external in death was let fall, What he was, without seeming, was known unto all. His garment of patches--his flimsy disguise-- Which had won him distinction in other men’s eyes, Was “changed in a twinkling”--ay, vanished away, Leaving nothing to boast of to Mr. De Splae.

Ah, a great reputation, a title, or name, Oft brings its possessor to sorrow and shame; But a _character_, founded in goodness and worth, Outlasts all the perishing glories of earth. O’er the frailties of nature, and changes of time, It rises majestic, in beauty sublime, Till the weak and faint-hearted are cheered by its ray, Far above all mere seeming and empty display.

WILL IT PAY?

Men may say what they will Of the Author of Ill, And the wiles of the Devil that tempt them astray, But there’s something far worse-- A more terrible curse-- It is selling the Truth for the sake of the pay.

Like Judas of old, For silver or gold, Man often has bartered his conscience away, Has walked in disguise, And has trafficked in lies, If the prospect was good that the business would pay.

If a fortune is made By cheating in trade, It is seldom, if ever, men question the way; But they make it a rule That a man is a fool Who strives to make justice and honesty pay.

An instance more clear Could never appear, Than was seen in the life of old Nicholas Gray, Who ne’er made a move, In religion or love, Unless he was sure that the venture would pay.

He built him a house That would scarce hold a mouse, Where he managed to live in a miserly way, Till he said, “On my life, I will take me a wife; It is running a risk--but I think it will pay.”

Then he opened a store, Whose fair, tempting door, Led sure and direct to destruction’s broad way. For liquor he sold, To the young and the old, To the poor and the wretched, and all who could pay.

A woman once came, And in God’s holy name, She prayed him his terrible traffic to stay, That her husband might not Be a poor drunken sot, And spend all his wages for what would not pay.

Old Nicholas laughed, As his whisky he quaffed, And he said, “If your husband comes hither to-day, I will sell him his dram, And I don’t care a--clam How _you_ are supported if _I_ get my pay.”

So he prospered in sin, And continued to win The wages of death in this terrible way, Till a Constable’s raid Put an end to his trade, And closed up his business as well as the pay.

To church he then went, With a pious intent Of “getting religion”--as some people say-- For he said, “It comes cheap, And costs nothing to keep, And from close observation I think it will pay.”

But the tax and the tithe Made old Nicholas writhe, And he thought that “the plate” came too often his way; So he soon fell from grace, And made vacant his place, For he said, “I perceive that religion don’t pay.”

Still striving to thrive, And thriving to strive, His attention was turned a political way; But he could not decide Which party or side Would be the most likely to prosper or pay.

He was puzzled, and hence He sat on the fence, Prepared in an instant to jump either way; But it fell to his fate To jump just too late, And he said in disgust, “This of _all_ things don’t pay.”

Year passed after year, And there did not appear A spark of improvement in Nicholas Gray, For his morals grew worse With the weight of his purse, As he managed to make his rascality pay.

At length he fell ill; So he drew up his will, Just in time to depart from his mansion of clay, And he said to old Death, With his last gasp of breath, “Don’t hunt for my soul, for I know it won’t pay.”

O, ’tis sad to rehearse, In prose or in verse, The faults and the follies that lead men astray. For gold is but dross, And a terrible loss, When conscience and manhood are given in pay.

Then be not deceived, Though men have believed That ’tis lawful to sin in a general way, But stick to the right With all of your might, For Truth is eternal, and always will pay.

THE LIVING WORD.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

“And the Word was made flesh and dwelt _in men_.”

ETERNAL, Self-existent Soul! From whom Life’s issues take their start, Thou art the undivided Whole, Of whom each creature forms a part. Thy boundless being’s distant reach, Our finite vision may not see, But this we know, that each with each, We live and move alone in Thee.

“In the beginning was the Word”-- The Word, as present now, as then, Which, in the heart of Nature, stirred “The Life which was the light of men.” Through Chaos and Confusion’s night Streamed forth the light of Love divine, And lit along Creation’s hight, Unnumbered fires in glittering line.

Earth’s fiery heart, with battle shocks, Beat fiercely in her granite breast, Leaving on scarred and blackened rocks The record of her wild unrest. Rich ores in molten currents swept-- Like fire within her veins they ran-- While in the womb of Nature slept The embryo prophecy of man.

Down deep, the elements, like gnomes, Beside their flaming forges wrought, To fashion shapes, and future homes For the embodiment of Thought. The wild winds roared--the raging floods Tossed their defiant waves on high, While from the old, primeval woods, The chorus thundered to the sky.

