Lovebuilt a chamber in my heart,A daintier ne’er was seen,’Twas filled with books and gems of art,And all that makes a lover’s partTrue homage to his Queen.The ceiling was of silver brightThat showed the floor below;The walls were hung with silk so whiteThat e’en the mirror was to sightA slope of driven snow.Then Love threw open wide the door,And sang, as in a dream,A song as sweet as bird can pourAbove the sunlight-marbled floorOf some clear forest stream.He sang of youth that ne’er grows old,Of flowers that ne’er decay,Of wine whose sweetness is not told,Of honour bright, and courage bold,And faith more fair than they.And many a maiden passed me by,Though some would hear and start,But thought the singing was so high,It came from somewhere in the sky,And not from my poor heart.So years have come and years have flownAdown the sunset hill,But Love still sits and sings alone,And, though his voice has sweeter grown,My heart is empty still.
Lovebuilt a chamber in my heart,A daintier ne’er was seen,’Twas filled with books and gems of art,And all that makes a lover’s partTrue homage to his Queen.The ceiling was of silver brightThat showed the floor below;The walls were hung with silk so whiteThat e’en the mirror was to sightA slope of driven snow.Then Love threw open wide the door,And sang, as in a dream,A song as sweet as bird can pourAbove the sunlight-marbled floorOf some clear forest stream.He sang of youth that ne’er grows old,Of flowers that ne’er decay,Of wine whose sweetness is not told,Of honour bright, and courage bold,And faith more fair than they.And many a maiden passed me by,Though some would hear and start,But thought the singing was so high,It came from somewhere in the sky,And not from my poor heart.So years have come and years have flownAdown the sunset hill,But Love still sits and sings alone,And, though his voice has sweeter grown,My heart is empty still.
Lovebuilt a chamber in my heart,A daintier ne’er was seen,’Twas filled with books and gems of art,And all that makes a lover’s partTrue homage to his Queen.
The ceiling was of silver brightThat showed the floor below;The walls were hung with silk so whiteThat e’en the mirror was to sightA slope of driven snow.
Then Love threw open wide the door,And sang, as in a dream,A song as sweet as bird can pourAbove the sunlight-marbled floorOf some clear forest stream.
He sang of youth that ne’er grows old,Of flowers that ne’er decay,Of wine whose sweetness is not told,Of honour bright, and courage bold,And faith more fair than they.
And many a maiden passed me by,Though some would hear and start,But thought the singing was so high,It came from somewhere in the sky,And not from my poor heart.
So years have come and years have flownAdown the sunset hill,But Love still sits and sings alone,And, though his voice has sweeter grown,My heart is empty still.
Thedays and weeks are going, love,The years roll on apace,And the hand of time is showing, love,In the care lines on thy face;But the tie that bound our hearts, love,In the morning’s golden haze,Is a tie that never parts, love,With the passing of the days.For though Death’s arm be strong, love,Our love its light will shed,And like a glorious song, love,Will live when Death is dead.
Thedays and weeks are going, love,The years roll on apace,And the hand of time is showing, love,In the care lines on thy face;But the tie that bound our hearts, love,In the morning’s golden haze,Is a tie that never parts, love,With the passing of the days.For though Death’s arm be strong, love,Our love its light will shed,And like a glorious song, love,Will live when Death is dead.
Thedays and weeks are going, love,The years roll on apace,And the hand of time is showing, love,In the care lines on thy face;
But the tie that bound our hearts, love,In the morning’s golden haze,Is a tie that never parts, love,With the passing of the days.
For though Death’s arm be strong, love,Our love its light will shed,And like a glorious song, love,Will live when Death is dead.
Oncea maiden,Heavy-laden,Sought to borrowSleep from sorrow.Sweet the taking,But the wakingIn the numbnessAnd the dumbnessOf the day-dawn,With the grey lawnSoftly plainingIn the raining,And the meadowsHid in shadows,Was more drearyThan the wearyMounds which severHearts forever,Where Death’s reapingLeaves man sleepingIn God’s keeping.
