The World's Best Poetry, Volume 04: The Higher Life

IV. As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall; For this man, so foul and bent of stature, Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,— So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. The leper raised not the gold from the dust:— "Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door: That is no true alms which the hand can hold; He gives only the worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty: But he who gives but a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight,— That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite,— The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, The heart outstretches its eager palms; For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before." PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hilltop bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The little brook heard it, and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him winter-proof; All night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams; Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars; He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest crypt. Long, sparkling aisles of steel stemmed trees Mending to counterfeit a breeze; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here He had caught the nodding bulrush tops And hung them thickly with diamond drops. That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one: No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter palace of ice; 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay In his depths serene through the summer day, Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, Lest the happy model should be lost. Sad been mimicked in fairy masonry By the elfin builders of the frost. Within the hall are song and laughter; The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With lightsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer. But the wind without was eager and sharp; Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing in dreary monotone A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold. PART SECOND. There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was dumb and could not speak, For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea. Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gale, For another heir in his earldom sate: An old, bent man, worn out and frail, He came back from seeking the Holy Grail. Little he recked of his earldom's loss, No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross; But deep in his soul the sigh he wore, The badge of the suffering and the poor. Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare Was idle mail 'gainst the barbèd air, For it was just at the Christmas-time; So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, And sought for a shelter from cold and snow In the light and warmth of long ago. He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, He can count the camels in the sun, As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass, The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade. And with its own self like an infant played, And waved its signal of palms. "For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms:"— The happy camels may reach the spring, But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, That cowers beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease. And Sir Launfal said,—"I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,— Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,— And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side: Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through him, I give to thee!" Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie, When he girt his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust: He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink; 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread 'T was water out of a wooden bowl,— Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place; The leper no longer crouched at his side, But stood before him glorified, Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,— Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man. His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, That mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; And the voice that was softer than silence said:— Lo, it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail: Behold, it is here,—this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, This water His blood that died on the tree; The Holy Supper is kept indeed In whatso we share with another's need. Not, what we give, but what we share,— For the gift without the giver is bare: Who gives himself with his alms feeds three.— Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:— "The Grail in my castle here is found! Hang my idle armor up on the wall, Let it be the spider's banquet-hall; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." The castle gate stands open now, And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hang-bird is to the elm-tree bough; No longer scowl the turrets tall. The summer's long siege at last is o'er: When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with him in disguise, And mastered the fortress by surprise; There is no spot she loves so well on ground; She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has hall and bower at his command; And there's no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. * * * * * THE SISTER OF CHARITY. She once was a lady of honor and wealth; Bright glowed in her features the roses of health; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold: Joy revelled around her, love shone at her side, And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride; And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, That called her to live for her suffering race; And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Rose quickly, like Mary, and answered, "I come." She put from her person the trappings of pride, And passed from her home with the joy of a bride, Nor wept at the threshold as onward she moved,— For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved. Lost ever to fashion, to vanity lost, That beauty that once was the song and the toast, No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame: Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love; Those hands, that once dangled the perfume and gem, Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them; That voice, that once echoed the song of the vain. Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. Her down-bed, a pallet—her trinkets, a bead; Her lustre—one taper, that serves her to read; Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed; Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crownèd head; Her cushion—the pavement that wearies her knees; Her music—the psalm, or the sigh of disease: The delicate lady lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined: Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity there is a friend. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves, mid the vapors of death; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows her Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face, With looks that are lighted with holiest grace; How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him. Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain! Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers, self-seeking men; Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen; How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid? GERALD JOSEPH GRIFFEN. * * * * * WHAT I LIVE FOR. I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true, For heaven that smiles above me, And waits my spirit, too; For all the ties that bind me, For all the tasks assigned me. And bright hopes left behind me, And good that I can do. I live to learn their story Who've suffered for my sake, To emulate their glory, And follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The noble of all ages, Whose deeds crown history's pages, And Time's great volume make. I live to hold communion With all that is divine, To feel there is a union 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truths from fields of fiction, And, wiser from conviction, Fulfil each grand design. I live to hail that season, By gifted minds foretold, When men shall rule by reason, And not alone by gold; When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old. I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true, For heaven that smiles above me, And waits my spirit too; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do. GEORGE LINNAEUS BANKS. * * * * * IF WE HAD BUT A DAY. We should fill the hours with the sweetest things, If we had but a day; We should drink alone at the purest springs In our upward way; We should love with a lifetime's love in an hour, If the hours were few; We should rest, not for dreams, but for fresher power To be and to do. We should guide our wayward or wearied wills By the clearest light; We should keep our eyes on the heavenly hills, If they lay in sight; We should trample the pride and the discontent Beneath our feet; We should take whatever a good God sent, With a trust complete. We should waste no moments in weak regret, If the day were but one; If what we remember and what we forget Went out with the sun; We should be from our clamorous selves set free, To work or to pray, And to be what the Father would have us be. If we had but a day. MARY LOWE DICKINSON. * * * * * ABOU BEN ADHEM. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so." Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,— And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! LEIGH HUNT. * * * * * LOVE. If suddenly upon the street My gracious Saviour I should meet, And he should say, "As I love thee, What love hast thou to offer me?" Then what could this poor heart of mine Dare offer to that heart divine? His eye would pierce my outward show, His thought my inmost thought would know; And if I said, "I love thee, Lord," He would not heed my spoken word, Because my daily life would tell If verily I loved him well. If on the day or in the place Wherein he met me face to face, My life could show some kindness done, Some purpose formed, some work begun For his dear sake, then it were meet Love's gift to lay at Jesus' feet. CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. IV. SABBATH: WORSHIP: CREED. * * * * * SUNDAY MORNING BELLS. From the near city comes the clang of bells: Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine In one faint misty harmony, as fine As the soft note yon winter robin swells. What if to Thee in thine infinity These multiform and many-colored creeds Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds Round the one living truth them givest him—Thee? What if these varied forms that worship prove, Being heart-worship, reach thy perfect ear But as a monotone, complete and clear, Of which the music is, through Christ's name, love? Forever rising in sublime increase To "Glory in the highest,—on earth peace"? DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK. * * * * * SABBATH HYMN ON THE MOUNTAINS. Praise ye the Lord! Not in the temple of shapeliest mould, Polished with marble and gleaming with gold, Piled upon pillars of slenderest grace, But here in the blue sky's luminous face, Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord! Not where the organ's melodious wave Dies 'neath the rafters that narrow the nave, But here with the free wind's wandering sweep, Here with the billow that booms from the deep, Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord! Not where the pale-faced multitude meet In the sweltering lane and the dun-visaged street, But here where bright ocean, thick sown with green isles, Feeds the glad eye with a harvest of smiles, Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord! Here where the strength of the old granite Ben Towers o'er the greenswarded grace of the glen, Where the birch flings its fragrance abroad on the hill, And the bee of the heather-bloom wanders at will, Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord! Here where the loch, the dark mountain's fair daughter, Down the red scaur flings the white-streaming water, Leaping and tossing and swirling forever, Down to the bed of the smooth-rolling river, Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord! Not where the voice of a preacher instructs you, Not where the hand of a mortal conducts you, But where the bright welkin in scripture of glory Blazons creation's miraculous story. Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord! The wind and the welkin, the sun and the river, Weaving a tissue of wonders forever; The mead and the mountain, the flower and the tree, What is their pomp, but a vision of thee, Wonderful Lord? Praise ye the Lord! Not in the square-hewn, many-tiered pile, Not in the long-drawn, dim-shadowed aisle, But where the bright world, with age never hoary, Flashes her brightness and thunders his glory, Praise ye the Lord! JOHN STUART BLACKIE. * * * * * THE SABBATH MORNING. With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, That slowly wakes while all the fields are still! A soothing calm on every breeze is borne; A graver murmur gurgles from the rill; And echo answers softer from the hill; And sweeter sings the linnet from the thorn: The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn! The rooks float silent by in airy drove; The sun a placid yellow lustre throws; The gales that lately sighed along the grove Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move,— So smiled that day when the first morn arose! JOHN LEYDEN. * * * * * THE POOR MAN'S DAY. FROM "THE SABBATH." How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers, That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze; Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dovelike wings Peace o'er yon village broods; The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree; But on this day, imbosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God—not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke; While, wandering slowly up the river-side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. JAMES GRAHAME. * * * * * THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born; Ye shall not dim the light that streams From this celestial morn. To-morrow will be time enough To feel your harsh control; Ye shall not violate, this day, The Sabbath of my soul. Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts; Let fires of vengeance die; And, purged from sin, may I behold A God of purity! ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD. * * * * * VESPER HYMN. Now, on sea and land 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. 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. SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. * * * * * 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 oppressed, In thee alone, the soul, outworn, refreshment finds, and rest. Bend, Gracious Spirit, from above, like these o'erarching 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. 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 dawn and glow, fairer than morn's first ray, And thy pure radiance overflow the splendor of the day. So in the hastening even, 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! ELIZA SCUDDER. * * * * * AMAZING, BEAUTEOUS CHANGE! Amazing, beauteous change! A world created new! My thoughts with transport range, The lovely scene to view; In all I trace, Saviour divine, The word is thine,— Be thine the praise! See crystal fountains play Amidst the burning sands; The river's winding way Shines through the thirsty lands; New grass is seen, And o'er the meads Its carpet spreads Of living green. Where pointed brambles grew, Intwined with horrid thorn, Gay flowers, forever new, The painted fields adorn,— The blushing rose And lily there, In union fair, Their sweets disclose. Where the bleak mountain stood All bare and disarrayed, See the wide-branching wood Diffuse its grateful shade; Tall cedars nod, And oaks and pines, And elms and vines Confess thee God. The tyrants of the plain Their savage chase give o'er,— No more they rend the slain, And thirst for blood no more; But infant hands Fierce tigers stroke, And lions yoke In flowery bands. O, when, Almighty Lord! Shall these glad things arise, To verify thy word, And bless our wandering eyes? That earth may raise, With all its tongues, United songs Of ardent praise. PHILIP DODDRIDGE. * * * * * THE WORD. O Word of God incarnate, O Wisdom from on high, O Truth unchanged, unchanging, O Light of our dark sky; We praise thee for the radiance That from the hallowed page, A lantern to our footsteps, Shines on from age to age. The Church from thee, her Master, Received the gift divine; And still that light she lifteth O'er all the earth to shine. It is the golden casket Where gems of truth are stored; It is the heaven-drawn picture Of, thee, the living Word. It floateth like a banner Before God's host unfurled; It shineth like a beacon Above the darkling world; It is the chart and compass That o'er life's surging sea, Mid mists and rocks and quicksands, Still guide, O Christ, to thee. Oh, make thy Church, dear Saviour, A lamp of burnished gold, To bear before the nations Thy true light, as of old. Oh, teach thy wandering pilgrims By this their path to trace, Till, clouds and darkness ended, They see thee face to face. WILLIAM WALSHAM HOW. * * * * * THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, Of England green and old. That out from fane and ivied tower A thousand years have tolled; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallowed day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray! Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time; And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime! At bridal and at burial, For cottager and king, Those chimes, those glorious Christian chimes, How blessedly they ring! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Upon a Christmas morn. Outbreaking as the angels did, For a Redeemer born! How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly decked and mistletoe, To keep the festival! The chimes of England, how they peal From tower and Gothic pile, Where hymn and swelling anthem fill The dim cathedral aisle; Where windows bathe the holy light On priestly heads that falls, And stains the florid tracery Of banner-dighted walls! And then, those Easter bells, in spring, Those glorious Easter chimes! How loyally they hail thee round, Old Queen of holy times! From hill to hill like sentinels, Responsively they cry, And sing the rising of the Lord, From vale to mountain high. I love ye, chimes of Motherland, With all this soul of mine, And bless the Lord that I am sprung Of good old English line: And like a son I sing the lay That England's glory tells; For she is lovely to the Lord, For you, ye Christian bells! And heir of her historic fame, Though far away my birth, Thee, too, I love, my Forest-land, The joy of all the earth; For thine thy mother's voice shall be, And here, where God is king, With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring. ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. * * * * * THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. I have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam, That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream, Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest, From the pillar of stone to the blue of the blest. And the angels descending to dwell with us here, "Old Hundred," and "Corinth," and "China," and "Mear." "Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said. All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York"; Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, And politely picked up the key-note with a fork; And the vicious old viol went growling along At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song. All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod, That those breaths can blow open to heaven and God! Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining road,— Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed,— But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned choir, To the girl that sang alto—the girl that sang air! Oh, I need not a wing—bid no genii come With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the river of Time, When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme— Where the streams of the years flowed so noiseless and narrow, That across it there floated the song of the sparrow— For a sprig of green caraway carries me there. To the old village church, and the old village choir, Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung, And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they sung, Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun! You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, Who followed by scent, till he ran the tune down; And dear Sister Green, with more goodness than grace, Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place, And where "Coronation" exultingly flows, Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes! To the land of the leal they have gone with their song, Where the choir and the chorus together belong, Oh be lifted, ye gates! Let me hear them again— Blessèd song, blessèd singers! forever, Amen! BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. * * * * * A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY. "Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people, who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally sang the Doxology over them."— Spectator of May 14, 1803. "Praise God from whom all blessings flow," Praise him who sendeth joy and woe. The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, O, praise him, all that dies, and lives. He opens and he shuts his hand, But why we cannot understand: Pours and dries up his mercies' flood, And yet is still All-perfect Good. We fathom not the mighty plan, The mystery of God and man; We women, when afflictions come, We only suffer and are dumb. And when, the tempest passing by, He gleams out, sunlike through our sky, We look up, and through black clouds riven We recognize the smile of Heaven. Ours is no wisdom of the wise, We have no deep philosophies; Childlike we take both kiss and rod, For he who loveth knoweth God. DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK. * * * * * REBECCA'S HYMN. FROM "IVANHOE." When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide, in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow: By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen, And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone: Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own. But, present still, though now unseen! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And O, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. But Thou hast said, "The blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice." SIR WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * THE BOOK OF GOD. Thy thoughts are here, my God, Expressed in words divine, The utterance of heavenly lips In every sacred line. Across the ages they Have reached us from afar, Than the bright gold more golden they, Purer than purest star. More durable they stand Than the eternal hills; Far sweeter and more musical Than music of earth's rills. Fairer in their fair hues Than the fresh flowers of earth, More fragrant than the fragrant climes Where odors have their birth. Each word of thine a gem From the celestial mines, A sunbeam from that holy heaven Where holy sunlight shines. Thine, thine, this book, though given In man's poor human speech, Telling of things unseen, unheard, Beyond all human reach. No strength it craves or needs From this world's wisdom vain; No filling up from human wells, Or sublunary rain. No light from sons of time, Nor brilliance from its gold; It sparkles with its own glad light, As in the ages old. A thousand hammers keen, With fiery force and strain, Brought down on it in rage and hate, Have struck this gem in vain. Against this sea-swept rock Ten thousand storms their will Of foam and rage have wildly spent; It lifts its calm face still. It standeth and will stand, Without or change or age, The word of majesty and light, The church's heritage. HORATIUS BONAR. * * * * * THE MEETING. The elder folk shook hands at last, Down seat by seat the signal passed. To simple ways like ours unused, Half solemnized and half amused, With long-drawn breath and shrug, my guest His sense of glad relief expressed. Outside, the hills lay warm in sun; The cattle in the meadow-run Stood half-leg deep; a single bird The green repose above us stirred. "What part or lot have you," he said, "In these dull rites of drowsy-head? Is silence worship? Seek it where It soothes with dreams the summer air; Not in this close and rude-benched hall, But where soft lights and shadows fall, And all the slow, sleep-walking hours Glide soundless over grass and flowers! From time and place and form apart, Its holy ground the human heart, Nor ritual-bound nor templeward Walks the free spirit of the Lord! Our common Master did not pen His followers up from other men; His service liberty indeed, He built no church, he framed no creed; But while the saintly Pharisee Made broader his phylactery, As from the synagogue was seen The dusty-sandalled Nazarene Through ripening cornfields lead