Chapter 4

THE DEPARTURE FROM PARADISE.

In either hand the hastening angel caught Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast To the subjected plain; then disappeared. They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, Waved over by that naming brand; the gate With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them soon; The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.

MILTON.

V.

HUMAN EXPERIENCE.

* * * * *

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE GIFTS OF GOD.

When God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, Let us (said he) pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way; Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that, alone, of all his treasure, Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said he) Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness: Let him be rich and weary, that, at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast.

GEORGE HERBERT.

* * * * *

DUTY.

I slept and dreamed that life was Beauty: I woke and found that life was Duty: Was then thy dream a shadowy lie? Toil on, sad heart, courageously, And thou shalt find thy dream to be A noonday light and truth to thee.

ELLEN STURGIS HOOPER.

* * * * *

ODE TO DUTY.

Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove-- Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free, And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts! without reproach or blot, Who do thy work, and know it not; Long may the kindly impulse last! But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!

Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light. And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold. Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried, No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust; And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control, But in the quietness of thought; Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we any thing so fair As is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

SELF-INQUIRY.

Let not soft slumber close my eyes, Before I've recollected thrice The train of action through the day! Where have my feet chose out their way? What have I learnt, where'er I've been, From all I have heard, from all I've seen? What know I more that's worth the knowing? What have I done that's worth the doing? What have I sought that I should shun? What duty have I left undone? Or into what new follies run? These self-inquiries are the road That leads to virtue and to God.

ISAAC WATTS.

* * * * *

THE THREE ENEMIES.

THE FLESH.

"Sweet, thou art pale." "More pale to see, Christ hung upon the cruel tree And bore his Father's wrath for me."

"Sweet, thou art sad." "Beneath a rod More heavy Christ for my sake trod The wine-press of the wrath of God."

"Sweet, thou art weary." "Not so Christ: Whose mighty love of me sufficed For strength, salvation, eucharist."

"Sweet, thou art footsore." "If I bleed, His feet have bled: yea, in my need His heart once bled for mine indeed."

THE WORLD.

"Sweet, thou art young." "So he was young Who for my sake in silence hung Upon the cross with passion wrung."

"Look, thou art fair." "He was more fair Than men, who deigned for me to wear A visage marred beyond compare."

"And thou hast riches." "Daily bread: All else is his; who living, dead, For me lacked where to lay his head."

"And life is sweet." "It was not so To him, whose cup did overflow With mine unutterable woe."

THE DEVIL.

"Thou drinkest deep." "When Christ would sup He drained the dregs from out my cup; So how should I be lifted up?"

"Thou shalt win glory." "In the skies, Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes. Lest they should look on vanities."

"Thou shalt have knowledge." "Helpless dust, In thee, O Lord, I put my trust: Answer thou for me, Wise and Just."

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI.

* * * * *

SAID I NOT SO?

Said I not so,--that I would sin no more? Witness, my God, I did; Yet I am run again upon the score: My faults cannot be hid.

What shall I do?--make vows and break them still? 'Twill be but labor lost; My good cannot prevail against mine ill: The business will be crost.

O, say not so; thou canst not tell what strength Thy God may give thee at the length. Renew thy vows, and if thou keep the last, Thy God will pardon all that's past. Vow while thou canst; while thou canst vow, thou may'st Perhaps perform it when thou thinkest least.

Thy God hath not denied thee all, Whilst he permits thee but to call. Call to thy God for grace to keep Thy vows; and if thou break them, weep. Weep for thy broken vows, and vow again: Vows made with tears cannot be still in vain. Then once again I vow to mend my ways; Lord, say Amen, And thine be all the praise.

GEORGE HERBERT.

* * * * *

NOTHING BUT LEAVES.

Nothing but leaves; the spirit grieves Over a wasted life; Sin committed while conscience slept, Promises made, but never kept, Hatred, battle, and strife; _Nothing but leaves_!

Nothing but leaves; no garnered sheaves Of life's fair, ripened grain; Words, idle words, for earnest deeds; We sow our seeds,--lo! tares and weeds: We reap, with toil and pain, _Nothing but leaves_!

Nothing but leaves; memory weaves No veil to screen the past: As we retrace our weary way, Counting each lost and misspent day, We find, sadly, at last, _Nothing but leaves_!

And shall we meet the Master so, Bearing our withered leaves? The Saviour looks for perfect fruit, We stand before him, humbled, mute; Waiting the words he breathes,-- "_Nothing but leaves_?"

LUCY E. AKERMAN.

* * * * *

THE WORLD.

"And when he is come, he will reprove the world of sin, and of righteousness, and of judgment."--JOHN xvi. 8.

The world is wise, for the world is old; Five thousand years their tale have told; Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,-- Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!

The world is kind if we ask not too much; It is sweet to the taste, and smooth to the touch; Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,-- Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!

The world is strong, with an awful strength, And full of life in its breadth and length; Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,-- Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!

The world is so beautiful one may fear Its borrowed beauty might make it too dear, Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be-- Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!

The world is good in its own poor way, There is rest by night and high spirits by day; Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,-- Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!

The cross shines fair, and the church-bell rings, And the earth is peopled with holy things; Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,-- Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!

What lackest thou, world? for God made thee of old; Why,--thy faith hath gone out, and thy love grown cold; Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be, For the want of Christ's simplicity.

It is blood that thou lackest, thou poor old world! Who shall make thy love hot for thee, frozen old world? Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be, For the love of dear Jesus is little in thee.

Poor world! if thou cravest a better day, Remember that Christ must have his own way; I mourn thou art not as thou mightest be, But the love of God would do all for thee.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

* * * * *

THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.

"There is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow"; And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised." Be pitiful, O God!

The tempest stretches from the steep The shadow of its coming; The beasts grow tame, and near us creep, As help were in the human: Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grind We spirits tremble under!-- The hills have echoes; but we find No answer for the thunder. Be pitiful, O God!

The battle hurtles on the plains-- Earth feels new scythes upon her: We reap our brothers for the wains, And call the harvest, honor,-- Draw face to face, front line to line, One image all inherit,-- Then kill, curse on, by that same sign, Clay, clay,--and spirit, spirit. Be pitiful, O God!

The plague runs festering through the town, And never a bell is tolling: And corpses jostled 'neath the moon, Nod to the dead-cart's rolling. The young child calleth for the cup-- The strong man brings it weeping; The mother from her babe looks up, And shrieks away its sleeping. Be pitiful, O God!

The plague of gold strides far and near, And deep and strong it enters: This purple chimar which we wear, Makes madder than the centaur's. Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange; We cheer the pale gold-diggers-- Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, And marked, like sheep, with figures. Be pitiful, O God!

The curse of gold upon the land, The lack of bread enforces-- The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, Like more of Death's White Horses: The rich preach "rights" and future days, And hear no angel scoffing: The poor die mute--with starving gaze On corn-ships in the offing. Be pitiful, O God!

We meet together at the feast-- To private mirth betake us-- We stare down in the winecup lest Some vacant chair should shake us! We name delight, and pledge it round-- "It shall be ours to-morrow!" God's seraphs, do your voices sound As sad in naming sorrow? Be pitiful, O God!

We sit together, with the skies, The steadfast skies, above us: We look into each other's eyes, "And how long will you love us?" The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voice is low and breathless-- "Till death us part!"--O words, to be Our _best_ for love the deathless! Be pitiful, dear God!

We tremble by the harmless bed Of one loved and departed-- Our tears drop on the lids that said Last night, "Be stronger hearted!" O God,--to clasp those fingers close, And yet to feel so lonely!-- To see a light upon such brows, Which is the daylight only! Be pitiful, O God!

The happy children come to us, And look up in our faces: They ask us--Was it thus, and thus, When we were in their places? We cannot speak:--we see anew The hills we used to live in; And feel our mother's smile press through The kisses she is giving. Be pitiful, O God!

We pray together at the kirk, For mercy, mercy, solely-- Hands weary with the evil work, We lift them to the Holy! The corpse is calm below our knee-- Its spirit bright before thee-- Between them, worse than either, we-- Without the rest of glory! Be pitiful, O God!

We leave the communing of men, The murmur of the passions; And live alone, to live again With endless generations. Are we so brave?--The sea and sky In silence lift their mirrors; And, glassed therein, our spirits high Recoil from their own terrors. Be pitiful, O God!

We sit on hills our childhood wist, Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding: The sun strikes through the farthest mist, The city's spire to golden. The city's golden spire it was, When hope and health were strong; But now it is the churchyard grass, We look upon the longest. Be pitiful, O God!

And soon all vision waxeth dull-- Men whisper, "He is dying": We cry no more, "Be pitiful!"-- We have no strength for crying: No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine, Look up and triumph rather-- Lo! in the depth of God's Divine, The Son adjures the Father-- BE PITIFUL, O GOD.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE SIFTING OF PETER.

A FOLK-SONG.

"Behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat."--LUKE xxii. 31.

In Saint Luke's Gospel we are told How Peter in the days of old Was sifted; And now, though ages intervene, Sin is the same, while time and scene Are shifted.

Satan desires us, great and small, As wheat, to sift us, and we all Are tempted; Not one, however rich or great, Is by his station or estate Exempted.

No house so safely guarded is But he, by some device of his, Can enter; No heart hath armor so complete But he can pierce with arrows fleet Its centre.

For all at last the cock will crow Who hear the warning voice, but go Unheeding, Till thrice and more they have denied The Man of Sorrows, crucified And bleeding.

One look of that pale suffering face Will make us feel the deep disgrace Of weakness; We shall be sifted till the strength Of self-conceit be changed at length To meekness.

Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache; The reddening scars remain, and make Confession; Lost innocence returns no more; We are not what we were before Transgression.

But noble souls, through dust and heat, Rise from disaster and defeat The stronger. And conscious still of the divine Within them, lie on earth supine No longer.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

VANITY.

The sun comes up and the sun goes down, And day and night are the same as one; The year grows green, and the year grows brown. And what is it all, when all is done? Grains of sombre or shining sand, Gliding into and out of the hand.

And men go down in ships to the seas, And a hundred ships are the same as one; And backward and forward blows the breeze, And what is it all, when all is done? A tide with never a shore in sight Getting steadily on to the night.

The fisher droppeth his net in the stream, And a hundred streams are the same as one; And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream, And what is it all, when all is done? The net of the fisher the burden breaks, And alway the dreaming the dreamer wakes.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

DIFFERENT MINDS.

Some murmur when their sky is clear And wholly bright to view, If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue; And some with thankful love are filled If but one streak of light, One ray of God's good mercy, gild The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask, In discontent and pride, Why life is such a dreary task, And all good things denied; And hearts in poorest huts admire How Love has in their aid (Love that not ever seems to tire) Such rich provision made.

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

* * * * *

MY RECOVERY.

Recovery,--daughter of Creation too, Though not for immortality designed,-- The Lord of life and death Sent thee from heaven to me! Had I not heard thy gentle tread approach, Not heard the whisper of thy welcome voice, Death had with iron foot My chilly forehead pressed. 'Tis true, I then had wandered where the earths Roll around suns; had strayed along the paths Where the maned comet soars Beyond the armèd eye; And with the rapturous, eager greet had hailed The inmates of those earths and of those suns; Had hailed the countless host That throng the comet's disc; Had asked the novice questions, and obtained Such answers as a sage vouchsafes to youth; Had learned in hours far more Than ages here unfold! But I had then not ended here below What, in the enterprising bloom of life, Fate with no light behest Required me to begin. Recovery,--daughter of Creation too, Though not for immortality designed,-- The Lord of life and death Sent thee from heaven to me!

