Part 5

Look again on this fair girl, the orphan of a village pastor Who is dead, and hath left her his all,--his blessing, and a name unstained. And friends, with busy zeal, that their purses be not taxed, Place the sad mourner in a home, poor substitute for that she hath lost. A stranger among strange faces she drinketh the wormwood of dependence; She is marked as a child of want: and the world hateth poverty. Prayer is not heard in that house; the day she hath loved to hallow Is noted but by deeper dissipation, the riot of luxury and gaming: And wantonness is in her master's eye, and she hath nowhere to flee to; She is cared for by none upon earth, and her God seemeth to forsake her. Then cometh, in fair show, the promise and the feint of affection, And her heart, long unused to kindness, remembereth her father, and loveth. And the villain hath wronged her trust, and mocked, and flung her from him, And men point at her and laugh; and women hate her as an outcast: But elsewhere, far other judgment seateth her--among the martyrs! And the Lord, who seemed to forsake, giveth double glory to the fallen.

Once more, in the matter of wealth: if thou throw thine all on a chance, Men will come around thee, and wait, and watch the turning of the wheel: And if, in the lottery of life, thou hast drawn a splendid prize, What foresight hadst thou, and skill! yea, what enterprize and wisdom! But if it fall out against thee, and thou fail in thy perilous endeavour, Behold, the simple did sow, and hath reaped the right harvest of his folly: And the world will be gladly excused, nor will reach out a finger to help; For why should this speculative dullard be a whirlpool to all around him? Go to, let him sink by himself: we knew what the end of it would be:-- For the man hath missed his mark, and his fellows look no further.

Also, touching guilt and innocence: a man shall walk in his uprightness Year after year without reproach, in charity and honesty with all: But in one evil hour the enemy shall come in like a flood; Shall track him, and tempt him, and hem him,--till he knoweth not whither to fly. Perchance his famishing little ones shall scream in his ears for bread, And, maddened by that fierce cry, he rusheth as a thief upon the world; The world that hath left him to starve, itself wallowing in plenty,-- The world, that denieth him his rights,--he daringly robbeth it of them. I say not, such an one is innocent; but, small is the measure of his guilt To that of his wealthy neighbour, who would not help him at his need; To that of the selfish epicure, who turned away with coldness from his tale; To that of unsuffering thousands, who look with complacence on his fall.

Or perchance the continual dropping of the venomed words of spite, Insult and injury and scorn, have galled and pierced his heart; Yet, with all long-suffering and meekness, he forgiveth unto seventy times seven: Till, in some weaker moment, tempted beyond endurance, He striketh, more in anger than in hate; and, alas! for his heavy chance, He hath smitten unto instant death his spiteful life-long enemy! And none was by to see it; and all men knew of their contentions: Fierce voices shout for his blood, and rude hands hurry him to judgment. Then man's verdict cometh,--Murderer, with forethought malice; And his name is a note of execration; his guilt is too black for devils. But to the Righteous Judge, seemeth he the suffering victim; For his anger was not unlawful, but became him as a Christian and a man; And though his guilt was grievous when he struck that heavy bitter blow, Yet light is the sin of the smiter, and verily kicketh the beam, To the weight of that man's wickedness, whose slow relentless hatred Met him at every turn, with patient continuance in evil. Doubtless, eternal wrath shall be heaped upon that spiteful enemy.