The broadcast, wondrous Encrinites Opened their breathing lily bells, While Ammonites and Trilobites Paved pathless spaces with their shells. The coral Polyp, ’neath the wave, Wrought in the great progressive plan, By which the lesser creature’s grave Built up the future home of man.

The slumbering Iguanodon[4] Lay reeking in mephitic damp-- The Mylodon and Mastodon Startled the forests with their tramp. Gigantic ferns, like feathery palms, Nodded in silence to the trees, Whose royal crests and stalwart arms Tossed like the waves of stormy seas.

Thus on, still on the current rolled-- The light of countless mornings shone; And radiant sunsets robed in gold, Swept down the gulfs of years unknown. At length, with beasts, and birds, and flowers, Creation seemed a perfect whole; Then God and Nature joined their powers, And man became a living soul.

O Mother Nature! Father God! How wondrous is the work we trace! Man fashioned from the senseless clod, Yet filled with life’s divinest grace. Nor is that form of earthly mold The limit of his life to be; Forth from the mortal will unfold The germ of immortality.

For even as through countless throes, And travail pains, the mighty plan Of God in Nature slowly rose, To consummate its aims in man, Thus onward still the current rolls, The spirit with the flesh at strife, Until, at length, all living souls Are quickened from the inmost life.

Across the broad, unfathomed sea, That breaks upon the shores of time, The promise of the _yet to be_ Comes like a prophecy sublime. The purple gloom, that like a veil Rests on that ever swelling tide, Full oft reveals a friendly sail, With tidings from the further side.

O soul of man! to conscious power From elements of death outwrought, The Living Word forecast thine hour, And found the dwelling-place it sought. High in the heavens forevermore, The stars of truth eternal shine; Sail on, O man, from shore to shore; The power that guides thee is divine.

In the beginning was the Word-- The Word as present now as then-- And by its quickening power is stirred New life within the souls of men. Thus on, still on, the current rolls, Through daisies blooming on the sod, Through creeping things, though living souls, Through “quickened spirits” up to God.

HYMN TO THE SUN.

O FOUNTAIN of beauty, of gladness and light, Whose pathway is set in the infinite hight, Whose light hath no shadow, whose day hath no night!

We know not thy birthplace, O wonderful one! We count not the ages through which thou hast run, But we render thee praises, O life-giving Sun.

All day the glad Earth in thy loving embrace, Arrayed by thy bounty in garments of grace, Lifts up to thy glances her beautiful face.

And at night, when her children need silence and rest, With the light of her starry-eyed sisterhood blest, She sleeps like a bride on thy cherishing breast.

When the skylark springs up at the coming of morn, When the golden fringed curtains of night are withdrawn, Then blushing with beauty the day is new born.

And the pulses of Nature in harmony bound, To the waves of thy glory which move without sound, And sweep unimpeded through spaces profound.

Ay, the life-tide that leaps in the bird or the flower-- The rainbow that gleams through the drops of the shower-- O wonderful artist! are born of thy power.

And the rush of the whirlwind, the roar of the deep, The cataract’s thunder, the avalanche-sweep, Are thy forces majestic, aroused from their sleep.

Shall we wonder, that filled with devotion untold, The awe-stricken Parsee adored thee of old, Nor dreamed that One greater thy glory controlled?

And He, the Eternal, the Ancient of Days-- Whose splendors are veiled by inscrutable ways-- Did he frown on such blindness, or envy thee praise?

O Sun! in the light of whose presence we see, We ask,--canst thou tell us?--what caused us to be? And how are we linked to creation and thee?

We must perish--but thou, by thy wonderful powers, Wilt rescue from darkness these bodies of ours, And fashion them over to verdure and flowers.

But the jewel of beauty in life’s golden bowl-- O, answer us--say--dost thou also control That Infinite Essence, the life of the soul?

There is doubt, there is darkness and fear in our cry: Dost thou drink up the pearl of our lives when we die? We listen--but silence alone makes reply.

It is well--for our spirits may know by the sign, That a might hath evoked thee far greater than thine, And we must seek Truth at life’s innermost shrine.

That Centre of Being, transcending all thought, Whose might hath perfection of beauty outwrought, Returns the great answer of peace which we sought.

And we know, when the race of the planets is run, And the day shall no longer behold thee, O Sun! Our souls shall find light with that Infinite One.

O Source of all Being! whose name everywhere Is sung in hosannas, or murmured in prayer, We trust, unreserving, our souls to thy care.