Oncea maiden,Heavy-laden,Sought to borrowSleep from sorrow.Sweet the taking,But the wakingIn the numbnessAnd the dumbnessOf the day-dawn,With the grey lawnSoftly plainingIn the raining,And the meadowsHid in shadows,Was more drearyThan the wearyMounds which severHearts forever,Where Death’s reapingLeaves man sleepingIn God’s keeping.
Oncea maiden,Heavy-laden,Sought to borrowSleep from sorrow.
Sweet the taking,But the wakingIn the numbnessAnd the dumbnessOf the day-dawn,With the grey lawnSoftly plainingIn the raining,And the meadowsHid in shadows,Was more drearyThan the wearyMounds which severHearts forever,Where Death’s reapingLeaves man sleepingIn God’s keeping.
Thefeatures loom out of the darknessAs brown as an ancient scroll,But the eyes gleam on with the fire that shoneIn the dead man’s living soul.He is clad in a cardinal’s mantle,And he wears the cap of state,But his lip is curled in a sneer at the world,And his glance is full of hate.Old age has just touched with its winterThe hair on his lip and chin,He stooped, no doubt, as he walked about,And the blood in his veins was thin.His date and his title I know not,But I know that the man is there,As cruel and cold as in days of old,When he schemed for the Pontiff’s chair.Henever could get into Heaven,Though his lands were all given to payFor prayers to be said on behalf of the deadFrom now till the judgment day.His palace, his statues, and picturesWere Heaven, at least for a time,And now he is “Where?”—why an ornament thereOn my wall, and I think him sublime.For the gold of another sunsetFalls over him even now,And it deepens the red of the cap on his head,And it brings out the lines on his brow.The ages have died into silence,And men have forgotten his tomb,But he still sits there in his cardinal’s chair,And he watches me now in the gloom.
Thefeatures loom out of the darknessAs brown as an ancient scroll,But the eyes gleam on with the fire that shoneIn the dead man’s living soul.He is clad in a cardinal’s mantle,And he wears the cap of state,But his lip is curled in a sneer at the world,And his glance is full of hate.Old age has just touched with its winterThe hair on his lip and chin,He stooped, no doubt, as he walked about,And the blood in his veins was thin.His date and his title I know not,But I know that the man is there,As cruel and cold as in days of old,When he schemed for the Pontiff’s chair.Henever could get into Heaven,Though his lands were all given to payFor prayers to be said on behalf of the deadFrom now till the judgment day.His palace, his statues, and picturesWere Heaven, at least for a time,And now he is “Where?”—why an ornament thereOn my wall, and I think him sublime.For the gold of another sunsetFalls over him even now,And it deepens the red of the cap on his head,And it brings out the lines on his brow.The ages have died into silence,And men have forgotten his tomb,But he still sits there in his cardinal’s chair,And he watches me now in the gloom.
Thefeatures loom out of the darknessAs brown as an ancient scroll,But the eyes gleam on with the fire that shoneIn the dead man’s living soul.
He is clad in a cardinal’s mantle,And he wears the cap of state,But his lip is curled in a sneer at the world,And his glance is full of hate.
Old age has just touched with its winterThe hair on his lip and chin,He stooped, no doubt, as he walked about,And the blood in his veins was thin.
His date and his title I know not,But I know that the man is there,As cruel and cold as in days of old,When he schemed for the Pontiff’s chair.
Henever could get into Heaven,Though his lands were all given to payFor prayers to be said on behalf of the deadFrom now till the judgment day.
His palace, his statues, and picturesWere Heaven, at least for a time,And now he is “Where?”—why an ornament thereOn my wall, and I think him sublime.
For the gold of another sunsetFalls over him even now,And it deepens the red of the cap on his head,And it brings out the lines on his brow.
The ages have died into silence,And men have forgotten his tomb,But he still sits there in his cardinal’s chair,And he watches me now in the gloom.
Thehouse was silent, and the lightWas fading from the western glow;I read, till tears had dimmed my sight,Some letters written long ago.The voices that have passed away,The faces that have turned to mould,Were round me in the room to-day,And laughed and chatted as of old.The thoughts that youth was wont to think,The hopes now dead for evermore,Came from the lines of faded ink,As sweet and earnest as of yore.I laid the letters by and dreamedThe dear dead past to life again;The present and its purpose seemedA fading vision full of pain.Then, with a sudden shout of glee,The children burst into the room,Their little faces were to meAs sunrise in the cloud of gloom.The world was full of meaning still,For love will live though loved ones die;I turned upon life’s darkened hillAnd gloried in the morning sky.