It is vain, it is vain, saith the preacher; there be none but the righteous and the wicked, Base rebels, and staunch allies, the true knight, and the traitor: And he beareth strong witness among men, There is no neutral ground, The broad highway and narrow path map out the whole domain; Sit here among the saints, these holy chosen few, Or grovel there a wretched condemned, to die among the million. And verily for ultimate results, there be but good and bad; Heaven hath no dusky twilight; hell is not gladdened with a dawn. Yet looking round among his fellows, who can pass righteous judgment, Such an one is holy and accepted, and such an one reprobate and doomed? There is so much of good among the worst, so much of evil in the best, Such seeming partialities in providence, so many things to lessen and expand, Yea, and with all man's boast, so little real freedom of his will,-- That, to look a little lower than the surface, garb or dialect or fashion, Thou shalt feebly pronounce for a saint, and faintly condemn for a sinner. Over many a good heart and true, fluttereth the Great King's pennant; By many an iron hand, the pirate's black banner is unfurled: But there be many more besides, in the yacht and the trader and the fishing-boat, In the feathered war-canoe, and the quick mysterious gondola: And the army of that Great King hath no stated uniform; Of mingled characters and kinds goeth forth the countless host; There is the turbaned Damascene, with his tattooed Zealand brother, There the slim bather in the Ganges, with the sturdy Russian boor, The sluggish inmate of a Polar cave, with the fire-souled daughter of Brazil, The embruted slave from Cuba, and the Briton of gentle birth. For all are His inheritance, of all He taketh tithe: And the church, His mercy's ark, hath some of every sort. Who art thou, O man, that art fixing the limits of the fold? Wherefore settest thou stakes to spread the tent of heaven? Lay not the plummet to the line: religion hath no landmarks: No human keenness can discern the subtle shades of faith: In some it is as earliest dawn, the scarce diluted darkness; In some as dubious twilight, cold and grey and gloomy: In some the ebon east is streaked with flaming gold: In some the dayspring from on high breaketh in all its praise. And who hath determined the when, separating light from darkness? Who shall pluck from earliest dawn the promise of the day? Leave that care to the Husbandman, lest thou garner tares; Help thou the Shepherd in His seeking, but to separate be His: For I have often seen the noble erring spirit Wrecked on the shoals of passion, and numbered of the lost; Often the generous heart, lit by unhallowed fire, Counted a brand among the burning, and left uncared for in his sin: Yet I waited a little year, and the mercy thou hadst forgotten Hath purged that noble spirit, washing it in waters of repentance; That glowing generous heart, having burnt out all its dross, Is as a golden censer, ready for the aloes and cassia: While thou, hard-visaged man, unlovely in thy strictness, Who turned from him thy sympathies with self-complacent pride, How art thou shamed by him! his heart is a spring of love, While the dry well of thine affections is choked with secret mammon.

Sometimes at a glance thou judgest well; years could add little to thy knowledge: When charity gloweth on the cheek, or malice is lowering in the eye, When honesty's open brow, or the weasel-face of cunning is before thee, Or the loose lip of wantonness, or clear bright forehead of reflection. But often, by shrewd scrutiny, thou judgest to the good man's harm: For it may be his hour of trial, or he slumbereth at his post, Or he hath slain his foe, but not yet levelled the stronghold, Or barely recovered of the wounds, that fleshed him in his fray with passion. Also, of the worst, through prejudice, thou loosely shalt think well: For none is altogether evil, and thou mayst catch him at his prayers: There may be one small prize, though all beside be blanks; A silver thread of goodness in the black serge-cloth of crime.

There is to whom all things are easy; his mind, as a master-key, Can open, with intuitive address, the treasuries of art and science: There is to whom all things are hard; but industry giveth him a crow-bar, To force, with groaning labour, the stubborn lock of learning: And often, when thou lookest on an eye, dim in native dulness, Little shalt thou wot of the wealth diligence hath gathered to its gaze; Often, the brow that should be bright with the dormant fire of genius, Within its ample halls, hath ignorance the tenant. Yet are not the sons of men cast as in moulds by the lot? The like in frame and feature have much alike in spirit; Such a shape hath such a soul, so that a deep discerner From his make will read the man, and err not far in judgment: Yea, and it holdeth in the converse, that growing similarity of mind Findeth or maketh for itself an apposite dwelling in the body: Accident may modify, circumstance may bevil, externals seem to change it, But still the primitive crystal is latent in its many variations: For the map of the face, and the picture of the eye, are traced by the pen of passion; And the mind fashioneth a tabernacle suitable for itself. A mean spirit boweth down the back, and the bowing fostereth meanness; A resolute purpose knitteth the knees, and the firm tread nourisheth decision; Love looketh softly from the eye, and kindleth love by looking; Hate furroweth the brow, and a man may frown till he hateth: For mind and body, spirit and matter, have reciprocities of power, And each keepeth up the strife; a man's works make or mar him.