From the German of FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.

Translation of W. TAYLOR.

* * * * *

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE.

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will:--

All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern--unseen before-- A path to higher destinies.

Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

SAINT CHRISTOPHER.

"Carry me across!" The Syrian heard, rose up, and braced His huge limbs to the accustomed toil: "My child, see how the waters boil? The night-black heavens look angry-faced; But life is little loss.

"I'll carry thee with joy, If needs be, safe as nestling dove: For o'er this stream I pilgrims bring In service to one Christ, a King Whom I have never seen, yet love." "I thank thee," said the boy.

Cheerful, Arprobus took The burden on his shoulders great, And stepped into the waves once more; When lo! they leaping rise and roar, And 'neath the little child's light weight The tottering giant shook.

"Who art thou?" cried he wild, Struggling in middle of the ford: "Boy as thou look'st, it seems to me The whole world's load I bear in thee, Yet--" "For the sake of Christ, thy Lord, Carry me," said the child.

No more Arprobus swerved, But gained the farther bank, and then A voice cried, "Hence _Christopheros_ be! For carrying thou hast carried Me, The King of angels and of men, The Master thou hast served."

And in the moonlight blue The saint saw,--not the wandering boy, But him who walked upon the sea And o'er the plains of Galilee, Till, filled with mystic, awful joy, His dear Lord Christ he knew.

Oh, little is all loss, And brief the space 'twixt shore and shore, If thou, Lord Jesus, on us lay, Through the deep waters of our way, The burden that Christopheros bore,-- To carry thee across.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

* * * * *

SCORN NOT THE LEAST.

When words are weak and foes encountering strong, Where mightier do assault than do defend, The feebler part puts up enforced wrong, And silent sees that speech could not amend. Yet higher powers most think though they repine,-- When sun is set, the little stars will shine.

While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly, And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish; Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by; These fleet afloat while those do fill the dish. There is a time even for the worms to creep. And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep.

The merlin cannot ever soar on high, Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase; The tender lark will find a time to fly. And fearful hare to run a quiet race. He that high-growth on cedars did bestow, Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.

In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept, Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe; The Lazar pined while Dives' feast was kept, Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go. We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May, Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

* * * * *

THE RIGHT MUST WIN.

O, it is hard to work for God, To rise and take his part Upon this battle-field of earth, And not sometimes lose heart!

He hides himself so wondrously, As though there were no God; He is least seen when all the powers Of ill are most abroad.

Or he deserts us at the hour The fight is all but lost; And seems to leave us to ourselves Just when we need him most.

Ill masters good, good seems to change To ill with greater ease; And, worst of all, the good with good Is at cross-purposes.

Ah! God is other than we think; His ways are far above, Far beyond reason's height, and reached Only by childlike love.

Workman of God! O, lose not heart, But learn what God is like; And in the darkest battle-field Thou shalt know where to strike.

Thrice blest is he to whom is given The instinct that can tell That God is on the field when he Is most invisible.

Blest, is he who can divine Where the real right doth lie, And dares to take the side that seems Wrong to man's blindfold eye.

For right is right, since God is God; And right the day must win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin!

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

* * * * *

THE COST OF WORTH.

FROM "BITTER SWEET."

Thus is it all over the earth! That which we call the fairest. And prize for its surpassing worth, Is always rarest.

Iron is heaped in mountain piles, And gluts the laggard forges; But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles And lonely gorges.

The snowy marble flecks the land With heaped and rounded ledges, But diamonds hide within the sand Their starry edges.

The finny armies clog the twine That sweeps the lazy river, But pearls come singly from the brine With the pale diver.

God gives no value unto men Unmatched by meed of labor; And Cost of Worth has ever been The closest neighbor.

* * * * *

All common good has common price; Exceeding good, exceeding; Christ bought the keys of Paradise By cruel bleeding;

And every soul that wins a place Upon its hills of pleasure, Must give it all, and beg for grace To fill the measure.

* * * * *

Up the broad stairs that Value rears Stand motives beck'ning earthward, To summon men to nobler spheres, And lead them worthward.

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

* * * * *

THE LABORER.

Stand up--erect! Thou hast the form And likeness of thy God!--Who more? A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm Of daily life, a heart as warm And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then?--Thou art as true a man As moves the human mass among; As much a part of the great plan That with creation's dawn began, As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? The high In station, or in wealth the chief? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye? Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast, What were the proud one's scorn to thee? A feather which thou mightest cast Aside, as idly as the blast The light leaf from the tree.

No: uncurbed passions, low desires, Absence of noble self-respect. Death, in the breast's consuming fires, To that high nature which aspires Forever, till thus checked;--

These are thine enemies--thy worst: They chain thee to thy lowly lot; Thy labor and thy life accursed. O, stand erect, and from them burst, And longer suffer not.

Thou art thyself thine enemy: The great!--what better they than thou? As theirs is not thy will as free? Has God with equal favors thee Neglected to endow?

True, wealth thou hast not--'tis but dust; Nor place--uncertain as the wind; But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water, may despise the lust Of both--a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban, True faith, and holy trust in God, Thou art the peer of any man. Look up then; that thy little span Of life may be well trod.

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

* * * * *

A TRUE LENT.

Is this a fast,--to keep The larder lean, And clean From fat of veals and sheep?

Is it to quit the dish Of flesh, yet still To fill The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour. Or ragg'd to go, Or show A downcast look, and sour?

No! 't is a fast to dole Thy sheaf of wheat, And meat, Unto the hungry soul.

It is to fast from strife, From old debate And hate,-- To circumcise thy life.

To show a heart grief-rent; To starve thy sin, Not bin,-- And that's to keep thy Lent.

ROBERT HERRICK.

* * * * *

FROM "THE CHURCH PORCH."

Thou whose sweet youth and early hopes enhance Thy rate and price, and mark thee for a treasure. Hearken unto a Verser, who may chance Rhyme thee to good, and make a bait of pleasure: A verse may find him who a sermon flies And turn delight into a sacrifice.

When thou dost purpose aught (within thy power), Be sure to doe it, though it be but small; Constancie knits the bones, and make us stowre, When wanton pleasures beckon us to thrall. Who breaks his own bond, forfeiteth himself: What nature made a ship, he makes a shelf.

* * * * *

By all means use sometimes to be alone. Salute thyself: see what thy soul doth wear. Dare to look in thy chest; for 't is thine own; And tumble up and down what thou find'st there. Who cannot rest till he good fellows finde, He breaks up house, turns out of doores his minde.

In clothes, cheap handsomenesse doth bear the bell. Wisdome's a trimmer thing than shop e'er gave. Say not then, This with that lace will do well; But, This with my discretion will be brave. Much curiousnesse is a perpetual wooing; Nothing, with labor; folly, long a doing.

* * * * *

When once thy foot enters the church, be bare. God is more there than thou; for thou art there Only by his permission. Then beware, And make thyself all reverence and fear. Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state; All equal are within the church's gate.

Resort to sermons, but to prayers most: Praying's the end of preaching. O, be drest! Stay not for th' other pin: why thou hast lost A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee, Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.

Judge not the preacher; for he is thy judge: If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not. God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. The worst speak something good: if _all_ want sense, God takes a text, and preacheth Pa-ti-ence.

GEORGE HERBERT.

* * * * *

BRIEFS.

WATER TURNED INTO WINE.

The conscious water saw its God and blushed.

THE WIDOW'S MITES.

Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land, Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand: The other's wanton wealth foams high, and brave; The other cast away, she only gave.

"TWO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY."

Two went to pray? O, rather say, One went to brag, the other to pray;

One stands up close and treads on high, Where the other dares not lend his eye;

One nearer to God's altar trod, The other to the altar's God.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

* * * * *

JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON.

God of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat The fiery winds of Desolation flow; Father of vengeance, that with purple feet Like a full wine-press tread'st the world below; The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey, Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, Till thou hast marked the guilty land for woe.

God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign The billows of the proud their rage suppress; Father of mercies! at one word of thine An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness, And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, And marble cities crown the laughing lands, And pillared temples rise thy name to bless.

O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord! The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's sword, Even her foes wept to see her fallen state; And heaps her ivory palaces became, Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame, For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate.

O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, And the sad City lift her crownless head, And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam In streets where broods the silence of the dead. The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers To deck at blushing eye their bridal bowers, And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves. With fettered steps we left our pleasant land, Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. The strangers' bread with bitter tears we steep, And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, In the mute midnight we steal forth to weep. Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves.

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy; Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender prattling boy Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come; And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare, And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub seated God full blazed the irradiate dome.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

* * * * *

EXAMPLE.

We scatter seeds with careless hand, And dream we ne'er shall see them more; But for a thousand years Their fruit appears, In weeds that mar the land, Or healthful store.

The deeds we do, the words we say,-- Into still air they seem to fleet, We count them ever past; But they shall last,-- In the dread judgment they And we shall meet.

I charge thee by the years gone by, For the love's sake of brethren dear, Keep thou the one true way, In work and play, Lest in that world their cry Of woe thou hear.

JOHN KEBLE.

* * * * *

SMALL BEGINNINGS.

A traveller through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breath its early vows; And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask beneath its boughs; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore; It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life besides.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 't was old, and yet 't was new; A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. The thought was small; its issue great; a watch-fire on the hill, It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!

A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown,--a transitory breath,-- It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last.

CHARLES MACKAY.

* * * * *

THE RISE OF MAN.

Thou for whose birth the whole creation yearned Through countless ages of the morning world, Who, first in fiery vapors dimly hurled, Next to the senseless crystal slowly turned, Then to the plant which grew to something more,-- Humblest of creatures that draw breath of life,-- Wherefrom through infinites of patient pain Came conscious man to reason and adore: Shall we be shamed because such things have been, Or bate one jot of our ancestral pride? Nay, in thyself art thou not deified That from such depths thou couldst such summits win? While the long way behind is prophecy Of those perfections which are yet to be.

JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

* * * * *

I WOULD I WERE AN EXCELLENT DIVINE.

I would I were an excellent divine. That had the Bible at my fingers' ends; That men might hear out of this mouth of mine How God doth make his enemies his friends; Rather than with a thundering and long prayer Be led into presumption, or despair.

This would I be, and would none other be, But a religious servant of my God; And know there is none other God but he. And willingly to suffer mercy's rod,-- Joy in his grace, and live but in his love, And seek my bliss but in the world above.

And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer, For all estates within the state of grace, That careful love might never know despair. Nor servile fear might faithful love deface; And this would I both day and night devise To make my humble spirit's exercise.

And I would read the rules of sacred life; Persuade the troubled soul to patience; The husband care, and comfort to the wife, To child and servant due obedience; Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace, That love might live, and quarrels all might cease.

Prayer for the health of all that are diseased, Confession unto all that are convicted, And patience unto all that are displeased, And comfort unto all that are afflicted, And mercy unto all that have offended, And grace to all, that all may be amended.

NICHOLAS BRETON.

* * * * *

THE PASTOR'S REVERIE.

The pastor sits in his easy-chair, With the Bible upon his knee. From gold to purple the clouds in the west Are changing momently; The shadows lie in the valleys below, And hide in the curtain's fold; And the page grows dim whereon he reads, "I remember the days of old."

"Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, The pastor's memories are; No day that is gone was shadowless, No night was without its star; But mingled bitter and sweet hath been The portion of his cup: "The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith, "In love hath bound us up."

