LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA CRUZ THE TREASURY OP AMERICAN SACRED SONG HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY Hmencan Sacreb WITH NOTES EXPLANATORY AND BIOGRAPHICAL W. GARRETT HORDER EDITOR OF 'THE POETS' BIBLE,' ETC. HENRY FROWDE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS WAREHOUSE AMEN CORNER, E.G. NEW YORK : 91 & 93 FIFTH AVENUE 1896 In seeking for the beautiful, poets meet with more truths than the philosophers in their researches after the true. JOUBERT. rs PREFACE THIS is an attempt to give a fuller presentation of the Sacred Verse of America than has previously existed. During the progress of my researches I have again and again been reminded of the remark of Colonel Higginson one of the most delightful of American poets to Matthew Arnold : ' As I take it, Nature said some years since, " Thus far the English is my best race ; but we have had Englishmen enough ; we need something with a little more buoyancy than the Englishman ; let us lighten the structure, even at some peril in the process. Put in one drop more of nervous fluid, and make the American.'" In much of the sacred verse I have examined I have found ' one drop more of the nervous fluid,' which some- times, perhaps, has been so quick in its operation as not to produce a structure as perfect as could be desired. My aim has been to select verse with the fullest native force, and at the same time the most finished form. Readers may perchance, here and there, light on poems which seem scarcely suited for a collection of sacred verse; but in such cases the sacred character, which may at a first glance appear lacking, will never- theless be found in the thoughts they suggest. I have not cared to present any of the earliest verse of America, considering that it possesses only an anti- quarian interest. Nor have I gone beyond the limits vi PREFACE of the United States. If I seem to have omitted certain familiar poems, it has not been from oversight, but after a careful weighing of reasons. The arrangement of poems is, as nearly as I could make it, chronological : the order being determined by the birth-date of writers. If I have in any measure succeeded in my difficult task, it is largely due to the effective assistance I have received on both sides of the Atlantic. On this side, mention must first be made of the Rev. Richard Wilton, M.A., Rector of Londesborough and Canon of York one of our best- known sacred poets * who has spared neither time nor thought in aiding me to make the collection as choice as possible : to his fine taste I am under the deepest obligation, as well as for the Dedicatory Sonnet, ; To the Sacred Poets of America,' which at my suggestion he wrote. For help of various kinds I am indebted to the late lamented James Ashcroft Noble, an accomplished literary critic ; Norman Gale, author of A Country Muse ; Gleeson White, editor of Ballades and Rondeaux, whose ample library of American poetry was freely put at my service ; the Rev. Andrew Chalmers, M.A., editor of Modern Hymns-, the Rev. H. C. Beeching, M.A., editor of Lyra Christi ; Coulson Kernahan, author of A Dead Man's Diary, the Rev. G. T. Coster, author of Gloria Christi ; Paul B. Neuman, Author of The Interpreter s House ; the Rev. Valentine D. Davis, B.A., and Dr. Garnett, who afforded me every facility in consulting books at the British Museum. On the other side of the Atlantic my helpers have been both numerous and distinguished. Special acknow- ledgments are due to Mrs. Tileston, the editor of Quiet Hours, who has been almost an American colleague- * Author of Wood-Notes and Church Bells, Lyrics Sylvan and Sacred, Sungleams, and Benedicite. PREFACE vii editor, examining for me the works of American poets in the Boston libraries ; Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, to whom I am also indebted for three unpublished sonnets ; Richard Watson Gilder, LL.D., editor of The Century, Edmund Clarence Stedman, LL.D., author of American Poets ; Dr. Doane, Bishop of Albany, and Miss Edith Matilda Thomas, who in recent interviews gave me valuable counsel; and Dr. J. M. Whiton, who sought out for me books that could not be obtained in England, and rendered valuable aid in revision of the proofs. To all these I tender my sincere thanks. From every writer and publisher I have received the most ready response to my application for the use of copyright poems. The only restriction imposed was by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., in the case of a few poets, such as Longfellow, Whittier, and Lowell, that my extracts should not exceed a certain number ; these writers, however, are within the reach of all, so that the restriction has really proved of service by affording me space for the verse of less-known writers, whose works are more difficult of access. My selections from the authors named below have been taken by permission of, and by special arrangement with, their publishers, to whom I render my most cordial thanks : HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN, Co. Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, John Greenleaf Whittier, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Samuel Longfellow, Christopher P. Cranch, Alice and Phoebe Gary, Caroline Atherton Mason, James Russell Lowell, Thomas W. Parsons, Edna Dean Proctor, Lucy Larcom, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Henry David Thoreau, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Margaret E. Sangster, Bayard Taylor, Celia Thaxter, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Francis Bret Harte, Edgar Fawcett, Edward Rowland Sill, Emma Lazarus, Edith viii PREFACE Matilda Thomas, Henry Augustin Beers, Margaret Deland, Frank Dempster Sherman, James Thomas Fields, Eliza- beth Stuart Phelps, Nora Perry, John James Piatt, Sarah M. B. Piatt, John Townsend '1 rowbridge, Adeline D. Train Whitney, George Edward Woodberry, Harriet Prescott Spofford, William Roscoe Thayer, William Henry Burleigh, John Burroughs, James Freeman Clarke, William Henry Furness, Lizette Woodworth Reese, Louise Imogen Guiney, Saxe Holm, William Dean Howells, Ellen Mackay Hutchinson, Ina Donna Coolbrith. ROBERTS BROTHERS. Louisa May Alcott, Charles Timothy Brooks, Sarah Chauncey Woolsey (Susan Coolidge), Emily Dickinson, Frederic Henry Hedge, William Channing Gannett, Thomas Wentworth Higgin- son, Frederick Lucian Hosmer, Julia Ward Howe, Helen Hunt Jackson, Louise Chandler Moulton, Theodore Parker, John White Chadwick. THE CENTURY COMPANY. Richard Watson Gilder, Mary Mapes Dodge, Washington Gladden, Thomas Bailey Aldrich. G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS. James Herbert Morse, Sarah Hammond Palfrey, Francis Howard Williams, Danske Dandridge, Charles Henry Crandall. CASSELL & Co. (New York). Minnie Gilmore, Charles Munroe Dickinson. D. APPLETON & Co. William Cullen Bryant. HARPER BROTHERS. Amelie Rives (the Princess Trou- betzkoy), Horatio Nelson Powers. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. Anne Reeve Aldrich, Julia C. R. Dorr, Eugene Field, Josiah Gilbert Holland, Sidney Lanier, Richard Henry Stoddard, Charles Henry Luders. ARMSTRONG & SONS. Edgar Allan Poe. BOWEN MERRILL COMPANY. James Whitcomb Riley. PREFACE ix COPELAND & DAY. John Banister Tabb, Hannah Parker Kimball, Alice Brown. T. Y. CROWELL & Co. Sarah Knowles Bolton, Nathan Haskell Dole, Charlotte Fiske Bates. G. H. ELLIS. Minot Judson Savage. DAVID McKAY. Walt Whitman. LEE & SHEPARD. David Atwood Wasson. A. D. F. RANDOLPH & Co. Harriet McEwen Kimball, Willis Boyd Allen, May Riley Smith. THE LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY. Paul Hamilton Hayne, Lydia Maria Child, Katharine Lee Bates, Oscar Fay Adams. F. A. STOKES & Co. Frank Dempster Sherman. J. POTT Co. Arthur Cleveland Coxe. THOMAS WHITTAKER. Augustus William Muhlenberg. E. P. DUTTON Co. Phillips Brooks, Edmund Hamil- ton Sears, William Croswell, George Washington Doane. MORRELL HIGGINSON & Co. Joaquin Miller. THE OUTLOOK COMPANY. Tudor Jenks. THE INDEPENDENT (New York). Rose Terry Cooke. J. B. LIPPINCOTT & Co. Charles F. Richardson. GEORGE H. CARR. W. Hunter Birckhead. A. S. BARNES & Co. Ray Palmer. G. GOTTSBERGER PECK. Rose Terry Cooke. To the following I am indebted for permission to use poems of which they hold the British copyright : LONGMANS, GREEN & Co. John James Piatt, Sarah M. B. Piatt, J. Whitcomb Riley, Margaret Deland, Thomas Wentworth Higginson. OSGOOD, MACILVAINE & Co. Emily Dickinson, Eugene Field, Margaret Deland. To the following authors I am indebted for permission to use their poems : Louise Chandler Moulton, Amelie Rives (the Princess X PREFACE Troubetzkoy), to both of whom I am indebted for un- published poems, Anna Jane Granniss, Martha Perry Lowe, Maurice Francis Egan, Langdon Elwyn Mitchell (John Philip Varley), Tudor Jenks, Charles Gordon Ames, George McKnight, Arlo Bates, W. Ordway Partridge, Richard Hovey, John Vance Cheney ; also to Bishop Doane for a hymn by his father, Charles Ray Palmer for poems by his father, Lydia A. Very for poems by her brother, and Charles T. Weitzel for poems by his wife. I have taken the greatest pains to reach holders of copyright of the poems included ; but if in any case I have unwittingly failed, I trust that the permission I would gladly have sought will be as generously ac- corded as it has been, without exception, by all others. I now offer this collection the result of careful research extending over several years to lovers of sacred verse in all English-speaking lands. May it tend to strengthen the bond, already so strong, which unites the kindred nations of Great Britain and America ! W. G. H. EALING, LONDON, W. August, 1896. PROLOGUE TO THE SACRED POETS OF AMERICA AS from the East unto the utmost West ^ God bids the banner of His lightning shine, The flashing signal of the Face Divine With whose fair radiance earth may soon be blest ; So speeds the Heavenly Muse, at His behest, Across the waters; so the spreading vine Of sacred poesy, with clusters fine, By Western airs is welcomed and caressed. O ye whose sires our English fields have trod, By holy Herbert's feet made hallowed ground, His dower of truth and beauty ye have found: With you still buds and blossoms Aaron's rod, Proclaiming you the poet -priests of God, To wave the incense of His praise around. RICHARD WILTON. LONDESBOROUGH RECTORY, EAST YORKSHIRE, June, 1896. THE AMERICAN TREASURY OF SACRED SONG Jjojin Qpt UNIVERSAL WORSHIP OTHOU, to whom in ancient time The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung ; Whom kings adored in songs sublime, And prophets praised with glowing tongue Not now on Zion's height alone Thy favoured worshippers may dwell, Nor where at sultry noon Thy Son Sat weary, by the patriarch's well : From every place below the skies, The grateful song, the fervent prayer, The incense of the heart, may rise To heaven, and find acceptance there. To Thee shall age with snowy hair, And strength and beauty, bend the knee ; And childhood lisp, with reverent air, Its praises and its prayers to Thee. Thou, to whom, in ancient time The lyre of prophet-bards was strung, To Thee, at last, in every clime, Shall temples rise, and praise be sung. 1 B JOHN PIERPONT HYMN OF THE LAST SUPPER HPHE winds are hushed ; the peaceful moon 1 Looks down on Zion's hill ; The city sleeps ; 'tis night's calm noon, And all the streets are still. Save when, along the shaded walks, We hear the watchman's call, Or the guard's footsteps, as he stalks In moonlight on the wall. How soft, how holy is this light ! And hark ! a mournful song, As gentle as these dews of night, Floats on the air along. Affection's wish, devotion's prayer, Are in that holy strain; 'Tis resignation, not despair, 'Tis triumph, though 'tis pain. 'Tis Jesus and His faithful few That pour that hymn of love ; O God ! may we the song renew, Around Thy board above ! MORNING HYMN FOR A CHILD OGOD, I thank Thee that the night In peace and rest hath passed away ; And that I see, in this fair light, My Father's smile, that makes it day. Be Thou my Guide, and let me live As under Thine all-seeing eye; Supply my wants, my sins forgive, And make me happy when I die. JOHN PIERPONT EVENING HYMN FOR A CHILD A N OTHER day its course hath run, /\ And still, O God, Thy child is blest ; For Thou hast been by day my sun, And Thou wilt be by night my rest. Sweet sleep descends, my eyes to close ; And now, when all the world is still, I give my body to repose, My spirit to my Father's will. (Norton THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH WHERE ancient forests round us spread, Where bends the cataract's ocean-fall, On the lone mountain's silent head, There are Thy temples, God of all ! Beneath the dark-blue midnight arch, Whence myriad suns pour down their rays, Where planets trace their ceaseless march, Father! we worship as we gaze. The tombs Thy altars are ; for there, When earthly loves and hopes have fled, To Thee ascends the spirit's prayer, Thou God of the immortal dead ! All space is holy; for all space Is filled by Thee ; but human thought Burns clearer in some chosen place, Where Thy own words of love are taught. Here be they taught ; and may we know That faith Thy servants knew of old, Which onward bears through weal and woe, Till Death the gates of heaven unfold. B2 ANDREWS NORTON Nor we alone : may those whose brow Shows yet no trace of human cares, Hereafter stand where we do now, And raise to Thee still holier prayers. THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS (TO TWO SWALLOWS IN A CHURCH) GAY, guiltless pair ! What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend ? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep, Penance is not for you, Bless'd wanderers of the upper deep ! To you 'tis given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays ; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In 3 r on blue dome not rear'd with hands: Or, if ye stay, To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power! CHARLES SPRAGUE Above the crowd On upward wings could I but fly, I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the sky. 'Twere heaven indeed, Through fields of trackless light to soar, On Nature's charms to feed, And Nature's own great God adore. COMMUNION HYMN REMEMBER ME,' the Saviour said On that forsaken night, When from His side the nearest fled, And death was close in sight. Through all the following ages' track The world remembers yet ; With love and worship gazes back, And never can forget. But who of us has seen His face, Or heard the words He said ? And none can now His look retrace In breaking of the bread. Oh, blest are they who have not seen, And yet believe Him still ! They know Him, when His praise they mean, And when they do His will. We hear His word along our way ; We see His light above ; Remember when we strive and pray, Remember when we love. NATHANIEL LANGDON FROTHINGHAM THE CHURCH OLORD of life, and truth, and grace, Ere Nature was begun! Make welcome to our erring race Thy Spirit and Thy Son. We hail the Church, built high o'er all The heathen's rage and scoff; Thy Providence its fenced wall, 'The Lamb the light thereof.' Thy Christ hath reached His heavenly seat Through sorrows and through scars ; The golden lamps are at His feet, And in His hand the stars. Oh, may He walk among us here, With His rebuke and love, A brightness o'er this lower sphere, A ray from worlds above ! A LAMENT* A WAIL from beyond the desert ! A wail from across the sea ! The home he left, Bereft, bereft, For evermore must be. As spread the heavy tidings, How many a heart grows sore That the eloquent grace Of that pensive face And that mellow voice is o'er. Alas for thee, O our brother! And for this we sorrow most, That a spirit so fair Must be breathed out there, On that stern Arabian coast : * See Note. NATHANIEL LANGDON FROTHINGHAM That a life so all unforeign, To faith and his country bound, Turned dying eyes Upon Asian skies, And dropped on Moslem ground. Away for the Holy City With pilgrim soul he trod ; But nearer at hand Must the pearl gates expand Of the city new of God. The judgment-peak of Sinai Rose now in the homeward West, Its shadows grim Had no terror for him, As he sank to his Christian rest. But, oh, that the thoughtful scholar, His mind at its fullest noon, That the preacher's tongue And the poet's song Should pass away so soon ! THANATOPSIS TO him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a still voice Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world with kings, The powerful of the earth the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all. Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tornb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings yet the dead are there: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 9 And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. TO A WATERFOWL WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side ? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast The desert and illimitable air Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. N HYMN OF THE CITY OT in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or sec, Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity; Or only hear His voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty ! here, amidst the crowd Through the great city rolled, With everlasting murmur deep and loud Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT n Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies And lights their inner homes ; For them Thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. Thy Spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; And this eternal sound Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee. And when the hour of rest Comes, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast The quiet of that moment too is thine ; It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. THE TIDES THE moon is at her full, and, riding high, Floods the calm fields with light ; The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night. There comes no voice from the great woodlands round That murmured all the day ; Beneath the shadow of their boughs the ground Is not more still than they. But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep ; His rising tides I hear, Afar I see the glimmering billows leap ; I see them breaking near. Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fair Pure light that sits on high Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where The mother-waters lie. 12 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Upward again it swells ; the moonbeams show Again its glimmering crest ; Again it feels the fatal weight below, And sinks, but not to rest. Again and yet again ; until the Deep Recalls his brood of waves ; And, with a sudden moan, abashed, they creep Back to his inner caves. Brief respite ! they shall rush from that recess With noise and tumult soon, And fling themselves, with unavailing stress, Up toward the placid moon. O restless Sea, that, in thy prison here, Dost struggle and complain ; Through the slow centuries yearning to be near To that fair orb in vain; The glorious source of light and heat must warm Thy billows from on high, And change them to the cloudy trains that form The curtains of the sky. Then only may they leave the waste of brine In which they welter here, And rise above the hills of earth, and shine In a serener sphere. THE MOTHER'S HYMN LORD, who ordainest for mankind Benignant toils and tender cares ! We thank Thee for the ties that bind The mother to the child she bears. We thank Thee for the hopes that rise Within her heart, as, day by day, The dawning soul, from those young eyes, Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 13 And grateful for the blessing given With that dear infant on her knee, She trains the eye to look to heaven, The voice to lisp a prayer to Thee. Such thanks the blessed Mary gave. When, from her lap, the Holy Child, Sent from on high to seek and save The lost of earth, looked up and smiled. All-Gracious ! grant, to those who bear A mother's charge, the strength and light To lead the steps that own their care In ways of Love, and Truth, and Right. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM A> shadows, cast by cloud and sun, Flit o'er the summer grass, So, in Thy sight, Almighty One ! Earth's generations pass. And while the years, an endless host, Come pressing swiftly on, The brightest names that earth can boast Just glisten, and are gone. Yet doth the Star of Bethlehem shed A lustre pure and sweet ; And still it leads, as once it led, To the Messiah's feet. O Father, may that holy Star Grow every year more bright, And send its glorious beams afar To fill the world with light. OUR CHILDREN STANDING forth on life's rough way, Father, guide them ; Oh ! we know not what of harm May betide them ; WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 'Neath the shadow of Thy wing, Father, hide them ; Waking, sleeping, Lord, we pray, Go beside them. When in prayer they cry to Thee, Thou wilt hear them : From the stains of sin and shame Thou wilt clear them ; 'Mid the quicksands and the rocks, Thou wilt steer them; In temptation, trial, grief, Be Thou near them. Unto Thee we give them up, Lord, receive them ; In the world we know must be Much to grieve them Many striving oft and strong To deceive them : Trustful, in Thy hands of love We must leave them. are, un. RESURRECTION OF CHRIST LIFT your glad voices in triumph on high, For Jesus hath risen, and man cannot die ; Vain were the terrors that gathered around Him, And short the dominion of death and the grave : He burst from the fetters of darkness that bound Him, Resplendent in glory to live and to save ; Loud was the chorus of angels on high, The Saviour hath risen, and man shall not die. Glory to God, in full anthems of joy ; The being He gave us death cannot destroy; Sad were the life we must part with to-morrow, If tears were our birthright and death were our end ; But Jesus hath cheered the dark valley of sorrow, And bade us, immortal, to heaven ascend. Lift, then, your voices in triumph on high, For Jesus hath risen, and man shall not die ! HENRY WARE, JUN. 15 CHRISTMAS GATHERING IN this glad hour, when children meet, And home with them their children bring, Our hearts with one affection beat, One song of praise our voices sing. For all the faithful, loved and dear, Whom Thou so kindly, Lord, hast given, For those who still are with us here, And those who wait for us in heaven ; For every past and present joy, For honour, competence, and health, For hopes which time may not destroy, Our soul's imperishable wealth ; For all, accept our humble praise ; Still bless us, Father, by Thy love ; And when are closed our mortal days, Unite us in one home above. THE SOWS HOME LIKE Noah's weary dove, That soared the earth around, But not a resting-place above The cheerless waters found ; Oh cease, my wandering soul, On restless wing to roam ; All the wide world, to either pole, Has not for thee a home. Behold the Ark of God, Behold the open door; Hasten to gain that dear abode, And rove, my soul, no more. There, safe thou shalt abide, There, sweet shall be thy rest, And every longing satisfied, With full salvation blest. i6 Q#tfftatn Q&OUWC fn?e* (peafiofcp THE AUTUMN EVENING BEHOLD the western evening light ! It melts in deepening gloom ; So calmly Christians sink away, Descending to the tomb. The winds breathe low; the withering leaf Scarce whispers from the tree : So gently flows the parting breath When good men cease to be. How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed ! 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives To mourners round his bed. How mildly on the wandering cloud The sunset beam is cast ! 'Tis like the memory left behind When loved ones breathe their last. And now above the dews of night The yellow star appears! So faith springs in the hearts of those Whose eyes are bathed in tears. But soon the morning's happier light Its glories shall restore; And eyelids that are sealed in death Shall wake to close no more. Q#a00in$fon cane THE BANNER OF THE CROSS FLING out the banner! let it float Skyward and seaward, high and wide ; The sun shall light its shining folds, The Cross on which the Saviour died. GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE Fling out the banner ! angels bend In anxious silence o'er the sign ; And vainly seek to comprehend The wonder of the Love Divine. Fling out the banner ! heathen lands Shall see from far the glorious sight, And nations, crowding to be born, Baptize their spirits in its light. Fling out the banner! sin-sick souls That sink and perish in the strife, Shall touch in faith its radiant hem, And spring immortal into life. Fling out the banner ! let it float Skyward and seaward, high and wide Our glory, only in the Cross ; Our only hope, the Crucified ! Fling out the banner ! wide and high, Seaward and skyward, let it shine : Nor skill, nor might, nor merit ours ; We conquer only in that Sign. 'a QUatrta THE CLOISTER THOUGHT never knew material bound or place, Nor footsteps may the roving fancy trace : Peace cannot learn beneath a roof to house, Nor cloister hold us safe within our vows. The cloistered heart may brave the common air, And the world's children breathe the holiest prayer Build for us, Lord, and in Thy temple reign! Watch with us, Lord, our watchman wakes in vain ! i8 & out** 3 att GROWING OLD NEVER, my heart, wilt thou grow old ! My hair is white, my blood runs cold, And one by one my powers depart, But youth sits smiling in my heart. Downhill the path of age ! oh, no ; Up, up with patient steps I go; I watch the skies fast brightening there, I breathe a sweeter, purer air. Beside my road small tasks spring up, Though but to hand the cooling cup, Speak the true word of hearty cheer, Tell the lone soul that God is near. Beat on, my heart, and grow not old ! And when thy pulses all are told, Let me, though working, loving still, Kneel as I meet my Father's will. THE LORD'S PRAYER WHEN Jesus trod by thy blue sea, How blest wert thou, O Galilee I While there He walked His gracious way, And taught us how to live and pray. In sweet and solemn tones His prayer Still lingers on the waving air ; Where suns may rise, or suns may set, All wants in that one prayer are met. From lips of childish innocence, From weary age with failing sense, Still mounts to heaven that wondrous prayer, To find a loving ' Father ' there. The listening stars more brightly shine, The morning glows with love divine, When human hearts, in pain or ease, Use these dear words on bended knees. '9 Q8tf?tam REMEMBRANCE OF GOD THOU who dost all things give, Be not Thyself forgot ! No longer may Thy children live As if their God were not ! But every day and hour, Since Thou dost bless us thus, In still increasing light and power Reveal Thyself to us ; Until our faith shall be Stronger than words can tell, And we shall live beholding Thee, O Thou Invisible ! NIGHTFALL SLOWLY, by Thy hand unfurled, Down around the weary world Falls the darkness ; oh, how still Is the working of Thy will ! Mighty Maker, here am I, Work in me as silently ; Veil the day's distracting sights ; Show me heaven's eternal lights. From the darkened sky come forth Countless stars, a wondrous birth! So may gleams of glory start From this dim abyss, my heart. Living worlds to view be brought In the boundless realms of thought ; High and infinite desires, Flaming like those upper fires ! Holy Truth, eternal Right- Let them break upon my sight; Let them shine serenely still, And With light my being fill. C 2 WILLIAM HENRY FURNESS Thou who dwellest there, I know, Dwellest here within me too ; May the perfect love of God Here, as there, be shed abroad. Let my soul attuned be To the heavenly harmony Which, beyond the power of sound, Fills the universe around. 