There be deeper things than these, lying in the twilight of truth; But few can discern them aright, from surrounding dimness of error. For perchance, if thou knewest the whole, and largely with comprehensive mind Couldst read the history of character, the chequered story of a life, And into the great account, which summeth a mortal's destiny, Wert to add the forces from without, dragging him this way and that, And the secret qualities within, grafted on the soul from the womb, And the might of other men's example, among whom his lot is cast, And the influence of want or wealth, of kindness or harsh ill-usage, Of ignorance he cannot help, and knowledge found for him by others, And first impressions, hard to be effaced, and leadings to right or to wrong, And inheritance of likeness from a father, and natural human frailty, And the habit of health or disease, and prejudices poured into his mind, And the myriad little matters none but Omniscience can know, And accidents that steer the thoughts, where none but Ubiquity can trace them;-- If thou couldst compass all these, and the consequents flowing from them, And the scope to which they tend, and the necessary fitness of all things, Then shouldst thou see as He seeth, who judgeth all men equal,-- Equal, touching innocence and guilt; and different alone in this, That one acknowledged his evil, and looketh to his God for mercy; Another boasteth of his good, and calleth on his God for justice; So He, that sendeth none away, is largely munificent to prayer, But, in the heart of presumption, sheatheth the sword of vengeance.

OF HATRED AND ANGER.

Blunted unto goodness is the heart which anger never stirreth, But that which hatred swelleth, is keen to carve out evil. Anger is a noble infirmity, the generous failing of the just, The one degree that riseth above zeal, asserting the prerogatives of virtue: But hatred is a slow continuing crime, a fire in the bad man's breast, A dull and hungry flame, for ever craving insatiate. Hatred would harm another; anger would indulge itself: Hatred is a simmering poison; anger, the opening of a valve: Hatred destroyeth as the upas-tree; anger smiteth as a staff: Hatred is the atmosphere of hell; but anger is known in heaven. Is there not a righteous wrath, an anger just and holy, When goodness is sitting in the dust, and wickedness enthroned on Babel? Doth pity condemn guilt?--is justice not a feeling but a law Appealing to the line and to the plummet, incognizant of moral sense? Thou that condemnest anger, small is thy sympathy with angels, Thou that hast accounted it for sin, cold is thy communion with heaven.

Beware of the angry in his passion; but fear not to approach him afterward; For if thou acknowledge thine error, he himself will be sorry for his wrath: Beware of the hater in his coolness; for he meditateth evil against thee: Commending the resources of his mind calmly to work thy ruin. Deceit and treachery skulk with hatred, but an honest spirit flieth with anger: The one lieth secret, as a serpent; the other chaseth, as a leopard. Speedily be reconciled in love, and receive the returning offender, For wittingly prolonging Anger, thou tamperest unconsciously with Hatred. Patience is power in a man, nerving him to rein his spirit: Passion is as palsy to his arm, while it yelleth on the coursers to their speed: Patience keepeth counsel, and standeth in solid self-possession, But the weakness of sudden passion layeth bare the secrets of the soul. The sentiment of anger is not ill, when thou lookest on the impudence of vice, Or savourest the breath of calumny, or hast earned the hard wages of injustice; But see that thou curb it in expression, rendering the mildness of rebuke, So shall thou stand without reproach, mailed in all the dignity of virtue.

OF GOOD IN THINGS EVIL.