Fleet flies his thoughts over many a field Of stubble and snow and bloom, And now it trips through a festival, And now it halts at a tomb; Young faces smile in his reverie, Of those that are young no more, And voices are heard that only come With the winds from a far-off shore.

He thinks of the day when first, with fear And faltering lips, he stood To speak in the sacred place the Word To the waiting multitude; He walks again to the house of God With the voice of joy and praise, With many whose feet long time have pressed Heaven's safe and blessèd ways.

He enters again the homes of toil, And joins in the homely chat; He stands in the shop of the artisan; He sits, where the Master sat, At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast. But who to-day are the poor, And who are the rich? Ask him who keeps The treasures that ever endure.

Once more the green and the grove resound With the merry children's din; He hears their shout at the Christmas tide, When Santa Claus stalks in. Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars On the distant mountain-side, Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook Where the fierce young troutlings hide.

And now he beholds the wedding train To the altar slowly move, And the solemn words are said that seal The sacrament of love. Anon at the font he meets once more The tremulous youthful pair, With a white-robed cherub crowing response To the consecrating prayer.

By the couch of pain he kneels again; Again, the thin hand lies Cold in his palm, while the last far look Steals into the steadfast eyes; And now the burden of hearts that break Lies heavy upon his own-- The widow's woe and the orphan's cry And the desolate mother's moan.

So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad, Are the days that are no more, So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float With the winds from a far-off shore. For the pastor has learned what meaneth the word That is given him to keep,-- "Rejoice with them that do rejoice, And weep with them that weep."

It is not in vain that he has trod This lonely and toilsome way. It is not in vain that he has wrought In the vineyard all the day; For the soul that gives is the soul that lives, And bearing another's load Doth lighten your own and shorten the way, And brighten the homeward road.

WASHINGTON GLADDEN.

* * * * *

TWO RABBIS.

The Rabbi Nathan, twoscore years and ten, Walked blameless through the evil world, and then Just as the almond blossomed in his hair, Met a temptation all too strong to bear, And miserably sinned. So, adding not Falsehood to guilt, he left his seat, and taught No more among the elders, but went out From the great congregation girt about With sackcloth, and with ashes on his head, Making his gray locks grayer. Long he prayed, Smiting his breast; then, as the Book he laid Open before him for the Bath-Col's choice, Pausing to hear that Daughter of a Voice, Behold the royal preacher's words: "A friend Loveth at all times, yea, unto the end; And for the evil day thy brother lives." Marvelling, he said: "It is the Lord who gives Counsel in need. At Ecbatana dwells Rabbi Ben Isaac, who all men excels In righteousness and wisdom, as the trees Of Lebanon the small weeds that the bees Bow with their weight. I will arise and lay My sins before him."

And he went his way Barefooted, fasting long, with many prayers; But even as one who, followed unawares, Suddenly in the darkness feels a hand Thrill with its touch his own, and his cheek fanned By odors subtly sweet, and whispers near Of words he loathes, yet cannot choose but hear, So, while the Rabbi journeyed, chanting low The wail of David's penitential woe, Before him still the old temptation came, And mocked him with the motion and the shame Of such desires that, shuddering, he abhorred Himself; and, crying mightily to the Lord To free his soul and cast the demon out, Smote with his staff the blackness round about.

At length, in the low light of a spent day, The towers of Ecbatana far away Rose on the desert's rim; and Nathan, faint And footsore, pausing where for some dead saint The faith of Islam reared a domèd tomb, Saw some one kneeling in the shadow, whom He greeted kindly: "May the Holy One Answer thy prayers, O stranger!" Whereupon The shape stood up with a loud cry, and then, Clasped in each other's arms, the two gray men Wept, praising him whose gracious providence Made their paths one. But straightway, as the sense Of his transgression smote him, Nathan tore Himself away: "O friend beloved, no more Worthy am I to touch thee, for I came, Foul from my sins to tell thee all my shame. Haply thy prayers, since naught availeth mine, May purge my soul, and make it white like thine. Pity me, O Ben Isaac, I have sinned!" Awestruck Ben Isaac stood. The desert wind Blew his long mantle backward, laying bare The mournful secret of his shirt of hair. "I too, O friend, if not in act," he said, "In thought have verily sinned. Hast thou not read, 'Better the eye should see than that desire Should wander'? Burning with a hidden fire That tears and prayers quench not, I come to thee For pity and for help, as thou to me. Pray for me, O my friend!" But Nathan cried, "Pray thou for me, Ben Isaac!"

Side by side In the low sunshine by the turban stone They knelt; each made his brother's woe his own, Forgetting, in the agony and stress Of pitying love, his claim of selfishness; Peace, for his friend besought, his own became; His prayers were answered in another's name; And, when at last they rose up to embrace, Each saw God's pardon in his brother's face!

Long after, when his headstone gathered moss, Traced on the targum-marge of Onkelos In Rabbi Nathan's hand these words were read: "Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead; Forget it in love's service, and the debt Thou canst not pay the angels shall forget; Heaven's gate is shut to him who comes alone; Save thou a soul, and it shall save thy own!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

JUDGE NOT.

Judge not; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, In God's pure light may only be A scar, brought from some well-won field, Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy sight May be a token that below The soul has closed in deadly fight With some infernal fiery foe, Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace And cast thee shuddering on thy face!

The fall thou darest to despise,-- May be the angel's slackened hand Has suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand; Or, trusting less to earthly things, May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none lost; but wait and see, With hopeful pity, not disdain; The depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of pain And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after days!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

* * * * *

TO THE UNCO GUID.

"My son, these maxims make a rule And lump them aye thegither: The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in; Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin."

--SOLOMON, _Ecclesiastes_ vii. 16.

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neebor's fauts and folly:-- Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi' store o' water. The heapèt happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, For glaikit Folly's portals! I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment's fair regard, What makes the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hidin'.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco leeway.

See Social life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown Debauchery and Drinking: O, would they stay to calculate The eternal consequences; Or your mortal dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination,-- But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye 're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human. One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 't is He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord,--its various tone, Each spring,--its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

ROBERT BURNS.

* * * * *

STONE THE WOMAN, LET THE MAN GO FREE.

Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free! Draw back your skirts, lest they perchance may touch Her garment as she passes; but to him Put forth a willing hand to clasp with his That led her to destruction and disgrace. Shut up from her the sacred ways of toil, That she no more may win an honest meal; But ope to him all honorable paths Where he may win distinction; give to him Fair, pressed-down measures of life's sweetest joys. Pass her, O maiden, with a pure, proud face, If she puts out a poor, polluted palm; But lay thy hand in his on bridal day, And swear to cling to him with wifely love And tender reverence. Trust him who led A sister woman to a fearful fate.

Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free! Let one soul suffer for the guilt of two-- It is the doctrine of a hurried world, Too out of breath for holding balances Where nice distinctions and injustices Are calmly weighed. But ah, how will it be On that strange day of fire and flame, When men shall wither with a mystic fear, And all shall stand before the one true Judge? Shall sex make _then_ a difference in sin? Shall He, the Searcher of the hidden heart, In His eternal and divine decree Condemn the woman and forgive the man?

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

IN PRISON.

God pity the wretched prisoners, In their lonely cells to-day! Whatever the sins that tripped them, God pity them! still I say.

Only a strip of sunshine, Cleft by rusty bars; Only a patch of azure, Only a cluster of stars;

Only a barren future, To starve their hope upon; Only stinging memories Of a past that's better gone;

Only scorn from women. Only hate from men, Only remorse to whisper Of a life that might have been.

Once they were little children. And perhaps their unstained feet Were led by a gentle mother Toward the golden street;

Therefore, if in life's forest They since have lost their way, For the sake of her who loved them, God pity them! still I say.

O mothers gone to heaven! With earnest heart I ask That your eyes may not look earthward On the failure of your task.

For even in those mansions The choking tears would rise, Though the fairest hand in heaven Would wipe them from your eyes!

And you, who judge so harshly, Are you sure the stumbling-stone That tripped the feet of others Might not have bruised your own?

Are you sure the sad-faced angel Who writes our errors down Will ascribe to you more honor Than him on whom you frown?

Or, if a steadier purpose Unto your life is given; A stronger will to conquer, A smoother path to heaven;

If, when temptations meet you, You crush them with a smile; If you can chain pale passion And keep your lips from guile;

Then bless the hand that crowned you, Remembering, as you go, 'T was not your own endeavor That shaped your nature so;

And sneer not at the weakness Which made a brother fall, For the hand that lifts the fallen, God loves the best of all!

And pray for the wretched prisoners All over the land to-day, That a holy hand in pity May wipe their guilt away.

MAY RILEY SMITH.

* * * * *

CONSCIENCE AND REMORSE.

"Good-bye," I said to my Conscience-- "Good-bye for aye and aye;" And I put her hands off harshly, And turned my face away: And Conscience, smitten sorely, Returned not from that day.

But a time came when my spirit Grew weary of its pace: And I cried, "Come back, my Conscience, I long to see thy face;" But Conscience cried, "I cannot,-- Remorse sits in my place."

PAUL LAWRENCE DUNBAR.

* * * * *

FOUND WANTING.

Belshazzar had a letter,-- He never had but one; Belshazzar's correspondent Concluded and begun In that immortal copy The conscience of us all Can read without its glasses On revelation's wall.

EMILY DICKINSON.

* * * * *

DALLYING WITH TEMPTATION.

FROM THE FIRST PART OF "WALLENSTEIN," ACT III. SC. 4.

Wallenstein _(in soliloquy_). Is it possible? Is't so? I _can_ no longer what I _would_! No longer draw back at my liking! I Must _do_ the deed, because I _thought_ of it, And fed this heart here with a dream! Because I did not scowl temptation from my presence, Dallied with thought of possible fulfilment, Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain, And only kept the road, the access open! By the great God of Heaven! It was not My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolve. I but amused myself with thinking of it. The free-will tempted me, the power to do Or not to do it.--Was it criminal To make the fancy minister to hope, To fill the air with pretty toys of air, And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me? Was not the will kept free? Beheld I not The road of duty clear beside me--but One little step and once more I was in it! Where am I? Whither have I been transported? No road, no track behind one, but a wall, Impenetrable, insurmountable, Rises obedient to the spells I muttered And meant not--my own doings tower behind me.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

* * * * *

EASY TO DRIFT.

Easy to drift to the open sea, The tides are eager and swift and strong, And whistling and free are the rushing winds,-- But O, to get back is hard and long.

Easy as told in Arabian tale, To free from his jar the evil sprite Till he rises like smoke to stupendous size,-- But O, nevermore can we prison him tight.

Easy as told in an English tale, To fashion a Frankenstein, body and soul, And breathe in his bosom a breath of life,-- But O, we create what we cannot control.

Easy to drift to the sea of doubt, Easy to hurt what we cannot heal, Easy to rouse what we cannot soothe, Easy to speak what we do not feel, Easy to show what we ought to conceal, Easy to think that fancy is fate,-- And O, the wisdom that comes too late!

OLIVER HUCKEL.

* * * * *

FRANKFORD'S SOLILOQUY.

FROM "A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS"

O God! O God! that it were possible To undo things done; to call back yesterday! That time could turn up his swift sandy glass, To untell the days, and to redeem these hours! Or that the sun Could, rising from the West, draw his coach backward,-- Take from the account of time so many minutes. Till he had all these seasons called again, These minutes and these actions done in them.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

* * * * *

CONSCIENCE.

FROM SATIRE XIII.