6mev0on DIRGE KNOWS he who tills this lonely field To reap its scanty corn, What mystic fruit his acres yield At midnight and at morn? In the long sunny afternoon The plain was full of ghosts ; I wandered up, I wandered down, Beset by pensive hosts. The winding Concord gleamed below, Pouring as wide a flood As when my brothers, long ago, Came with me to the wood. But they are gone, the holy ones Who trod with me this lovely vale ; The strong, star-bright companions Are silent, low and pale. My good, my noble, in their prime, Who made this world the feast it was, Who learned with me the lore of time, Who loved this dwelling-place! RALPH WALDO EMERSON They took this valley for their toy, They played with it in every mood ; A cell for prayer, a hall for joy, They treated nature as they would. They colored the horizon round ; Stars flamed and faded as they bade, All echoes hearkened for their sound, They made the woodlands glad or mad. I touch this flower of silken leaf, Which once our childhood knew; Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew. Hearken to yon pine-warbler Singing aloft in the tree ! Hearest thou, O traveller, What he singeth to me? Not unless God made sharp thine ear With sorrow such as mine, Out of that delicate lay could'st thou Its heavy tale divine. * Go, lonely man,' it saith ; * They loved thee from their birth ; Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, - There are no such hearts on earth. ' Ye drew one mother's milk, One chamber held ye all ; A very tender history Did in your childhood fall. ' You cannot unlock your heart, The key is gone with them ; The silent organ loudest chants The master's requiem.' RALPH WALDO EMERSON THRENODY THE South wind brings Life, sunshine and desire, And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire; But over the dead he has no power, The lost, the lost, he cannot restore, And, looking over the hills, I mourn The darling who shall not return. I see my empty house, I see my trees repair their boughs ; And he, the wondrous child, Whose silver warble wild Outvalued every pulsing sound Within the air's cerulean round, The hyacinthine boy, for whom Morn well might break and April bloom, The gracious boy, who did adorn The world whereinto he was born, And by his countenance repay The favor of the loving Day, Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; Far and wide she cannot find him ; My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. Returned this day, the south wind searches, And finds young pines and budding birches ; But finds not the budding man ; Nature, who lost, cannot remake him ; Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him ; Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain. And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, O, whither tend thy feet? I had the right, few days ago, Thy steps to watch, thy place to know : How have I forfeited the right? Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? I hearken for thy household cheer, O eloquent child ! Whose voice, an equal messenger, RALPH WALDO EMERSON 23 Conveyed thy meaning mild. What though the pains and joys Whereof it spoke were toys Fitting his age and ken, Yet fairest dames and bearded men, Who heard the sweet request, So gentle, wise and grave, Bended with joy to his behest And let the world's affairs go by, Awhile to share his cordial game, Or mend his wicker wagon-frame, Still plotting how their hungry ear That winsome voice again might hear. child of paradise, Boy who made dear his father's home, In whose deep eyes Men read the welfare of the times to come, 1 am too much bereft. The world dishonored thou hast left. truth's and nature's costly lie ! O trusted broken prophecy ! O richest fortune sourly crossed ! Born for the future, to the future lost ! The deep Heart answered, ' Weepest thou ? Worthier cause for passion wild If I had not taken the child. And deemest thou as those who pore, With aged eyes, short way before, Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast Of matter, and thy darling lost ? Taught he not thee the man of eld, Whose eyes within his eyes beheld Heaven's numerous hierarchy span The mystic gulf from God to man ? To be alone wilt thou begin When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? To-morrow, when the masks shall fall That dizen Nature's carnival, The pure shall see by their own will, Which overflowing Love shall fill, RALPH WALDO EMERSON 'Tis not within the force of fate The fate-conjoined to separate. But thou, my votary, weepest thou? I gave thee sight where is it now? I taught thy heart beyond the reach Of ritual, bible, or of speech ; Wrote in thy mind's transparent table, As far as the incommunicable; Taught thee each private sign to raise Lit by the supersolar blaze. Past utterance, and past belief. And past the blasphemy of grief, The mysteries of Nature's heart; And though no Muse can these impart, Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast, And all is clear from east to west. ' I came to thee as to a friend ; Dearest, to thee I did not send Tutors, but a joyful eye, Innocence that matched the sky, Lovely locks, a form of wonder, Laughter rich as woodland thunder, That thou might'st entertain apart The richest flowering of all art : And, as the great all-loving Day Through smallest chambers takes its way, That thou might'st break thy daily bread With prophet, savior and head ; That thou might'st cherish for thine own The riches of sweet Mary's Son, Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon. And thoughtest thou such guest Would in thy hall take up his rest? Would rushing life forget her laws, Fate's glowing revolution pause ? High omens ask diviner guess; Not to be conned to tediousness. And know my higher gifts unbind The zone that girds the incarnate mind. When the scanty shores are full With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ; RALPH WALDO EMERSON 25 When frail Nature can no more, Then the Spirit strikes the hour: My servant Death, with solving rite, Pours finite into infinite. Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ? Verdict which accumulates From lengthening scroll of human fates, Voice of earth to earth returned, Prayers of saints that inly burned, Saying, What is excellent, As God lives, ts permanent; Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain; Heart's love will meet thee again. Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye Up to His style, and manners of the sky. Not of adamant and gold Built He heaven stark and cold ; No, but a nest of bending reeds, Flowering grass and scented weeds ; Or like a traveller's fleeing tent, Or bow above the tempest bent; Built of tears and sacred flames, And virtue reaching to its aims ; Built of furtherance and pursuing, Not of spent deeds, but of doing. Silent rushes the swift Lord Through ruined systems still restored, Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless, Plants with worlds the wilderness; Waters with tears of ancient sorrow Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. House and tenant go to ground, Lost in God, in Godhead found.' THE PROBLEM NOT from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 26 RALPH WALDO EMERSON Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old ; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below, The canticles of love and woe : The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free ; He builded better than he knew ; The conscious stone to beauty grew. These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned ; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. THE RHODORA ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER ? IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay ; RALPH WALDO EMERSON 27 Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora ! If the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask, I never knew ; But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same power that brought me there brought you. THE CELESTIAL LOVE ND they serve men austerely, After their own genius, clearly, Without a false humility; For this is Love's nobility, Not to scatter bread and gold, Goods and raiment bought and sold ; But to hold fast his simple sense, And speak the speech of innocence, And with hand and body and blood, To make his bosom-counsel good. He that feeds men serveth few ; He serves all who dares be true. THE HOUSE OF GOD WE love the venerable house Our fathers built to God : In heaven are kept their grateful vows, Their dust endears the sod. Here holy thoughts a light have shed From many a radiant face, And prayers of tender hope have spread A perfume through the place. And anxious hearts have pondered here The mystery of life, And prayed the eternal Light to clear Their doubts, and aid their strife. RALPH WALDO EMERSON From humble tenements around Came up the pensive train, And in the Church a blessing found, That filled their homes again ; For faith, and peace, and mighty love, That from the Godhead flow, Showed them the life of heaven above Springs from the life below. They live with God, their homes are dust ; Yet here their children pray, And in this fleeting life-time trust To find the narrow way. On him who by the altar stands, On him Thy blessing fall ! Speak through his lips Thy pure commands, Thou Heart, that lovest all. SONG OF FAITH THE lilied fields behold ; What king in his array Of purple pall and cloth of gold Shines gorgeously as they? Their pomp, however gay, Is brief, alas ! as bright ; It lives but for a summer's day, And withers in a night. If God so clothe the soil, And glorify the dust, Why should the slave of daily toil His providence distrust? Will He, whose love has nursed The sparrow's brood, do less For those who seek His kingdom first, And with it righteousness? WILLIAM CROSWELL The birds fly forth at will ; They neither plough nor sow : Yet theirs the sheaves that crown the hill, Or glad the vale below. While through the realms of air He guides their trackless way, Will man, in faithlessness, despair ? Is he worth less than they ? THE MORNING STAR A SINGLE star how bright, From earth-mists free, In heaven's deep shrine its image burns ! Star of the morn, my spirit yearns To be with thee. Lord of the desert sky : Night's last, lone heir, Benign thou smilest from on high, Pure, calm, as if an angel's eye Were watching there. Nor wholly vain I deem The Magian plan, That, sphered in thee, a spirit reigns Who knows this earth, and kindly deigns To succor man. Gone are thy glittering peers ! Quenched each bright spark; Save where some pale sun's lingering ghost, Dull remnant of a scattered host, Still spots the dark. But thou, propitious star, Night's youngest born, Wilt not withdraw thy steady light Till bursts on yonder snow-clad height The rosy morn. 3 o FREDERIC HENRY HEDGE Fair orb ! I love to watch Thy tranquil ray; Emblem thou art of hope that springs When joys are fled, and dreaming brings The better day. So, when from my life's course Its stars are riven, Dawn on my soul, prophetic light, That gilds old age's winter night With hope of heaven ! THE CRUCIFIXION IT is finished ! Man of Sorrows ! From Thy cross our nature borrows Strength to bear and conquer thus. While exalted there we view Thee, Mighty Sufferer ! draw us to Thee, Sufferer victorious ! Not in vain for us uplifted, Man of Sorrows, wonder-gifted ! May that sacred symbol be. Eminent amid the ages, Guide of heroes and of sages, May it guide us still to Thee ! Still to Thee ! whose love unbounded, Sorrow's deep for us hath sounded, Perfected by conflicts sore. Glory to Thy cross for ever ! Star that points our high endeavor Whither Thou hast gone before. JSongfeffow THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen, * He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. ' Shall I have nought that is fair ? ' saith he ; * Have nought but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again.' He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. * My Lord has need of these flowerets gay/ The Reaper said, and smiled ; * Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where He was once a child. ' They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.' And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day ; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. 32 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted. And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlor wall ; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door ; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the road-side fell and perished, Weary with the march of life ! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits ana gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 33 Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! RESIGNATION THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted ! Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors, Amid these earthly damps ; What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, the child of our affection, But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. 34 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air ; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which Nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her ; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child ; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest, We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. HYMN FOR MY BROTHERS ORDINATION to the young man said: 'Yet one thing more : If thou wouldst perfect be, Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, And come and follow Me ! ' HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 35 Within this temple Christ again, unseen, Those sacred words hath said, And His invisible hands to-day have been Laid on a young man's head. And evermore beside him on his way The unseen Christ shall move, That he may lean upon His arm and say, 1 Dost Thou, dear Lord, approve ? ' Beside him at the marriage-feast shall be, To make the scene more fair; Beside him in the dark Gethsemane Of pain and midnight prayer. O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest ! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on ! NATURE AS a fond mother, when the day is o'er, jL\ Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which,though more splendid, may not please him more ; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know. THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE IS it so far from thee Thou canst no longer see, In the Chamber over the Gate, That old man desolate, D 2 36 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Weeping and wailing sore For his son, who is no more? O Absalom, my son ! Is it so long ago That cry of human woe From the walled city came, Calling on his dear name, That it has died away In the distance of to-day ? O Absalom, my son ! There is no far nor near, There is neither there nor here, There is neither soon nor late, In that Chamber over the Gate, Nor any long ago To that cry of human woe, O Absalom, my son ! From the ages that are past The voice sounds like a blast, Over seas that wreck and drown, Over tumult of traffic and town ; And from ages yet to be Come the echoes back to me, O Absalom, my son! Somewhere at every hour The watchman on the tower Looks forth, and sees the fleet Approach of the hurrying feet Of messengers, that bear The tidings of despair. O Absalom, my son ! He goes forth from the door, Who shall return no more. With him our joy departs ; The light goes out in our hearts ; In the Chamber over the Gate We sit disconsolate. O Absalom, my son! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 37 That 'tis a common grief Bringeth but slight relief; Ours is the bitterest loss, Ours is the heaviest cross ; And for ever the cry will be, ' Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son ! ' (mifee LOOKING UNTO JESUS THOU who didst stoop below To drain the cup of woe, Wearing the form of frail mortality ; Thy blessed labors done, Thy crown of victory won, Hast passed from earth, passed to Thy home on high. >ur eyes behold Thee not, hast Thou not forgot Those who have placed their hope, their trust in Thee; Before Thy Father's face Thou hast prepared a place, That where Thou art, there they may also be. It was no path of flowers, Which, through this world of ours, Beloved of the Father, Thou didst tread ; And shall we in dismay Shrink from the narrow way, When clouds and darkness are around it spread ? O Thou, who art our life, Be with us through the strife ; Thy holy head by earth's fierce storms was bowed : Raise Thou our eyes above, To see a Father's love Beam, like the bow of promise, thro' the cloud. 3 3 SARAH ELIZABETH MILES And O, if thoughts of gloom Should hover o'er the tomb, That light of love our guiding star shall be : Our spirits shall not dread The shadowy path to tread, Friend, Guardian, Saviour, which doth lead to Thee. QBtffte DEDICATION HYMN THE perfect world by Adam trod Was the first temple built by God ; His fiat laid the corner-stone, And heaved its pillars one by one. He hung its starry roof on high The broad illimitable sky; He spread its pavement green and bright, And curtain'd it with morning light. The mountains in their places stood The sea the sky and 'all was good'; And when its first pure praises rang, The 'morning stars together sang.' Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea And earth and sky a house for Thee ; But in Thy sight our offering stands A humbler temple, 'made with hands.' FAITH Behold the Lamb of God? John i. 29. M Y faith looks up to Thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary : Saviour divine : RAY PALMER 39 Now hear me while I pray, Take all my guilt away, O let me from this day Be wholly Thine. May Thy rich grace impart Strength to my fainting heart, My zeal inspire : As Thou hast died for me, O may my love to Thee, Pure, warm, and changeless be, A living fire. While life's dark maze I tread, And griefs around me spread, Be Thou my guide ; Bid darkness turn to day, Wipe sorrow's tears away, Nor let me ever stray From Thee aside. When ends life's transient dream, When death's cold, sullen stream Shall o'er me roll ; Blest Saviour, then, in love, Fear and distrust remove, O bear me safe above A ransomed soul. UNSEEN, NOT UNKNOWN 1 Whom not having seen, ye love' i Pet. i. 8. JESUS, these eyes have never seen That radiant form of Thine ; The veil of sense hangs dark between Thy blessed face and mine. I see Thee not, I hear Thee not, Yet art Thou oft with me ; And earth has ne'er so dear a spot, As where I meet with Thee. 40 RAY PALMER Like some bright dream, that comes unsought, When slumbers o'er me roll, Thine image ever fills my thought, And charms my ravished soul. Yea, though I have not seen, and still Must rest in faith alone, I love Thee, dearest Lord, and will, Unseen but not unknown. When death these mortal eyes shall seal, And still this throbbing heart; The rending veil shall Thee reveal, All-glorious as Thou art. UNFALTERING TRUST How unsearchable are His judgments." Rom. xi. 33. LORD, my weak thought in vain would climb To search the starry vault profound ; In vain would wing her flight sublime, To find creation's utmost bound. But weaker yet that thought must prove To search Thy great eternal plan, Thy sovereign counsels, born of love Long ages ere the world began. When my dim reason would demand Why that, or this, Thou dost ordain, By some vast deep I seem to stand, Whose secrets I must ask in vain. When doubts disturb my troubled breast, And all is dark as night to me, Here, as on solid rock, I rest, That so it seemeth good to Thee. Be this my joy, that evermore Thou rulest all things at Thy will ; Thy sovereign wisdom I adore, And calmly, sweetly, trust Thee still. MY PSALM I MOURN no more my vanished years; Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again. The west winds blow, and, singing low, I hear the glad streams run; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun. No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear; But, grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here. I plough no more a desert land, To harvest weed and tare ; The manna dropping from God's hand Rebukes my painful care. I break my pilgrim staff, I lay Aside the toiling oar; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door. The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn ; Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given ; The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. 42 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong ; The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong. But smiting hands shall learn to heal, To build as to destroy; Nor less my heart for others feel That I the more enjoy. All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told ! Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track ; That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back ; That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good ; That death seems but a covered way Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight; That care and trial seem at last. Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain-ranges overpast, In purple distance fair; That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm. ; And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day. o JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 43 THE ETERNAL GOODNESS FRIENDS ! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer, il fc Glad witness to your zeal for God And love of man I bear. I trace your lines of argument ; Your logic linked and strong I weigh as one who dreads dissent, And fears a doubt as wrong. But still my human hands are weak To hold your iron creeds : Against the words ye bid me speak My heart within me pleads. Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan ? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man. I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground Ye tread with boldness shod ; I dare not fix with mete and bound The love and power of God. Ye praise His justice ; even such His pitying love I deem : Ye seek a king ; I fain would touch The robe that hath no seam. Ye see the curse which overbroods A world of pain and loss ; I hear our Lord's beatitudes And prayer upon the cross. More than your schoolmen teach, within Myself, alas ! I know : Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, Too small the merit show. 44 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER I bow my forehead to the dust, I veil mine eyes for shame, And urge, in trembling self-distrust, A prayer without a claim. I see the wrong that round me lies, I feel the guilt within ; I hear, with groan and travail-cries, The world confess its sin. Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed trust my spirit clings ; I know that God is good ! Not mine to look where cherubim And seraphs may not see, But nothing can be good in Him Which evil is in me. The wrong that pains my soul below I dare not throne above, I know not of His hate I know His goodness and His love. I dimly guess from blessings known Of greater out of sight, And, with the chastened Psalmist, own His judgments too are right. I long for household voices gone, For vanished smiles I long, But God hath led my dear ones on, And He can do no wrong. I know not what the future hath Of marvel or surprise, Assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies. And if my heart and flesh are weak To bear an untried pain, The bruised reed He will not break, But strengthen and sustain. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER No offering of my own I have, Nor works my faith to prove ; I can but give the gifts He gave, And plead His love for love. And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore. I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air ; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care. O brothers ! if my faith is vain, If hopes like these betray, Pray for me that my feet may gain The sure and safer way. And Thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen Thy creatures as they be, Forgive me if too close I lean My human heart on Thee ! OUR MASTER IMMORTAL Love, for ever full, 1 For ever flowing free, For ever shared, for ever whole, A never-ebbing sea ! Our outward lips confess the name All other names above ; Love only knoweth whence it came, And comprehendeth love. Blow, winds of God, awake and blow The mists of earth away ! Shine out, O Light Divine, and show How wide and far we stray ! 46 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Hush every lip, close every book, The strife of tongues forbear ; Why forward reach, or backward look, For love that clasps like air ? We may not climb the heavenly steeps To bring the Lord Christ down: In vain we search the lowest deeps, For Him no depths can drown. Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape, The lineaments restore Of Him we know in outward shape And in the flesh no more. He cometh not a king to reign ; The world's long hope is dim ; The weary centuries watch in vain The clouds of heaven for Him. Death comes, life goes; the asking eye And ear are answerless ; The grave is dumb, the hollow sky Is sad with silentness. The letter fails, and systems fall, And every symbol wanes; The Spirit over-brooding all Eternal Love remains. And not for signs in heaven above Or earth below they look, Who know with John His smile of love, With Peter His rebuke. In joy of inward peace, or sense Of sorrow over sin, He is His own best evidence, His witness is within. No fable old, nor mythic lore, Nor dream of bards and seers, No dead fact stranded on the shore Of the oblivious years ; JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 47 But warm, sweet, tender, even yet A present help is He ; And faith has still its Olivet, And love its Galilee. The healing of His seamless dress Is by our beds of pain ; We touch Him in life's throng and press, And we are whole again. Through Him the first fond prayers are said Our lips of childhood frame, The last low whispers of our dead Are burdened with His name. O Lord and Master of us all ! Whate'er our name or sign, We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call, We test our lives by Thine. Thou judgest us ; Thy purity Doth all our lusts condemn ; The love that draws us nearer Thee Is hot with wrath to them. Our thoughts lie open to Thy sight ; And, naked to Thy glance, Our secret sins are in the light Of Thy pure countenance. Thy healing pains, a keen distress Thy tender light shines in ; Thy sweetness is the bitterness, Thy grace the pang of sin. Yet, weak and blinded though we be, Thou dost our service own ; We bring our varying gifts to Thee, And Thou rejectest none. To Thee our full humanity, Its joys and pains, belong ; The wrong of man to man on Thee Inflicts a deeper wrong. 48 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Who hates, hates Thee, who loves becomes Therein to Thee allied ; All sweet accords of hearts and homes In Thee are multiplied. Deep strike Thy roots, O heavenly Vine, Within our earthly sod, Most human and yet most divine, The flower of man and God ! O Love ! O Life ! Our faith and sight Thy presence maketh one, As through transfigured clouds of white We trace the noon-day sun. So, to our mortal eyes subdued, Flesh-veiled, but not concealed, We know in Thee the fatherhood And heart of God revealed. We faintly hear, we dimly see, In diifering phrase we pray; But, dim or clear, we own in Thee The Light, the Truth, the Way! The homage that we render Thee Is still our Father's own ; No jealous claim or rivalry- Divides the Cross and Throne. To do Thy will is more than praise, As words are less than deeds, And simple trust can find Thy ways We miss with chart of creeds. No pride of self Thy service hath, No place for me and mine ; Our human strength is weakness, death Our life, apart from Thine. Apart from Thee all gain is loss, All labor vainly done ; The solemn shadow of Thy Cross Is better than the sun. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 49 Alone, O Love ineffable! Thy saving name is given ; To turn aside from Thee is hell, To walk with Thee is heaven ! How vain, secure in all Thou art, Our noisy championship ! The sighing of the contrite heart Is more than flattering lip. Not Thine the bigot's partial plea, Nor Thine the zealot's ban : Thou well canst spare a love of Thee Which ends in hate of man. Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord, What may Thy service be? Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word, But simply following Thee. We bring no ghastly holocaust, We pile no graven stone ; He serves Thee best who loveth most His brothers and Thy own. Thy litanies, sweet offices Of love and gratitude ; Thy sacramental liturgies, The joy of doing good. In vain shall waves of incense drift The vaulted nave around, In vain the minster turret lift Its brazen weights of sound. The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells, Thy inward altars raise; Its faith and hope Thy canticles, And its obedience praise ! MY BIRTHDAY BENEATH the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year; The winter winds are wailing low Its dirges in my ear. 50 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER I grieve not with the moaning wind As if a loss befell ; Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well ! His light shines on me from above, His low voice speaks within, The patience of immortal love Outwearying mortal sin. Not mindless of the growing years Of care and loss and pain, My eyes are wet with thankful tears For blessings which remain. If dim the gold of life has grown, I will not count it dross, Nor turn from treasures still my own To sigh for lack and loss. The years no charm from Nature take ; As sweet her voices call, As beautiful her mornings break, As fair her evenings fall. Love watches o'er my quiet ways, Kind voices speak my name, And lips that find it hard to praise Are slow, at least, to blame. How softly ebb the tides of will ! How fields, once lost or won, Now lie behind me green and still Beneath a level sun ! How hushed the hiss of party hate, The clamor of the throng ! How old, harsh voices of debate Flow into rhythmic song ! Methinks the spirit's temper grows Too soft in this still air; Somewhat the restful heart foregoes Of needed watch and prayer. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 51 The bark by tempest vainly tossed May founder in the calm, And he who braved the polar frost Faint by the isles of balm. Better than self-indulgent years The outflung heart of youth, Than pleasant songs in idle years The tumult of the truth. Rest for the weary hands is good, And love for hearts that pine, But let the manly habitude Of upright souls be mine. Let winds that blow from heaven refresh, Dear Lord, the languid air; And let the weakness of the flesh Thy strength of spirit share. And, if the eye must fail of light, The ear forget to hear. Make clearer still the spirit's sight, More fine the inward ear ! Be near me in mine hours of need, To soothe, or cheer, or warn, And down these slopes of sunset lead As up the hills of morn ! CHURCH DEDICATION A.L things are Thine : no gift have we, Lord of all gifts ! to offer Thee ; And hence with grateful hearts to-day, Thy own before Thy feet we lay. Thy will was in the builders' thought; Thy hand unseen amidst us wrought ; Through mortal motive, scheme and plan, Thy wise eternal purpose ran. No lack Thy perfect fulness knew; From human needs and longings grew This house of prayer, this home of rest In the fair garden of the West. 2 52 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER In weakness and in want we call On Thee for whom the heavens are small ; Thy glory is Thy children's good, Thy joy Thy tender Fatherhood. O Father ! deign these walls to bless ; Fill with Thy love their emptiness: And let their door a gateway be To lead us from ourselves to Thee ! THE VOICE OF CALM DEAR Lord and Father of mankind, Forgive our foolish ways ! Reclothe us in our rightful mind, In purer lives Thy service find, In deeper reverence, praise. In simple trust like theirs who heard Beside the Syrian sea The gracious calling of the Lord, Let us, like them, without a word, Rise up and follow Thee. O Sabbath rest by Galilee! O calm of hills above, Where Jesus knelt to share with Thee The silence of eternity Interpreted by love ! With that deep hush subduing all Our words and works that drow r n The tender whisper of Thy call, As noiseless let Thy blessing fall As fell Thy manna down. Drop Thy still dews of quietness, Till all our strivings cease ; Take from our souls the strain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess The beauty of Thy peace. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 53 Breathe through the heats of our desire Thy coolness and Thy balm ; Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire ; Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire, O still, small voice of calm ! THE FRIEND'S BURIAL MY thoughts are all in yonder town, Where, wept by many tears, To-day my mother's friend lays down The burden of her years. True as in life, no poor disguise Of death with her is seen, And on her simple casket lies No wreath of bloom and green. O, not for her the florist's art, The mocking weeds of woe ; Dear memories in each mourner's heart Like heaven's white lilies blow. And all about the softening air Of new-born sweetness tells, . And the ungathered May-flowers wear The tints of ocean shells. The old, assuring miracle Is fresh as heretofore ; And earth takes up its parable Of life from death once more. Here organ-swell and church-bell toll Methinks but discord were, The prayerful silence of the soul Is best befitting her. No sound should break the quietude Alike of earth and sky ; O wandering wind in Seabrook wood, Breathe but a half-heard sigh ! 54 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake ; And thou not distant sea, Lapse lightly as if Jesus spake, And thou wert Galilee ! For all her quiet life flowed on As meadow streamlets flow, Where fresher green reveals alone The noiseless ways they go. From her loved place of prayer I see The plain-robed mourners pass, With slow feet treading reverently The graveyard's springing grass. Make room, O mourning ones, for me, Where, like the friends of Paul, That you no more her face shall see You sorrow most of all. Her path shall brighten more and more Unto the perfect day ; She cannot fail of peace who bore Such peace with her away. O sweet, calm face that seemed to wear The look of sins forgiven ! O voice of prayer that seemed to bear Our own needs up to heaven ! How reverent in our midst she stood, Or knelt in grateful praise ! What grace of Christian womanhood Was in her household ways ! For still her holy living meant No duty left undone ; The heavenly and the human blent Their kindred loves in one. And if her life small leisure found For feasting ear and eye, And Pleasure, on her daily round, She passed unpausing by, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 55 Yet with her went a secret sense Of all things sweet and fair, And Beauty's gracious providence Refreshed her unaware. She kept her line of rectitude With love's unconscious ease; Her kindly instincts understood All gentle courtesies. An inborn charm of graciousness Made sweet her smile and tone And glorified her farm-wife dress With beauty not its own. The dear Lord's best interpreters Are humble human souls ; The Gospel of a life like hers Is more than books or scrolls. From scheme and creed the light goes out, The saintly fact survives ; The blessed Master none can doubt Revealed in holy lives. AT LAST WHEN on my day of life the night is falling, And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling My feet to paths unknown, Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant, Leave not its tenant when its walls decay ; Love Divine, O Helper ever present, Be Thou my strength and stay ! Be near me when all else is from me drifting: Earth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and shine, And kindly faces to my own uplifting The love which answers mine. 1 have but Thee, my Father! let Thy spirit Be with me then to comfort and uphold ; No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit, Nor street of shining gold. 56 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Suffice it if my good and ill unreckoned, And both forgiven through Thy abounding grace I find myself by hands familiar beckoned Unto my fitting place. Some humble door among Thy many mansions, Some sheltering shade where sin and striving cease, And flows for ever through heaven's green expansions The river of Thy peace. There, from the music round about me stealing, I fain would learn the new and holy song, And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing, The life for which I long. THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT A TENDER child of summers three, JL\ Seeking her little bed at night, Paused on the dark stair timidly, 'Oh, mother! take my hand,' said she, 'And then the dark will all be light.' We older children grope our way From dark behind to dark before; And only when our hands we lay, Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day, And there is darkness nevermore. Reach downwards to the sunless days, Wherein our guides are blind as we, And faith is small and hope delays; Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise, And let us feel the light of Thee. OUR LIMITATIONS WE trust and fear, we question and believe, From life's dark threads a trembling faith to weave, Frail as the web that misty night has spun, Whose dew-gemmed awnings glitter in the sun. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 57 While the calm centuries spell their lessons out, Each truth we conquer spreads the realm of doubt ; When Sinai's summit was Jehovah's throne, The chosen Prophet knew His voice alone; When Pilate's hall that awful question heard, The heavenly Captive answered not a word. Eternal Truth ! beyond our hopes and fears Sweep the vast orbits of thy myriad spheres ! From age to age, while history carves sublime On her waste rock the flaming curves of time, How the wild swayings of our planet show That worlds unseen surround the world we know. THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last -found home, and knew the old no more. 58 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low- vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! THE LIVING TEMPLE NOT in the world of light alone, Where God has built His blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below, With belted seas that come and go, And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen: Look in upon thy wondrous frame, Eternal wisdom still the same ! The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves Flows murmuring through its hidden caves, Whose streams of brightening purple rush, Fired with a new and livelier blush, While all their burden of decay The ebbing current steals away, And red with Nature's flame they start From the warm fountains of the heart. No rest that throbbing slave may ask, For ever quivering o'er his task, While far and wide a crimson jet Leaps forth to fill the woven net OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 59 Which in unnumbered crossing tides The flood of burning life divides, Then, kindling each decaying part, Creeps back to find the throbbing heart. But warmed with that unchanging flame Behold the outward moving frame, Its living marbles jointed strong With glistening band and silvery thong, And linked to reason's guiding reins By myriad rings in trembling chains, Each graven with the threaded zone Which claims it as the Master's own. See how yon beam of seeming white Is braided out of seven-hued light, Yet in those lucid globes no ray By any chance shall break astray. Hark how the rolling surge of sound, Arches and spirals circling round, Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear With music it is heaven to hear. Then mark the cloven sphere that holds All thought in its mysterious folds, That feels sensation's faintest thrill, And flashes forth the sovereign will; Think on the stormy world that dwells Locked in its dim and clustering cells! The lightning gleams of power it sheds , Along its hollow glassy threads ! O Father ! grant Thy love divine To make these mystic temples Thine ! When wasting age and wearying strife Have sapped the leaning walls of life, When darkness gathers over all, And the last tottering pillars fall, Take the poor dust Thy mercy warms, And mould it into heavenly forms ! 60 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE PROMISE NOT charity we ask, Nor yet thy gift refuse ; Please thy light fancy with the easy task, Only to look and choose. The little-heeded toy That wins thy treasured gold May be the dearest memory, holiest joy, Of coming years untold. Heaven rains on every heart, But there its showers divide, The drops of mercy choosing as they part The dark or glowing side. One kindly deed may turn The fountain of thy soul To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er thee burn Long as its currents roll ! The pleasures thou hast planned, Where shall their memory be When the white angel with the freezing hand Shall sit and watch by thee? Living, thou dost not live, If mercy's spring run dry ; What heaven has lent thee wilt thou freely give, Dying, thou shalt not die ! He promised even so! To thee His lips repeat, Behold, the tears that soothed thy sister's woe Have washed thy Master's feet ! A SUNDAY HYMN LORD of all being ! throned afar, Thy glory flames from sun and' star ; Centre and soul of every sphere, Yet to each loving heart how near ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 6r Sun of our life, Thy quickening ray Sheds on our path the glow of day ; Star of our hope, Thy softened light Cheers the long watches of the night. Our midnight is Thy smile withdrawn ; Our noontide is Thy gracious dawn ; Our rainbow arch Thy mercy's sign ; All, save the clouds of sin, are Thine ! Lord of all life, below, above, Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love, Before Thy ever-blazing throne We ask no lustre of our own. Grant us Thy truth to make us free, And kindling hearts that burn for Thee, Till all Thy living altars claim One holy light, one heavenly flame ! HYMN OF TRUST OLOVE Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earth-born care. We smile at pain while Thou art near ! Though long the weary way we tread, And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread, Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near! When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou art near! On Thee we fling our burdening woe, O Love Divine, for ever dear, Content to suffer while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near! (gufftncg 77/ COMMUNION OF SAINTS V\7TE gather to the sacred board, W Perchance a scanty band ; But with us in sublime accord What mighty armies stand ! In creed and rite howe'er apart, One Saviour still we own, And pour the worship of the heart Before our Father's throne. A thousand spires o'er hill and vale Point to the same blue heaven ; A thousand voices tell the tale Of grace through Jesus given. High choirs, in Europe's ancient fanes, Praise Him for man who died ; And o'er our boundless Western plains His name is glorified. Around His tomb, on Salem's height, Greek and Armenian bend; And through all Lapland's months of night The peasants' hymns ascend. Are we not brethren ? Saviour dear ! Then may we walk in love, Joint subjects of Thy kingdom here, Joint heirs of bliss above ! MEDITATION ' And they said one to another, Did not our heart burn within us, while He talked with us by the way, and while He opened to us the Scriptures ? ' Luke xxiv. 32. HATH not thy heart within thee burned At evening's calm and holy hour, As if its inmost depths discerned The presence of a loftier power ? STEPHEN GREENLEAF BULFINCH 63 Hast thou not heard 'mid forest glades, While ancient rivers murmured by, A voice from forth the eternal shades, That spake a present Deity? And as, upon the sacred page, Thine eye in rapt attention turned O'er records of a holier age, Hath not thy heart within thee burned ? It was the voice of God, that spake In silence to thy silent heart ; And bade each worthier thought awake, And every dream of earth depart. Voice of our God, O yet be near ! In low, sweet accents, whisper peace ; Direct us on our pathway here; Then bid in heaven our wanderings cease. THE SABBATH DAY 1 1 ivill have mercy, and not sacrifice? Matt. xii. 7. HAIL to the Sabbath Day, The day divinely given, When men to God their homage pay, And earth draws near to heaven. Lord, in this sacred hour. Within Thy courts we bend ; And bless Thy love, and own Thy power, Our Father and our Friend. But Thou art not alone In courts by mortals trod : Nor only is the day Thine own When crowds adore their God. Thy Temple is the arch Of yon unmeasured sky ; Thy Sabbath the stupendous march Of grand Eternity. 64 STEPHEN GREENLEAF BULFINCH Lord, may a holier day Dawn on Thy servants' sight : And grant us in Thy courts to pray Of pure, unclouded light. dlffan (poe SILENCE THERE are some qualities some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence sea and shore Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'ergrown ; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless : his name 's ' No More.' He is the corporate Silence : dread him not ! No power hath he of evil in himself; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot !) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the low regions where hath trod No foot of man), commend thyself to God ! CANA DEAR Friend ! whose presence in the house, Whose gracious word benign, Could once, at Cana's wedding-feast. Change water into wine, Come, visit us, and when dull work Grows weary, line on line, Revive our souls, and make us see Life's water glow as wine. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE 65 Gay mirth shall deepen into joy, Earth's hopes shall grow divine, When Jesus visits us, to turn Life's water into wine. The social talk, the evening fire, The homely household shrine, Shall glow with angel-visits when The Lord pours out the wine. For when self-seeking turns to love, Which knows not mine and thine, The miracle again is wrought, And water changed to wine. JESUS JESUS, there is no dearer name than Thine, Which Time has blazoned on his mighty scroll ; No wreaths nor garlands ever did entwine So fair a temple of so vast a soul. There every virtue set his triumph-seal ; Wisdom, conjoined with strength and radiant grace, In a sweet copy Heaven to reveal, And stamp perfection on a mortal face. Once on the earth wert Thou, before men's eyes, That did not half Thy beauteous brightness see ; E'en as the emmet does not read the skies. Nor our weak orbs look through immensity. THE ALMIGHTY LOVE IN darkest days and nights of storm, Men knew Thee but to fear Thy form ; And in the reddest lightning saw Thine arm avenge insulted law. 66 THEODORE PARKER In brighter days, we read Thy love In flowers beneath, in stars above ; And in the track of every storm Behold Thy beauty's rainbow form. And in the reddest lightning's path We see no vestiges of wrath, But always wisdom, perfect love, From flowers beneath to stars above. See, from on high sweet influence rains On palace, cottage, mountains, plains ; No hour of wrath shall mortals fear, For their Almighty Love is here. EVENING HYMN LO ! the day of rest declineth, Gather fast the shades of night ; May the Sun that ever shineth Fill our souls with heavenly light. Softly now the dew is falling ; Peace o'er all the scene is spread ; On His children, meekly calling, Purer influence God will shed. While Thine ear of love addressing, Thus our parting hymn we sing, Father, give Thine evening blessing; Fold us safe beneath Thy wing. PEACE ON EARTH IT came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth, To touch their harps of gold EDMUND HAMILTON SEARS 67 ' Peace on the earth, good will to men,' From heaven's all-gracious King; The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing. Still through the cloven skies they come, With peaceful wings unfurled, And still their heavenly music floats O'er all the weary world; Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on hovering wing, And ever o'er its Babel-sounds The blessed angels sing. Yet, with the woes of sin and strife, The world has suffered long; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong ; And man, at war with man, hears not The love-song which they bring : O hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing! And ye, beneath life's crushing load, Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way, With painful steps and slow, Look now; for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing: O rest beside the weary road And hear the angels sing! For lo ! the days are hastening on, By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold : When peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling, And the whole world send back the song Which now the angels sing. F 2 63 EDMUND HAMILTON SEARS IDEALS O BRIGHT Ideals, how ye shine, Aloft in realms of air ! Ye pour your streams of light divine Above our low despair. I've climbed, and climbed these weary years To come your glories nigh; I'm tired of climbing, and in tears Here on the earth I lie. As a weak child all vainly tries To pluck the evening star, So vain have been my life-long cries To reach up where ye are. Shine on, shine on, through earth's dark night, Nor let your glories pale ! Some stronger soul may win the height Where weaker ones must fail. And this one thought of hope and trust Comes with its soothing balm, As here I lay my brow in dust, And breathe my lowly psalm, That not for heights of victory won, But those I tried to gain, Will come my gracious Lord's 'Well done!' And sweet effacing rain. Then on your awful heights of blue Shine on, for ever shine; I come! I'll climb, I'll fly to you, For endless years of mine. 69 BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN OH, deem not that earth's crowning bliss Is found in joy alone ; For sorrow, bitter though it be, Hath blessings all its own ; From lips divine, like healing balm, To hearts oppressed and torn, This heavenly consolation fell, 1 Blessed are they that mourn ! ' As blossoms smitten by the rain Their sweetest odors yield, As where the ploughshare deepest strikes Rich harvests crown the field, So, to the hopes by sorrow crushed, A nobler faith succeeds; And life, by trials furrowed, bears The fruit of loving deeds. Who never mourned, hath never known What treasures grief reveals : The sympathies that humanize, The tenderness that heals, The power to look within the veil And learn the heavenly lore, The key- word to life's mysteries, So dark to us before. How rich and sweet and full of strength Our human spirits are, Baptized into the sanctities Of suffering and of prayer ! Supernal wisdom, love divine, Breathed through the lips which said, 'Oh, blessed are the souls that mourn They shall be comforted ! ' 7 o WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH TRUST STILL will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary, And the heart faint beneath His chastening rod, Though rough and steep our pathway, worn and weary, Still will we trust in God ! Our eyes see dimly till by faith anointed, And our blind choosing brings us grief and pain ; Through Him alone, who hath our way appointed, We find our peace again. Choose for us, God, nor let our weak preferring Cheat our poor souls of good Thou hast designed : Choose for us, God ! Thy wisdom is unerring, And we are fools and blind. So from our sky the night shall furl her shadows, And day pour gladness through her golden gates; Our rough path lead to flower-enamelled meadows, Where joy our coming waits. Let us press on : in patient self-denial, Accept the hardship, shrink not from the loss ; Our guerdon lies beyond the hour of trial, Our crown beyond the cross. MATINS FOR the dear love that kept us through the night, And gave our senses to sleep's gentle sway, P^or the new miracle of dawning light Flushing the east with prophecies of day, We thank Thee, O our God ! For the fresh life that through our being flows With its full tide to strengthen and to bless For calm sweet thoughts, upspringing from repose To bear to Thee their song of thankfulness, We praise Thee, O our God ! WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH 71 Day uttereth speech to day, and night to night Tells of Thy power and glory. So would we, Thy children, duly, with the morning light, Or at still eve, upon the bended knee Adore Thee, O our God ! Thou know'st our needs, Thy fulness will supply Our blindness, let Thy hand still lead us on, Till, visited by the dayspring from on high, Our prayer, one only, ' Let Thy will be done ! ' We breathe to Thee, O God ! GIFTED FOR GIVING 'Freely ye have received, freely give.' Matt. x. 8. BE true, O poet, to your gift divine ! And let your heart go throbbing through your line, Till it grows vital with the life that burns In joy and grief, in faith and doubt, by turns, And full, complete expression gives to these In the clear ringing of its cadences ! Pour your soul's passion through the tide of song, Nor ask the plaudits of the changeful throng. Sing as the bird sings, when the morning beam With gentlest touch awakes it from its dream, And life and light, their motion and their glow, Gush through the song, with flow and overflow; Sing as the stream sings, winding through the maze Of woods and meadows with no thought of praise, Its murmurous music, or in storm or calm, Blending its low, sweet notes with Nature's psalm ; Sing as the wind sings, when the forest trees Are vocal with its mystic melodies, And every leaf lifts up its tiny harp To answer back in tones distinct and sharp. Though purblind men, the devotees of greed To song or singer give but little heed, And the deaf multitudes refuse to turn From Mammon's shrines diviner lore to learn, 72 WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH The angels, in their starry homes, shall know How true a spirit walks the earth below, And, pausing in their song, to list your lyre, Shall whisper through the spaces, 4 Come up higher/ otvee (Jto68m0 BACA THROUGH Baca's vale my way is cast, Its thorns my feet have trod ; But I have found the well at last, And quench my thirst in God. My roof is but an humble home Hid in the wilderness; But o'er me springs the eternal dome, For He my dwelling is. My raiment rude and lowly seems, All travel-stained and old ; But with His brightest morning beams He doth my soul infold. How scantly is my table spread ! With tears my cup p'erflows : But He is still my daily bread, No want my spirit knows. Hard is the stony pillow bed ; How broken is my rest! On Him I lean my aching head, And sleep upon His breast. For faith can make the desert bloom ; And, through the vistas dim, Love sees, in sunlight or in gloom, All pathways lead to Him. SAMUEL DOWSE ROBBINS 73 THE COMPASS THOU art, O God, my East ! In Thee I dawned ; Within me ever let Thy day-spring shine ; Then, for each night of sorrow I have mourned, I'll bless Thee, Father, since it seals me Thine. Thou art, O God, my North ! My trembling soul, Like a charmed needle, points to Thee alone : Each wave of time, each storm of life, shall roll My trusting spirit forward to Thy throne. Thou art, O God, my South ! Thy fervent love Perennial verdure o'er my life hath shed ; And constant sunshine, from Thy heart above,, With wine and oil Thy grateful child hath fed. Thou art, O God, my West! Into Thy arms, Glad as the setting sun, may I decline; Baptized from earthly stains and sin's alarms, Reborn, arise in Thy new heavens to shine. (KoBerf ae0te QStaterefon CEASELESS ASPIRATIONS NOT all the beauties of this joyous earth, Its smiling valleys or its azure sky, Or the sweet blossoms that in quiet mirth Turn their soft cheeks to winds that wander by, Can please enough the ear, or satisfy the eye ! The silver fountain, with its misty shower; The curling wave, dissolving on the shore ; The clouds that feed with dew each infant flower ; The small stream's gentle song, the ocean's roar, All give the mind delight, and yet it seeks for more ! 74 ROBERT CASSIE WATERSTON Thus doth the soul, by its innate desire, Give inward prophecy of what shall be ! The spirit struggling, higher yet, and higher, Panting for light and restless to be free, Foreshadows in itself its immortality MORTAL AND IMMORTAL I STAND between the Future and the Past, That which has been and that which is to be ; A feeble ray from the Eternal cast ; A scanty rill, that seeks a shoreless sea ; A living soul, treading this earthly sod ; A finite being, yet a child of God ! A body crumbling to the dust away ; A spirit panting for eternal peace ; A heavenly kingdom in a frame of clay ; An infant-angel fluttering for release; An erring man, whose race has just begun ; A pilgrim, journeying on from sun to sun ! Creature of clay, yet heir of future life ; Dweller upon a world I shall outlive ; Soldier of Christ, battling midst earthly strife, Yet hoping, by that strength which God may give, To burst the doors of death, and glorying rise Triumphant from the grave, to tread the skies ! 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. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 75 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 lull us gently to our rest, And melt into our dream. And in the hush of rest they bring 3 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, Wrapped 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. 76 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE T THE SOUL'S ANSWER 1 Abide in Me, and I in you.' John xv. 4. HAT mystic word of Thine, O sovereign Lord, Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me; Weary of striving, and with longing faint, I breathe it back again in prayer to Thee. Abide in me, I pray, and I in Thee; From this good hour, O, leave me never more; Then shall the discord cease, the wound be healed, The life-long bleeding of the soul be o'er. Abide in me ; o'ershadow by Thy love Each half-formed purpose and dark thought of sin ; Quench, ere it rise, each selfish, low desire, And keep my soul as Thine, calm and divine. As some rare perfume in a vase of clay Pervades it with a fragrance not its own, So, when Thou dwellest in a mortal soul, All heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown. Abide in me ; there have been moments blest When I have heard Thy voice and felt Thy power, Then evil lost its grasp, and passion hushed, Owned the divine enchantment of the hour. These were but seasons, beautiful and rare ; Abide in me, and they shall ever be; Fulfil at once Thy precept and my prayer Come, and abide in me, and I in Thee ! THE SECRET ' Thou shalt keep them in the secret of Thy presence from the strife of tongues.' WHEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean, And billows wild contend with angry roar, 'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion, That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 77 Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth, And silver waves glide ever peacefully, And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth, Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea. So to the soul that knows Thy love, O Purest! There is a temple, sacred evermore ! And all the babble of life's angry voices Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door. Far, far away, the noise of passion dieth, And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully, And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth, Disturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in Thee. O Rest of rests ! O Peace serene, eternal ! Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never; And in the secret of Thy presence dwelleth Fulness of joy, forever and forever. WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE. STILL, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh and the shadows flee ; Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness, / am with Thee! Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born ; Alone with Thee, in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the morn. Still, still with Thee, as to each new-born morning A fresh and solemn splendor still is given, So doth this blessed consciousness, awaking, Breathe, each day, nearness unto Thee and heaven. When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer; Sweet the repose beneath Thy wings o'ershading, But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE So shall it be at last, in that bright morning When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee ; O, in that hour fairer than daylight dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought, / am with Thee /. GNOSIS THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought ; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils ; Man by man was never seen ; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known ; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns, left alone, Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie ; All is thus but starlight here. What is social company But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream ? Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought ; Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught ; Only when our souls are fed By the Fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led Which they never drew from earth ; CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 79 We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they melt and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one. COMPENSATION TEARS wash away the atoms in the eye That smarted for a day; Rain-clouds that spoiled the splendors of the sky The fields with flowers array. No chamber of pain but has some hidden door That promises release ; No solitude so drear but yields its store Of thought and inward peace. No night so wild but brings the constant sun With love and power untold ; No time so dark but through its woof there run Some blessed threads of gold. And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn In changing calm and strife The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn, The unquenched lamps of life. O Love supreme ! O Providence divine ! What self-adjusting springs Of law and life, what even scales, are Thine, What sure-returning wings Of hopes and joys that flit like birds away, When chilling autumn blows, But come again, long ere the buds of May Their rosy lips unclose ! What wondrous play of mood and accident Through shifting days and years ; What fresh returns of vigor overspent In feverish dreams and fears ! CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH What wholesome air of conscience and of thought When doubts and forms oppress ; What vistas opening to the gates we sought Beyond the wilderness : Beyond the narrow cells where self-involved, Like chrysalids, we wait The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved Of death and change and fate ! O Light divine ! we need no fuller test That all is ordered well ; We know enough to trust that all is best Where love and wisdom dwell. / IN THEE, AND THOU IN ME I AM but clay in Thy hands, but Thou art the all- loving Artist. Passive I lie in Thy sight, yet in my selfhood I strive So to embody the life and the love Thou ever impartest, That in my sphere of the finite I may be truly alive. Knowing Thou needest this form, as I Thy divine in- spiration, Knowing Thou shapest the clay with a vision and purpose divine, So would I answer each touch of Thy hand in its loving creation, That in my conscious life Thy power and beauty may shine, Reflecting the noble intent Thou hast in forming Thy creatures ; Waking from sense into life of the soul, and the image of Thee ; Working with Thee in Thy work to model humanity's features Into the likeness of God, myself from myself I would free. CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 81 One with all human existence, no one above or below me ; Lit by Thy wisdom and love, as roses are steeped in the morn ; Growing from clay to a statue, from statue to flesh, till Thou know me Wrought into manhood celestial, and in Thine image re-born. So in Thy love will I trust, bringing me sooner or later Past the dark screen that divides these shows of the finite from Thee. Thine, Thine only, this warm dear life, O loving Creator ! Thine the invisible future, born of the present, must be. LIFE AND DEATH IF death be final, what is life, with all Its lavish promises, its thwarted aims, Its lost ideals, its dishonoured claims, Its uncompleted growth? A prison wall, Whose heartless stones but echo back our call ; An epitaph recording but our names ; A puppet-stage where joys and griefs and shames Furnish a demon jesters' carnival ; A plan without a purpose or a form ; A roofless temple ; an unfinished tale. And men like madrepores through calm and storm Toil, die to build a branch of fossil frail, And add from all their dreams, thoughts, acts, belief, A few more inches to a coral-reef. NATURE THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, Because my feet find measure with its call, The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, For I am known to them both great and small ; 82 JONES VERY The flowers that on the lovely hill-side grow Expect me there when Spring their bloom has given And many a tree and bush my wanderings know, And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ; For he who with his Maker walks aright, Shall be their lord, as Adam was before ; His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, Each object wear the dress which then it wore ; And he, as when erect in soul he stood, Hear from his Father's lips, that all is good. THE SABBATIA THE sweet-briar rose has not a form more fair, Nor are its hues more beauteous than thine own, Sabbatia, flower most beautiful and rare ! In lonely spots blooming unseen, unknown. So spiritual thy look, thy stem so light, Thou seemest not from the dark earth to grow ; But to belong to heavenly regions bright, Where night comes not, nor blasts of winter blow. To me thou art a pure, ideal flower, So delicate that mortal touch might mar ; Not born, like other flowers, of sun and shower, But wandering from thy native home afar To lead our thoughts to some serener clime Beyond the shadows and the storms of time. LIFE IT is not life upon Thy gifts to live, But to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee ; And when the sun and shower their bounties give, To send out thick-leaved limbs ; a fruitful tree, Whose green head meets the eye for many a mile, Whose spreading boughs a friendly shelter rear, Where full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile, As to its goodly shade our feet draw near; JONES VERY 83 Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more, For 'tis the Father spreads the pure repast, Who, while we eat, renews the ready store, Which at His bounteous board must ever last; For none the Bridegroom's supper shall attend, Who will not hear and make His Word their friend. THE PRESENCE I SIT within my room, and joy to find That Thou who always lov'st art with me here, That I am never left by Thee behind, But by Thyself Thou keep'st me ever near ; The fire burns brighter when with Thee I look, And seems a kinder servant sent to me; With gladder heart I read Thy holy book, Because Thou art the eyes by which I see ; This aged chair, that table, watch, and door Around in ready service ever wait ; Nor can I ask of Thee a menial more To fill the measure of my large estate, For Thou Thyself, with all a Father's care Where'er I turn, art ever with me there. THE SPIRIT I WOULD not breathe, when blows Thy mighty wind O'er desolate hill and winter-blasted plain, But stand, in waiting hope, if I may find Each flower recalled to newer life again, That now unsightly hides itself from Thee, Amid the leaves or rustling grasses dry, With ice-cased rock and snowy-mantled tree, Ashamed lest Thou its nakedness should spy ; But Thou shalt breathe, and every rattling bough Shall gather leaves ; each rock with rivers flow ; And they that hide them from Thy presence now, In new-found robes along Thy path shall glow, And meadows at Thy coming fall and rise, Their green waves sprinkled with a thousand eyes. G 2 84 JONES VERY LABOR AND REST THOU need'st not rest : the shining spheres are Thine That roll perpetual on their silent way, And Thou dost breathe in me a voice divine, That tells more sure of Thine eternal sway ; Thine the first starting of the early leaf, The gathering green, the changing autumn hue ; To Thee the world's long years are but as brief As the fresh tints that Spring will soon renew. Thou needest not man's little life of 3 r ears, Save that he gather wisdom from them all ; That in Thy fear he lose all other fears, And in Thy calling heed no other call. Then shall he be Thy child to know Thy care, And in Thy glorious Self the eternal Sabbath share. THE PRAYER 1LT Thou not visit me? The plant beside me feels Thy gentle dew ; And every blade of grass I see, From Thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew. Wilt Thou not visit me? Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone ; And every hill and tree Lend but one voice, the voice of Thee alone. Come, for I need Thy love, More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain ; Come, gently as Thy holy Dove ; And let me in Thy sight rejoice to live again. I will not hide from them When Thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath ; But bow with leafy stem, And strengthened follow on Thy chosen path. Yes, Thou wilt visit me, Nor plant nor tree Thine eye delights so well, As when, from sin set free My spirit loves with Thine in peace to dwell. JONES VERY 85 THE LIGHT FROM WITHIN I SAW on earth another light Than that which lit my eye Come forth as from my soul within, And from a higher sky. Its beams shone still unclouded on, When in the farthest west The sun I once had known had sunk Forever to his rest. And on I walked, though dark the night, Nor rose his orb by day ; As one who by a surer guide Was pointed out the way. , 'Twas brighter far than noonday's beam ; It shone from God within, And lit, as by a lamp from heaven, The world's dark track of sin. THE MOUNTAINS OLD mountains! dim and gray ye rise As ceaseless prayer, earth's sacrifice ! Sharing your breath, the soul adores, And with your soaring summits soars. Where Moses taught, where Jesus trod, Your tops stand altars unto God. O shapes of glory, sacred all, From every height heaven's blessings fall. The minaret-watchman's punctual cry Summons loud worship to the sky; Voiceless appeals, from you sent down, A million silent throbbings own. 86 SUCH IS LIFE T IFE is a sea; like ships we meet, JL/ We speak each other and are gone. Across that deep, Oh, what a fleet Of human souls is hurrying on ! We meet, we part, and hope some day To meet again on sea or shore, Before we reach that peaceful bay, Where all shall meet to part no more. O great Commander of the fleet ! O Ruler of the tossing seas ! Thy signal to our eyes how sweet ! How sweet Thy breath, the heavenly breeze THE GREAT VOICES A VOICE from the sea to the mountains, From the mountains again to the sea : A call from the deep to the fountains, O spirit ! be glad and be free ! A cry from the floods to the fountains, And the torrents repeat the glad song, As they leap from the breast of the mountains, O spirit ! be free and be strong ! The pine forests thrill with emotion Of praise, as the spirit sweeps by ; With a voice like the murmur of ocean, To the soul of the listener they cry. O sing, human heart, like the fountains, With joy reverential and free ; Contented and calm as the mountains, And deep as the woods and the sea. 87 DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL T TNDERNEATH the sod, low lying, LJ Dark and drear, Sleepeth one who left, in dying, Sorrow here. Yes, they're ever bending o'er her, Eyes that weep ; Forms that to the cold grave bore her, Vigils keep. When the summer moon is shining Soft and fair, Friends she loved in tears are twining Chaplets there. Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, Throned above ; Souls like thine with God inherit Life and love ! DIRGE SOFTLY ! She is lying With her lips apart. Softly! She is dying Of a broken heart. Whisper ! She is going To her final rest. Whisper ! Life is growing Dim within her breast. CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN Gently . She is sleeping ; She has breathed her last. Gently ! While you're weeping, She to heaven has past. INSPIRATION IF with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of anything, The verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope, Listening behind me for my wit, With faith superior to hope, More anxious to keep back than forward it; Making my soul accomplice there Unto the flame my heart hath lit, Then will the verse for ever wear, Time cannot bend the line which God has writ. I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before ; I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore. Now chiefly is my natal hour, And only now my prime of life ; Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 'Tis peace's end, and war's beginning strife. It comes in summer's broadest noon By a gray wall, or some chance place, Unseasoning time, insulting June, And vexing day with its presuming face. I will not doubt the love untold Which not my worth nor want hath bought, Which woo'd me young, and wooes me old, And to this evening hath me brought. THE DESIRE OF ALL NATIONS SAVIOUR, sprinkle many nations, Fruitful let Thy sorrows be ; By Thy pains and consolations Draw the Gentiles unto Thee : Of Thy Cross the wondrous story Be to all the nations told ; Let them see Thee in Thy glory, And Thy mercy manifold. Far and wide, though all unknowing, Pants for Thee each mortal breast ; Human tears for Thee are flowing, Human hearts in Thee would rest : Thirsting as for dews of even, As the new-mown grass for rain, Thee they seek, as God of heaven, Thee as Man for sinners slain. Saviour, lo, the isles are waiting, Stretched the hand, and strained the sight For Thy Spirit, new-creating, Love's pure flame and wisdom's light; Give the word, and of the preacher Speed the foot and touch the tongue, Till on earth by every creature Glory to the Lamb be sung. EPITAPH ON A CHILD THIS little seed of life and love, Just lent us for a day, Came like a blessing from above, Passed like a dream away. 90 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS And when we garnered in the earth The foison that was ours, We felt that burial was but birth To spirits, as to flowers. And still that benediction stays Although its angel passed : Dear God ! Thy ways, if bitter ways, We learn to love at last. But for the dream, it broke indeed, Yet still great comfort gives ; What was a dream is now our creed, - We know our darling lives. PARADISI GLORIA O frate mio ! ciascuna e cittadina D' una vera citta. . . . THERE is a city, builded by no hand, And unapproachable by sea or shore, And unassailable by any band Of storming soldiery for evermore. There we no longer shall divide our time By acts or pleasures, doing petty things Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme ; But we shall sit beside the silver springs That flow from God's own footstool, and behold Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few Who loved us once and were beloved of old, To dwell with them and walk with them anew, In alternations of sublime repose, Musical motion, the perpetual play Of every faculty that heaven bestows Through the bright, busy, and eternal day. THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS 91 TO A YOUNG GIRL DYING T^HIS is Palm Sunday. Mindful of the day, 1 I bring palm-branches, found upon my way ; But these will wither, thine shall never die, The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky ! Dear little saint, though but a child in years, Older in wisdom than thy gray compeers ! We doubt and tremble, we with bated breath, Talk of this mystery of life and death : Thou, strong in faith, and gifted to conceive Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe ! Then take thy palms triumphal to thy home, Gentle white palmer, never more to roam ! Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st, Thy benediction, for my love thou know'st; We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine. BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword : His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred cir- cling camps ; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps ; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps : His day is marching on. 92 JULIA WARD HOWE I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : ' As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal ; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel ! Since God is marching on.' He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat ; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat; Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born, across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me : As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. A SONG OF DOUBT THE day is quenched, and the sun is fled God has forgotten the world ! The moon is gone, and the stars are dead ; God has forgotten the world ! Evil has won in the horrid feud Of ages with the throne ; Evil stands on the neck of Good, And rules the world alone. There is no good ; there is no God ; And faith is a heartless cheat, Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, And scatters thorns for the feet. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND 93 What are prayers in the lips of death, Filling and chilling with hail? What are prayers but wasted breath, Beaten back by the gale? The day is quenched, and the sun is fled ; God has forgotten the world ! The moon is gone, and the stars are dead ; God has forgotten the world ! A SONG OF FAITH DAY will return with a fresher boon ; God will remember the world ! Night will come with a newer moon ; God will remember the world ! Evil is only the slave of good ; Sorrow the servant of joy ; And the soul is mad that refuses food Of the meanest in God's employ. The fountain of joy is fed by tears, And love is lit by the breath of sighs ; The deepest griefs and the wildest fears Have holiest ministries; Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm ; Safely the flower sleeps under the snow ; And the farmer's hearth is never warm Till the cold wind starts to blow. Day will return with a fresher boon; God will remember the world ! Night will come with a newer moon ; God will remember the world ! A CHRISTMAS CAROL THERE'S a song in the air! 1 There 's a star in the sky ! There's a mother's deep prayer And a baby's low cry; And the star rains its fire while the beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king ! 94 JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND There's a tumult of joy O'er the wonderful birth, For the Virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth. Ay, the star rains its fire, and the beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king ! In the light of that star Lie the ages impearled ; And that song from afar Has swept over the world ; Every hearth is aflame, and the beautiful sing, In the homes of the nations, that Jesus is king ! ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING I DO not come to weep above thy pall, And mourn the dying-out of noble powers ; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all Earth's seeming woe, the seed of heaven's flowers. Truth needs no champions : in the infinite deep Of everlasting Soul her strength abides, From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap, Through Nature's veins her strength, undying tides. Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, Where force were vain, makes conquest o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless, When they who loved are hidden in the grave. The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood ; But Alexander now to Plato yields, Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood. I watch the circle of the eternal years, And read for ever in the storied page One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears, One onward step of Truth from age to age. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 95 The poor are crushed ; the tyrants link their chain ; The poet sings through narrow dungeon-grates ; Man's hope lies quenched ; and, lo ! with steadfast gain Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates. Men slay the prophets ; fagot, rack, and cross Make up the groaning record of the past ; But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, And sovereign Beauty wins the soul at last. No power can die that ever wrought for Truth ; Thereby a law of Nature it became, And lives unwithered in its sinewy youth, When he who called it forth is but a name. Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone; The better part of thee is with us still ; Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown, And only freer wrestles with the 111. Thou livest in the life of all good things ; What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die ; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly. And often, from that other world, on this Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. Thou art not idle: in thy higher sphere Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, And strength, to perfect what it dreamed of here, Is all the crown and glory that it asks. For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room For love and pity, and for helpful deeds; Else were our summons thither but a doom To life more vain than this in clayey weeds. From off the starry mountain-peak of song, Thy spirit shows me, in the coming time, An earth unwithered by the foot of wrong, A race revering its own soul sublime. 96 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes may come, Thou knowest not, nor I ; but God will lead The prodigal soul from want and sorrow home, And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed. Farewell ! good man, good angel now ! this hand Soon, like thine ow r n, shall lose its cunning too ; Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand, Then leap to thread the free, unfathomed blue : \Vhen that day comes, O, may this hand grow cold, Busy, like thine, for Freedom and the Right ; O, may this soul, like thine, be ever bold To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight ! This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; Let worthier hands than these thy wreath intwine ; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear, For us weep rather thou in calm divine ! THE PRESENT CRISIS WHEN a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time. Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan- taneous throe, When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro ; At the birth of each new Era, with a recognising start, Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart, And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 97 So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill, Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with God In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod, Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler clod. For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along, Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right or wrong; Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frame Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame; In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim. Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side ; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choice goes by for ever 'twixt that darkness and that light. Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand, Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land ? Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong, And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong. H 98 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see, That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea; Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly ; Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by. Careless seems the great Avenger ; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word; Truth for ever on the scaffold, Wrong for ever on the throne, Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own. We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate, But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within, 'They enslave their children's children who make com- promise with sin.' Slavery, the earthborn Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood, Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey ; Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play? JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 99 Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, they were souls that stood alone, While the men they agonized for hurled the contu- melious stone, Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design. By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, And these mounts of anguish number how each genera- tion learned One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet- hearts hath burned, Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned. For Humanity sweeps onward : where to-day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands ; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn. H 2 ioo JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime; Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time ? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth rock sublime? They were men of present valour, stalwart old icono- clasts, Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's ; But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free, Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea. They have rights who dare maintain them ; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar- fires ; Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day ? New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth ; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth ; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires ! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood- rusted key. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE CHANGELING I HAD a little daughter, And she was given to me To lead me gently backward To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature, Might in some dim wise divine The depth of His infinite patience To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her, But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ; For it was as wavy and golden, And as many changes took, As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook. To what can I liken her smiling, Upon me, her kneeling lover, How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, And dimpled her wholly over, Till her outstretched hands smiled also, And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother Sending sun through her veins to me ! She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth, And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away ; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari But loosed the hampering strings, And when they had opened her cage-door, My little bird used her wings. But they left in her stead a changeling, A little angel child, That seems like her bud in full blossom, And smiles as she never smiled : JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL When I wake in the morning, I see it Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet Alone 'neath the awful sky. As weak, yet as trustful also; For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature Still worked for the love of me ; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. This child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bliss it upon my breast ; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she 's gone to Transfigures its golden hair. BIBLIOLATRES BOWING thyself in dust before a Book, And thinking the great God is thine alone, O rash iconoclast, thou wilt not brook What gods the heathen carves in wood and stone, As if the Shepherd, who from outer cold Leads all His shivering lambs to one sure fold, Were careful for the fashion of His crook. There is no broken reed so poor and base, No rush, the bending tilt of swamp-fly blue, But He therewith the ravening wolf can chase, And guide His flock to springs and pastures new; Through ways unlocked for, and through many lands, Far from the rich folds built with human hands, The gracious footprints of His love I trace. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 103 And what art thou, own brother of the clod, That from His hand the crook would snatch away, And shake instead thy dry and sapless rod, To scare the sheep out of the wholesome day ? Yea, what art thou, blind, unconverted Jew, That with thy idol-volume's covers two Wouldst make a jail to coop the living God ? Thou hear'st not well the mountain organ-tones By prophet ears from Hor and Sinai caught, Thinking the cisterns of those Hebrew brains Drew dry the springs of the All-knower's thought, Nor shall thy lips be touched with living fire, Who blow'st old altar-coals with sole desire To weld anew the spirit's broken chains. God is not dumb, that He should speak no more ; If thou hast wanderings in the wilderness And find'st not Sinai, 'tis thy soul is poor; There towers the mountain of the Voice no less, Which whoso seeks shall find, but he who bends, Intent on manna still and mortal ends, Sees it not, neither hears its thundered lore. Slowly the Bible of the race is writ, And not on paper leaves nor leaves of stone ; Each age, each kindred, adds a verse to it, Texts of despair or hope, of joy or moan. While swings the sea, while mists the mountains shroud, While thunder's surges burst on cliffs of cloud, Still at the prophets' feet the nations sit. ALL-SAINTS ONE feast, of holy days the crest, I, though no Churchman, love to keep, All-Saints, the unknown good that rest In God's still memory folded deep ; The bravely dumb that did their deed, And scorned to blot it with a name, Men of the plain heroic breed, That loved Heaven's silence more than fame. io 4 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Such lived not in the past alone, But thread to-day the unheeding street, And stairs to Sin and Famine known Sing with the welcome of their feet ; The den they enter grows a shrine, The grimy sash an oriel burns, Their cup of water warms like wine, Their speech is filled from heavenly urns. About their brows to me appears An aureole traced in tenderest light, The rainbow-gleam of smiles through tears In dying eyes, by them made bright, Of souls that shivered on the edge Of that chill ford repassed no more, And in their mercy felt the pledge And sweetness of the farther shore. I A CHRISTMAS CAROL ' YVYHAT means this glory round our feet,' W The Magi mused, ' more bright than morn ?' And voices chanted clear and sweet, ' To-day the Prince of Peace is born.' 'What means that star,' the shepherds said, 'That brightens through the rocky glen?' And angels, answering overhead, Sang, ' Peace on earth, good-will to men.' 'Tis eighteen hundred years and more Since those sweet oracles were dumb ; We wait for Him, like them of yore ; Alas ! He seems so slow to come. But it was said in words of gold, No time or sorrow e'er shall dim, That little children might be bold, In perfect trust to come to Him. All round about our feet shall shine A light like that the wise men saw, If we our willing hearts incline To that sweet Life which is the Law. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 105 So shall we learn to understand The simple faith of shepherds then, And, kindly clasping hand in hand, Sing, 'Peace on earth, good-will to men.' For they who to their childhood cling, And keep their natures fresh as morn, Once more shall hear the angels sing, 'To-day the Prince of Peace is born.' HYMN OF WINTER J'T'IS winter now; the fallen snow 1 Has left the heavens all coldly clear; Through leafless boughs the sharp winds blow, And all the earth lies dead and drear. And yet God's love is not withdrawn ; His life within the keen air breathes, His beauty paints the crimson dawn, And clothes the boughs with glittering wreaths. And though abroad the sharp winds blow, And skies are chill, and frosts are keen, Home closer draws her circle now, And warmer glows her light within. O God! who giv'st the winter's cold, As well as summer's joyous rays, Us warmly in Thy love enfold, And keep us through life's wintry days. VESPER HYMN NOW on land and sea descending, Brings the night its peace profound ; Let our vesper-hymn be blending With the holy calm around. Soon as dies the sunset glory, Stars of heaven shine out above, Telling still the ancient story, Their Creator's changeless love. 106 SAMUEL LONGFELLOW Now our wants and burdens leaving To His care, who cares for all, Cease we fearing, cease we grieving, At His touch our burdens fall. As the darkness deepens o'er us, Lo ! eternal stars arise; Hope and Faith and Love rise glorious Shining in the spirit's skies. THE CHURCH UNIVERSAL ONE holy church of God appears Through every age and race, Unwasted by the lapse of years, Unchanged by changing place. From oldest time, on farthest shores, Beneath the pine or palm, One Unseen Presence she adores, With silence, or with psalm. Her priests are all God's faithful sons, To serve the world raised up ; The pure in heart her baptized ones, Love her communion-cup. The truth is her prophetic gift, The soul her sacred page ; And feet on mercy's errand swift, Do make her pilgrimage. living church, thine errand speed, Fulfil thy task sublime ; With bread of life earth's hunger feed ; Redeem the evil time ! LOOKING UNTO GOD I LOOK to Thee in every need, And never look in vain ; 1 feel Thy strong and tender love, And all is well again : The thought of Thee is mightier far Than sin and pain and sorrow are. SAMUEL LONGFELLOW 107 Discouraged in the work of life, Disheartened by its load, Shamed by its failures or its fears I sink beside the road ; But let me only think of Thee, And then new heart springs up in me. Thy calmness bends serene above, My restlessness to still ; Around me flows Thy quickening life, To nerve my faltering will ; Thy presence fills my solitude ; Thy providence turns all to good. Embosomed deep in Thy dear love, Held in Thy law, I stand ; Thy hand in all things I behold, And all things in Thy hand ; Thou leadest me by unsought ways, And turn'st my mourning into praise. THE GOLDEN SUNSET THE golden sea its mirror spreads Beneath the golden skies, And but a narrow strip between Our earth and shadow lies. The cloud-like cliffs, the cliff-like clouds, Dissolved in glory float, And mid-way of the radiant floods Hangs silently the boat. The sea is but another sky, The sky a sea as well ; And which is earth, and which the heavens, The eye can scarcely tell. So when for me life's latest hour Soft passes to its end, May glory born of earth and heaven The earth and heaven blend ; io8 SAMUEL LONGFELLOW Flooded with light the spirit float, With silent rapture glow, Till where earth ends and heaven begins, The soul can scarcely know. T LOVE 'O love and seek return, To ask but only this, To feel where we have poured our heart The spirit's answering kiss ; To dream that now our eyes The brightening eyes shall meet, And that the word we've listened for Our hungering ears shall greet How human and how sweet ! To love nor find return, Our hearts poured out in vain ; No brightening look, no answering tone, Left lonely with our pain ; The open heavens closed, Night when we looked for morn, The unfolding blossom harshly chilled, Hope slain as soon as born, How bitter, how forlorn ! To love nor ask return, To accept our solitude, Not now for others' love to yearn But only for their good ; To joy if they are crowned, Though thorns our head entwine, And in the thought of blessing them All thought of self resign, How god-like, how divine ! log THE SEA OF FAITH PASSAGE, immediate passage ! the blood burns in my veins ! Away, O soul ! hoist instantly the anchor ! Cut the hawsers -haul out shake out every sail! Have we not stood here like trees in the ground long enough ? Have we not grovell'd here long enough eating and drinking like mere brutes ? Have we not darken'd and dazed ourselves with books long enough ? Sail forth steer for the deep waters only, Reckless, O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me, For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go, And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all. O my brave soul ! O farther, farther sail ! O daring joy, but safe ! are they not all the seas of God ? O farther, farther, farther sail ! THE PRAYER OF COLUMBUS ONE effort more, my altar this bleak sand ; That Thou, O God, my life hast lighted, With ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of Thee, Light rare untellable, lighting the very light, Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages ; For that, O God, be it my latest word, here on my knees, Old, poor, and paralyzed, I thank Thee. My terminus near, The clouds already closing in upon me, The voyage balk'd, the course disputed, lost, I yield my ships to Thee. no WALT WHITMAN My hands, my limbs grow nerveless, My brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd, Let the old timbers part, I will not part, I will cling fast to Thee, O God, though the waves buffet me, Thee, Thee at least I know. WHISPERS OF HEAVENLY DEATH WHISPERS of heavenly death murmur'd I hear, Labial gossip of night, sibilant chorals, Footsteps gently ascending, mystical breezes wafted soft and low, Ripples of unseen rivers, tides of a current flowing, forever flowing, (Or is it the splashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears ?) I see, just see skyward, great cloud-masses, Mournfully slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing, With at times a half-dimm'd sadden'd far-off star, Appearing and disappearing. (Some parturition rather, some solemn immortal birth; On the frontiers to eyes impenetrable, Some soul is passing over.) PENSIVE AND FALTERING PENSIVE and faltering, The words the Dead I write, For living are the Dead, (Haply the only living, only real, And I the apparition, I the spectre). THE LAST INVOCATION /T the last, tenderly, V From the walls of the powerful fortress'd house, From the clasp of the knitted locks, from the keep of the well-closed doors, Let me be wafted. A T WALT WHITMAN in Let me glide noiselessly forth ; With the key of softness unlock the locks with a whisper, Set ope the doors, O soul. Tenderly, be not impatient, (Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh ; Strong is your hold, O love.) ' THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER ' NOW, trumpeter ! for thy close, Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet, Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future, Give me for once its prophecy and joy. O glad, exulting, culminating song ! A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes ! Marches of victory man disenthral'd the conqueror at last, Hymns to the universal God from universal man all joy ! A reborn race appears a perfect world, all joy ! Women and men in wisdom innocence and health all jy ! Riotous, laughing bacchanals, fill'd with joy ! War, sorrow, suffering gone the rank earth purged nothing but joy left ! The ocean fill'd with joy the atmosphere all joy ! Joy ! joy ! in freedom, worship, love ! Joy in the ecstasy of life ! Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe ! Joy ! joy ! all over joy ! B LIGHT E not much troubled about many things, Fear often hath no whit of substance in it, And lives but just a minute ; 2 ALICE GARY While from the very snow the wheat-blade springs. And light is like a flower, That oursts in full leaf from the darkest hour. And He who made the night, Made, too, the flowery sweetness of the light. Be it thy task, through His good grace, to win it. SERMONS IN STONES FLOWER of the deep red zone, Rain the fine light about thee, near and far, Hold the wide earth, so as the evening star Holdeth all heaven, alone, And with thy wondrous glory make men see His greater glory who did fashion thee! Sing, little goldfinch, sing Make the rough billows lift their curly ears And listen, fill the violet's eyes with tears, Make the green leaves to swing As in a dance, when thou dost hie along, Showing the sweetness whence thou get'st thy song. O daisies of the hills, When winds do pipe to charm ye, be not slow. Crowd up, crowd up, and make your shoulders show White o'er the daffodils ! Yea, shadow forth through your excelling grace With whom ye have held counsel face to face. Fill full our desire, Gray grasses ; trick your lowly stems with green, And wear your splendors even as a queen Weareth her soft attire. Unfold the cunning mystery of design That combs out all your skirts to ribbons fine. And O, my heart, my heart, Be careful to go strewing in and out Thy way with good deeds, lest it come about That when thou shalt depart, No low lamenting tongue be found to say, The world is poorer since thou went'st away ! ALICE GARY 113 Thou shouldst not idly beat, While beauty draweth good men's thoughts to prayer, Even as the bird's wing draweth out the air, But make so fair and sweet Thy house of clay, some dusk shall spread about, When death unlocks the door and lets thee out. TIME WHAT is time, O glorious Giver, With its restlessness and might, But a lost and wandering river Working back into the light ? Every gloomy rock that troubles Its smooth passage, strikes to life Beautiful and joyous bubbles, That are only born through strife. Overhung with mist-like shadows, Stretch its shores away, away, To the long, delightful meadows Shining with immortal May : Where its. moaning reaches never, Passion, pain, or fear to move, And the changes bring us ever Sabbaths and new moons of love. THE SURE WITNESS THE solemn wood had spread Shadows around my head ; ' Curtains they are,' I said, ' Hung dim and still about the house of prayer ; ' Softly among the limbs, I heard the winds, and asked if God were there. No voice replied, but while I listening stood, Sweet peace made holy hushes through the wood. U4 ALICE GARY With ruddy, open hand, I saw the wild rose stand Beside the green gate of the summer hills ; And pulling at her dress, I cried, ' Sweet hermitess, Hast thou beheld Him who the dew distils ? ' No voice replied, but while I listening bent, Her gracious beauty made my heart content. The moon in splendor shone ; ' She walketh heaven alone, And seeth all things,' to myself I mused : ' Hast thou beheld Him, then, Who hides himself from men In that great power through nature interfused ? ' No speech made answer, and no sign appeared, But in the silence I was soothed and cheered. W T aking one time, strange awe Thrilling my soul, I saw A kingly splendor round about the night; Such cunning work the hand Of spinner never planned, The finest wool may not be washed so white. ' Hast thou come out of heaven ? ' I asked ; and lo ! The snow was all the answer of the snow. Then my heart said, ' Give o'er ; Question no more, no more ! The wind, the snow-storm, the wild hermit flower, The illuminated air, The pleasure after prayer, Proclaim the unoriginated Power ! The mystery that hides Him here and there Bears the sure witness He is everywhere.' A DREAM OF HOME SUNSET ! a hush is on the air, Their gray old heads the mountains bare, As if the winds were saying prayer. ALICE GARY 115 The woodland, with its broad, green wing, Shuts close the insect whispering, And lo ! the sea gets up to sing. The day's last splendor fades and dies, And shadows one by one arise, To light the candles of the skies. O wild flowers, wet with tearful dew, woods, with starlight shining through ! My heart is back to-night with you ! 1 know each beech and maple tree, Each climbing brier and shrub I see, Like friends they stand to welcome me. Musing, I go along the streams, Sweetly believing in my dreams; For Fancy like a prophet seems. Footsteps beside me tread the sod, As in the twilights gone they trod ; And I unlearn my doubts, thank God ! Unlearn my doubts, forget my fears, And that bad carelessness that sears, And makes me older than my years. I hear a dear, familiar tone, A loving hand is in my own, And earth seems made for me alone. If I my fortunes could have planned, I would not have let go that hand; But they must fall who learn to stand. And how to blend life's varied hues, What ill to find, what good to lose, My Father knoweth best to choose. I 2 n6 ALICE GARY PLEA FOR CHARITY IF one had never seen the full completeness Of the round year, but tarried half the way, How should he guess the fair and flowery sweetness That cometh with the May Guess of the bloom, and of the rainy sweetness That come in with the May ! Suppose he had but heard the winds a-blowing, And seen the brooks in icy chains fast bound, How should he guess that waters in their flowing Could make so glad a sound Guess how their silver tongues should be set going To such a tuneful sound ! Suppose he had not seen the bluebirds winging, Nor seen the day set, nor the morning rise, Nor seen the golden balancing and swinging Of the gay butterflies Who could paint April pictures, worth the bringing To notice of his eyes ? Suppose he had not seen the living daisies, Nor seen the rose, so glorious and bright, Were it not better than your far-off praises Of all their lovely light, To give his hands the holding of the daisies, And of the roses bright ? O Christian man, deal gently with the sinner Think what an utter wintry waste is his Whose heart of love has never been the winner, To know how sweet it is Be pitiful, O Christian, to the sinner, Think what a world is his ! He never heard the lisping and the trembling Of Eden's gracious leaves about his head- His mirth is nothing but the poor dissembling Qf a great soul unfed Oh, bring him where the Eden-leaves are trembling, And give him heavenly bread. ALICE GARY 117 As Winter doth her shriveled branches cover With greenness, knowing spring-time's soft desire, Even so the soul, knowing Jesus for a lover, Puts on a new attire A garment fair as snow, to meet the Lover Who bids her come up higher. KNOWN BY HIS WORKS THY works, O Lord, interpret Thee, And through them all Thy love is shown ; Flowing about us like a sea, Yet steadfast as the eternal throne. Out of the light that runneth through Thy hand, the lily's dress is spun : Thine is the brightness of the dew, And Thine the glory of the sun. MY DARLINGS WHEN steps are hurrying homeward, And night the world o'erspreads, And I see at the open windows The shining of little heads, I think of you, my darlings, In your low and lonesome beds. And when the latch is lifted, And I hear the voices glad, I feel my arms more empty, My heart more widely sad ; For we measure dearth of blessings By the blessings we have had. But sometimes in sweet visions My faith to sight expands, And with my babes in His bosom, My Lord before me stands, And I feel on my head bowed lowly The touches of little hands. n8 ALICE GARY Then pain is lost in patience, And tears no longer flow : They are only dead to the sorrow And sin of life, I know: For if they were not immortal My love would make them so. LAST AND BEST QOMETIMES, when rude, cold shadows run Across whatever light I see ; When all the work that I have done, Or can do, seems but vanity; 1 strive, nor vainly strive, to get Some little heart's ease from the day When all the weariness and fret Shall vanish from my life away ; For I, with grandeur clothed upon, Shall lie in state and take my rest, And all my household, strangers grown, Shall hold me for an honored guest. But ere that day when all is set In order, very still and grand, And while my feet are lingering yet Along this troubled border-land, What things will be the first to fade, And down to utter darkness sink? The treasures that my hands have laid Where moth and rust corrupt, I think. And Love will be the last to wait And light my gloom with gracious gleams ; For Love lies nearer heaven's glad gate, Than all imagination dreams. Aye, when my soul its mask shall drop, The twain to be no more at one, Love, with its prayers, shall bear me up Beyond the lark's wings, and the sun. ALICE GARY 119 DREAMS OFTEN I sit and spend my hour, Linking my dreams from heart to brain, And as the child joins flower to flower, Then breaks and joins them on again, Casting the bright ones in disgrace, And weaving pale ones in their stead, Changing the honors and the place Of white and scarlet, blue and red ; And finding after all his pains Of sorting and selecting dyes, No single chain of all the chains The fond caprice that satisfies ; So I from all things bright and brave, Select what brightest, bravest seems, And, with the utmost skill I have, Contrive the fashion of my dreams. Sometimes ambitious thoughts abound, And then I draw my pattern bold, And have my shuttle only wound With silken threads or threads of gold. Sometimes my heart reproaches me, And mesh from cunning mesh I pull, And weave in sad humility With flaxen threads or threads of wool. For here the hue too brightly gleams, And there the grain too dark is cast, And so no dream of all my dreams Is ever finished, first or last. And looking back upon my past Thronged with so many a wasted hour, I think that I should fear to cast My fortunes if I had the power. ALICE GARY And think that he is mainly wise, Who takes what comes of good or ill, Trusting that wisdom underlies And worketh in the end His will. HERE AND THERE DOWN in the darkness, deep in the darkness, All in the blind, black night; Near to the morning, clear to the morning, All in the glad, gold light ! Down in the daisies, deep in the daisies, Under the daisies to lie; Over the stork's wing, over the lark's wing, Over the moon and the sky ! Tears in the daisies, drowning the daisies, Blight that no moon can remove; Praises, and praises, and evermore praises, Gladness, and glory, and love ! Broken and bruised, and heart-sick and sin-sick, Crying for mercy and grace ; Rising and risen and out of our prison, Spirits with face unto face ! Longing and looking, and thirsting and fainting, Deserts to left, and to right ; Coolness of shadows, and greenness of meadows, And fountains of living delight. Hearts that are aching, and hearts that are breaking, Like waves on a rocky-bound shore ; Footsteps of lightness, and faces of brightness, And sickness and sighing no more. Wanderers, wayfarers, desolate orphans, Deaf to the Shepherd's soft call ; Gathered together by God, our good Father, Blessed forever, o'er all ! ALICE GARY 121 DYING HYMN EARTH, with its dark and dreadful ills, Recedes, and fades away ; Lift up your heads, 3^6 heavenly hills ; Ye gates of death, give way ! My soul is full of whispered song ; My blindness is my sight ; The shadows that I feared so long Are all alive with light. The while my pulses faintly beat, My faith doth so abound, I feel grow firm beneath my feet The green immortal ground. That faith to me a courage gives, Low as the grave, to go ; I know that my Redeemer lives : That I shall live, I know. The palace walls I almost see, Where dwells my Lord and King ; O grave, where is thy victory ! O death, where is thy sting! FAITH OECURELY cabined in the ship below, O Through darkness and through storm I cross the sea, A pathless wilderness of waves to me : But yet I do not fear, because I know That he who guides the good ship o'er that waste Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. Blindfold I walk this life's bewildering maze ; Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain pass, Through thorn-set* barren and through deep morass ; But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways, And bare my head unshrinking to the blast, Because my Father's arm is round me cast ; And if the way seems rough, I only clasp The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp. Unowfee Q^ofton EARLY WORK BESIDE my window, in the early spring, A robin built her nest and reared her young ; And every day the same sweet song she sung Until her little ones had taken wing To try their own bird-living; everything Was done before the summer roses hung About our home, or purple clusters swung Upon our vines at Autumn's opening. Do your work early in the day or year, Be it a song to sing, or word to cheer, Or house to build, or gift to cheer the race ; Life may not reach its noon, or setting sun ; No one can do the work you leave undone, For no one ever fills another's place. HER CREED SHE stood before a chosen few, With modest air and eyes of blue ; A gentle creature, in whose face Were mingled tenderness and grace. ' You wish to join our fold,' they said ; ' Do you believe in all that 's read From ritual and written creed, Essential to our human need?' A troubled look was in her eyes; She answered, as in vague surprise, As though the sense to her were dim ; ' I only strive to follow Him.' They knew her life ; how, oft she stood, Sweet in her guileless maidenhood, By dying bed, in hovel lone, Whose sorrow she had made her own. SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON 123 Oft had her voice in prayer been heard, Sweet as the voice of singing bird ; Her hand been open in distress ; Her joy to brighten and to bless. Yet still she answered when they sought To know her inmost earnest thought, With look as of the seraphim, ' I only strive to follow Him.' Creeds change as ages come and go ; We see by faith, but little know : Perchance the sense was not so dim, To her who ' strove to follow Him.' tfe Boweff THE ALPINE SHEEP WHEN on my ear your loss was knelled, And tender sympathy upburst, A little spring from memory welled, Which once had quenched my bitter thirst. And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as healing dew, To steal some fever from your grief. After our child's untroubled breath Up to the Father took its way, And on our home the shade of Death Like a long twilight haunting lay, And friends came round, with us to weep Her little spirit's swift remove, The story of the Alpine sheep Was told to us by one we love. They, in the valley's sheltering care, Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb 124 MARIA WHITE LOWELL To airy shelves of pasture green, That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mist the sunbeams slide. But naught can tempt the timid things The steep and rugged path to try, Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, And seared below the pastures lie, Till in his arms their lambs he takes, Along the dizzy verge to go ; Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, They follow on, o'er rock and snow. And in those pastures, lifted fair, More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed. This parable by Nature breathed, Blew on me as the south-wind free O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed From icy thraldom to the sea. A blissful vision through the night Would all my stony senses sway, Of the Good Shepherd on the height, Or climbing up the happy way, Holding our little lamb asleep, While, like the murmur of the sea, Sounded that voice along the deep, Saying, ' Arise and follow Me ! ' THE LOVE OF GOD THOU Grace Divine, encircling all, A shoreless, boundless sea, Wherein at last our souls must fall, O Love of God most free ! ELIZA SCUDDER 125 When over dizzy heights we go, One soft hand blinds our eyes ; The other leads us safe and slow, O Love of God most wise ! And though we turn us from Thy face, And wander wide and long, Thou hold'st us still in Thine embrace, O Love of God most strong ! The saddened heart, the restless soul, The toil-worn frame and mind, Alike confess Thy sweet control, O Love of God most kind ! But not alone Thy care we claim, Our wayward steps to win ; We know Thee by a dearer name; O Love of God within ! And filled and quickened by Thy breath, Our souls are strong and free, To rise o'er sin and iear and death ; O Love of God to Thee ! TRUTH THOU long disowned, reviled, opprest, Strange friend of human kind, Seeking through weary years a rest Within our hearts to find. How late thy bright and awful brow Breaks through these clouds of sin ! Hail, Truth divine ! we know thee now, Angel of God, come in ! Come, though with purifying fire And desolating sword, Thou of all nations the desire, Earth waits thy cleansing word. 126 ELIZA SCUDDER Struck by the lightning of thy glance, Let old oppressions die ! Before thy cloudless countenance Let fear and falsehood fly! Anoint our eyes with healing grace, To see, as ne'er before, Our Father, in our brother's face, Our Master, in His poor. Flood our dark life with golden day, Convince, subdue, enthrall ! Then to a mightier yield thy sway, And Love be all in all. THE QUEST 1 CAN NOT find Thee ! Still on restless pinion My spirit beats the void where Thou dost dwell ; I wander lost through all Thy vast dominion, And shrink beneath Thy light ineffable. 