I heard the man of sin reproaching the goodness of Jehovah, Wherefore, if He be Almighty Love, permitteth He misery and pain? I saw the child of hope vexed in the labyrinth of doubt, Wherefore, O holy One and just, is the horn of Thy foul foe so high exalted? And, alas! for this our groaning world, for that grief and guilt are here; Alas! for that Earth is the battle-field, where good must combat with evil: Angels look on and hold their breath, burning to mingle in the conflict, But the troops of the Captain of Salvation may be none but the soldiers of the cross: And that slender band must fight alone, and yet shall triumph gloriously, Enough shall they be for conquest, and the motto of their standard is, ENOUGH. Thou art sad, O denizen of earth, for pains and diseases and death, But remember, thy hand hath earned them; grudge not at the wages of thy doings: Thy guilt, and thy fathers' guilt, must bring many sorrows in their company, And if thou wilt drink sweet poison, doubtless it shall rot thee to the core. What art thou but the heritor of evil, with a right to nothing good? The respite of an interval of ease were a boon which Justice might deny thee: Therefore lay thy hand upon thy mouth, O man much to be forgiven, And wait, thou child of hope, for time shall teach thee all things.

Yet hear, for my speech shall comfort thee: reverently, but with boldness, I would raise the sable curtain, that hideth the symmetry of Providence. Pain and sin are convicts, and toil in their fetters for good; The weapons of evil are turned against itself, fighting under better banners: The leech delighteth in stinging, and the wicked loveth to do harm, But the wise Physician of the Universe useth that ill tendency for health. Verily, from others' griefs are gendered sympathy and kindness; Patience, humility, and faith, spring not seldom from thine own: An enemy, humbled by his sorrows, cannot be far from thy forgiveness; A friend, who hath tasted of calamity, shall fan the dying incense of thy love: And for thyself, is it a small thing, so to learn thy frailty, That from an aching bone thou savest the whole body? The furnace of affliction may be fierce, but if it refineth thy soul, The good of one meek thought shall outweigh years of torment. Nevertheless, wretched man, if thy bad heart be hardened in the flame, Being earth-born, as of clay, and not of moulded wax, Judge not the hand that smiteth, as if thou wert visited in wrath: Reproach thyself, for He is Justice; repent thee, for He is Mercy.

Cease, fond caviller at wisdom, to be satisfied that everything is wrong: Be sure there is good necessity, even for the flourishing of evil. Would the eye delight in perpetual noon? or the ear in unqualified harmonics? Hath winter's frost no welcome, contrasting sturdily with summer? Couldst thou discern benevolence, if there were no sorrows to be soothed? Or discover the resources of contrivance, if nothing stood opposed to the means? What were power without an enemy? or mercy without an object? Or truth, where the false were impossible? or love, where love were a debt? The characters of God were but idle, if all things around Him were perfection, And virtues might slumber on like death, if they lacked the opportunities of evil. There is One all-perfect, and but one; man dare not reason of His essence: But there must be deficiencies in heaven, to leave room for progression in bliss: A realm of unqualified BEST were a stagnant pool of being, And the circle of absolute perfection, the abstract cipher of indolence. Sin is an awful shadow, but it addeth new glories to the light; Sin is a black foil, but it setteth off the jewelry of heaven: Sin is the traitor that hath dragged the majesty of mercy into action; Sin is the whelming argument, to justify the attribute of vengeance. It is a deep dark thought, and needeth to be diligently studied, But perchance evil was essential, that God should be seen of His creatures: For where perfection is not, there lacketh possible good, And the absence of better that might be, taketh from the praise of it is well: And creatures must be finite, and finite cannot be perfect: Therefore, though in small degree, creation involveth evil, He chargeth His angels with folly, and the heavens are not clean in His sight: For every existence in the universe hath either imperfection or Godhead: And the light that blazeth but in One, must be softened with shadow for the many. There is then good in evil; or none could have known his Maker; No spiritual intellect or essence could have gazed on His high perfections, No angel harps could have tuned the wonders of His wisdom, No ransomed souls have praised the glories of His mercy, No howling fiends have shown the terrors of His justice, But God would have dwelt alone, in the fearful solitude of holiness.