the way Upon the awful Sabbath day, His sermons were the healthful talk That shorter made the mountain-walk, His wayside texts were flowers and birds, Where mingled with his gracious words The rustle of the tamarisk-tree And ripple-wash of Galilee." "Thy words are well, O friend," I said; "Unmeasured and unlimited, With noiseless slide of stone to stone, The mystic Church of God has grown. Invisible and silent stands The temple never made with hands, Unheard the voices still and small Of its unseen confessional. He needs no special place of prayer Whose hearing ear is everywhere; He brings not back the childish days That ringed the earth with stones of praise, Roofed Karnak's hall of gods, and laid The plinths of Philae's colonnade. Still less he owns the selfish good And sickly growth of solitude,— The worthless grace that, out of sight, Flowers in the desert anchorite; Dissevered from the suffering whole, Love hath no power to save a soul. Not out of Self, the origin And native air and soil of sin, The living waters spring and flow, The trees with leaves of healing grow. "Dream not, O friend, because I seek This quiet shelter twice a week, I better deem its pine-laid floor Than breezy hill or sea-sung shore; But nature is not solitude; She crowds us with her thronging wood; Her many hands reach out to us, Her many tongues are garrulous; Perpetual riddles of surprise She offers to our ears and eyes; She will not leave our senses still, But drags them captive at her will; And, making earth too great for heaven, She hides the Giver in the given. "And so I find it well to come For deeper rest to this still room, For here the habit of the soul Feels less the outer world's control; The strength of mutual purpose pleads More earnestly our common needs; And from the silence multiplied By these still forms on either side, The world that time and sense have known Falls off and leaves us God alone. "Yet rarely through the charmed repose Unmixed the stream of motive flows, A flavor of its many springs, The tints of earth and sky it brings; In the still waters needs must be Some shade of human sympathy; And here, in its accustomed place, I look on memory's dearest face; The blind by-sitter guesseth not What shadow haunts that vacant spot; No eyes save mine alone can see The love wherewith it welcomes me! And still, with those alone my kin, In doubt and weakness, want and sin, I bow my head, my heart I bare As when that face was living there, And strive (too oft, alas! in vain) The peace of simple trust to gain, Fold fancy's restless wings, and lay The idols of my heart away. "Welcome the silence all unbroken, Nor less the words of fitness spoken,— Such golden words as hers for whom Our autumn flowers have just made room; Whose hopeful utterance through and through The freshness of the morning blew; Who loved not less the earth that light Fell on it from the heavens in sight, But saw in all fair forms more fair The Eternal beauty mirrored there. Whose eighty years but added grace And saintlier meaning to her face,— The look of one who bore away Glad tidings from the hills of day, While all our hearts went forth to meet The coming of her beautiful feet! Or haply hers whose pilgrim tread Is in the paths where Jesus led; Who dreams her childhood's Sabbath dream By Jordan's willow-shaded stream, And, of the hymns of hope and faith, Sang by the monks of Nazareth, Hears pious echoes, in the call To prayer, from Moslem minarets fall, Repeating where His works were wrought The lesson that her Master taught, Of whom an elder Sibyl gave, The prophecies of Cumae's cave! "I ask no organ's soulless breath To drone the themes of life and death, No altar candle-lit by day, No ornate wordsman's rhetoric-play, No cool philosophy to teach Its bland audacities of speech To double-tasked idolaters, Themselves their gods and worshippers, No pulpit hammered by the fist Of loud-asserting dogmatist, Who borrows for the hand of love The smoking thunderbolts of Jove. I know how well the fathers taught, What work the later schoolmen wrought; I reverence old-time faith and men, But God is near us now as then; His force of love is still unspent, His hate of sin as imminent; And still the measure of our needs Outgrows the cramping bounds of creeds; The manna gathered yesterday Already savors of decay; Doubts to the world's child-heart unknown Question us now from star and stone; Too little or too much we know, And sight is swift and faith is slow; The power is lost to self-deceive With shallow forms of make-believe. We walk at high noon, and the bells Call to a thousand oracles, But the sound deafens, and the light Is stronger than our dazzled sight; The letters of the sacred Book Glimmer and swim beneath our look; Still struggles in the Age's breast With deepening agony of quest The old entreaty: 'Art thou He, Or look we for the Christ to be?' "God should be most where man is least; So, where is neither church nor priest, And never rag of form or creed To clothe the nakedness of need,— Where farmer-folk in silence meet,— I turn my bell-unsummoned feet; I lay the critic's glass aside, I tread upon my lettered pride, And, lowest-seated, testify To the oneness of humanity; Confess the universal want, And share whatever Heaven may grant. He findeth not who seeks his own, The soul is lost that's saved alone. Not on one favored forehead fell Of old the fire-tongued miracle, But flamed o'er all the thronging host The baptism of the Holy Ghost; Heart answers heart: in one desire The blending lines of prayer aspire; 'Where, in my name, meet two or three,' Our Lord hath said, 'I there will be!' "So sometimes comes to soul and sense The feeling which is evidence That very near about us lies The realm of spiritual mysteries. The sphere of the supernal powers Impinges on this world of ours. The low and dark horizon lifts, To light the scenic terror shifts; The breath of a diviner air Blows down the answer of a prayer:— That all our sorrow, pain, and doubt A great compassion clasps about, And law and goodness, love and force, Are wedded fast beyond divorce. Then duty leaves to love its task, The beggar Self forgets to ask; With smile of trust and folded hands, The passive soul in waiting stands To feel, as flowers the sun and dew, The One true Life its own renew. "So, to the calmly gathered thought The innermost of truth is taught, The mystery dimly understood, That love of God is love of