1 cannot find Thee ! E'en when most adoring, Before Thy throne, I bend in lowliest prayer ; Beyond these bounds of thought, my thought upsoaring, From farthest quest comes back : Thou art not there. Yet high above the limits of my seeing, And folded far within the inmost heart, And deep below the deeps of conscious being, Thy splendor shineth ; there, O God ! Thou art. 1 cannot lose Thee ! Still in Thee abiding, The end is clear, how wide soe'er I roam ; The Hand that holds the worlds my steps is guiding, And I must rest at last, in Thee, my home. THE NEW HEAVEN LET whosoever will, inquire Of spirit or of seer, To shape unto the heart's desire The new life's vision clear. ELIZA SCUDDER 127 My God, I rather look to Thee Than to these fancies fond, And wait till Thou reveal to me That fair and far Beyond. I seek not of Thine Eden-land The forms and hues to know, What trees in mystic order stand, What strange, sweet waters flow ; What duties fill the heavenly day, Or converse glad and kind ; Or how along each shining way The bright processions wind. Oh joy ! to hear with sense new born The angels' greeting strains, And sweet to see the first fair morn Gild the celestial plains. But sweeter far to trust in Thee While all is yet unknown, And through the death-dark cheerily To walk with Thee alone ! In Thee my powers, my treasures live ; To Thee my life shall tend ; Giving Thyself, Thou all dost give, O soul-sufficing Friend. And wherefore should I seek above Thy city in the sky ? Since firm in faith and deep in love Its broad foundations lie; Since in a life of peace and prayer, Not known on earth, nor praised, By humblest toil, by ceaseless care, Its holy towers are raised. Where pain the soul hath purified, And penitence hath shriven, And truth is crowned and glorified, There only there is Heaven. 128 ELIZA SCUDDER WHOM BUT THEE FROM past regret and present faithlessness, From the deep shadow of foreseen distress, And from the nameless weariness that grows As life's long day seems wearing to its close ; Thou Life within my life, than self more near ! Thou veiled Presence infinitely clear! From all illusive shows of sense I flee, To find my centre and my rest in Thee. Below all depths Thy saving mercy lies. Through thickest glooms I see Thy light arise, Above the highest heaven Thou art not found More surely than within this earthly round. Take part with me against those doubts that rise And seek to throne Thee far in distant skies ! Take part with me against this self that dares Assume the burden of these sins and cares ! How shall I call Thee who art always here, How shall I praise Thee who art still most dear, What may I give Thee save what Thou hast given. And whom but Thee have I in earth or heaven ? VESPER HYMN THE day is done ; the weary day of thought and toil is past, Soft falls the twilight cool and gray, on the tired earth at last ; By wisest teachers wearied, by gentlest friends opprest, In Thee alone, the soul, out-worn, refreshment finds and rest. Bend, gracious Spirit, from above, like these o'erarch- ing skies, And to Thy firmament of love lift up these longing eyes ; And folded by Thy sheltering Hand, in refuge still and deep, Let blessed thoughts from Thee descend, as drop the dews of sleep. ELIZA SCUDDER 129 And when, refreshed, the soul once more puts on new life and power, Oh, let Thine image, Lord, alone, gild the first waking hour ! Let that dear Presence rise and glow fairer than morn's first ray, And Thy pure radiance overflow the splendor of the day. So in the hastening evening, so in the coming morn, When deeper slumber shall be given, and fresher life be born, Shine out, true Light ! to guide my way amid that deepening gloom, And rise, O Morning Star, the first that dayspring to illume. I cannot dread the darkness, where Thou wilt watch o'er me, Nor smile to greet the sunrise, unless Thy smile I see ; Creator, Saviour, Comforter! on Thee my soul is cast; At morn, at night, in earth, in heaven, be Thou my First and Last. Jfo^neon MADE PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING I BLESS Thee, Lord, for sorrows sent To break my dream of human power ; For now, my shallow cistern spent, I find Thy founts, and thirst no more. I take Thy hand, and fears grow still ; Behold Thy face, and doubts remove; Who would not yield his wavering will To perfect Truth and boundless Love? That Love this restless soul doth teach The strength of Thine eternal calm ; And tune its sad and broken speech, To join, on earth, the angels' psalm. 130 SAMUEL JOHNSON O be it patient in Thy hands, And drawn, through each mysterious hour, To service of Thy pure commands, The narrow way to Love and Power ! THE CITY OF GOD CITY of God, how broad and far Outspread thy walls sublime ! The true thy chartered freemen are Of every age and clime. One holy Church, one army strong, One steadfast high intent, One working hand, one harvest song, One King Omnipotent ! How purely hath thy speech come down From man's primeval youth ! How grandly hath thine empire grown Of freedom, love, and truth ! How gleam thy watchfires through the night With never-fainting ray ! How rise thy towers, serene and bright, To meet the dawning day! In vain the surge's angry shock, In vain the drifting sands ; Unharmed upon the Eternal Rock, The Eternal City stands. QUaeon CAGED POOR prisoned bird, that sings and sings, Unconscious of the gift of wings ; Or, knowing it, content to be Shorn of its birthright liberty ! CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON 131 Like souls a sadder thrall who bear, Or wittingly or unaware Consenting to their prison bars, When, haply, they might pierce the stars. Oh, I would rather be the clod That knows not, cannot know, of God, Than thus, in sluggish wise, deny My title to His open sky! He gave us wings; He must have meant, Thereby, a noble discontent To teach us, that we might essay To break each bond and soar away. What is the cage that shuts us in, But our own sloth ? but our own sin ? All outward limitations are But cobwebs to such bolt and bar. For me, no idle lance I tilt Against my lot: mine all the guilt; I am mine own most bitter foe Ah, this it is which irks me so ! If from myself I could set free Myself! At odds I still must be, Till my victorious wings shall rise, Unclogged, and sweep the farthest skies. EVENTIDE AT cool of day, with God I walk I\ My garden's grateful shade ; I hear His voice among the trees, And I am not afraid. I see His presence in the night, And, though my heart is awed, I do not quail beneath the sight Or nearness of my God. K 2 132 CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON He speaks to me in every wind, He smiles from every star ; He is not deaf to me, nor blind, Nor absent, nor afar. His hand, that shuts the flowers to sleep, Each in its dewy fold, Is strong my feeble life to keep, And competent to hold. I cannot walk in darkness long, My light is by my side ; I cannot stumble or go wrong, While following such a guide. He is my stay and my defence ; How shall I fail or fall ? My helper is Omnipotence ! My ruler ruleth all. The powers below and powers above Are subject to His care : I cannot wander from His love Who loves me everywhere. Thus dowered, and guarded thus, with Him I walk this peaceful shade; I hear His voice among the trees, And I am not afraid ! EN VOYAGE AY/ HICHEVER wa Y the wind d . oth blow \V Some heart is glad to have it so ; Then blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best. My little craft sails not alone ; A thousand fleets from every zone Are out upon a thousand seas ; And what for me were favoring breeze Might dash another, with the shock Of doom, upon some hidden rock. CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON 133 And so I do not dare to pray For winds to waft me on my way, But leave it to a Higher Will To stay or speed me ; trusting still That all is well, and sure that He Who launched my bark will sail with me Through storm and calm, and will not fail, Whatever breezes may prevail, To land me, every peril past, Within His sheltering heaven at last. Then, whatsoever wind doth blow, My heart is glad to have it so ; And blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best. NOT YET NOT yet ! Along the purpling sky We see the dawning ray; But leagues of cloudy distance lie Between us and the day. Not yet 1 The aloe waits serene Its promised advent hour, A patient century of green To one full, perfect flower. Not yet ! No harvest song is sung In the sweet ear of spring, Nor hear we while the blade is young The reaper's sickle swing. Not yet! Before the crown, the cross; The struggle, ere the prize ; Before the gain the fearful loss, And death ere Paradise ! LOST AND FOUND I HAD a treasure in my house, And woke one day to find it gone ; I mourned for it from dawn till night, From night till dawn. 134 CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON I said, ' Behold, I will arise And sweep my house,' and so I found What I had lost, and told my joy To all around. I had a treasure in my heart, And scarcely knew that it had fled, Until communion with my Lord Grew cold and dead. ' Behold/ I said, < I will arise And sweep my heart of self and sin ; And so the peace that I have lost May enter in.' O friends, rejoice with me ! Each day Helps my lost treasure to restore ; And sweet communion with my Lord Is mine once more. MARTHA OR MARY? I CAN NOT choose ; I should have liked so much To sit at Jesus' feet, to feel the touch Of His kind, gentle hand upon my head While drinking in the gracious words He said. And yet to serve Him ! Oh, divine employ, To minister and give the Master joy, To bathe in coolest springs His weary feet, And wait upon Him while He sat at meat ! Worship or service, which ? Ah, that is best To which He calls us, be it toil or rest, To labor for Him in life's busy stir, Or seek His feet, a silent worshipper. Q2)a00on SEEN AND UNSEEN THE wind ahead, the billows high, A whited wave, but sable sky, And many a league of tossing sea Between the hearts I love and me. DAVID ATWOOD WASSON 135 The wind ahead : day after day These weary words the sailors say ; To weeks the days are lengthened now, Still mounts the surge to meet our prow. Through longing day and lingering night, I still accuse Time's lagging flight, Or gaze out o'er the envious sea, That keeps the hearts I love from me. Yet, ah ! how shallow is all grief ! How instant is the deep relief! And what a hypocrite am I, To feign forlorn, to 'plain and sigh! The wind ahead ? The wind is free ! For evermore it favoreth me, To shores of God still blowing fair, O'er seas of God my bark doth bear. This surging brine / do not sail ; This blast adverse is not my gale; 'Tis here I only seem to be, But really sail another sea, Another sea, pure sky its waves, Whose beauty hides no heaving graves, A sea all haven, whereupon No helpless bark to wreck hath gone. The winds that o'er my ocean run Reach through all heavens beyond the sun ; Through life and death, through fate, through time, Grand breaths of God, they sweep sublime. Eternal 'trades,' they cannot veer, And, blowing, teach us how to steer; And well for him whose joy, whose care, Is but to keep before them fair. O thou, God's mariner, heart of mine, Spread canvas to the airs divine ! Spread sail ! and let thy Fortune be Forgotten in thy Destiny! 136 DAVID ATWOOD WASSON For Destiny pursues us well, By sea, by land, through heaven or hell; It suffers Death alone to die, Bids Life all change and chance defy. Would earth's dark ocean suck thee down ? Earth's ocean thou, O Life ! shalt drown, Shalt flood it with thy finer wave, And, sepulchred, entomb thy grave ! Life loveth life and good ; then trust What most the spirit would, it must; Deep wishes, in the heart that be, Are blossoms of Necessity. A thread of Law runs through thy prayer, Stronger than iron cables are ; And Love and Longing toward her goal Are pilots sweet to guide the Soul. So Life must live, and Soul must sail, And Unseen over Seen prevail, And all God's argosies come to shore, Let ocean smile, or rage and roar. And so, 'mid storm or calm, my bark With snowy wake still nears her mark ; Cheerly the ' trades ' of being blow, And sweeping down the wind I go. ALL'S WELL SWEET-VOICED Hope, thy fine discourse Foretold not half life's good to me ; Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force To show how sweet it is to be ! Thy witching dream And pictured scheme To match the fact still want the power; Thy promise brave From birth to grave Life's boon may beggar in an hour. DAVID ATWOOD WASSON J37 Ask and receive, 'tis sweetly said; Yet what to plead for, know I not ; For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped, And aye to thanks returns my thought. If I would pray, I've naught to say But this, that God may be God still, For Him to live Is still to give, And sweeter than my wish His will. wealth of life beyond all bound ! Eternity each moment given! . What plummet may the Present sound? Who promises a future heaven ? Or glad, or grieved, Oppressed, relieved, In blackest night, or brightest day Still pours the flood Of golden good, And more than heartfull fills me aye. My wealth is common ; I possess No petty province, but the whole ; What's mine alone is mine far less Than treasure shared by every soul. Talk not of store, Millions or more, Of values which the purse may hold, But this divine ! I own the mine Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold. 1 have a stake in every star, In every beam that fills the day; All hearts of men my coffers are. My ores arterial tides convey; The fields, the skies, The sweet replies Of thought to thought are my gold-dust ; The oaks, the brooks, And speaking looks Of lovers, faith and friendship's trust. [38 DAVID ATWOOD WASSON Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow For nim who lives above all years, Who all-immortal makes the Now, And is not ta'en in Time's arrears : His life's a hymn The seraphim Might hark to hear or help to sing, And to his soul The boundless whole Its bounty all doth daily bring. ' All Mine is thine,' the Sky-Soul saith : ' The wealth I Am must thou become ; Richer and richer, breath by breath, Immortal gain, immortal room ! ' And since all His Mine also is, Life's gift outruns my fancies far, And drowns the dream In larger stream, As morning drinks the morning-star. IDEALS ANGELS of Growth, of old in that surprise J~\ Of your first vision, wild and sweet, I poured in passionate sighs My wish unwise That ye descend my heart to meet, My heart so slow to rise ! Now thus I pray : Angelic be to hold In heaven your shining poise afar, And to my wishes bold Reply with cold, Sweet invitation, like a star Fixed in the heavens old. Did ye descend : what were ye more than I ? Is't not by this ye are divine, That, native to the sky, Ye cannot hie Downward, and give low hearts the wine That should reward the high ? DAVID AT WOOD WASSON 139 Weak, yet in weakness I no more complain Of your abiding in your places : Oh ! still, howe'er my pain Wild prayers may rain, Keep pure on high the perfect graces That stooping could but stain. Not to content our lowness, but to lure And lift us to your angelhood, Do your surprises pure, Dawn far and sure Above the tumult of young blood, And, star-like, there endure. Wait there ! wait and invite me while I climb ; For see, I come ! but slow, but slow ! Yet ever as your chime Soft and sublime, Lifts at my feet, they move, they go Up the great stair of time. T / WILL ARISE AND GO UNTO MY FATHER 'O Thine eternal arms, O God, Take us, Thine erring children, in ; From dangerous paths too boldly trod, From wandering thoughts and dreams of sin. Those arms were round our childish ways, A guard through helpless years to be ; O, leave not our maturer days, We still are helpless without Thee ! We trusted hope and pride and strength : Our strength proved false, our pride was vain, Our dreams have faded all at length, We come to Thee, O Lord, again ! A guide to trembling steps yet be ! Give us of Thine eternal powers ! So shall our paths all lead to Thee, And life smile on, like childhood's hours. 140 THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON PANTHEISM AND THEISM NO human eyes Thy face may see; No human thought Thy form may know; But all creation dwells in Thee, And Thy great life through all doth flow ! And yet, O, strange and wondrous thought ! Thou art a God who hearest prayer, And every heart with sorrow fraught To seek Thy present aid may dare. And though most weak our efforts seem Into one creed these thoughts to bind, And vain the intellectual dream To see and know the Eternal Mind, Yet Thou wilt turn them not aside, Who cannot solve Thy life divine, But would give up all reason's pride To know their hearts approved by Thine. So, though we faint on life's dark hill, And thought grow weak, and knowledge flee, Yet faith shall teach us courage still, And love shall guide us on to Thee ! THE THINGS I MISS A SI easy thing, O Power Divine, To thank Thee for these gifts of Thine ! For summer's sunshine, winter's snow, For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow. But when shall I attain to this, To thank Thee for the things I miss ? For all young Fancy's early gleams, The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams, Hopes unfulfilled, and pleasures known Through others' fortunes, not my own, And blessings seen that are not given, And never will be, this side heaven. THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON 14 r Had I too shared the joys I see, Would there have been a heaven for me ? Could I have felt Thy presence near, Had I possessed what I held dear? My deepest fortune, highest bliss, Have grown perchance from things I miss. Sometimes there comes an hour of calm ; Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm ; A Power that works above my will Still leads me onward, upward still : And then my heart attains to this, To thank Thee for the things I miss. TO MY SHADOW* A MUTE companion at my side Paces and plods, the whole day long, Accepts the measure of my stride, Yet gives no cheer by word or song. More close than any doggish friend, Not ranging far and wide, like him, He goes where'er my footsteps tend, Nor shrinks for fear of life or limb. I do not know when first we met, But till each day's bright hours are done This grave and speechless silhouette Keeps me betwixt him and the sun. They say he knew me when a child ; Born with my birth, he dies with me ; Not once from his long task beguiled, Though sin or shame bid others flee. What if, when all this world of ^ Shall melt and fade and pass away, This deathless sprite should rise again And be himself my Judgment Day ? * See Note. i 4 2 THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON KES7YS ANGELICA * O GATHER, gather! Stand Round her on either hand ! O shining angel-band More pure than priest ! A garment white and whole Weave for this passing soul, Whose earthly joy and dole Have almost ceased. Weave it of mothers' prayers, Of sacred thoughts and cares, Of peace beneath grey hairs, Of hallowed pain ; Weave it of vanished tears, Of childlike hopes and fears, Of joys, by saintly years Washed free from stain. Weave it of happy hours, Of smiles and summer flowers, Of passing sunlit showers, Of acts of love ; Of footsteps that did go Amid life's work and woe, Her eyes still fixed below, Her thoughts above. Then as those eyes grow dim Chant we her best-loved hymn, While from yon church-tower's brim A soft chime swells. Her freed soul floats in bliss To unseen worlds from this, Nor knows in which it is She hears the bells. * See Note. THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON 143 BENEATH THE VIOLETS SAFE 'neath the violets Rests the baby form ; Every leaf that springtime sets Shields it from the storm. Peace to all vain regrets Mid this sunshine warm ! Shadows come and shadows go O'er the meadows wide ; Twice each day, to and fro, Steals the river-tide ; Each morn with sunrise-glow Gilds the green hillside. Peace that no sorrow frets In our souls arise ! Over all our wild regrets Arching, like the skies ; While safe 'neath the violets Sleep the violet eyes. TWO VOYAGERS WHEN first I mark upon my child's clear brow Thought's wrestling shadows their new struggle keep, Read my own conflicts in her questions deep, My own remorse in her repentant vow, My own vast ignorance in her 'Why?' and 'How?' When my precautions only serve to heap New burdens, and my cares her needs o'erleap, Then to her separate destiny I bow. So seem we like two ships, that side by side, Older and younger, breast the same rough main Bound for one port, whatever winds betide, In solemn interchange of joy or pain. I may not hold thee back. Though skies be dark, Put forth upon the seas, O priceless bark ! 144 THE EXCHANGE SAD souls, that harbor fears and woes In many a haunted breast, Turn but to meet your lowly Lord, And He will give you rest. Into His commonwealth alike Are ills and blessings thrown ; Bear ye your neighbors' burdens ; lo ! Their ease shall be your own. Yield only up His price, your heart, Into God's loving hold ; He turns, with heavenly alchemy, Your lead of life to gold. Some needful pangs endure in peace, Nor yet for freedom pant; He cuts the bane you cleave to off, Then gives the boon you want. THE CHILD'S PLEA BECAUSE I wear the swaddling-bands of Time, Still mark and watch me, Eternal Father on Thy throne sublime, Lest Satan snatch me. Because to seek Thee I have yet to learn, Come down and lead me ; Because I am too weak my bread to earn, My Father, feed me. Because I grasp at things that are not mine And might undo me, Give, from thy treasure-house of goods divine, Good gifts unto me. SARAH HAMMOND PALFREY 145 Because too near the pit I creeping go, Do not forsake me ; To climb into Thine arms I am too low, O Father, take me ! THE YEARLY MIRACLE OF SPRING THE yearly miracle of spring, Of budding tree and blooming flower, Which Nature's feathered laureates sing In my cold ear from hour to hour, Spreads all its wonders round my feet ; And every wakeful sense is fed On thoughts that o'er and o'er repeat, ' The Resurrection of the Dead!* If these half vital things have force To break the spell which winter weaves, To wake, and clothe the wrinkled corse In the full life of shining leaves ; Shall I sit down in vague despair, And marvel if the nobler soul We laid in earth shall ever dare To wake to life, and backward roll The sealing stone, and striding out, Claim its eternity, and head Creation once again, and shout, ' The Resurrection of the Dead'1 SUMMER MORNING WITH song of birds and hum of bees, And odorous breath of swinging flowers, With fluttering herbs and swaying trees, Begin the early morning hours. L 146 GEORGE HENRY BOKER The warm tide of the southern air Swims round, with gentle rise and fall, And, burning through a golden glare, The sun looks broadly over all. So fair and fresh the landscape stands, So vital, so beyond decay, It looks as though God's shaping hands Had just been raised and drawn away. The holy baptism of the rain Yet lingers, like a special grace ; For I can see an aureole plain Above the world's transfigured face. The moments come in dreamy bliss, In dreamy bliss they pause and pass: It seems not hard on days like this, Dear Lord, to lie beneath the grass. UNBELIEF FAITHLESS, perverse, and blind, We sit in our house of fear, When the winter of sorrow comes to our souls, And the days of our life are drear. For when in darkness and clouds The way of God is concealed, We doubt the words of His promises, And the glory to be revealed. We do but trust in part; We grope in the dark alone ; Lord, when shall we see Thee as Thou art, And know as we are known? When shall we live to Thee, And die to Thee, resigned, Nor fear to hide what we would keep, And lose what we would find? PHCEBE GARY i 47 For we doubt our Father's care, We cover our faces and cry, If a little cloud, like the hand of a man, Darkens the face of our sky. We judge of His perfect day By our life's poor glimmering spark, And measure eternity's circle By the segment of an arc. We say, they have taken our Lord, And we know not where He lies, When the light of His resurrection morn Is breaking out of the skies. And we stumble at last when we come On the brink of the grave to stand ; As if the souls that are born of His love Could slip from their Father's hand ! ANSWERED I THOUGHT to find some healing clime For her I loved ; she found that shore, That city, whose inhabitants Are sick and sorrowful no more. I asked for human love for her; The Loving knew how best to still The infinite yearning of a heart, Which but infinity could fill. Such sweet communion had been ours, I prayed that it might never end ; My prayer is more than answered ; now I have an angel for my friend. I wished for perfect peace, to soothe The troubled anguish of her breast ; And, numbered with the loved and called, She entered on untroubled rest. L2 148 PHCEBE GARY Life was so fair a thing to her, I wept and pleaded for its stay; My wish was granted me, for lo ! She hath eternal life to-day. SUNSET A~VAY in the dim and distant past That little valley lies, Where the clouds that dimmed life's morning hours Were tinged with hope's sweet dyes ; That peaceful spot from which I looked To the future, unaware That the heat and burden of the day Were meant for me to bear. Alas, alas ! I have borne the heat, To the burden learned to bow ; For I stand on the top of the hill of life, And I see the sunset now! I stand on the top, but I look not back To the way behind me spread ; Not to the path my feet have trod, But the path they still must tread. And straight and plain before my gaze The certain future lies ; But my sun grows larger all the while, As he travels down the skies. Yea, the sun of my hope grows large and grand ; For, with my childish years, I have left the mist that dimmed my sight, I have left my doubts and fears. And I have gained in hope and trust, Till the future looks so bright, That, letting go of the hand of Faith, I walk, at times, by sight. PHGEBE GARY 149 For we only feel that faith is life, And death is the fear of death, When we suffer up to the solemn heights Of a true and living faith ; When we do not say, the dead shall rise At the resurrection's call ; But when we trust in the Lord, and know That we cannot die at all ! ' FIELD PREACHING' I HAVE been out to-day in field and wood, Listening to praises sweet and counsel good, Such as a little child had understood, That, in its tender youth, Discerns the simple eloquence of truth. The modest blossoms, crowding round my way, Though they had nothing great or grand to say, Gave out their fragrance to the wind all day ; Because his loving breath, With soft persistence, won them back from death. And the right royal lily, putting on Her robes, more rich than those of Solomon, Opened her gorgeous missal in the sun, And thanked Him, soft and low, Whose gracious, liberal hand had clothed her so. When wearied, on the meadow-grass I sank ; So narrow was the rill from which I drank, An infant might have stepped from bank to bank ; And the tall rushes near, Lapping together, hid its waters clear. Yet to the ocean joyously it went; And, rippling in the fulness of content, Watered the pretty flowers that o'er it leant ; For all the banks were spread With delicate flowers that on its bounty fed. 150 PHCEBE GARY The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight, With serried spear-points bristling sharp and bright, Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight, To all their tawny length, Like Samson, glorying in his lusty strength. And every little bird upon the tree, Ruffling his plumage bright, for ecstasy, Sang in the wild insanity of glee ; And seemed, in the same lays, Calling his mate and uttering songs of praise. The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing; The plain bee, busy with her housekeeping, Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing, As if she understood That, with contentment, labor was a good. I saw eacn creature, in his own best place. To the Creator lift a smiling face, Praising continually His wondrous grace; As if the best of all Life's countless blessings was to live at all ! So with a book of sermons, plain and true, Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through, I went home softly, through the falling dew, Still listening, rapt and calm, To Nature giving out her evening psalm. While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned, Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned, The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned, And I, in that great hush, Talked with His angels in each burning bush ! NEARER HOME ONE sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er: I am nearer home to-day Than I ever have been before ; PHCEBE GARY 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 ! BEHIND THE MASK IT was an old distorted face, An uncouth visage rough and wild, Yet from behind with laughing grace Peep'd the fresh beauty of a child. And so, contrasting strange to-day, My heart of youth doth inly ask If half earth's wrinkled grimness may Be but the baby in the mask. I5 2 ADELINE D. TRAIN WHITNEY Behind gray hairs and furrow'd brow And wither'd look that life puts on, Each, as he wears it, comes to know How the child hides, and is not gone. For while the inexorable years To sadden'd features fix their mold, Beneath the work of time and tears Waits something that will not grow old. The rifted pine upon the hill, Scarr'd by the lightning and the wind, Through bolt and blight doth nurture still Young fibres underneath the rind. And many a storm-blast, fiercely sent, And wasted hope, and sinful stain, Roughen the strange integument The struggling soul must wear in pain. Yet, when she comes to claim her own, Heaven's angels haply shall not ask For that last look the world hath known,- But for the face behind the mask. KYRIE ELEISON IN His glory ! When the spheres Lighten with that wondrous blaze, How shall all my sins and fears Meet thy dawning, Day of days ? ; Nothing hid ! ' No thought so mean That to darkness it may creep ; Very darkness shall be seen, Very death to life shall leap. Nothing deep, or far, or old ; Nothing left in years behind ; All the secret self unrolled : Light of God ! I would be blind ! ADELINE D. TRAIN WHITNEY 158 Only I shall see a Face In the glory lifted up ; And a Hand, the Hand of grace, Whose sweet mercy held the Cup. And a Voice, I think, will speak, Asking of each sin-defiled Whom His saving came to seek, As a mother asks her child : 1 Wert thou sorry ? ' ' Yea, dear Christ, Sick and sorry I have been, Wearily Thy ways have missed : Wash my feet, and lead me in ! 