The Spartan rogue who, boldly bent on fraud, Dared ask the god to sanction and applaud, And sought for counsel at the Pythian shrine, Received for answer from the lips divine,-- "That he who doubted to restore his trust, And reasoned much, reluctant to be just, Should for those doubts and that reluctance prove The deepest vengeance of the powers above." The tale declares that not pronounced in vain Came forth the warning from the sacred fane: Ere long no branch of that devoted race Could mortal man on soil of Sparta trace! Thus but intended mischief, stayed in time, Had all the mortal guilt of finished crime. If such his fate who yet but darkly dares, Whose guilty purpose yet no act declares, What were it, done! Ah! now farewell to peace! Ne'er on this earth his soul's alarms shall cease! Held in the mouth that languid fever burns, His tasteless food he indolently turns; On Alba's oldest stock his soul shall pine! Forth from his lips he spits the joyless wine! Nor all the nectar of the hills shall now Or glad the heart, or smooth the wrinkled brow! While o'er the couch his aching limbs are cast, If care permit the brief repose at last, Lo! there the altar and the fane abused! Or darkly shadowed forth in dream confused, While the damp brow betrays the inward storm, Before him flits thy aggravated form! Then as new fears o'er all his senses press, Unwilling words the guilty truth confess! These, these be they whom secret terrors try. When muttered thunders shake the lurid sky; Whose deadly paleness now the gloom conceals And now the vivid flash anew reveals. No storm as Nature's casualty they hold. They deem without an aim no thunders rolled; Where'er the lightning strikes, the flash is thought Judicial fire, with Heaven's high vengeance fraught. Passes this by, with yet more anxious ear And greater dread, each future storm they fear; In burning vigil, deadliest foe to sleep, In their distempered frame if fever keep, Or the pained side their wonted rest prevent, Behold some incensed god his bow has bent! All pains, all aches, are stones and arrows hurled At bold offenders in this nether world! From them no crested cock acceptance meets! Their lamb before the altar vainly bleats! Can pardoning Heaven on guilty sickness smile? Or is there victim than itself more vile? Where steadfast virtue dwells not in the breast, Man is a wavering creature at the best!

From the Latin of JUVENAL.

* * * * *

THE FOOLISH VIRGINS.

The Queen looked up, and said, "O maiden, if indeed you list to sing, Sing, and unbind my heart, that I may weep." Whereat full willingly sang the little maid:

"Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.

"No light had we: for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.

"No light; so late! and dark and chill the night! O, let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.

"Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? O, let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late! Ye cannot enter now."

So sang the novice, while full passionately, Her head upon her hands, wept the sad Queen.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

UP HILL.

Does the road wind up hill all the way? _Yes, to the very end._ Will the day's journey take the whole long day? _From morn to night, my friend_.

But is there for the night a resting-place? _A roof for when the slow dark hours begin._ May not the darkness hide it from my face? _You cannot miss that inn_.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? _Those who have gone before._ Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? _They will not keep you standing at that door_.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? _Of labor you shall find the sum._ Will there be beds for me and all who seek? _Yea, beds for all who come_.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

* * * * *

PER PACEM AD LUCEM.

I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load;

I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet.

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, Lead me aright-- Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed-- Through Peace to Light.

I do not ask, O Lord, that thou shouldst shed Full radiance here; Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread Without a fear.

I do not ask my cross to understand, My way to see; Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand And follow Thee.

Joy is like restless day; but peace divine Like quiet night: Lead me, O Lord,--till perfect Day shall shine, Through Peace to Light.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

* * * * *

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."

MILTON.

* * * * *

THE MARTYRS' HYMN.

Flung to the heedless winds, Or on the waters cast, The martyrs' ashes, watched, Shall gathered be at last; And from that scattered dust, Around us and abroad, Shall spring a plenteous seed Of witnesses for God.

The Father hath received Their latest living breath; And vain is Satan's boast Of victory in their death; Still, still, though dead, they speak, And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim To many a wakening land The one availing name.

From the German of MARTIN LUTHER.

Translation of W.J. FOX.

* * * * *

THE PILGRIMAGE.

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gauge; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage!

Blood must be my body's balmer, No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of Heaven, Over the silver mountains Where spring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before, But after, it will thirst no more.

Then by that happy, blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh like me. I'll take them first To quench their thirst, And taste of nectar's suckets At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality, Then the blest paths we'll travel, Strewed with rubies thick as gravel,-- Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl; No conscience molten into gold, No forged accuser, bought or sold, No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the King's Attorney; Who pleads for all without degrees, And he hath angels, but no fees; And when the grand twelve-million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death, and then we live. Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder! Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,-- Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea', That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon, Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread. Set on my soul an everlasting head: Then am I, like a palmer, fit To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

* * * * *

THE MASTER'S TOUCH.

In the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen: To make the music and the beauty, needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.

Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand; Let not the music that is in us die! Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let, Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie!

Spare not the stroke! do with us as thou wilt! Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred; Complete thy purpose, that we may become Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord!

HORATIUS BONAR.

* * * * *

THE FAITHFUL ANGEL.

FROM "PARADISE LOST," BOOK V.

The seraph Abdiel, faithful found Among the faithless, faithful only he; Among innumerable false, unmoved, Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal; Nor number, nor example with him wrought To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind, Though single. From amidst them forth he passed, Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained Superior, nor of violence feared aught; And with retorted scorn his back he turned On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.

MILTON.

* * * * *

LOW SPIRITS.

Fever and fret and aimless stir And disappointed strife, All chafing, unsuccessful things, Make up the sum of life.

Love adds anxiety to toil, And sameness doubles cares. While one unbroken chain of work The flagging temper wears.

The light and air are dulled with smoke: The streets resound with noise; And the soul sinks to see its peers Chasing their joyless joys.

Voices are round me; smiles are near; Kind welcomes to be had; And yet my spirit is alone, Fretful, outworn, and sad.

A weary actor, I would fain Be quit of my long part; The burden of unquiet life Lies heavy on my heart.

Sweet thought of God! now do thy work As thou hast done before; Wake up, and tears will wake with thee, And the dull mood be o'er.

The very thinking of the thought Without or praise or prayer, Gives light to know, and life to do, And marvellous strength to bear.

Oh, there is music in that thought, Unto a heart unstrung, Like sweet bells at the evening time, Most musically rung.

'Tis not his justice or his power, Beauty or blest abode, But the mere unexpanded thought Of the eternal God.

It is not of his wondrous works, Not even that he is; Words fail it, but it is a thought Which by itself is bliss.

Sweet thought, lie closer to my heart! That I may feel thee near, As one who for his weapon feels In some nocturnal fear.

Mostly in hours of gloom thou com'st, When sadness makes us lowly, As though thou wert the echo sweet Of humble melancholy.

I bless thee. Lord, for this kind check To spirits over free! More helpless need of thee! And for all things that make me feel

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

* * * * *

I SAW THEE.

"When thou wast under the fig-tree, I saw thee."

I Saw thee when, as twilight fell, And evening lit her fairest star, Thy footsteps sought yon quiet dell, The world's confusion left afar.

I saw thee when thou stood'st alone, Where drooping branches thick o'erhung, Thy still retreat to all unknown, Hid in deep shadows darkly flung.

I saw thee when, as died each sound Of bleating flock or woodland bird, Kneeling, as if on holy ground, Thy voice the listening silence heard.

I saw thy calm, uplifted eyes, And marked the heaving of thy breast, When rose to heaven thy heartfelt sighs For purer life, for perfect rest.

I saw the light that o'er thy face Stole with a soft, suffusing glow, As if, within, celestial grace Breathed the same bliss that angels know.

I saw--what thou didst not--above Thy lowly head an open heaven; And tokens of thy Father's love With smiles to thy rapt spirit given.

I saw thee from that sacred spot With firm and peaceful soul depart; I, Jesus, saw thee,--doubt it not,-- And read the secrets of thy heart!

RAY PALMER.

* * * * *

LOSSE IN DELAYES.

Shun delayes, they breed remorse, Take thy time while time doth serve thee, Creeping snayles have weakest force, Flie their fault, lest thou repent thee. Good is best when soonest wrought, Lingering labours come to nought.

Hoyse up sayle while gale doth last, Tide and winde stay no man's pleasure; Seek not time when time is past, Sober speede is wisdome's leasure. After-wits are dearely bought, Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time weares all his locks before, Take thou hold upon his forehead; When he flies, he turnes no more, And behind his scalpe is naked. Workes adjourned have many stayes, Long demurres breed new delayes.

Seeke thy salve while sore is greene, Festered wounds aske deeper launcing; After-cures are seldome seene, Often sought, scarce ever chancing. Time and place gives best advice. Out of season, out of price.

Crush the serpent in the head, Breake ill eggs ere they be hatched: Kill bad chickens in the tread; Fledged, they hardly can be catched: In the rising stifle ill, Lest it grow against thy will.

Drops do pierce the stubborn flint, Not by force, but often falling; Custome kills with feeble dint. More by use than strength prevailing: Single sands have little weight, Many make a drowning freight.

Tender twigs are bent with ease, Aged trees do breake with bending; Young desires make little prease, Growth doth make them past amending. Happie man that soon doth knocke, Babel's babes against the rocke.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

* * * * *

THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY.

Dear, secret greenness! nurst below Tempests and winds and winter nights! Vex not, that but One sees thee grow; That One made all these lesser lights.

What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself, an outward test? Who breaks his glass, to take more light, Makes way for storms into his rest.

Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch Till the white-winged reapers come!

HENRY VAUGHAN.

* * * * *

PATIENCE.

She hath no beauty in her face Unless the chastened sweetness there, And meek long-suffering, yield a grace To make her mournful features fair:--

Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young, She roams through dim, unsheltered ways; Nor lover's vow, nor flatterer's tongue Brings music to her sombre days:--

At best her skies are clouded o'er, And oft she fronts the stinging sleet, Or feels on some tempestuous shore The storm-waves lash her naked feet.

Where'er she strays, or musing stands By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart, We see her pale, half-tremulous hands Crossed humbly o'er her aching heart!

Within, a secret pain she bears,-- pain too deep to feel the balm An April spirit finds in tears; Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!

Yet in her passionate strength supreme, Despair beyond her pathway flies, Awed by the softly steadfast beam Of sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!

Who pause to greet her, vaguely seem Touched by fine wafts of holier air; As those who in some mystic dream Talk with the angels unaware!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

* * * * *

SOMETIME.

Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, And sun and stars forevermore have set, The things o'er which our weak judgments here have spurned, The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us, out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans are right, And how what seems reproof was love most true.

And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me; How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, Because his wisdom to the end could see. And e'en as prudent parents disallow Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good.

And if sometimes, commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this potion for our lips to drink. And if some friend we love is lying low, Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, But wear your sorrow with obedient grace!

And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest bloom his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within, and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key.

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold. We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart, Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. And if, through patient toil, we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest, When we shall clearly know and understand, I think that we will say, "God knew the best!"

MAY RILEY SMITH.

* * * * *

FATHER, THY WILL BE DONE!

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, Alike they're needful for the flower; And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father, thy will, not mine, be done!

Can loving children e'er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love? Creator, I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father, thy will, not mine, be done!

Oh, ne'er will I at life repine; Enough that thou hast made it mine; When falls the shadow cold of death, I yet will sing with parting breath: As comes to me or shade or sun, Father, thy will, not mine, be done!

SARAH FLOWER ADAMS.

VI.

DEATH: IMMORTALITY: HEAVEN.

* * * * *

THE PROSPECT.