good, And, chiefly, its divinest trace In Him of Nazareth's holy face; That to be saved is only this,— Salvation from our selfishness, From more than elemental fire, The soul's unsanctified desire, From sin itself, and not the pain That warns us of its chafing chain; That worship's deeper meaning lies In mercy, and not sacrifice, Not proud humilities of sense And posturing of penitence, But love's unforced obedience; That Book and Church and Day are given For man, not God,—for earth, not heaven,— The blessed means to holiest ends, Not masters, but benignant friends; That the dear Christ dwells not afar, The king of some remoter star, Listening, at times, with flattered ear, To homage wrung from selfish fear, But here, amidst the poor and blind, The bound and suffering of our kind, In works we do, in prayers we pray, Life of our life, He lives to-day." JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER * * * * * THE LIVING TEMPLE. Nor 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, Forever quivering o'er his task, While far and wide a crimson jet Leaps forth to fill the woven net 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! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. * * * * * OF HYM THAT TOGYDER WYLL SERVE TWO MAYSTERS. A Fole he is and voyde of reason Whiche with one hounde tendyth to take Two harys in one instant and season; Rightso is he that wolde undertake Hym to two lordes a servaunt to make; For whether that he be lefe or lothe, The one he shall displease, or els bothe. A fole also he is withouten doute, And in his porpose sothly blyndyd sore, Which doth entende labour or go aboute To serve god, and also his wretchyd store Of worldly ryches: for as I sayde before, He that togyder will two maysters serve Shall one displease and nat his love deserve. For be that with one hounde wol take also Two harys togyther in one instant For the moste parte doth the both two forgo, And if he one have: harde it is and skant And that blynd fole mad and ignorant That draweth thre boltis atons[A] in one bowe At one marke shall shote to[o] high or to[o] lowe. He that his mynde settyth god truly to serve And his sayntes: this worlde settynge at nought Shall for rewarde everlastynge joy deserve, But in this worlde he that settyth his thought All men to please, and in favour to be brought, Must lout and lurke, flater, laude, and lye: And cloke in knavys counseyll, though it fals be. Wherfore I may prove by these examples playne That it is better more godly and plesant To leve this mondayne casualte and payne And to thy maker one god to be servaunt. Which whyle thou lyvest shall nat let the want That thou desyrest justly, for thy syrvyce, And than after gyve the, the joyes of Paradyse. From the German of SEBASTIAN BRANDT. Translation of ALEXANDER BARCLAY. [Footnote A: At once.] * * * * * RELIGION AND DOCTRINE. He stood before the Sanhedrim; The scowling rabbis gazed at him; He recked not of their praise or blame; There was no fear, there was no shame For one upon whose dazzled eyes The whole world poured its vast surprise. The open heaven was far too near, His first day's light too sweet and clear, To let him waste his new-gained ken On the hate-clouded face of men. But still they questioned, Who art thou? What hast thou been? What art thou now? Thou art not he who yesterday Sat here and begged beside the way, For he was blind. And I am he; For I was blind, but now I see . He told the story o'er and o'er; It was his full heart's only lore; A prophet on the Sabbath day Had touched his sightless eyes with clay, And made him see, who had been blind. Their words passed by him like the wind Which raves and howls, but cannot shock The hundred-fathom-rooted rock. Their threats and fury all went wide; They could not touch his Hebrew pride; Their sneers at Jesus and his band, Nameless and homeless in the land, Their boasts of Moses and his Lord, All could not change him by one word. I know not that this man may be, Sinner or saint; but as for me, One thing I know, that I am he Who once was blind, and now I see . They were all doctors of renown, The great men of a famous town, With deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise, Beneath their wide phylacteries; The wisdom of the East was theirs, And honor crowned their silver hairs; The man they jeered and laughed to scorn Was unlearned, poor, and humbly born; But he knew better far than they What came to him that Sabbath day; And what the Christ had done for him, He knew, and not the Sanhedrim. JOHN HAY. * * * * * RABBI BEN EZRA. Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first I was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith "A whole I planned Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" Not for such hopes and fears, Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate—folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? Rejoice we are allied To That which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! For thence—a paradox Which comforts while it mocks— Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. What is he but a brute Whose flesh hath soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test— Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once, "How good to live and learn?" Not once beat "Praise be Thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw Power, shall see Love perfect too: Perfect I call Thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete—I trust what Thou shalt do!" For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute—gain most, as we did best! Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day. I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings, Let us cry, "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ. And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue. Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Be the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same. Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots—"Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made; So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age; wait death nor be afraid! Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive: Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall my soul believe? Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount: Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

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