1 Though in this clear light of Thine Sin and sore must stand revealed, Though no stainless health be mine, Count me, Lord, among the healed. ' Not with Scribe and Pharisee Dare I crave an upmost seat ; Only, Saviour, suffer me With the sinners at Thy feet!' SUNLIGHT AND STARLIGHT GOD sets some souls in shade, alone ; They have no daylight of their own : Only in lives of happier ones They see the shine of distant suns. God knows. Content thee with thy night ; The greater heaven hath grander light. To-day is close ; the hours are small ; Thou sitt'st afar, and hast them all. Lose the less joy that doth but blind ; Reach forth a larger bliss to find. To-day is brief: the inclusive spheres Rain raptures of a thousand years. 154 ADELINE D. TRAIN WHITNEY RELEASED A LITTLE, low-ceiled room. Four walls Whose blank shut out all else of life, And crowded close within their bound A world of pain, and toil, and strife. Her world. Scarce furthermore she knew Of God's great globe that wondrously Outrolls a glory of green earth, And frames it with the restless sea. Four closer walls of common pine ; And therein lying, cold and still, The weary flesh that long hath borne Its patient mystery of ill. Regardless now of work to do, No queen more careless in her state, Hands crossed in an unbroken calm; For other hands the work may wait. Put by her implements of toil ; Put by each coarse, intrusive sign ; She made a sabbath when she died, And round her breathes a rest divine. Put by, at last, beneath the lid, The exempted hands, the tranquil face ; Uplift her in her dreamless sleep, And bear her gently from the place. Oft she hath gazed, with wistful eyes, Out from that threshold on the night ; The narrow bourn she crosseth now; She standeth in the eternal light. Oft she hath pressed, with aching feet, Those broken steps that reach the door ; Henceforth, with angels, she shall tread Heaven's golden stair, for evermore ! 155 OUR CHRIST T N Christ I feel the heart of God 1 Throbbing from heaven through earth; Life stirs again within the clod, Renewed in beauteous birth ; The soul springs up, a flower of prayer, Breathing His breath out on the air. In Christ I touch the hand of God, From His pure height reached down, By blessed ways before untrod, To Uft us to our crown; Victory that only perfect is Through loving sacrifice, like His. Holding His hand, my steadied feet May walk the air, the seas ; On life and death His smile falls sweet, Lights up all mysteries : Stranger nor exile can I be In new worlds where He leadeth me. Not my Christ only ; He is ours ; Humanity's close bond ; Key to its vast, unopened powers, Dream of our dreams beyond. What yet we shall be none can tell : Now are we His, and all is well. HINTS THEY whose hearts are whole and strong, Loving holiness, Living clean from soil of wrong, Wearing truth's white dress, They unto no far-off height Wearily need climb ; Heaven to them is close in sight From these shores of time. 156 LUCY LARCOM Only the anointed eye Sees in common things, Gleam of wave, and tint of sky, Heavenly blossomings. To the hearts where light has birth Nothing can be drear; Budding through the bloom of earth, Heaven is always near. THE PROOF TMPOSSIBLE,-the eagle's flight! 1 A body lift itself in air ? Yet see, he soars away from sight ! Can mortals with the immortal share? To argue it were wordy strife; Life only is the proof of life. Duration, circumstances, things, These measure not the eternal state : Ah, cease from thy vain questionings Whether an after-life await ! Rise thou from self to God, and see That immortality must be ! IMMORTAL T NTO the heaven of Thy heart, O God, 1 I lift up my life, like a flower ; Thy light is deep, and Thy love is broad, And I am not the child of an hour. As a little blossom is fed from the whole Vast depth of unfathomed air, Through every fibre of thought my soul Reaches forth, in Thyself to share. I dare to say unto Thee, my God, Who hast made me to climb so high, That I shall not crumble away with the clod I am Thine, and I cannot die! LUCY LARCOM 157 The throb of Thy infinite life I feel In every beat of my heart ; Upon me hast Thou set eternity's seal ; Forever alive, as Thou art. I know not Thy mystery, O my God, Nor yet what my own life means, That feels after Thee, through the mould and the sod, And the darkness that intervenes. But I know that I live, since I hate the wrong, The glory of truth can see ; Can cling to the right with a purpose strong, Can love and can will with Thee. O GROWING OLD ILD, we are growing old : Going on through a beautiful road, Finding earth a more blessed abode ; Nobler work by our hearts to be wrought, Freer paths for our hope and our thought ; Because of the beauty the years unfold, We are cheerfully growing old ! Old, we are growing old : Going up where the sunshine is clear ; Watching grander horizons appear Out of clouds that enveloped our youth ; Standing firm on the mountains of truth : Because of the glory the years unfold, We are joyfully growing old. Old, we are growing old : Going in to the gardens of rest That glow through the gold of the west, Where the rose and the amaranth blend, And each path is the way to a friend : Because of the peace that the years unfold, We are thankfully growing old. 158 LUCY LARCOM Old, are we growing old ? Life blooms as we travel on Up the hills, into fresh, lovely dawn : We are children, who do but begin The sweetness of living to win : Because heaven is in us, to bud and unfold, We are younger, for growing old ! EASTER DAWN BREAKS the joyful Easter dawn, Clearer yet, and stronger ; Winter from the world has gone, Death shall be no longer ! Far away good angels drive Night and sin and sadness ; Earth awakes in smiles, alive With her dear Lord's gladness. Roused by Him from dreary hours Under snowdrifts chilly, In His hand He brings the flowers, Brings the rose and lily. Every little buried bud Into life He raises ; Every wild-flower of the wood Chants the dear Lord's praises. Open, happy flowers of spring, For the Sun has risen ! Through the sky glad voices ring, Calling you from prison. Little children dear, look up ! Toward His brightness pressing, Lift up every heart, a cup For the dear Lord's blessing. ACROSS THE RIVER EN for me the silent oar Parts the Silent River, And I stand upon the shore Of the strange Forever, Shall I miss the loved and known ? Shall I vainly seek mine own? LUCY LARCOM 159 Mid the crowd that come to meet Spirits sin-forgiven, Listening to their echoing feet Down the streets of heaven, Shall I know a footstep near That I listen, wait for here? Then will one approach the brink With a hand extended, One whose thoughts I loved to think Ere the veil was rended ; Saying, ' Welcome ! we have died, And again are side by side'? Saying, * I will go with thee, That thou be not lonely, To yon hills of mystery : I have waited only Until now, to climb with thee Yonder hills of mystery.' Can the bonds that make us here Know ourselves immortal, Drop away, like foliage sear, At life's inner portal ? What is holiest below Must forever live and grow. I shall love the angels well, After I have found them In the mansions where they dwell, With the glory round them : But at first, without surprise, Let me look in human eyes. Step by step our feet must go Up the holy mountain ; Drop by drop within us flow Life's unfailing fountain. Angels sing with crowns that burn : We shall have our song to learn. 160 LUCY LARGO M He who on our earthly path Bids us help each other Who His Well-beloved hath Made our Elder Brother Will but clasp the chain of love Closer, when we meet above. Therefore dread I not to go O'er the Silent River. Death, thy hastening oar I know; Bear me, thou Life-giver, Through the waters, to the shore, Where mine own have gone before ! OUT OF THE DEEPS OF HEAVEN OUT of the deeps of heaven A bird has flown to my door, As twice in the ripening summers Its mates have flown before. Why it has flown to my dwelling Nor it nor I may know, And only the silent angels Can tell when it shall go. That it will not straightway vanish, But fold its wings with me, And sing in the greenest branches Till the axe is laid to the tree, Is the prayer of my love and terror, For my soul is sore distrest, Lest I wake some dreadful morning, And find but its empty nest! RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 161 ADSUM* THE Angel came by night, (Such angels still come down,) And like a winter cloud Passed over London town ; Along its lonesome streets, Where want had ceased to weep, Until it reached a house Where a great man lay asleep ; The man of all his time Who knew the most of men, The soundest head and heart, The sharpest, kindest pen. It paused beside his bed, And whispered in his ear ; He never turned his head, But answered, ' I am here.' ii Into the night they went; At morning, side by side, They gained the sacred Place Where the greatest Dead abide. Where grand old Homer sits In godlike state benign ; Where broods in endless thought The awful Florentine ; Where sweet Cervantes walks, A smile on his grave face ; Where gossips quaint Montaigne, The wisest of his race ; Where Goethe looks through all With that calm eye of his, Where little seen but Light- The only Shakespeare is ! When that new Spirit came, They asked him, drawing near, Art thou become like us?' He answered, ' I am here.' * See note. M PRAISE THOU who sendest sun and rain, Thou who spendest bliss and pain, Good with bounteous hand bestowing, Evil, for Thy will allowing, Though Thy ways we cannot see, All is just that comes from Thee. In the peace of hearts at rest, In the child at mother's breast, In the lives that now surround us, In the deaths that sorely wound us, Though we may not understand, Father, we behold Thy hand ! Hear the happy hymn we raise ; Take the love which is Thy praise ; Give content in each condition ; Bend our hearts in sweet submission, And Thy trusting children prove Worthy of the Father's love. A PRAYER GOD, to whom we look up blindly, Look Thou down upon us kindly: We have sinned, but not designedly. If our faith in Thee was shaken, Pardon Thou our hearts mistaken, . / Our obedience re-awaken. We are sinful, Thou art holy : Thou art mighty, we are lowly : Let us reach Thee, climbing slowly. Our ingratitude confessing, On Thy mercy still transgressing, Thou dost punish us with blessing. BAYARD TAYLOR 163 WAIT* NOT so in haste, my heart! Have faith in God and wait ; Although He linger long, He never comes too late. He never comes too late, He knoweth what is best; Vex not thyself in vain : Until He cometh, rest. Until He cometh, rest, Nor grudge the hours that roll ; The feet that wait for God Are soonest at the goal ; Are soonest at the goal That is not gained by speed ; Then hold thee still, my heart, For I shall wait His lead. . (. orr SOMEWHERE HOW can I cease to pray for thee? Somewhere In God's great universe thou art to-day ; Can He not reach thee with His tender care ? Can He not hear me when for thee I pray ? What matters it to Him who holds within The hollow of His hand all worlds, all space, That thou art done with earthly pain and sin ? Somewhere within His ken thou hast a place. Somewhere thou livest and hast need of Him : Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb; And somewhere still there may be valleys dim, That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime. * See note. M 2 164 JULIA C. R. DORR Then all the more, because thou canst not hear Poor human words of blessing, will I pray, O true, brave heart ! God bless thee, wheresoe'er In His great universe thou art to-day ! THE BLIND BIRD'S NEST The nest of the blind bird is built by God. Turkish Proverb. THOU who dost build the blind bird's nest, Am I not blind? Each bird that flieth east or west The track can find. Each bird that flies from north to south Knows the far way ; From mountain's crest to river's mouth It does not stray. Not one in all the lengthening land, In all the sky, Or by the ocean's silver strand, Is blind as I ! And dost Thou build the blind bird's nest? Build Thou for me Some shelter where my soul may rest Secure in Thee. Close clinging to the bending bough. Bind it so fast It shall not loose, if high or low Blows the loud blast. If fierce storms break, and the wild rain Comes pelting in, Cover the shrinking nest, restrain The furious din. At sultry noontide, when the air Trembles with heat, Draw close the leafy covert where Cool shadows meet. JULIA C. R. DORR 165 And when night falleth, dark and chill, Let one fair star, Love's star all luminous and still, Shine from afar. Thou who dost build the blind bird's nest, Build Thou for me ; So shall my being find its rest For evermore in Thee. MARTHA YEA, Lord ! Yet some must serve. Not all with tranquil heart, Even at Thy dear feet, Wrapped in devotion sweet, May sit apart ! Yea, Lord ! Yet some must bear The burden of the day, Its labor and its heat, While others at Thy feet May muse and pray ! Yea, Lord ! Yet some must do Life's daily task- work ; some Who fain would sing must toil Amid earth's dust and moil, While lips are dumb ! Yea, Lord ! Yet man must earn ; And woman bake the bread ! And some must watch and wake Early, for others' sake, Who pray instead ! Yea, Lord ! Yet even Thou Hast need of earthly care, I bring the bread and wme To Thee, O Guest Divine ! Be this my prayer ! 166 JULIA C. R. DORR QUIETNESS T WOULD be quiet, Lord, 1 Nor tease, nor fret ; Not one small need of mine Wilt Thou forget. I am not wise to know What most I need ; I dare not cry too loud, Lest Thou shouldst heed ; Lest Thou at length shouldst say, ' Child, have thy will ; As thou hast chosen, lo ! Thy cup I fill ! ' What I most crave, perchance Thou wilt withhold ; As we from hands unmeet Keep pearls, or gold ; As we, wnen childish hands Would play with fire, Withhold the burning goal Of their desire. Yet choose Thou for me Thou Who knowest best ; This one short prayer of mine Holds all the rest! to (TUfeon FIREFLIES ON the warm and perfumed dark Glows the firefly's tender spark. Copse, and dell, and lonesome plain Catch the drops of lambent rain. Scattered swarms are snarled among Boughs where thrushes brood their young. Little cups of daisies hold Tapers that illume their gold. HORATIO NELSON POWERS 167 See! they light their floating lamps Where the katydid encamps, Glint the ripples, soft and cool, On the grassy-cinctured pool, Poise where blood-red roses burn And rills creep under drooping fern, Weave inconstant spangles through Vines that drip with fragrant dew, And mid clumps of dusky pine In the mournful silence shine. They cling to tufts of the morass ; The meadow lilies feel them pass ; They deck the turf about the feet . Of lovers hid in shadows sweet, And round the musing poet gleam Like scintillations of his dream. O winged spark ! effulgent mite ! Live atom of the Infinite ! Thou doest what for thee is done, In thy place faithful as the sun ; Love's highest law compels thy heart ; All that thou hast thou dost impart ; Thy life is lighted at its core- Sages and saints achieve no more. MY WALK TO CHURCH (From HARPER'S MAGAZINE. Copyright 1888 by HARPER & BROTHERS) BREATHING the summer-scented air Along the bowery mountain way, Each Lord's day morning I repair To serve my church, a mile away. Below, the glorious river lies A bright, broad-breasted, sylvan sea And round the sumptuous highlands rise, Fair as the hills of Galilee. Young flowers are in my path. I hear Music of unrecorded tone : The heart of Beauty beats so near, Its pulses modulate my own. 168 HORATIO NELSON POWERS The shadow on the meadow's breast Is not more calm than my repose As, step by step, I am the guest Of every living thing that grows. Ah, something melts along the sky, And something rises from the ground, And fills the inner ear and eye Beyond the sense of sight and sound. It is not that I strive to see What Love in lovely shapes has wrought,- Its gracious messages to me Come, like the gentle dews, unsought. I merely walk with open heart Which feels the secret in the sign : But, oh, how large and rich my part In all that makes the feast divine ! Sometimes I hear the happy birds That sang to Christ beyond the sea, And softly His consoling words Blend with their joyous minstrelsy. Sometimes in royal vesture glow The lilies that He called so fair, Which never toil nor spin, yet show The loving Father's tender care. And then along the fragrant hills A radiant presence seems to move, And earth grows fairer, as it fills The very air I breathe with love. And now I see one perfect Face, And hastening to my church's door, Find Him within the holy place Who, all my way, went on before. i6 9 Joljn FROM her own fair dominions Long since, with shorn pinions, My spirit was banished : But above her still hover, in vigils and dreams, Ethereal visitants, voices, and gleams, That for ever remind her Of something behind her Long vanished. Through the listening night, With mysterious flight, Pass those winged intimations ; Like stars shot from heaven, their still voices fall to me ; Far and departing, they signal and call to me, Strangely beseeching me, Chiding, yet teaching me Patience. Then at times, oh ! at times, To their luminous climes I pursue as a swallow ! To the river of Peace, and its solacing shades, To the haunts of my lost ones in heavenly glades, With strong aspirations Their pinions' vibrations I follow. O heart ! be thou patient ! Though here I am stationed A season in durance, The chain of the world I will cheerfully wear ; For, spanning my soul like a rainbow, I bear With the yoke of my lowly Condition, a holy Assurance, I 7 o JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE That never in vain Does the spirit maintain Her eternal allegiance : Though suffering and yearning, like Infancy learning Its lesson, we linger; then skyward returning, On plumes fully grown We depart to pur own Native regions ! MIDSUMMER ABOUND this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise. Oh, softly on yon banks of haze Her rosy face the Summer lays ! Becalmed along the azure sky, The argosies of cloud-land lie, Whose shores, with many a shining rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. Through all the long midsummer day The meadow sides are sweet with hay. I seek the coolest sheltered seat Just where the field and forest meet, Where grow the pine trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet. I watch the mowers as they go Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row; With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring; Behind the nimble youngsters run And toss the thick swaths in the sun ; The cattle graze ; while, warm and still, Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, when summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake. JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE The butterfly and humble-bee Come to the pleasant woods with me ; Quickly before me runs the quail, The chickens skulk behind the rail, High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And the wood-pecker pecks and flits. Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats his throbbing drum. The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house. The oriole flashes by ; and, look ! Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float. As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me. Oh, this is peace ! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read : A dear Companion here abides ; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His voice : T lie and listen and rejoice. AT SEA THE night is made for cooling shade, For silence, and for sleep ; And when I was a child I laid My hands upon my breast and prayed, And sank to slumbers deep : Childlike as then, I lie to-night, And watch my lonely cabin light. Each movement of the swaying lamp Shows how the vessel reels : As o'er her deck the billows tramp, And all her timbers strain and cramp, With every shock she feels, It starts and shudders, while it burns, And in its hinged socket turns. J72 JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE Now swinging slow, and slanting low, It almost level lies; And yet I know, while to and fro I watch the seeming pendule go With restless fall and rise, The steady shaft is still upright, Poising its little globe of light. hand of God ! O Lamp of Peace ! O Promise of my soul ! Though weak and tossed, and ill at ease, Amid the roar of smiting seas, The ship's convulsive roll, 1 own, with love and tender awe, Yon perfect type of faith and law ! A heavenly trust my spirit calms, My soul is filled with light; The ocean sings his solemn psalms, The wild winds chant : I cross my palms, Happy as if, to-night, Under the cottage roof, again I heard the soothing summer rain. A THANKSGIVING I BRING my hymn of thankfulness To Thee, dear Lord, to-day ; Though not for joys Thy name I bless, And not for gifts I pray. The griefs that know not man's redress Before Thy feet I lay. Master! I thank Thee for the sin That taught mine eyes to see What depths of loving lie within The heart that broke for me ; What patience human want can win From God's divinity. ROSE TERRY COOKE } 73 I thank Thee for the blank despair, When friend and love forsake, That taught me how Thy cross to bear, Who bore it for my sake, And showed my lonely soul a prayer That from Thy lips I take. I thank Thee for the life of grief I share with all below, Wherein I learn the sure relief My brother's heart to know. And in the wisdom taught of pain To soothe and share his woe. I thank Thee for the languid years Of loneliness and pain, When flesh and spirit sowed in tears, But scattered not in vain ; For trust in God and faith in man Sprang up beneath the rain. I thank Thee for my vain desires, That no fulfilment knew ; For life's consuming, cleansing fires, That searched me through and through. Till I could say to Him : ' Forgive ! They know not what they do.' What fulness of my earthly store, What shine of harvest sun, What ointment on Thy feet to pour, What honored race to run, What joyful song of thankfulness, Here ended or begun, Shall mate with mine, who learn so late To know Thy will is done ? REST Oh ! spare me, that I may recover strength before I go hence and be no more. Ps. xxxix. 13. FOLD up thy hands, my weary soul, Sit down beside the way! Thou hast at last a time to rest, At last a holiday. 174 ROSE TERRY COOKE Thy lingering life of weariness, Thy time of toil and tears, A little space may grant thee grace To overcome thy fears A bright access of patient peace, Not rapture, nor delight ; But even as sounds of labor cease Before the hush of night ; Or as the storm that all day long Has wailed, and raged, and wept, Nor ceased its force nor changed its course, While slow the daylight crept ; But suddenly, before the sun Drops down behind the hills, A clear, calm shining parts the cloud And all the ether fills; Or as the sweet and steadfast shore To them that sail the sea ; Or home to them that ply the oar, Or leave captivity. Like any child that cries itself On mother's breast to sleep, Lord, let me lie a little while, Till slumber groweth deep ; So deep that neither love nor life Shall stir its calm repose Beyond the stress of mortal strife, The strain of mortal woes. Spare me this hour to sleep, before Thy sleepless bliss is given ; Give me a day of rest on earth, Before the work of heaven ! 175 THE PASSION FLOWER T PLUCKED it in an idle hour, 1 And placed it in my book of prayer, 'Tis not the only passion flower That hath been crushed and hidden there. And now through floods of burning tears My withered bloom once more I see, And I lament the long, long years, The wasted years, afar from Thee. My flower is emblem of the bright ' First fervor ' that my spirit knew, A dream of beauty, joy and light Now pale and dead it meets my view. What is there left of dream or flower But ashes? Take, I pray, from me, All my vain thoughts of fame and power, And draw my spirit nearer Thee. UNDER THE CLOUD O BEAUTEOUS things of earth ! I cannot feel your worth To-day. O kind and constant friend ! Our spirits cannot blend To-day. Lord of truth and grace ! 1 cannot see Thy face To-day. A shadow on my heart Keeps me from all apart To-day. 176 CHARLES GORDON AMES Yet something in me knows How fair creation glows To-day. And something makes me sure That love is not less pure To-day. And that th' Eternal Good Minds nothing of my mood To-day. For when the sun grows dark A sacred, secret spark Shoots rays. Fed from a hidden bowl A Lamp burns in my soul All days. T ATHANASIA 'HE ship may sink, And I may drink A hasty death in the bitter sea; But all that I leave In the ocean-grave Can be slipped and spared, and no loss to me. What care I, Though falls the sky, And the shrivelling earth to a cinder turn ? No fires of doom Can ever consume What never was made nor meant to burn. Let go the breath, There is no death To the living soul, nor loss, nor harm. Not of the clod Is the life of God ; Let it mount, as it will, from form to form. CHARLES GORDON AMES 177 HIDDEN LIFE SINCE Eden, it keeps the secret ! Not a flower beside it knows To distil from the day the fragrance And beauty that flood the rose. Silently speeds the secret From the loving eye of the sun To the willing heart of the flower : The life of the twain is one. Folded within my being, A wonder to me is taught, Too deep for curious seeing Or fathom of sounding thought, Of all sweet mysteries holiest ! Faded are rose and sun ! The Highest hides in the lowliest ; My Father and I are one. UNSEEN HOW do the rivulets find their way? How do the flowers know the day, And open their cups to catch the ray ? I see the germ to the sunlight reach, And the nestlings know the old bird's speech ; I do not see who is there to teach. I see the hare from the danger hide, And the stars through the pathless spaces ride ; I do not see that they have a guide. He is Eyes for All who is eyes for the mole ; All motion goes to the rightful goal ; O God ! I can trust for the human soul. 78 TO MY SOUL GUEST from a holier world, Oh, tell me where the peaceful valleys lie ! Down in the ark of life, when thou shalt fly, Where will thy wings be furled? Where is thy native nest? Where the green pastures that the blessed roam ? Impatient dweller in thy clay-built home, Where is thy heavenly rest? On some immortal shore, Some realm away from earth and time, I know ; A land of bloom, where living waters flow, And grief comes nevermore. Faith turns my eyes above ; Day fills with floods of light the boundless skies ; Night watches calmly with her starry eyes All tremulous with love. And, as entranced I gaze, Sweet music floats to me from distant lyres : I see a temple, round whose golden spires Unearthly glory plays ! Beyond those azure deeps I fix thy home, a mansion kept for thee Within the Father's house, whose noiseless key Kind Death, the warder, keeps ! Jlowe HONOR ALL MEN GREAT Master! teach us how to hope in man We lift our eyes upon his works and ways, And disappointment chills us as we gaze, Our dream of him so far the truth outran, So far his deeds are ever falling short. MARTHA PERRY LOWE 17 And then we fold our graceful hands, and say, * The world is vulgar.' Didst Thou turn away, O Sacred Spirit, delicately wrought ! Because the humble souls of Galilee Were tuned not to the music of Thine own, And chimed not to the pulsing undertone Which swelled Thy loving bosom like a sea ? Shame Thou our coldness, most Benignant Friend, When we so daintily do condescend. WORK LORD, send us forth among Thy fields to work ! Shall we for words and names contending be, Or lift our garments from the dust we see, And all the noonday heat and burden shirk? The fields are white for harvest, shall we stay To find a bed of roses for the night, And watch the far-off cloud that comes to sight, Lest it should burst in showers upon our way? Fling off, my soul, thy grasping self, and view With generous ardor all thy brothers' need ; Fling off thy thoughts of golden ease, and weed A corner of thy Master's vineyard too. The harvest of the world is" great indeed, O Jesus ! and the laborers are few. S)tcitn0on THE CHARIOT BECAUSE I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me ; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. N 2 i8o EMILY DICKINSON We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done ; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground ; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 'tis centuries, but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity. CERTAINTY 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 spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven ; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given. A DIALOGUE DEATH is a dialogue between The spirit and the dust; 'Dissolve,' says Death. The spirit, 'Sir, I have another trust.' Death doubts it, argues from the ground ; The spirit turns away, Just laying off, for evidence, An overcoat of clay. EMILY DICKINSON 181 SETTING SAIL EXULTATION is the going d Of an inland soul to sea, Past the houses, past the headlands, Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains, Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land ? AFTER DEATH THE bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth, The sweeping up the hearth, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity. NEEDLESS FEAR AFRAID ? Of whom am I afraid ? Not Death; for who is he? The porter of my father's lodge As much abasheth me. Of life ? 