Thehouse was silent, and the lightWas fading from the western glow;I read, till tears had dimmed my sight,Some letters written long ago.The voices that have passed away,The faces that have turned to mould,Were round me in the room to-day,And laughed and chatted as of old.The thoughts that youth was wont to think,The hopes now dead for evermore,Came from the lines of faded ink,As sweet and earnest as of yore.I laid the letters by and dreamedThe dear dead past to life again;The present and its purpose seemedA fading vision full of pain.Then, with a sudden shout of glee,The children burst into the room,Their little faces were to meAs sunrise in the cloud of gloom.The world was full of meaning still,For love will live though loved ones die;I turned upon life’s darkened hillAnd gloried in the morning sky.
Thehouse was silent, and the lightWas fading from the western glow;I read, till tears had dimmed my sight,Some letters written long ago.
The voices that have passed away,The faces that have turned to mould,Were round me in the room to-day,And laughed and chatted as of old.
The thoughts that youth was wont to think,The hopes now dead for evermore,Came from the lines of faded ink,As sweet and earnest as of yore.
I laid the letters by and dreamedThe dear dead past to life again;The present and its purpose seemedA fading vision full of pain.
Then, with a sudden shout of glee,The children burst into the room,Their little faces were to meAs sunrise in the cloud of gloom.
The world was full of meaning still,For love will live though loved ones die;I turned upon life’s darkened hillAnd gloried in the morning sky.
Godspake three times and saved Van Elsen’s soul;He spake by sickness first and made him whole;Van Elsen heard Him not,Or soon forgot.God spake to him by wealth, the world outpouredIts treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;Van Elsen’s heart grew fatAnd proud thereat.God spake the third time when the great world smiled,And in the sunshine slew his little child;Van Elsen like a treeFell hopelessly.Then in the darkness came a voice which said,“As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,As I have need of thee,Thou needest me.”That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,And kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,Praised Him with fervent breathWho conquered death.
Godspake three times and saved Van Elsen’s soul;He spake by sickness first and made him whole;Van Elsen heard Him not,Or soon forgot.God spake to him by wealth, the world outpouredIts treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;Van Elsen’s heart grew fatAnd proud thereat.God spake the third time when the great world smiled,And in the sunshine slew his little child;Van Elsen like a treeFell hopelessly.Then in the darkness came a voice which said,“As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,As I have need of thee,Thou needest me.”That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,And kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,Praised Him with fervent breathWho conquered death.
Godspake three times and saved Van Elsen’s soul;He spake by sickness first and made him whole;Van Elsen heard Him not,Or soon forgot.
God spake to him by wealth, the world outpouredIts treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;Van Elsen’s heart grew fatAnd proud thereat.
God spake the third time when the great world smiled,And in the sunshine slew his little child;Van Elsen like a treeFell hopelessly.
Then in the darkness came a voice which said,“As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,As I have need of thee,Thou needest me.”
That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,And kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,Praised Him with fervent breathWho conquered death.
James William Williams, Lord Bishop of Quebec, Died April 20th, 1892, Aged 66 years.
Tothose found faithful, oft the call to restComes in the glory of the later noon,Ere evening falls and with declining dayThe mind has darkened and work lost its zest.So now, though first our sad hearts cried “Too soon,”We see God’s angel did in heavenly wayHis finished work and Master’s love attest.And now he wins, withdrawn from human eye,A good man’s two-fold immortality,To live forever near the Master’s throne,And here, in lives made better by his own.
Tothose found faithful, oft the call to restComes in the glory of the later noon,Ere evening falls and with declining dayThe mind has darkened and work lost its zest.So now, though first our sad hearts cried “Too soon,”We see God’s angel did in heavenly wayHis finished work and Master’s love attest.And now he wins, withdrawn from human eye,A good man’s two-fold immortality,To live forever near the Master’s throne,And here, in lives made better by his own.