Methinks we do as fretful children do, Leaning their faces on the window-pane To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain, And shut the sky and landscape from their view; And, thus, alas! since God the maker drew A mystic separation 'twixt those twain,-- The life beyond us and our souls in pain,-- We miss the prospect which we are called unto By grief we are fools to use. Be still and strong, O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath, And keep thy soul's large windows pure from wrong; That so, as life's appointment issueth, Thy vision may be clear to watch along The sunset consummation-lights of death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE LOST PLEIAD.

Not in the sky, Where it was seen, Nor on the white tops of the glistening wave, Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep,-- Though green, And beautiful, its caves of mystery;-- Shall the bright watcher have A place, and as of old high station keep.

Gone, gone! Oh, never more to cheer The mariner who holds his course alone On the Atlantic, through the weary night, When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep, Shall it appear, With the sweet fixedness of certain light, Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep.

Vain, vain! Hopeless most idly then, shall he look forth, That mariner from his bark. Howe'er the north Does raise his certain lamp, when tempests lower-- He sees no more that perished light again! And gloomier grows the hour Which may not, through the thick and crowding dark, Restore that lost and loved one to her tower.

He looks,--the shepherd of Chaldea's hills Tending his flocks,-- And wonders the rich beacon does not blaze, Gladdening his gaze;-- And from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him safely home through perilous ways! Still wondering as the drowsy silence fills The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils Its leaden dews.--How chafes he at the night, Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light, So natural to his sight!

And lone, Where its first splendors shone, Shall be that pleasant company of stars: How should they know that death Such perfect beauty mars? And like the earth, its crimson bloom and breath; Fallen from on high, Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die!-- All their concerted springs of harmony Snapped rudely, and the generous music gone.

A strain--a mellow strain-- A wailing sweetness filled the sky; The stars, lamenting in unborrowed pain, That one of their selectest ones must die! Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! Alas! 'tis evermore our destiny, The hope, heart-cherished, is the soonest lost; The flower first budden, soonest feels the frost: Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest? And, like the pale star shooting down the sky, Look they not ever brightest when they fly The desolate home they blessed?

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

* * * * *

PASSING AWAY.

Was it the chime of a tiny bell That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell That he winds, on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light. And he his notes as silvery quite. While the boatman listens and ships his oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore? Hark! the notes on my ear that play Are set to words; as they float, they say, "Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a fairy's shell. Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, Striking the hour, that filled my ear, As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing); And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "Passing away! passing away!"

Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow; And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and of womanly pride, That told me she soon was to be a bride; Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, In the same sweet voice I heard her say, "Passing away! passing away!"

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade Of thought or care stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush Had something lost of its brilliant blush; And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimmed,--as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face. Yet one couldn't but love her, For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say, "Passing away! passing away!"

While yet I looked, what a change there came! Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan; Stooping and staffed was her withered frame, Yet just as busily swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; The wheels above her were eaten with rust: The hands, that over the dial swept, Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept And still there came that silver tone From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone (Let me never forget till my dying day The tone or the burden of her lay), "Passing away! passing away!"

JOHN PIERPONT.

* * * * *

LINES

FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE-HOUSE AT WESTMINSTER.

E'en such is time; that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days: But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

* * * * *

MY AIN COUNTREE.

"But now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly."--HEBREWS xi. 16.

I'm far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles, For the langed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's welcome smiles; I'll never be fu' content, until mine een do see The shining gates o' heaven an' my ain countree.

The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony-tinted, fresh, an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.

I've his gude word of promise that some gladsome day, the King To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring: Wi' een an' wi' hearts runnin' owre, we shall see The King in his beauty in our ain countree.

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair; His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine e'e, When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree.

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast; For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me, And carries them himse' to his ain countree.

He's faithfu' that hath promised, he'll surely come again, He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken; But he bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to be, To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.

So I'm watching aye, an' singin' o' my hame as I wait, For the soun'ing o' his footfa' this side the shining gate; God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo to me, That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.

MARY LEE DEMAREST.

* * * * *

COMING.

"At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning."--Mark xiii. 35.

"It may be in the evening, When the work of the day is done, And you have time to sit in the twilight And watch the sinking sun, While the long bright day dies slowly Over the sea, And the hour grows quiet and holy With thoughts of me; While you hear the village children Passing along the street, Among those thronging footsteps May come the sound of _my_ feet. Therefore I tell you: Watch. By the light of the evening star, When the room is growing dusky As the clouds afar; Let the door be on the latch In your home, For it may be through the gloaming I will come.

"It may be when the midnight Is heavy upon the land, And the black waves lying dumbly Along the sand; When the moonless night draws close, And the lights are out in the house; When the fires burn low and red, And the watch is ticking loudly Beside the bed: Though you sleep, tired out, on your couch, Still your heart must wake and watch In the dark room, For it may be that at midnight I will come.

"It may be at the cock-crow, When the night is dying slowly In the sky, And the sea looks calm and holy, Waiting for the dawn Of the golden sun Which draweth nigh; When the mists are on the valleys, shading The rivers chill, And my morning-star is fading, fading Over the hill: Behold I say unto you: Watch; Let the door be on the latch In your home; In the chill before the dawning, Between the night and morning, I may come.

"It may be in the morning, When the sun is bright and strong, And the dew is glittering sharply Over the little lawn; When the waves are laughing loudly Along the shore, And the little birds are singing sweetly About the door; With the long day's work before you, You rise up with the sun, And the neighbors come in to talk a little Of all that must be done. But remember that _I_ may be the next To come in at the door, To call you from all your busy work Forevermore: As you work your heart must watch, For the door is on the latch In your room, And it may be in the morning I will come."

So He passed down my cottage garden, By the path that leads to the sea, Till he came to the turn of the little road Where the birch and laburnum tree Lean over and arch the way; There I saw him a moment stay, And turn once more to me, As I wept at the cottage door, And lift up his hands in blessing-- Then I saw his face no more.

And I stood still in the doorway, Leaning against the wall, Not heeding the fair white roses, Though I crushed them and let them fall. Only looking down the pathway, And looking toward the sea, And wondering, and wondering When he would come back for me; Till I was aware of an angel Who was going swiftly by, With the gladness of one who goeth In the light of God Most High.

He passed the end of the cottage Toward the garden gate; (I suppose he was come down At the setting of the sun To comfort some one in the village Whose dwelling was desolate) And he paused before the door Beside my place, And the likeness of a smile Was on his face. "Weep not," he said, "for unto you is given To watch for the coming of his feet Who is the glory of our blessed heaven; The work and watching will be very sweet, Even in an earthly home; And in such an hour as you think not He will come."

So I am watching quietly Every day. Whenever the sun shines brightly, I rise and say: "Surely it is the shining of his face!" And look unto the gates of his high place Beyond the sea; For I know he is coming shortly To summon me. And when a shadow falls across the window Of my room, Where I am working my appointed task, I lift my head to watch the door, and ask If he is come; And the angel answers sweetly In my home: "Only a few more shadows, And he will come."

BARBARA MILLER MACANDREW.

* * * * *

EUTHANASIA.

Methinks, when on the languid eye Life's autumn scenes grow dim; When evening's shadows veil the sky; And pleasure's siren hymn Grows fainter on the tuneless ear, Like echoes from another sphere, Or dreams of seraphim-- It were not sad to cast away This dull and cumbrous load of clay.

It were not sad to feel the heart Grow passionless and cold; To feel those longings to depart That cheered the good of old; To clasp the faith which looks on high, Which fires the Christian's dying eye, And makes the curtain-fold That falls upon his wasting breast, The door that leads to endless rest.

It seems not lonely thus to lie On that triumphant bed, Till the pure spirit mounts on high By white-winged seraphs led: Where glories, earth may never know, O'er "many mansions" lingering glow, In peerless lustre shed. It were not lonely thus to soar Where sin and grief can sting no more.

And though the way to such a goal Lies through the clouded tomb, If on the free, unfettered soul There rest no stains of gloom, How should its aspirations rise Far through the blue unpillared skies, Up to its final home, Beyond the journeyings of the sun, Where streams of living waters run!

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

* * * * *

THE LAST MAN.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time! I saw the last of human mould That shall creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,--the brands Still rusted in their bony hands, In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sear leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun! Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will? Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim, discrowned king of day; For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men. Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again: Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips, that speak thy dirge of death,-- Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, And took the sting from death!

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste,-- Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

WHEN.

If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through. What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter Aught that is gone; But rise and move and love and smile and pray For one more day.

And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, Say in that ear Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within thy keeping How should I fear? And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, Do thou thy will."

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender, My soul would lie All the night long; and when the morning splendor Flushed o'er the sky, I think that I could smile--could calmly say, "It is his day."

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder Held out a scroll, On which my life was writ, and I with wonder Beheld unroll To a long century's end its mystic clew, What should I do?'

What _could_ I do, O blessed Guide and Master, Other than this; Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, Nor fear to miss The road, although so very long it be, While led by thee?

Step after step, feeling thee close beside me, Although unseen, Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee, Or heavens serene, Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray, Thy love decay.

I may not know; my God, no hand revealeth Thy counsels wise; Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, No voice replies To all my questioning thought, the time to tell; And it is well.

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Thy will always, Through a long century's ripening fruition Or a short day's; Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait If thou come late.

SARAH WOOLSEY (_Susan Coolidge_).

* * * * *

BURIAL OF MOSES.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."--DEUTERONOMY xxxiv. 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave; But no man built that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er; For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; Yet no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth: Noiselessly as daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Unfold their thousand leaves: So without sound of music Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle On gray Beth-peor's height Out of his rocky eyry Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking Still shuns that hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.

But, when the warrior dieth. His comrades of the war. With arms reversed and muffled drums, Follow the funeral car: They show the banners taken; They tell his battles won; And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute-gun.

Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, With costly marbles drest, In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fall, And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned hall.

This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced with his glorious pen On the deathless page truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?-- The hillside for a pall! To lie in state while angels wait, With stars for tapers tall! And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in his grave!--

In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again--O wondrous thought!-- Before the judgment day, And stand, with glory wrapped around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land! O dark Beth-peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still: God hath his mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell, He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

* * * * *

THE RESIGNATION.

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys, To thee, my only rock, I fly, Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celestial light, Are past the power of human skill; But what the Eternal acts is right.

Oh, teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own my power, Thy goodness love, thy Justice fear.

If in this bosom aught but thee Encroaching sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see, And Mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain, Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain, For God created all to bless.

But ah! my breast is human still; The rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals' feeble rill, The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resigned, I'll thank the inflicter of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

* * * * *

"ONLY WAITING."

[A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing now. He replied, "Only waiting."]

Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart, once full of day; Till the stars of heaven are breaking Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer time is faded, And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps, And their voices far away; If they call me, I am waiting, Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown. Then from out the gathered darkness, Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul shall gladly Tread its pathway to the skies.

FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.

* * * * *

HOPEFULLY WAITING.

"Blessed are they who are homesick, for they shall come at last to their Father's house."--HEINRICH STILLING.

Not as you meant, O learned man, and good! Do I accept thy words of truth and rest; God, knowing all, knows what for me is best, And gives me what I need, not what he could, Nor always as I would! I shall go to the Father's house, and see Him and the Elder Brother face to face,-- What day or hour I know not. Let me be Steadfast in work, and earnest in the race, Not as a homesick child who all day long Whines at its play, and seldom speaks in song.