'Twere odd I fear a thing That comprehendeth me In one or more existences At Deity's decree. Of resurrection ? Is the east Afraid to trust the morn With her fastidious forehead ? As soon impeach my crown ! t8a EMILY DICKINSON NOT IN VAIN IF I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain. TIME LOOK back on Time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best ; How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west. THE BATTLE-FIELD THEY dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes. They perished in the seamless grass,- No eye could find the place ; But God on His repealless list Can summon every face. VANISHED SHE died, this was the way she died ; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side. EMILY DICKINSON 183 PRAYER AT least to pray is left, is left. I\ O Jesus ! in the air I know not which Thy chamber is, I'm knocking everywhere. Thou stirrest earthquake in the south, And maelstrom in the sea; Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth, Hast Thou no arm for me ? THE FOLD LET down the bars, O Death ! The tired flocks come in Whose bleating ceases to repeat, Whose wandering is done. Thine is the stillest night, Thine the securest fold ; Too near thou art for seeking thee, Too tender to be told. THE MARTYRS THROUGH the straight pass of suffering The martyrs ever trod, Their feet upon temptation, Their faces upon God. A stately shriven company, Convulsion playing round, Harmless as streaks of meteor Upon a planet's bound. Their faith the everlasting troth ; Their expectation fair ; The needle to the north degree Wades so, through polar air. 1*4 jgfog* MILTON'S PRAYER OF PATIENCE I AM old and blind ! Men point at me as smitten by God's frown ; Afflicted and deserted of my kind, Yet am I not cast down. I am weak, yet strong; I murmur not that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, Father supreme ! to Thee. All-merciful One ! When men are furthest, then art Thou most near; When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear. Thy glorious face Is leaning toward me ; and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, - And there is no more night. On my bended knee 1 recognize Thy purpose clearly shown : My vision Thou hast dimmed, that I may see Thyself, Thyself alone. I have naught to fear ; This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing ; Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here Can come no evil thing. Oh, I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in that radiance from the sinless land, Which eye hath never seen ! Visions come and go : Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; From angel lips I seem to hear the flow Of soft and holy song. ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL 185 It is nothing now, When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, That earth in darkness lies. In a purer clime My being fills with rapture, waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit, strains sublime Break over me unsought. Give me now my lyre ! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine : Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, Lit by no skill of mine. CHRISTIAN EXALTATION CHRISTIAN soldier! shouldst thou rue Life and its toils, as others do, Wear a sad frown from day to day, And garb thy soul in hodden-gray ? Oh ! rdther shouldst thou smile elate, Unquelled by sin, unawed by hate, Thy lofty-statured spirit dress In moods of royal stateliness ; For say, what service so divine As that, ah ! warrior heart, of thine, High pledged alike through gain or loss, To thy brave banner of the cross ? Yea! what hast thou to do with gloom, Whose footsteps spurn the conquered tomb? Thou, that through dreariest dark canst see A smiling immortality? Leave to the mournful, doubting slave, Who deems the whole wan earth a grave, Across whose dusky mounds forlorn Can rise no resurrection morn, The sombre mien, the funeral weed, That darkly match so dark a creed ; 186 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE But be thy brow turned bright on all, Thy voice like some clear clarion call, Pealing o'er life's tumultuous van The key-note of the hopes of man, While o'er thee flames through gain, through loss, That fadeless symbol of the cross ! THE MASK OF DEATH IN youth, when blood was warm and fancy high, I mocked at Death. How many a quaint conceit I wove about his veiled head and feet, Vaunting aloud, * Why need we dread to die?' But now, enthralled by deep solemnity, Death's pale, phantasmal shade I darkly greet ; Ghostlike it haunts the earth, it haunts the street, Or drearier makes drear midnight's mystery. Ah, soul-perplexing vision ! oft I deem That antique myth is true which pictured Death A masked and hideous form all shrank to see ; But at the last slow ebb of mortal breath, Death, his mask melting like a nightmare dream, Smiled, heaven's High-Priest of Immortality. ?E)unf 'NOT AS I WILL' BLINDFOLDED and alone I stand, With unknown thresholds on each hand ; The darkness deepens as I grope, Afraid to fear, afraid to hope : Yet this one thing I learn to know Each day more surely as I go, That doors are opened, ways are made, Burdens are lifted or are laid, By some great law unseen and still, Unfathomed purpose to fulfil, 'Not as I will.' HELEN HUNT JACKSON 187 Blindfolded and alone I wait; Loss seems too bitter, gain too late ; Too heavy burdens in the load And too few helpers on the road; And joy is weak and grief is strong, And years and days so long, so long: Yet this one thing I learn to know Each day more surely as I go. That I am glad the good and ill By changeless law are ordered still, * Not as I will.' 4 Not as I will ' : the sound grows sweet Each time my lips the words repeat. ' Not as I will ' : the darkness feels More safe than light when this thought steals Like whispered voice to calm and bless All unrest and all loneliness. ' Not as I will,' because the One Who loved us first and best has gone Before us on the road, and still For us must all His love fulfil, ' Not as we will.' DOUBT THEY bade me cast the thing away, They pointed to my hands all bleeding, They listened not to all my pleading; The thing I meant I could not say; I knew that I should rue the day If once I cast that thing away. I grasped it firm, and bore the pain; The thorny husks I stripped and scattered; If I could reach its heart, what mattered If other men saw not my gain, Or even if I should be slain ? I knew the risks ; I chose the pain. iS8 HELEN HUNT JACKSON O, had I cast that thing away, I had not found what most I cherish, A faith without which I should perish, The faith which, like a kernel, lay Hid in the husks which on that day My instinct would not throw away ! GLIMPSES A3 when on some great mountain -peak we stand, In breathless awe beneath its dome of sky, Whose multiplied horizons seem to lie Beyond the bounds of earthly sea and land, We find the circled space too vast, too grand, And soothe our thoughts with restful memory Of sudden sunlit glimpses we passed by Too quickly, in our feverish demand To reach the height, So, darling, when the brink Of highest heaven we reach at last, I think Even that great gladness will grow yet more glad, As we, with eyes that are no longer sad, Look back, while Life's horizons slowly sink, To some swift moments which on earth we had. SPINNING LIKE a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days ; I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways ; I know each day will bring its task, And, being blind, no more I ask. I do not know the use or name Of that I spin ; I only know that some one came And laid within My hand the thread, and said, ' Since you Are blind, but one thing you can do.' HELEN HUNT JACKSON 189 Sometimes the threads so rough and fast And tangled fly, I know wild storms are sweeping past, And fear that I Shall fall ; but dare not try to find A safer place, since I am blind. I know not why, but I am sure That tint and place In some great fabric to endure Past time and race My threads will have; so from the first, Though blind, I never felt accurst. I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung From one short word Said over me when I was young, So young, I heard It, knowing not that God's name signed My brow, and sealed me His, though blind. But whether this be seal or sign Within, without, It matters not, the bond divine I never doubt. I know He set me here, and still, And glad, and blind, I wait His will. But listen, listen, day by day, To hear their tread Who bear the finished web away, And cut the thread, And bring God's message in the sun, 'Thou poor, blind spinner, work is done.' THE ANGEL OF PAIN AJGEL of Pain, I think thy face Will be, in all the heavenly place, The sweetest face that I shall see, The swiftest face to smile on me. SAXE HOLM All other angels faint and tire; Joy wearies, and forsakes desire; Hope falters face to face with fate, And dies because it cannot wait ; And Love cuts short each loving day, Because fond hearts cannot obey The subtlest law which measures bliss By what it is content to miss. But thou, O loving, faithful Pain Hated, reproached, rejected, slain Dost only closer cling and bless In sweeter, stronger steadfastness. Dear, patient angel, to thine own Thou comest, and art never known Till late, in some lone twilight place The light of thy transfigured face Sudden shines out, and speechless, they Know they have walked with Christ all day. THE LOVE OF GOD LIKE a cradle, rocking, rocking, Silent, peaceful, to and fro, Like a mother's sweet looks dropping On the little face below, Hangs the green earth, swinging, turning, Jarless, noiseless, safe and slow ; Falls the light of God's face, bending Down and watching us below. And as feeble babes that suffer, Toss and cry, and will not rest, Are the ones the tender mother Holds the closest, loves the best; So when we are weak and wretched, By our sins weighed down, distressed, Then it is that God's great patience Holds us closest, loves us best. O great Heart of God ! whose loving Cannot hindered be nor crossed ; Will not weary, will not even In our death itself be lost SAXE HOLM 191 Love divine ! of such great loving Only mothers know the cost, Cost of love, which all love passing, Gave a Son to save the lost. A HYMN I CANNOT think but God must know About the thing I long for so ; I know He is so good, so kind, I cannot think but He will find Some way to help, some way to show Me to the thing I long for so. I stretch my hand, it lies so near: It looks so sweet, it looks so dear. * Dear Lord,' I pray, ' oh, let me know If it is wrong to want it so.' He only smiles, He does not speak; My heart grows weaker and more weak, With looking at the thing so dear, Which lies so far and yet so near. Now, Lord, I leave at Thy loved feet This thing which looks so near, so sweet, I will not seek, I will not long, I almost fear I have been wrong. I'll go and work the harder, Lord, And wait till by some loud, clear word Thou callest me to Thy loved feet, To take this thing, so dear, so sweet. THE GOSPEL OF MYSTERY GOOD tidings every day. God's messengers ride fast. We do not hear one half they say, There is such noise on the highway, Where we must wait till they ride past. SAXE HOLM Their banners blaze and shine With Jesus Christ's dear name And story, how by God's design He saves us, in His love divine, And lifts us from our sin and shame. Their music fills the air, Their songs sing all of heaven ; Their ringing trumpet-peals declare What crowns to souls who fight and dare And win, shall presently be given. Their hands throw treasures round Among the multitude. No pause, no choice, no count, no bound, No questioning how men are found, If they be evil or be good. But all the banners bear Some words we cannot read ; And mystic echoes in the air, Which borrow from the song no share, In sweetness all the songs exceed. And of the multitude, No man but in his hand Holds some great gift misunderstood, Some treasure, for whose use or good His ignorance sees no demand. These are the tokens lent By immortality; Birth-marks of our divine descent ; Sureties of ultimate intent, God's gospel of Eternity. Good tidings every day. The messengers ride fast. Thanks be to God for all they say; There is such noise on the highway, Let us keep still while they ride past. J 93 out'0a Ma Jtfcott TRANSFIGURA TION MYSTERIOUS Death ! who in a single hour Life's gold can so refine ; And by thy art divine Change mortal weakness to immortal power! Bending beneath the weight of eighty years, Spent with the noble strife Of a victorious life, We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears. But, ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung, A miracle was wrought, And swift as happy thought She lived again, brave, beautiful, and young. Age, Pain, and Sorrow dropped the veils they wore, And showed the tender eyes Of angels in disguise, Whose discipline so patiently she bore. The past years brought their harvest rich and fair, While Memory and Love Together fondly wove A golden garland for the silver hair. How could we mourn like those who are bereft, When every pang of grief Found balm for its relief In counting up the treasure she had left? Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time, Hope that defied despair, Patience that conquered care, And loyalty whose courage was sublime ; The great deep heart that was a home for all, Just, eloquent and strong, In protest against wrong ; Wide charity that knew no sin, no fall ; o 194 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT The Spartan spirit that made life so grand, Mating poor daily needs With high, heroic deeds, That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand. We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead, Full of the grateful peace That followed her release ; For nothing but the weary dust lies dead. Oh noble woman ! never more a queen Than in the laying down Of sceptre and of crown, To win a greater kingdom yet unseen, Teaching us how to seek the highest goal, To earn the true success ; To live, to love, to bless, And make death proud to take a royal soul. '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? EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 195 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 love-lit only, This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, Who would endure? THE DISCOVERER I HAVE a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater than Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together ! He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. Ay, he has travelled whither A winged pilot steered his bark Through the portals of the dark, Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, Across the unknown sea. Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled hand With this command : * Henceforth thou art a rover ! Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover.' With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went. Since that time no word From the absent has been heard. Who can tell How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found Since he left us, outward bound ? o 2 196 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN Would that he might return ! Then should we learn From the pricking of his chart How the skyey roadways part. Hush ! does not the baby this way bring, To lay beside this severed curl, Some starry offering Of chrysolite or pearl ? Ah, no ! not so ! We may follow on his track, But he comes not back. And yet I dare aver He is a brave discoverer Of climes his elders do not know. He has more learning than appears On the scroll of twice three thousand years, More than in the groves is taught, Or from furthest Indies brought ; He knows, perchance, how spirits fare, What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reach, - And his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. HEAVEN 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. NANCY PRIEST WAKEFIELD 197 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, way-worn feet of mine Into those pastures vernal ! THE CHILD OF BETHLEHEM O LITTLE town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie ! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting light ; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night ! For Christ is born of Mary ; And gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars ! together Proclaim the holy birth, And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth ! How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given ! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming; But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him, still The dear Christ enters in. 198 PHILLIPS BROOKS O holy Child of Bethlehem ! Descend to us, we pray ; Cast out our sin and enter in Be born in us to-day ! We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell ; Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel ! JUBILATE GRAY distance hid each shining sail, By ruthless breezes borne from me ; And, lessening, fading, faint and pale, My ships went forth to sea. Where misty breakers rose and fell I stood and sorrowed hopelessly; For every wave had tales to tell Of wrecks far out at sea. To-day, a song is on my lips : Earth seems a paradise to me : For God is good, and lo, my ships Are coming home from sea ! IN THE DARK* ALL moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees I\ Along the drifted sandhills where they grow; And from the dark west comes a wandering breeze, And waves them to and fro. A murky darkness lies along the sand, Where bright the sunbeams of the morning shone, And the eye vainly seeks by sea and land Some light to rest upon. * See note. GEORGE ARNOLD 199 No large pale star its glimmering vigil keeps ; An inky sea reflects an inky sky, And the dark river, like a serpent, creeps To where its black piers lie. Strange salty odors through the darkness steal, And, through the dark, the ocean-thunders roll ; Thick darkness gathers, stifling, till I feel Its weight upon my soul. I stretch my hands out in the empty air; I strain my eyes into the heavy night; Blackness of darkness ! Father, hear my prayer! Grant me to see the light ! ef QUc6n>en H THE GUEST Behold, I stand at the door, and knock ; if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him ; and he with Me. CPEECHLESS Sorrow sat with me; O I was sighing wearily, Lamp and fire were out : the rain Wildly beat the window-pane. In the dark we heard a knock, And a hand was on the lock ; One in waiting spake to me, Saying sweetly, 1 1 am come to sup with thee ! ' All my room was dark and damp ; ' Sorrow,' said I, ' trim the lamp ; Light the fire, and cheer thy face ; Set the guest- chair in its place.' And again I heard the knock; In the dark I found the lock : ' Enter ! I have turned the key ! Enter, Stranger ! Who art come to sup with me.' HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL Opening wide the door He came, But I could not speak His name ; In the guest-chair took His place; But I could not see His face ! When my cheerful fire was beaming, When my little lamp was gleaming, And the feast was spread for three, Lo ! my Master Was the Guest that supped with me ! THE FEAST-TIME OF THE YEAR THIS is the feast-time of the year, When hearts grow warm and home more dear ; When autumn's crimson torch expires To flash again in winter fires ; And they who tracked October's flight Through woods with gorgeous hues bedight, In charmed circle sit and praise The goodly log's triumphant blaze. This is the feast-time of the year, When Plenty pours her wine of cheer, And even humble boards may spare To poorer poor a kindly share ; While bursting barns and granaries know A richer, fuller overflow, And they who dwell in golden ease Bless without toil, yet toil to please. This is the feast-time of the year : The blessed Advent draweth near. Let rich and poor together break The bread of love for Christ's sweet sake, Against the time when rich and poor Must ope for Him a common door, Who comes a guest, yet makes a feast, And bids the greatest and the least. HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL 201 ALL'S WELL THE day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine ; Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep This little life of mine. With loving-kindness curtain Thou my bed, And cool in rest my burning pilgrim feet ; Thy pardon be the pillow for my head; So shall my rest be sweet. At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and Thee, No fears my soul's unwavering faith can shake; All's well, whichever side the grave for me The morning light may break. Jfofln Jawee (ptatf GLOW-WORM AND STAR A GOLDEN twinkle in the wayside grass, jf\ See the lone glow-worm, buried deep in dew, Brightening and lightening the low darkness through, Close to my feet, that by its covert pass; And, in the little pool of recent rain, O'erhung with tremulous grasses, look, how bright, Filling the drops along each blade with light, Yon great white star, some system's quickening brain, Whose voyage through that still deep is never done, Makes its small mirror by this gleam of earth ! O soul, with wonders where thy steps have trod, Which is most wondrous, worm or mirrored sun ? . . . The Mighty One shows in everything one birth ; The worm's a star as high from thee in God. JOHN JAMES PIATT A SONG OF CONTENT THE eagle nestles near the sun; The dove's low nest for me ! The eagle's on the crag : sweet one, The dove's in our green tree. For hearts that beat like thine and mine, Heaven blesses humble earth ; The angels of our heaven shall shine The angels of our hearth ! TRANSFIGURA TION /CRIMSONING the woodlands dumb and hoary, \^> Bleak with .long November winds and rains, Lo, at sunset breathes a sudden glory, Breaks a fire on all the western panes ! Eastward far I see the restless splendor Shine through many a window-lattice bright ; Nearer all the farm-house gables render Flame for flame, and meet in breathless light. Many a mansion, many a cottage lowly, Lost in radiance, palpitates the same, At the torch of beauty strange and hoi}'', All transfigured in the evening flame. Luminous, within, a marvelous vision, Things familiar half-unreal show ; In the effluence of Land Elysian, Every bosom feels a holier glow. Faces lose, as at some wondrous portal, Earthly masks, and heavenly features wear; Many a mother like a saint immortal, Folds her child, a haloed angel fair. 203 (m. (g. THE GIFT OF TEARS THE legend says : In Paradise God gave the world to man. Ah me ! The woman lifted up her eyes : ' Woman I have but tears for thee.' But tears ? And she began to shed, Thereat, the tears that comforted. (No other beautiful woman breathed, No rival among men had he. The seraph's sword of fire was sheathed, The golden fruit hung on the tree. Her lord was lord of all the earth, Wherein no child had wailed its birth.) Tears to a bride?' 'Yea, therefore tears.' ' In Eden ? ' ' Yea, and tears therefore.' Ah, bride in Eden, there were fears In the first blush your young cheek wore, Lest that first kiss had been too sweet, Lest Eden withered from your feet ! Mother of women ! Did you see How brief your beauty, and how brief, Therefore, the love of it must be, In that first garden, that first grief? Did those first drops of sorrow fall To move God's pity for us all ? Oh, sobbing mourner by the dead One watcher at the grave grass-grown ! Oh, sleepless for some darling head Cold-pillowed on the prison-stone, Or wet with drowning seas ! He knew, Who gave the gift of tears to you ! 204 SARAH M. B. PI ATT THE ANSWER OF THE GARDENER HE leant, at sunset, on his spade. (Oh, but the child was sweet to see, The one who in the orchard played !) He called : ' I've planted you a tree ! ' The boy looked at it for a while, Then at the radiant woods below ; And said, with wonder in his smile ' Why don't you put the leaves on, though ? The gardener, with a reverent air, Lifted his eyes, took off his hat ' The Other Man, the One up there/ He answered. ' He must see to that.' FAITH ' 'V'ES, God is good, I'm told. You see, I I cannot read. But, then, I can believe. He's good to me, He is, and good to men. They say He sends us sorrow, too. The world would be too sweet To leave, if this should not be true.' ('The world the moth can eat.') 1 WHEN SAW WE THEE r THEN shall He answer how He lifted up, In the cathedral there, at Lille, to me The same still mouth that drank the Passion-cup, And how I turned away and did not see. How oh, that boy's deep eyes and withered arm ! In a mad Paris street, one glittering night, Three times drawn backward by His beauty's charm, I gave Him not a farthing for the sight. SARAH M. B. PI ATT 205 How, in that shadowy temple at Cologne, Through all the mighty music, I did wring The agony of His last mortal moan From that blind soul I gave not anything. And how at Bruges, at a beggar's breast, There by the windmill where the leaves whirled so, I saw Him nursing, passed Him with the rest, Followed by His starved mother's stare of woe. But, my Lord Christ, Thou knowest I had not much, And fain must keep that which I had for grace To look, forsooth, where some dead painter's touch Had left Thy thorn-wound or Thy Mother's face. Therefore, O my Lord Christ, I pray of Thee That of Thy great compassion Thou wilt save, Laid up from moth and rust, somewhere, for me, High in the heavens the coins I never gave. A DREAM'S AWAKENING SHUT in a close and dreary sleep, Lonely and frightened and oppressed, I felt a dreadful serpent creep, Writhing and crushing, o'er my breast. I woke, and knew my child's sweet arm, As soft and pure as flakes of snow, Beneath my dream's dark, hateful charm, Had been the thing that tortured so. And in the morning's dew and light I seemed to hear an angel say, * The pain that stings in time's low night May prove God's love in higher day.' WE TWO GOD'S will is the bud of the rose for your hair, The ring for your hand and the pearl for your breast ; God's will is the mirror that makes you look fair. No wonder you whisper : ' God's will is the best.' ao6 SARAH M. B. PIATT But what if God's will were the famine, the flood ? And were God's will the coffin shut down in your face ? And were God's will the worm in the fold of the bud, Instead of the picture, the light, and the lace ? Were God's will the arrow that flieth by night, Were God's will the pestilence walking by day, The clod in the valley, the rock on the height I fancy ' God's will ' would be harder to say. God's will is your own will? What honor have you For having your own will, awake or asleep ? Who praises the lily for keeping the dew, When the dew is so sweet for the lily to keep ? God's will unto me is not music or wine. With helpless reproaching, with desolate tears, God's will I resist, for God's will is divine ; And I shall be dust to the end of my years. God's will is not mine. Yet one night I shall lie Very still at His feet, where the stars may not shine. ' Lo ! I am well pleased,' I shall hear from the sky ; Because it is God's will I do, and not mine. Boutee #