Tothose found faithful, oft the call to restComes in the glory of the later noon,Ere evening falls and with declining dayThe mind has darkened and work lost its zest.So now, though first our sad hearts cried “Too soon,”We see God’s angel did in heavenly wayHis finished work and Master’s love attest.And now he wins, withdrawn from human eye,A good man’s two-fold immortality,To live forever near the Master’s throne,And here, in lives made better by his own.
Thouwhose face is as the lightning and whose chariot as the sun,Unto whom a thousand ages in their passing are as one,All our worlds and mighty systems are but tiny grains of sand,Held above the gulfs of chaos in the hollow of Thy hand.Yea, we see Thy power about us, and we feel its volumes rollThrough the torrent of our passions and the stillness of the soul,Where its visions light the darkness till the dawn that is to be,Like the long auroral splendours on a silent polar sea.Then uplift us, great Creator, to communion with Thy will,Crush our puny heart-rebellions, make our baser cravings still.Thou whose fingers through the ages wrought with fire the soul of man,Blend it more and more forever with the purpose of Thy plan.Speak, O Lord, in voice of thunder, show Thy footsteps on the deep,Pour Thy sunshine from the heavens on the blinded eyes that weep,Till the harmonies of nature and exalted human loveMake the universe a mirror of the glorious God above.
Thouwhose face is as the lightning and whose chariot as the sun,Unto whom a thousand ages in their passing are as one,All our worlds and mighty systems are but tiny grains of sand,Held above the gulfs of chaos in the hollow of Thy hand.Yea, we see Thy power about us, and we feel its volumes rollThrough the torrent of our passions and the stillness of the soul,Where its visions light the darkness till the dawn that is to be,Like the long auroral splendours on a silent polar sea.Then uplift us, great Creator, to communion with Thy will,Crush our puny heart-rebellions, make our baser cravings still.Thou whose fingers through the ages wrought with fire the soul of man,Blend it more and more forever with the purpose of Thy plan.Speak, O Lord, in voice of thunder, show Thy footsteps on the deep,Pour Thy sunshine from the heavens on the blinded eyes that weep,Till the harmonies of nature and exalted human loveMake the universe a mirror of the glorious God above.
Thouwhose face is as the lightning and whose chariot as the sun,Unto whom a thousand ages in their passing are as one,All our worlds and mighty systems are but tiny grains of sand,Held above the gulfs of chaos in the hollow of Thy hand.
Yea, we see Thy power about us, and we feel its volumes rollThrough the torrent of our passions and the stillness of the soul,Where its visions light the darkness till the dawn that is to be,Like the long auroral splendours on a silent polar sea.
Then uplift us, great Creator, to communion with Thy will,Crush our puny heart-rebellions, make our baser cravings still.Thou whose fingers through the ages wrought with fire the soul of man,Blend it more and more forever with the purpose of Thy plan.
Speak, O Lord, in voice of thunder, show Thy footsteps on the deep,Pour Thy sunshine from the heavens on the blinded eyes that weep,Till the harmonies of nature and exalted human loveMake the universe a mirror of the glorious God above.
“Is Sin, then, fair?”Nay, love, come nowPut back the hairFrom his sunny brow;See, here, blood-redAcross his headA brand is set,The word—“Regret.”“Is Sin so fleetThat while he staysOur hands and feetMay go his ways?”Nay, love, his breathClings round like death,He slakes desireWith liquid fire.“Is Sin Death’s sting?”Ay, sure he is,His golden wingDarkens man’s bliss;And when Death comes,Sin sits and humsA chaunt of fearsInto man’s ears.“How slayeth Sin?”First, God is hid,And the heart withinBy its own self chid;Then the maddened brainIs scourged by painTo sin as beforeAnd more and more,For evermore.
“Is Sin, then, fair?”Nay, love, come nowPut back the hairFrom his sunny brow;See, here, blood-redAcross his headA brand is set,The word—“Regret.”“Is Sin so fleetThat while he staysOur hands and feetMay go his ways?”Nay, love, his breathClings round like death,He slakes desireWith liquid fire.“Is Sin Death’s sting?”Ay, sure he is,His golden wingDarkens man’s bliss;And when Death comes,Sin sits and humsA chaunt of fearsInto man’s ears.“How slayeth Sin?”First, God is hid,And the heart withinBy its own self chid;Then the maddened brainIs scourged by painTo sin as beforeAnd more and more,For evermore.