If for a time some loved one goes away, And leaves us our appointed work to do, Can we to him or to ourselves be true In mourning his departure day by day, And so our work delay? Nay, if we love and honor, we shall make The absence brief by doing well our task,-- Not for ourselves, but for the dear One's sake. And at his coming only of him ask Approval of the work, which most was done, Not for ourselves, but our Beloved One.

Our Father's house, I know, is broad and grand; In it how many, many mansions are! And, far beyond the light of sun or star, Four little ones of mine through that fair land Are walking hand in hand! Think you I love not, or that I forget These of my loins? Still this world is fair, And I am singing while my eyes are wet With weeping in this balmy summer air: Yet I'm not homesick, and the children _here_ Have need of me, and so my way is clear.

I would be joyful as my days go by, Counting God's mercies to rue. He who bore Life's heaviest cross is mine forever-more, And I who wait his coming, shall not I On his sure word rely? And if sometimes the way be rough and steep, Be heavy for the grief he sends to me, Or at my waking I would only weep, Let me remember these are things to be, To work his blessed will until he comes To take my hand, and lead me safely home.

ANSON D.F. RANDOLPH.

* * * * *

SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.

Sit down, sad soul, and count The moments flying; Come, tell the sweet amount That's lost by sighing! How many smiles?--a score? Then laugh, and count no more; For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, And no more measure The flight of time, nor weep The loss of leisure; But here, by this lone stream, Lie down with us, and dream Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same; We love,--forever; We laugh, yet few we shame,-- The gentle never. Stay, then, till sorrow dies; Then--hope and happy skies Are thine forever!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. (_Barry Cornwall_.)

* * * * *

IT KINDLES ALL MY SOUL.

"Urit me Patriae decor."

It kindles all my soul, My country's loveliness! Those starry choirs That watch around the pole, And the moon's tender light, and heavenly fires Through golden halls that roll. O chorus of the night! O planets, sworn The music of the spheres To follow! Lovely watchers, that think scorn To rest till day appears! Me, for celestial homes of glory born, Why here, O, why so long, Do ye behold an exile from on high? Here, O ye shining throng, With lilies spread the mound where I shall lie: Here let me drop my chain, And dust to dust returning, cast away The trammels that remain; The rest of me shall spring to endless day!

From the Latin of CASIMIR OF POLAND.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE.

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time. When you set your fancies free, Will they pass to where--by death, fools think, imprisoned-- Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, --Pity me?

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel --Being--who?

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake.

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer! Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,--fight on, fare ever There as here!"

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

CROSSING THE BAR.

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, O, the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting?

ALEXANDER POPE.

* * * * *

ODE.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.

I.

There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light,-- The glory and the freshness of the dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore: Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II.

The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

III.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief; A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-- No more shall grief of mine the season wrong. I hear the echoes through the mountains throng; The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity; And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;-- Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy!

IV.

Ye blessed creatures! I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal,-- The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May morning, And the children are culling, On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm;-- I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!-- But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked upon,-- Both of them speak of something that is gone; The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat. Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

V.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows-- He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended: At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

VI.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

VII.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses,-- A six years' darling of a pygmy size! See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly learned art,-- A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral;-- And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part,-- Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the persons, down to palsied age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

VIII.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity! Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage! thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind!-- Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX.

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live; That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not, indeed, For that which is most worthy to be blest,-- Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:-- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather. Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither,-- Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,-- To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

SOLILOQUY: ON IMMORTALITY.

FROM "CATO," ACT V. SC. I.

SCENE.--CATO, _sitting in a thoughtful posture, with book on the Immortality of the Soul in his hand, and a drawn sword on the table by him_.

It must be so--Plato, thou reasonest well!-- Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire. This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis Heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity!--thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes, must we pass! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works), he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar. I'm weary of conjectures,--this must end 'em.

_(Laying his hand on his sword.)_

Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds!

JOSEPH ADDISON.

* * * * *

EDWIN AND PAULINUS:

THE CONVERSION OF NORTHUMBRIA.

The black-haired gaunt Paulinus By ruddy Edwin stood:-- "Bow down, O king of Deira, Before the blessed Rood! Cast out thy heathen idols. And worship Christ our Lord." --But Edwin looked and pondered, And answered not a word.

Again the gaunt Paulinus To ruddy Edwin spake: "God offers life immortal For his dear Son's own sake! Wilt thou not hear his message, Who bears the keys and sword?" --But Edwin looked and pondered, And answered not a word.

Rose then a sage old warrior Was fivescore winters old; Whose beard from chin to girdle Like one long snow-wreath rolled: "At Yule-time in our chamber We sit in warmth and light, While cold and howling round us Lies the black land of Night.

"Athwart the room a sparrow Darts from the open door: Within the happy hearth-light One red flash,--and no more! We see it come from darkness, And into darkness go:-- So is our life. King Edwin! Alas, that it is so!

"But if this pale Paulinus Have somewhat more to tell; Some news of Whence and Whither, And where the soul will dwell;-- If on that outer darkness The sun of hope may shine;-- He makes life worth the living! I take his God for mine!"

So spake the wise old warrior; And all about him cried, "Paulinus' God hath conquered! And he shall be our guide:-- For he makes life worth living Who brings this message plain, When our brief days are over, That we shall live again."

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY.

Could we but know The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, Where lie those happier hills and meadows low; Ah! if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil Aught of that country could we surely know, Who would not go?

Might we but hear The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear One radiant vista of the realm before us,-- With one rapt moment given to see and hear, Ah, who would fear?

Were we quite sure To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,-- This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, Who would endure?

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

"Das stille Land."

Into the Silent Land! Ah, who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, oh, thither, Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions Of beauteous souls! The future's pledge and band! Who in life's battle firm doth stand Shall bear hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand Into the land of the great departed, Into the Silent Land!

JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS.

Translation of H.W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE OTHER WORLD.

It lies around us like a cloud,-- A world we do not see; Yet the sweet closing of an eye May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; Amid our worldly cares Its gentle voices whisper love, And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, Sweet helping hands are stirred, And palpitates the veil between With breathings almost heard.

The silence--awful, sweet, and calm-- They have no power to break; For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, So near to press they seem,-- They seem to lull us to our rest, And melt into our dream.

And in the bush of rest they bring 'Tis easy now to see How lovely and how sweet a pass The hour of death may be.

To close the eye, and close the ear, Rapt in a trance of bliss, And gently dream in loving arms To swoon to that--from this.

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, Scarce asking where we are, To feel all evil sink away, All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us! watch us still, Press nearer to our side, Into our thoughts, into our prayers, With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught, A dried and vanished stream; Your joy be the reality. Our suffering life the dream.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be.

I never spake with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.

EMILY DICKINSON.

* * * * *

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

High thoughts! They come and go, Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden, While round me flow The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden: When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come-- When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum-- When the stars, dew-drops of the summer sky, Watch over all with soft and loving eye-- While the leaves quiver By the lone river, And the quiet heart From depths doth call And garners all-- Earth grows a shadow Forgotten whole, And heaven lives In the blessed soul!

High thoughts They are with me When, deep within the bosom of the forest, Thy mourning melody Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle! pourest. When the young sunbeams glance among the trees-- When on the ear comes the soft song of bees-- When every branch has its own favorite bird And songs of summer from each thicket heard!-- Where the owl flitteth, Where the roe sitteth, And holiness Seems sleeping there; While nature's prayer Goes up to heaven In purity, Till all is glory And joy to me!

High thoughts! They are my own When I am resting on a mountain's bosom, And see below me strown The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom; When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow, When I can follow every fitful shadow-- When I can watch the winds among the corn, And see the waves along the forest borne; Where blue-bell and heather Are blooming together, And far doth come The Sabbath bell, O'er wood and fell; I hear the beating Of nature's heart: Heaven is before me-- God! thou art.

High thoughts! They visit us In moments when the soul is dim and darkened; They come to bless, After the vanities to which we hearkened: When weariness hath come upon the spirit-- (Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)-- Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine, A wingèd thought which bids us not repine? In joy and gladness, In mirth and sadness, Come signs and tokens; Life's angel brings, Upon its wings, Those bright communings The soul doth keep-- Those thoughts of heaven So pure and deep!

ROBERT NICOLL.

* * * * *

NEARER HOME.

One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home to-day That I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown!

But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the silent, unknown stream. That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm: Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust; Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith!

PHOEBE CARY.

* * * * *

MEETING ABOVE.

If yon bright stars which gem the night Be each a blissful dwelling-sphere Where kindred spirits reunite Whom death hath torn asunder here,-- How sweet it were at once to die, To leave this blighted orb afar! Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky, And soar away from star to star.

But oh, how dark, how drear, how lone, Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one, We failed to meet the loved of this! If there no more the ties shall twine Which death's cold hand alone could sever, Ah, would those stars in mockery shine, More joyless, as they shine forever!

It cannot be,--each hope, each fear That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now. There, Lord, thy wayworn saints shall find The bliss for which they longed before; And holiest sympathies shall bind Thine own to thee forevermore.

O Jesus, bring us to that rest, Where all the ransomed shall be found, In thine eternal fulness blest, While ages roll their cycles round.

WILLIAM LEGGETT.

* * * * *

MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD.

My days among the dead are passed; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the dead; with them I live in long-past years; Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the dead; anon My place with them will be. And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity: Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

* * * * *

THE FUTURE LIFE.

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain If there I meet thy gentle presence not; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given; My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past, And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last. Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath has left its scar--that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same belovèd name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-- The wisdom which is love--till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

That clime is not like this dull clime of ours; All, all is brightness there; A sweeter influence breathes around its flowers, And a benigner air. No calm below is like that calm above, No region here is like that realm of love; Earth's softest spring ne'er shed so soft a light, Earth's brightest summer never shone so bright.

That sky is not like this sad sky of ours, Tinged with earth's change and care; No shadow dims it, and no rain-cloud lowers; No broken sunshine there: One everlasting stretch of azure pours Its stainless splendor o'er those sinless shores; For there Jehovah shines with heavenly ray, And Jesus reigns, dispensing endless day.

The dwellers there are not like those of earth,-- No mortal stain they bear,-- And yet they seem of kindred blood and birth; Whence and how came they there? Earth was their native soil; from sin and shame, Through tribulation, they to glory came; Bond-slaves delivered from sin's crushing load, Brands plucked from burning by the hand of God.

Yon robes of theirs are not like those below; No angel's half so bright; Whence came that beauty, whence that living glow, And whence that radiant white? Washed in the blood of the atoning Lamb, Fair as the light these robes of theirs became; And now, all tears wiped off from every eye, They wander where the freshest pastures lie, Through all the nightless day of that unfading sky!

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE TWO WORLDS.

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain, Whose magic joys we shall not see again; Bright haze of morning veils its glimmering shore. Ah, truly breathed we there Intoxicating air-- Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of Nevermore.

The lover there drank her delicious breath Whose love has yielded since to change or death; The mother kissed her child, whose days are o'er. Alas! too soon have fled The irreclaimable dead: We see them--visions strange--amid the Nevermore.

The merrysome maiden used to sing-- The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling To temples long clay-cold: to the very core They strike our weary hearts, As some vexed memory starts From that long faded land--the realm of Nevermore.

It is perpetual summer there. But here Sadly may we remember rivers clear, And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor. For brighter bells and bluer, For tenderer hearts and truer People that happy land--the realm of Nevermore.

Upon the frontier of this shadowy land We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand: What realm lies forward, with its happier store Of forests green and deep, Of valleys hushed in sleep, And lakes most peaceful? 'Tis the land of Evermore.