Nevertheless, O sinner, harden not thine heart in evil; Nor plume thee in imaginary triumph, because thou art not valueless as vile; Because thy dark abominations add lustre to the clarity of Light; Because a wonder-working alchemy draineth elixir out of poisons; Because the same fiery volcano that scorcheth and ravageth a continent, Hath in the broad blue bay cast up some petty island; Because to the full demonstration of the qualities and accidents of good The swarthy legions of the Devil have toiled as unwitting pioneers. For sin is still sin; so hateful Love doth hate it; A blot on the glory of creation, which Justice must wipe out. Sin is a loathsome leprosy, fretting the white robe of innocence; A rottenness, eating out the heart of the royal cedars of Lebanon; A pestilential blast, the terror of that holy pilgrimage; A rent in the sacred veil, whereby God left His temple. Therefore, consider thyself, thou that dost not sorrow for thy guilt: Fear evil, or face its Enemy: dread sin, or dare Justice.

Yea, saith the Spirit: and their works do follow them; Habits, and thoughts, and deeds, are shadows and satellites of self. What! shall the claimant to a throne stand forward with a rabble rout,-- Meanness, impiety, and lust; riot and indolence and vanity? Nay, man! the train wherewith thou comest attend whither thou shalt go: A throne for a king's son, but an inner dungeon for the felon. For a man's works do follow him: bodily, standing in the judgment, Behold the false accuser, behold the slandered saint; The slave, and his bloody driver; the poor, and his generous friend; The simple dupe, and the crafty knave: the murderer, and--his victim! Yet all are in many characters; the best stand guilty at the bar; And he that seemed the worst may have most of real excuse. The talents unto which a man is born, be they few or many, Are dropped into the balance of account, working unlooked-for changes; And perchance the convict from the galleys may stand above the hermit in his cell, For that, the obstacles in one outweigh the propensions in the other. There be, who have made themselves friends, yea, by unrighteous mammon,-- Friends, ready waiting as an escort to those everlasting habitations; Embodied in living witnesses, thronging to meet them in a cloud, Charity, meekness and truth, zeal, sincerity and patience, There be, who have made themselves foes, yea, by honest gain, Foes, whose plaint must have its answer, before the bright portal is unbarred: Pride, and selfishness, and sloth, apathy, wrath and falsehood, Bind to their everlasting toil many that must weary in the fires. Love hath a power and a longing to save the gathered world, And rescue universal man from the hunting hell-hounds of his doings: Yet few, here one and there one, scanty as the gleaning after harvest, Are glad of the robes of praise which Mercy would fling around the naked; But wrapping closer to their skin the poisoned tunic of their works, They stand in self-dependence, to perish in abandonment of God.

OF PRAYER.

A wicked man scorneth prayer, in the shallow sophistry of reason, He derideth the silly hope that God can be moved by supplication:-- Shall the Unchangeable be changed, or waver in His purpose? Can the weakness of pity affect Him? Should He turn at the bidding of a man? Methought He ruled all things, and ye called His decrees immutable, But if thus He listeneth to words, wherein is the firmness of His will?-- So I heard the speech of the wicked, and, lo, it was smoother than oil; But I knew that his reasonings were false, for the promise of the Scripture is true: Yet was my soul in darkness, for his words were too hard for me; Till I turned to my God in prayer: for I know He heareth always. Then I looked abroad on the earth, and, behold, the Lord was in all things; Yet saw I not His hand in aught, but perceived that He worketh by means; Yea, and the power of the mean proveth the wisdom that ordained it, Yea, and no act is useless, to the hurling of a stone through the air. So I turned my thoughts to supplication, and beheld the mercies of Jehovah, And I saw sound argument was still the faithful friend of godliness; For as the rock of the affections is the solid approval of reason, Even so the temple of Religion is founded on the basis of Philosophy.