“Is Sin, then, fair?”Nay, love, come nowPut back the hairFrom his sunny brow;See, here, blood-redAcross his headA brand is set,The word—“Regret.”
“Is Sin so fleetThat while he staysOur hands and feetMay go his ways?”Nay, love, his breathClings round like death,He slakes desireWith liquid fire.
“Is Sin Death’s sting?”Ay, sure he is,His golden wingDarkens man’s bliss;And when Death comes,Sin sits and humsA chaunt of fearsInto man’s ears.
“How slayeth Sin?”First, God is hid,And the heart withinBy its own self chid;Then the maddened brainIs scourged by painTo sin as beforeAnd more and more,For evermore.
Dostthou deem that thyselfArt as white from sinAs a platter of delf,—Outside and in?When thine eyes beholdChrist’s kind face leanFrom His throne of goldTo test what is toldOf the life that hath been,Like a leper of old,Thou wilt cry, “Unclean!Unclean! Unclean!”And thinkest thou this—That thou judgest arightThy heart as it isIn God’s and man’s sight?Fool, take up thy light,And descend the stair steepTo thy heart’s dungeons deep,And search them and sweepTill their ghosts are unmasked;Else when judgment is comeThou wilt stand stark and dumbAt the first question asked.
Dostthou deem that thyselfArt as white from sinAs a platter of delf,—Outside and in?When thine eyes beholdChrist’s kind face leanFrom His throne of goldTo test what is toldOf the life that hath been,Like a leper of old,Thou wilt cry, “Unclean!Unclean! Unclean!”And thinkest thou this—That thou judgest arightThy heart as it isIn God’s and man’s sight?Fool, take up thy light,And descend the stair steepTo thy heart’s dungeons deep,And search them and sweepTill their ghosts are unmasked;Else when judgment is comeThou wilt stand stark and dumbAt the first question asked.
Dostthou deem that thyselfArt as white from sinAs a platter of delf,—Outside and in?When thine eyes beholdChrist’s kind face leanFrom His throne of goldTo test what is toldOf the life that hath been,Like a leper of old,Thou wilt cry, “Unclean!Unclean! Unclean!”
And thinkest thou this—That thou judgest arightThy heart as it isIn God’s and man’s sight?Fool, take up thy light,And descend the stair steepTo thy heart’s dungeons deep,And search them and sweepTill their ghosts are unmasked;Else when judgment is comeThou wilt stand stark and dumbAt the first question asked.
Ah, woe is me, my heart’s in sorry plight,Enamoured equally of Wrong and Right;Right hath the sweeter grace,But Wrong the prettier face:Ah, woe is me, my heart’s in sorry plight.And Right is jealous that I let Wrong stay;Yet Wrong seems sweeter when I turn away.Right sober is, like Truth,But Wrong is in her youth;So Right is jealous that I let Wrong stay.When I am happy, left alone with Right,Then Wrong flits by and puts her out of sight;I follow and I fret,And once again forgetThat I am happy, left alone with Right.Ah, God! do Thou have pity on my heart!A puppet blind am I, take Thou my part!Chasten my wandering love,Set it on things above:Ah, God! do Thou take pity on my heart!
Ah, woe is me, my heart’s in sorry plight,Enamoured equally of Wrong and Right;Right hath the sweeter grace,But Wrong the prettier face:Ah, woe is me, my heart’s in sorry plight.And Right is jealous that I let Wrong stay;Yet Wrong seems sweeter when I turn away.Right sober is, like Truth,But Wrong is in her youth;So Right is jealous that I let Wrong stay.When I am happy, left alone with Right,Then Wrong flits by and puts her out of sight;I follow and I fret,And once again forgetThat I am happy, left alone with Right.Ah, God! do Thou have pity on my heart!A puppet blind am I, take Thou my part!Chasten my wandering love,Set it on things above:Ah, God! do Thou take pity on my heart!