Very far off its marble cities seem-- Very far off--beyond our sensual dream-- Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar; Yet does the turbulent surge Howl on its very verge. One moment--and we breathe within the Evermore.

They whom we loved and lost so long ago Dwell in those cities, far from mortal woe-- Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carollings soar. Eternal peace have they; God wipes their tears away: They drink that river of life which flows from Evermore.

Thither we hasten through these regions dim, But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore Our lightened hearts shall know The life of long ago: The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for Evermore.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

* * * * *

THE ANSWER.

"Who would not go" With buoyant steps, to gain that blessed portal, Which opens to the land we long to know? Where shall be satisfied the soul's immortal, Where we shall drop the wearying and the woe In resting so?

"Ah, who would fear?" Since, sometimes through the distant pearly portal, Unclosing to some happy soul a-near, We catch a gleam of glorious light immortal, And strains of heavenly music faintly hear, Breathing good cheer!

"Who would endure" To walk in doubt and darkness with misgiving, When he whose tender promises are sure-- The Crucified, the Lord, the Ever-living-- Keeps us those "mansions" evermore secure By waters pure?

Oh, wondrous land! Fairer than all our spirit's fairest dreaming: "Eye hath not seen," no heart can understand The things prepared, the cloudless radiance streaming. How longingly we wait our Lord's command-- His opening hand!

O dear ones there! Whose voices, hushed, have left our pathway lonely, We come, erelong, your blessèd home to share; We take the guiding hand, we trust it only-- Seeing, by faith, beyond this clouded air, That land so fair!

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

FOREVER WITH THE LORD.

Forever with the Lord! Amen! so let it be! Life from the dead is in that word, And immortality.

Here in the body pent, Absent from him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home.

My Father's house on high, Home of my soul! how near, At times, to faith's foreseeing eye Thy golden gates appear!

Ah! then my spirit faints To reach the land I love, The bright inheritance of saints, Jerusalem above!

Yet clouds will intervene, And all my prospect flies; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Rough seas and stormy skies.

Anon the clouds depart, The winds and waters cease; While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart Expands the bow of peace!

Beneath its glowing arch, Along the hallowed ground, I see cherubic armies march, A camp of fire around.

I hear at morn and even, At noon and midnight hour, The choral harmonies of heaven Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower.

Then, then I feel that he, Remembered or forgot, The Lord, is never far from me, Though I perceive him not.

In darkness as in light, Hidden alike from view, I sleep, I wake, as in his sight Who looks all nature through.

All that I am, have been, All that I yet may be, He sees at once, as he hath seen, And shall forever see.

"Forever with the Lord;" Father, if 'tis thy will, The promise of that faithful word Unto thy child fulfil!

So, when my latest breath Shall rend the veil in twain, By death I shall escape from death, And life eternal gain.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

* * * * *

TO HEAVEN APPROACHED A SUFI SAINT.

To heaven approached a Sufi Saint, From groping in the darkness late, And, tapping timidly and faint, Besought admission at God's gate.

Said God, "Who seeks to enter here?" "'Tis I, dear Friend," the Saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear. "If it be _thou_, without abide."

Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned, To bear the scourging of life's rods; But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in God's.

He roamed alone through weary years, By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked.

Asked God, "Who now is at the door?" "It is thyself, belovèd Lord," Answered the Saint, in doubt no more, But clasped and rapt in his reward.

From the Persian of JALLAL-AD-DIN RUMI.

Translation of WILLIAM R. ALGER.

* * * * *

MATTER AND MAN IMMORTAL.

FROM "NIGHT THOUGHTS," NIGHT VI.

As in a wheel, all sinks, to reascend: Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. With this minute distinction, emblems just, Nature revolves, but man advances; both Eternal, that a circle, this a line. That gravitates, this soars. Th' aspiring soul, Ardent, and tremulous, like flame, ascends, Zeal and humility her wings, to Heaven. The world of matter, with its various forms, All dies into new life. Life born from death Rolls the vast mass, and shall for ever roll. No single atom, once in being, lost, With change of counsel charges the Most High. What hence infers Lorenzo? Can it be? Matter immortal? And shall spirit die? Above the nobler, shall less noble rise? Shall man alone, for whom all else revives, No resurrection know? Shall man alone, Imperial man! be sown in barren ground, Less privileged than grain, on which he feeds?

* * * * *

Look Nature through, 'tis neat gradation all. By what minute degrees her scale ascends! Each middle nature joined at each extreme, To that above is joined, to that beneath; Parts, into parts reciprocally shot, Abhor divorce: what love of union reigns! Here, dormant matter waits a call to life; Half-life, half-death, joined there; here life and sense; There, sense from reason steals a glimmering ray; Reason shines out in man. But how preserved The chain unbroken upward, to the realms Of incorporeal life? those realms of bliss Where death hath no dominion? Grant a make Half-mortal, half-immortal; earthy, part, And part ethereal; grant the soul of man Eternal; or in man the series ends. Wide yawns the gap; connection is no more; Checked Reason halts; her next step wants support; Striving to climb, she tumbles from her scheme.

DR. EDWARD YOUNG.

* * * * *

LIFE.

FROM "FESTUS," SCENE "A COUNTRY TOWN."

FESTUS.-- Oh! there is A life to come, or all's a dream.

LUCIFER.-- And all May be a dream. Thou seest in thine, men, deeds, Clear, moving, full of speech and order; then Why may not all this world be but a dream Of God's? Fear not! Some morning God may waken.

FESTUS.--I would it were. This life's a mystery. The value of a thought cannot be told; But it is clearly worth a thousand lives Like many men's. And yet men love to live As if mere life were worth their living for. What but perdition will it be to most? Life's more than breath and the quick round of blood; It is a great spirit and a busy heart. The coward and the small in soul scarce do live. One generous feeling--one great thought--one deed Of good, ere night, would make life longer seem Than if each year might number a thousand days, Spent as is this by nations of mankind. We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most--feels the noblest--acts the best. Life's but a means unto an end--that end Beginning, mean, and end to all things--God.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

O beauteous God! uncircumscribèd treasure Of an eternal pleasure! Thy throne is seated far Above the highest star, Where thou preparest a glorious place, Within the brightness of thy face, For every spirit To inherit That builds his hopes upon thy merit, And loves thee with a holy charity. What ravished heart, seraphic tongue, or eyes Clear as the morning rise, Can speak, or think, or see That bright eternity, Where the great King's transparent throne Is of an entire jasper stone? There the eye O' the chrysolite, And a sky Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase,-- And above all thy holy face,-- Makes an eternal charity. When thou thy jewels up dost bind, that day Remember us, we pray,-- That where the beryl lies, And the crystal 'bove the skies, There thou mayest appoint us place Within the brightness of thy face,-- And our soul In the scroll Of life and blissfulness enroll, That we may praise thee to eternity. Allelujah!

JEREMY TAYLOR.

* * * * *

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

Father! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed. In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound; And to our eyes the vision is denied. We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewildered falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

JONES VERY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, Beyond death's cloudy portal, There is a land where beauty never dies, Where love becomes immortal;

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade, Whose fields are ever vernal; Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, But blooms for aye eternal.

We may know how sweet its balmy air, How bright and fair its flowers; We may not hear the songs that echo there, Through those enchanted bowers.

The city's shining towers we may not see With our dim earthly vision, For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key That opes the gates elysian.

But sometimes, when adown the western sky A fiery sunset lingers, Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, Unlocked by unseen fingers.

And while they stand a moment half ajar, Gleams from the inner glory Stream brightly through the azure vault afar, And half reveal the story.

O land unknown! O land of love divine! Father, all-wise, eternal! O, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine Into those pastures vernal!

NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.

* * * * *

TELL ME, YE WINGÈD WINDS.

Tell me, ye wingèd winds, That round my pathway roar, Do ye not know some spot Where mortals weep no more? Some lone and pleasant dell, Some valley in the west, Where, free from toil and pain, The weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sighed for pity as it answered,--"No."

Tell me, thou mighty deep. Whose billows round me play, Know'st thou some favored spot, Some island far away, Where weary man may find The bliss for which he sighs,-- Where sorrow never lives, And friendship never dies? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer,--"No."

And thou, serenest moon, That, with such lovely face, Dost look upon the earth, Asleep in night's embrace; Tell me, in all thy round Hast thou not seen some spot Where miserable man May find a happier lot? Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, And a voice, sweet but sad, responded,--"No."

Tell me, my secret soul, O, tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place From sorrow, sin, and death? Is there no happy spot Where mortals may be blest, Where grief may find a balm, And weariness a rest? Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given, Waved their bright wings, and whispered,--"Yes, in heaven!"

CHARLES MACKAY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides, And never-withering flowers; Death, like a narrow sea, divides This heavenly land from ours.

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood Stand dressed in living green; So to the Jews old Canaan stood, While Jordan rolled between.

But timorous mortals start and shrink To cross this narrow sea, And linger shivering on the brink, And fear to launch away.

Oh! could we make our doubts remove, Those gloomy doubts that rise, And see the Canaan that we love With unbeclouded eyes--

Could we but climb where Moses stood, And view the landscape o'er, Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood Should fright us from the shore.

ISAAC WATTS.

* * * * *

PEACE.

My soul, there is a country Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a wingèd sentry, All skilful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger, Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend, And (O my soul awake!) Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of peace-- The rose that cannot wither-- Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave, then, thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure, But one who never changes-- Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

* * * * *

STAR-MIST.

FROM "STARS."

More and more stars! behold yon hazy arch Spanning the vault on high, By planets traversed in majestic march, Seeming to earth's dull eye A breath of gleaming air: but take thou wing Of Faith and upward spring:-- Into a thousand stars the misty light Will part; each star a world with its own day and night.

Not otherwise of yonder Saintly host Upon the glorious shore Deem thou. He marks them all, not one is lost; By name He counts them o'er. Full many a soul, to man's dim praise unknown, May on its glory throne As brightly shine, and prove as strong in prayer As theirs, whose separate beams shoot keenest thro' this air.

JOHN KEBLE.

* * * * *

THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

FROM "THE FAËRIE QUEENE," BOOK II. CANTO 8.

And is there care in heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is:--else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding grace Of Highest God! that loves his creatures so, And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, That blessèd angels he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave, To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward; O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard!

EDMUND SPENSER.

* * * * *

SAINT AGNES.

Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snow-drop of the year That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Through all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll backhand far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbath of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

PRAISE OF THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY.

[The poem _De Contemptu Mundi_ was written by Bernard de Morlaix, Monk of Cluni. The translation following is of a portion of the poem distinguished by the sub-title "Laus Patriae Coelestis."]

The world is very evil, The times are waxing late; Be sober and keep vigil, The Judge is at the gate,-- The Judge that comes in mercy, The Judge that comes with might, To terminate the evil, To diadem the right. When the just and gentle Monarch Shall summon from the tomb, Let man, the guilty, tremble, For Man, the God, shall doom!

Arise, arise, good Christian, Let right to wrong succeed; Let penitential sorrow To heavenly gladness lead,-- To the light that hath no evening, That knows nor moon nor sun, The light so new and golden, The light that is but one.

And when the Sole-Begotten Shall render up once more The kingdom to the Father, Whose own it was before, Then glory yet unheard of Shall shed abroad its ray, Resolving all enigmas, An endless Sabbath-day.

For thee, O dear, dear Country! Mine eyes their vigils keep; For very love, beholding Thy happy name, they weep. The mention of thy glory Is unction to the breast, And medicine in sickness, And love, and life, and rest.