GREATHEART AND GIANT DESPAIR.

“Then said Mr. Greatheart, ‘I have a commandment to resist sin, to overcome evil, to fight the good fight of faith; and I pray, with whom should I fight this good fight, if not with Giant Despair?’

“Now Giant Despair, because he was a giant, thought no man could overcome him; and again thought he, ‘Since heretofore I have made a conquest of angels, shall Greatheart make me afraid?’ So he harnessed himself and went out. Then they fought for their lives, and Giant Despair was brought to the ground, but was loth to die. He struggled hard, and had, as they say, as many lives as a cat; but Greatheart was his death, for he left him not till he had severed his head from his shoulders.”

BUNYAN’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.

HAVE you heard of that marvelous story, That wonderful romance of old, The story of Christian, the pilgrim, So quaintly and earnestly told? ’Tis a curious dream, with a beautiful gleam Of light through its mystery thrown; ’Tis a picture of life, where the Soul in its strife With the demons of darkness is shown. Nor yet have the indolent ages Its mystical meaning outgrown.

Dark threads from the loom of old Error Are shot through its fabric of light, Yet its blendings of Beauty and Terror Are wrought with a masterly might. The gleam and the glare of Destruction are there, With demons the soul to appall; And the pitfalls of Death, with their sulphurous breath, Where the weak and unwary must fall. But, ah! shall we call these mere fancies? Life yet hath a meaning for all.

And there in that wonderful region, With battlements blackened and bare, To the sorrow of Hopeful and Christian, Stood the Castle of Giant Despair; For they ventured to stray in a perilous way, Where the Giant was searching about, Who seized on these men, and into a den, ’Neath his gloomy old Castle of Doubt, He thrust the poor sorrowful pilgrims, ’Neath that dismal old Castle of Doubt.

It was said that he came “with a cudgel,” And he beat them from day to day, Till they chanced on “The Key of Promise,” When they fled from his wrath away. Then with friendly design they made ready a sign, And they placed it with pious care O’er the perilous way where they went astray, That pilgrims might ever beware Of the dangers of Doubting Castle, And the wrath of old Giant Despair.

Thereafter came Greatheart the valiant, Unrivaled in courage and might, The friend of the weak and defenseless, Who had pledged his good sword to the Right. There, boldly defiant, he challenged the Giant From his stronghold of Death to come out; And Giant Despair, with an insolent air, Looked down from the Castle of Doubt, And cried, “I will slay thee, vile braggart, And put all thy forces to rout.”

Then in haste he came down from his Castle, With his terrible breastplate of fire, And straight upon Greatheart the valiant, He rushed with impetuous ire. But nothing dismayed, with his keen, trusty blade Greatheart smote the old Giant amain, Firm, fearless, and fast, until vanquished at last, He struggled and died on the plain. Yet ’tis said, that far down in the ages, He came to existence again.

Do you deem this an idle old story, Dragged out from the dust of the Past? Alas! though so time-worn and hoary, Its truths in the Present stand fast. High up in the air, all blackened and bare, Still rises the Castle of Doubt, And the Giant, I trow, should you seek for him now, You would find him still prowling about; And the souls who go in to his Castle, Are more than the souls who come out.

With the cudgel of Old Tradition, Does he beat them from day to day, And he carefully hides from their vision The Light of the Present away. The angels above, with compassionate love, A plan for their rescue devise; But the Giant cries out from his Castle of Doubt, “Beware of delusion and lies!” So they shrink back again to their prison, And fear through the Truth to grow wise.

O, where is our Greatheart the valiant! A terrible warfare to wage On this old Theological Giant, The Doubt and Despair of this age? Let us rise, one and all, when our leader shall call, And each for the conflict prepare; We will march round about that old Castle of Doubt, With our “Banner of Light” on the air, And raze to its very foundations The stronghold of Giant Despair.

“THE ORACLE.”

LIKE the roar of distant cataracts, Like the slumbrous roll of waves, Like the night-wind in the willows, Sighing over lonely graves, Like oracular responses, Echoing from their secret caves, Comes a sound of solemn meaning From the spirits gone before; Comes a terrible “_awake thou!_” Startling man from sleep once more, Like a wild wave beating, breaking, On this Life’s tempestuous shore.