Ah, woe is me, my heart’s in sorry plight,Enamoured equally of Wrong and Right;Right hath the sweeter grace,But Wrong the prettier face:Ah, woe is me, my heart’s in sorry plight.
And Right is jealous that I let Wrong stay;Yet Wrong seems sweeter when I turn away.Right sober is, like Truth,But Wrong is in her youth;So Right is jealous that I let Wrong stay.
When I am happy, left alone with Right,Then Wrong flits by and puts her out of sight;I follow and I fret,And once again forgetThat I am happy, left alone with Right.
Ah, God! do Thou have pity on my heart!A puppet blind am I, take Thou my part!Chasten my wandering love,Set it on things above:Ah, God! do Thou take pity on my heart!
Thisis God’s house—the blue sky is the ceiling,This wood the soft green carpet for His feet,Those hills His stairs, down which the brooks come stealing,With baby laughter making earth more sweet.And here His friends come, clouds and soft winds sighing,And little birds whose throats pour forth their love,And spring and summer, and the white snow lyingPencilled with shadows of bare boughs above.And here come sunbeams through the green leaves straying,And shadows from the storm-clouds overdrawn,And warm, hushed nights, when mother earth is prayingSo late that her moon-candle burns till dawn.Sweet house of God, sweet earth so full of pleasure,I enter at thy gates in storm or calm;And every sunbeam is a joy and treasure,And every cloud a solace and a balm.
Thisis God’s house—the blue sky is the ceiling,This wood the soft green carpet for His feet,Those hills His stairs, down which the brooks come stealing,With baby laughter making earth more sweet.And here His friends come, clouds and soft winds sighing,And little birds whose throats pour forth their love,And spring and summer, and the white snow lyingPencilled with shadows of bare boughs above.And here come sunbeams through the green leaves straying,And shadows from the storm-clouds overdrawn,And warm, hushed nights, when mother earth is prayingSo late that her moon-candle burns till dawn.Sweet house of God, sweet earth so full of pleasure,I enter at thy gates in storm or calm;And every sunbeam is a joy and treasure,And every cloud a solace and a balm.
Thisis God’s house—the blue sky is the ceiling,This wood the soft green carpet for His feet,Those hills His stairs, down which the brooks come stealing,With baby laughter making earth more sweet.
And here His friends come, clouds and soft winds sighing,And little birds whose throats pour forth their love,And spring and summer, and the white snow lyingPencilled with shadows of bare boughs above.
And here come sunbeams through the green leaves straying,And shadows from the storm-clouds overdrawn,And warm, hushed nights, when mother earth is prayingSo late that her moon-candle burns till dawn.
Sweet house of God, sweet earth so full of pleasure,I enter at thy gates in storm or calm;And every sunbeam is a joy and treasure,And every cloud a solace and a balm.
O sorrowfulheart of humanity, foiled in thy fight for dominion,Bowed with the burden of emptiness, blackened with passion and woe;Here is a faith that will bear thee on waft of omnipotent pinion,Up to the heaven of victory, there to be known and to know.Here is the vision of Calvary, crowned with the world’s revelation,Throned in the grandeur of gloom and the thunders that quicken the dead;A meteor of hope in the darkness shines forth like a new constellation,Dividing the night of our sorrow, revealing a path as we tread.Now are the portals of death by the feet of the Conqueror entered;Flames of the sun in his setting roll over the city of doom,And robe in imperial purple the Body triumphantly centred,Naked and white between thieves and ’mid ghosts that have crept from the tomb.O Soul, that art lost in immensity, craving for light and despairing,Here is the hand of the Crucified, pulses of love in its veins,Human as ours in its touch, with the sinews of Deity bearingThe zones of the pendulous planets, the weight of the winds and the rains.Here in the Heart of the Crucified, find thee a refuge and hiding,Love at the core of the universe, guidance and peace in the night;Centuries pass like a flood, but the Rock of our Strength is abiding,Grounded in depths of eternity, girt with a mantle of light.Lo, as we wonder and worship, the night of the doubts that conceal Him,Rolls from the face of the dawn till His rays through the cloud-fissures slope;Vapours that hid are condensed to the dews of His grace that reveal Him,And shine with His light on the hills as we mount in the splendour of hope.