O one, O only Mansion! O Paradise of Joy, Where tears are ever banished, And smiles have no alloy! Beside thy living waters All plants are, great and small, The cedar of the forest, The hyssop of the wall; With jaspers glow thy bulwarks, Thy streets with emeralds blaze, The sardius and the topaz Unite in thee their rays; Thine ageless walls are bonded With amethyst unpriced; Thy Saints build up its fabric, And the corner-stone is Christ.

The Cross is all thy splendor, The Crucified thy praise; His laud and benediction Thy ransomed people raise: "Jesus, the gem of Beauty, True God and Man," they sing, "The never-failing Garden, The ever-golden Ring; The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, The Guardian of his Court; The Day-star of Salvation, The Porter and the Port!"

Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! Thou hast no time, bright day! Dear fountain of refreshment To pilgrims far away! Upon the Rock of Ages They raise thy holy tower; Thine is the victor's laurel, And thine the golden dower!

Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, O Bride that know'st no guile, The Prince's sweetest kisses, The Prince's loveliest smile; Unfading lilies, bracelets Of living pearl thine own; The Lamb is ever near thee, The Bridegroom thine alone. The Crown is he to guerdon, The Buckler to protect, And he himself the Mansion, And he the Architect.

The only art thou needest-- Thanksgiving for thy lot; The only joy thou seekest-- The Life where Death is not. And all thine endless leisure, In sweetest accents, sings The ill that was thy merit, The wealth that is thy King's!

Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppressed. I know not, O I know not, What social joys are there! What radiancy of glory, What light beyond compare!

And when I fain would sing them, My spirit fails and faints; And vainly would it image The assembly of the Saints.

They stand, those halls of Zion, Conjubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng; The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the Blessèd Are decked in glorious sheen.

There is the Throne of David, And there, from care released, The song of them that triumph, The shout of them that feast; And they who, with their Leader, Have conquered in the fight, Forever and forever Are clad in robes of white!

O holy, placid harp-notes Of that eternal hymn! O sacred, sweet reflection, And peace of Seraphim! O thirst, forever ardent, Yet evermore content! O true peculiar vision Of God cunctipotent! Ye know the many mansions For many a glorious name, And divers retributions That divers merits claim; For midst the constellations That deck our earthly sky, This star than that is brighter-- And so it is on high.

Jerusalem the glorious! The glory of the Elect! O dear and future vision That eager hearts expect! Even now by faith I see thee, Even here thy walls discern; To thee my thoughts are kindled, And strive, and pant, and yearn.

Jerusalem the only, That look'st from heaven below, In thee is all my glory, In me is all my woe; And though my body may not, My spirit seeks thee fain, Till flesh and earth return me To earth and flesh again.

O none can tell thy bulwarks, How gloriously they rise! O none can tell thy capitals Of beautiful device! Thy loveliness oppresses All human thought and heart; And none, O peace, O Zion, Can sing thee as thou art!

New mansion of new people, Whom God's own love and light Promote, increase, make holy, Identify, unite! Thou City of the Angels! Thou City of the Lord! Whose everlasting music Is the glorious decachord!

And there the band of Prophets United praise ascribes, And there the twelvefold chorus Of Israel's ransomed tribes. The lily-beds of virgins, The roses' martyr-glow, The cohort of the Fathers Who kept the faith below.

And there the Sole-Begotten Is Lord in regal state,-- He, Judah's mystic Lion, He, Lamb Immaculate. O fields that know no sorrow! O state that fears no strife! O princely bowers! O land of flowers! O realm and home of Life!

Jerusalem, exulting On that securest shore, I hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, And love thee evermore! I ask not for my merit, I seek not to deny My merit is destruction, A child of wrath am I; But yet with faith I venture And hope upon my way; For those perennial guerdons I labor night and day.

The best and dearest Father, Who made me and who saved, Bore with me in defilement, And from defilement laved, When in his strength I struggle, For very joy I leap, When in my sin I totter, I weep, or try to weep: Then grace, sweet grace celestial, Shall all its love display, And David's Royal Fountain Purge every sin away.

O mine, my golden Zion! O lovelier far than gold, With laurel-girt battalions, And safe victorious fold! O sweet and blessèd Country, Shall I ever see thy face? O sweet and blessèd Country, Shall I ever win thy grace? I have the hope within me To comfort and to bless! Shall I ever win the prize itself? O tell me, tell me, Yes!

Exult! O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, his forever, Thou shalt be, and thou art! Exult, O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, his forever, Thou shalt be, and thou art!

From the Latin of BERNARD DE MORLAIX.

Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE.

* * * * *

THE NEW JERUSALEM;

OR, THE SOUL'S BREATHING AFTER THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.

"Since Christ's fair truth needs no man's art, Take this rude song in better part."

O mother dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end-- Thy joys when shall I see? O happy harbor of God's saints! O sweet and pleasant soil! In thee no sorrows can be found-- No grief, no care, no toil.

In thee no sickness is at all, No hurt, nor any sore; There is no death nor ugly night, But life for evermore. No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, No cloud nor darksome night, But every soul shines as the sun-- For God himself gives light.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell, There envy bears no sway; There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat. But pleasures every way. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Would God I were in thee! Oh! that my sorrows had an end, Thy joys that I might see!

No pains, no pangs, no grieving griefs, No woful night is there; No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard-- No well-away, no fear. Jerusalem the city is Of God our king alone; The Lamb of God, the light thereof, Sits there upon His throne.

O God! that I Jerusalem With speed may go behold! For why? the pleasures there abound Which here cannot be told. Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine-- With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, Surpassing pure and fine.

Thy houses are of ivory, Thy windows crystal clear, Thy streets are laid with beaten gold-- There angels do appear. Thy walls are made of precious stone, Thy bulwarks diamond square, Thy gates are made of orient pearl-- O God! if I were there!

Within thy gates no thing can come That is not passing clean; No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust, No filth may there be seen. Jehovah, Lord, now come away, And end my griefs and plaints-- Take me to Thy Jerusalem, And place me with Thy saints!

Who there are crowned with glory great, And see God face to face, They triumph still, and aye rejoice-- Most happy is their case. But we that are in banishment, Continually do moan; We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep-- Perpetually we groan.

Our sweetness mixèd is with gall, Our pleasures are but pain, Our joys not worth the looking on-- Our sorrows aye remain. But there they live in such delight, Such pleasure and such play, That unto them a thousand years Seems but as yesterday.

O my sweet home, Jerusalem! Thy joys when shall I see-- The King sitting upon His throne, And thy felicity? Thy vineyards, and thy orchards, So wonderfully rare, Are furnished with all kinds of fruit, Most beautifully fair.

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green; There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. There cinnamon and sugar grow, There nard and balm abound; No tongue can tell, no heart can think, The pleasures there are found.

There nectar and ambrosia spring-- There music's ever sweet; There many a fair and dainty thing Are trod down under feet. Quite through the streets, with pleasant sound, The flood of life doth flow; Upon the banks, on every side, The trees of life do grow.

These trees each month yield ripened fruit-- For evermore they spring; And all the nations of the world To thee their honors bring. Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place, Full sore I long to see; Oh! that my sorrows had an end, That I might dwell in thee!

There David stands, with harp in hand, As master of the choir; A thousand times that man were blest That might his music hear. There Mary sings "Magnificat," With tunes surpassing sweet; And all the virgins bear their part, Singing around her feet.

"Te Deum," doth Saint Ambrose sing, Saint Austin doth the like; Old Simeon and Zacharie Have not their songs to seek. There Magdalene hath left her moan, And cheerfully doth sing, With all blest saints whose harmony Through every street doth ring.

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Thy joys fain would I see; Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief, And take me home to Thee; Oh! paint Thy name on my forehead, And take me hence away, That I may dwell with Thee in bliss, And sing Thy praises aye.

Jerusalem, the happy home-- Jehovah's throne on high! O sacred city, queen, and wife Of Christ eternally! O comely queen with glory clad, With honor and degree, All fair thou art, exceeding bright-- No spot there is in thee!

I long to see Jerusalem, The comfort of us all; For thou art fair and beautiful-- None ill can thee befall. In thee, Jerusalem, I say, No darkness dare appear-- No night, no shade, no winter foul-- No time doth alter there.

No candle needs, no moon to shine, No glittering star to light; For Christ, the king of righteousness, For ever shineth bright. A lamb unspotted, white and pure, To thee doth stand in lieu Of light--so great the glory is Thine heavenly king to view.

He is the King of kings beset In midst His servants' sight: And they, His happy household all, Do serve Him day and night. There, there the choir of angels sing-- There the supernal sort Of citizens, which hence are rid From dangers deep, do sport.

There be the prudent prophets all, The apostles six and six, The glorious martyrs in a row, And confessors betwixt. There doth the crew of righteous men And matrons all consist-- Young men and maids that here on earth Their pleasures did resist.

The sheep and lambs, that hardly 'scaped The snare of death and hell, Triumph in joy eternally, Whereof no tongue can tell; And though the glory of each one Doth differ in degree, Yet is the joy of all alike And common, as we see.

There love and charity do reign, And Christ is all in all, Whom they most perfectly behold In joy celestial. They love, they praise--they praise, they love; They "Holy, holy," cry; They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, But laud continually.

Oh! happy thousand times were I, If, after wretched days, I might with listening ears conceive Those heavenly songs of praise, Which to the eternal king are sung By happy wights above-- By savèd souls and angels sweet, Who love the God of love.

Oh! passing happy were my state, Might I be worthy found To wait upon my God and king, His praises there to sound; And to enjoy my Christ above, His favor and His grace, According to His promise made, Which here I interlace:

"O Father dear," quoth He, "let them Which Thou hast put of old To me, be there where lo! I am-- Thy glory to behold; Which I with Thee, before the world Was made in perfect wise, Have had--from whence the fountain great Of glory doth arise."

Again: "If any man will serve Thee, let him follow me; For where I am, he there, right sure, Then shall my servant be." And still: "If any man loves me, Him loves my Father dear, Whom I do love--to him myself In glory will appear."

Lord, take away my misery, That then I may be bold With Thee, in Thy Jerusalem, Thy glory to behold; And so in Zion see my king, My love, my Lord, my all-- Where now as in a glass I see, There face to face I shall.

Oh! blessèd are the pure in heart-- Their sovereign they shall see; O ye most happy, heavenly wights, Which of God's household be! O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands, These gins and fetters strong; For I have dwelt within the tents Of Kedar over long.

Yet search me, Lord, and find me out! Fetch me Thy fold unto, That all Thy angels may rejoice, While all Thy will I do. O mother dear! Jerusalem! When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see?

Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, To quit me from all strife, That to Thy hill I may attain, And dwell there all my life-- With cherubim and seraphim And holy souls of men, To sing Thy praise, O God of hosts! Forever and amen!

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

PARADISE.

O Paradise, O Paradise, Who doth not crave for rest, Who would not seek the happy land Where they that loved are blest? Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, The world is growing old; Who would not be at rest and free Where love is never cold? Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, Wherefore doth death delay?-- Bright death, that is the welcome dawn Of our eternal day; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, 'Tis weary waiting here; I long to be where Jesus is, To feel, to see him near; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, I want to sin no more, I want to be as pure on earth As on thy spotless shore; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, I greatly long to see The special place my dearest Lord Is destining for me; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise, I feel 'twill not be long; Patience! I almost think I hear Faint fragments of thy song; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

FROM "THE DIVINE COMEDY."

* * * * *

HELL.

INSCRIPTION OVER THE GATE.