In Earth’s desolated temples Have the oracles grown dumb, And the priests, with lifeless rituals, All man’s noblest powers benumb; But a solemn voice is speaking-- Speaking of the yet to come. There will be a chosen priestess, Springing from the lap of Ease, Hastening to the soul’s Dodona, Where, amid the sacred trees, She will hear divine responses, Whispered in the passing breeze.

She will be a meek-faced woman, Chastened by Affliction’s rod, Who hath worshiped at the altar Of the spirit’s “unknown God;” Who in want, and woe, and weakness, All alone the wine-press trod, Till the salt sea-foam of Sorrow Whitened on her quivering lips, Till her heart’s full tide of anguish Flooded to her finger-tips, And her soul sank down in darkness, Smitten by a dread eclipse.

“Pure in heart,” and “poor in spirit,” Hers will be that inner life, Which Earth’s martyr-souls inherit, Who are conquerors in the strife. Born of God they walk with Angels, Where the air with love is rife. Men will call her “Laureola,”[5] And her pale, meek brow will crown; But with holiest aspirations, She will shun the world’s renown, And before the Truth’s high altar, Cast Earth’s votive offerings down.

Men will sit like little children At her feet, high truths to learn, And for love, the pure and holy, She will cause their hearts to yearn; Then the innocence of Eden To their spirits shall return. Very fearless in her freedom, She will scorn to simply please; But the fiercest lion-spirits She will lead with quiet ease. Calm, but earnest, firm and truthful, She will utter words like these:--

“Wherefore, O ye sons of Sorrow! Do ye idly sit and borrow Care and trouble for the morrow-- Filling up your cup with woe? Leave, O, leave your visions dreary! Hush your doleful miserére! See the lilies how they grow--

“Bending down their heads so lowly, As though heaven were far too holy, Growing patiently and slowly To the end that God designed. In their fragrance and their beauty, Filling up their sphere of duty-- Each is perfect in its kind.

“Deeper than all sense of seeing Lies the secret source of being, And the soul with Truth agreeing, Learns to live in thoughts and deeds. ‘For the life is more than raiment,’ And the Earth is pledged for payment Unto man, for all his needs.

“Nature is your common mother, Every living man your brother; Therefore love and serve each other; Not to meet the law’s behest, But because through cheerful giving, You will learn the art of living, And to love and serve is best.

“Life is more than what man fancies-- Not a game of idle chances, But it steadily advances Up the rugged steeps of Time, Till man’s complex web of trouble-- Every sad hope’s broken bubble, Hath a meaning most sublime.

“More of practice, less profession, More of firmness, less concession, More of freedom, less oppression In your Church and in your State; More of life, and less of fashion, More of love, and less of passion-- That will make you good and great.

“When true hearts, divinely gifted, From the chaff of Error sifted, On their crosses are uplifted, Shall your souls most clearly see That earth’s greatest time of trial Calls for holy self-denial-- Calls on men to _do_ and _be_.

“But, forever and forever, Let it be your soul’s endeavor, Love from hatred to dissever; And in whatsoe’er ye do-- Won by Truth’s eternal beauty-- To your highest sense of duty Evermore be firm and true.

“Heavenly messengers descending, With a patience never ending, Evermore their strength are lending, And will aid you lest you fall. Truth is an eternal mountain-- Love, a never-failing fountain, Which will cleanse and save you all.”

List to her, ye worn and weary-- Hush your heart-throbs, hold the breath, Lest ye lose one word of wisdom, Which the answering spirit saith; Hear her, O ye blood-stained nations, In your holocaust of death! Lo! your oracles have failed you, In the dust your idols fall, And a mighty hand is writing Words of judgment on the wall: “Ye are weighed within the balance, And found wanting”--one and all.

Mournful murmurs, direful discords, Greet you from Destruction’s night, For Life’s lower stratum, heaving, Brings long-buried wrongs to light, And your souls shall find no refuge, Save with the Eternal Right. In one grand, unbroken phalanx, Firm, united, bravely stand, Faithful in the way of duty, Ready at the Truth’s command, And _forever_ let your motto Be _this_--“GOD AND MY RIGHT HAND!”

MY ANGEL.

OFT from the summer hights of love, Along the ways of Time, The pilgrims of this lower sphere Catch gleams of light sublime, That stream adown the azure way, From heaven’s unshadowed clime.

There, on the balmy, golden air, Celestial music swells, Like harps Eolian, gently blown, Or chime of silver bells-- And there my star, my angel love, My spotless lily dwells.

She came to me, when from my soul A demon had been cast; When I had rent the servile chain, Which long had held me fast, And stood erect, in conscious power, A strong, free man at last.