O sorrowfulheart of humanity, foiled in thy fight for dominion,Bowed with the burden of emptiness, blackened with passion and woe;Here is a faith that will bear thee on waft of omnipotent pinion,Up to the heaven of victory, there to be known and to know.Here is the vision of Calvary, crowned with the world’s revelation,Throned in the grandeur of gloom and the thunders that quicken the dead;A meteor of hope in the darkness shines forth like a new constellation,Dividing the night of our sorrow, revealing a path as we tread.Now are the portals of death by the feet of the Conqueror entered;Flames of the sun in his setting roll over the city of doom,And robe in imperial purple the Body triumphantly centred,Naked and white between thieves and ’mid ghosts that have crept from the tomb.O Soul, that art lost in immensity, craving for light and despairing,Here is the hand of the Crucified, pulses of love in its veins,Human as ours in its touch, with the sinews of Deity bearingThe zones of the pendulous planets, the weight of the winds and the rains.Here in the Heart of the Crucified, find thee a refuge and hiding,Love at the core of the universe, guidance and peace in the night;Centuries pass like a flood, but the Rock of our Strength is abiding,Grounded in depths of eternity, girt with a mantle of light.Lo, as we wonder and worship, the night of the doubts that conceal Him,Rolls from the face of the dawn till His rays through the cloud-fissures slope;Vapours that hid are condensed to the dews of His grace that reveal Him,And shine with His light on the hills as we mount in the splendour of hope.
O sorrowfulheart of humanity, foiled in thy fight for dominion,Bowed with the burden of emptiness, blackened with passion and woe;Here is a faith that will bear thee on waft of omnipotent pinion,Up to the heaven of victory, there to be known and to know.
Here is the vision of Calvary, crowned with the world’s revelation,Throned in the grandeur of gloom and the thunders that quicken the dead;A meteor of hope in the darkness shines forth like a new constellation,Dividing the night of our sorrow, revealing a path as we tread.
Now are the portals of death by the feet of the Conqueror entered;Flames of the sun in his setting roll over the city of doom,And robe in imperial purple the Body triumphantly centred,Naked and white between thieves and ’mid ghosts that have crept from the tomb.
O Soul, that art lost in immensity, craving for light and despairing,Here is the hand of the Crucified, pulses of love in its veins,Human as ours in its touch, with the sinews of Deity bearingThe zones of the pendulous planets, the weight of the winds and the rains.
Here in the Heart of the Crucified, find thee a refuge and hiding,Love at the core of the universe, guidance and peace in the night;Centuries pass like a flood, but the Rock of our Strength is abiding,Grounded in depths of eternity, girt with a mantle of light.
Lo, as we wonder and worship, the night of the doubts that conceal Him,Rolls from the face of the dawn till His rays through the cloud-fissures slope;Vapours that hid are condensed to the dews of His grace that reveal Him,And shine with His light on the hills as we mount in the splendour of hope.
’Tis sweet to wake before the dawn,When all the cocks are crowing,And from my window on the lawn,To watch the veil of night withdrawn,And feel the fresh wind blowing.The murmur of the falls I hear,Its night-long vigil keeping;And softly now, as if in fearTo rouse their neighbours slumbering near,The trees wake from their sleeping.Dear Lord, such wondrous thoughts of TheeMy raptured soul are filling,That, like a bird upon the tree,With sweet yet wordless minstrelsyMy inmost heart is thrilling.
’Tis sweet to wake before the dawn,When all the cocks are crowing,And from my window on the lawn,To watch the veil of night withdrawn,And feel the fresh wind blowing.The murmur of the falls I hear,Its night-long vigil keeping;And softly now, as if in fearTo rouse their neighbours slumbering near,The trees wake from their sleeping.Dear Lord, such wondrous thoughts of TheeMy raptured soul are filling,That, like a bird upon the tree,With sweet yet wordless minstrelsyMy inmost heart is thrilling.
’Tis sweet to wake before the dawn,When all the cocks are crowing,And from my window on the lawn,To watch the veil of night withdrawn,And feel the fresh wind blowing.
The murmur of the falls I hear,Its night-long vigil keeping;And softly now, as if in fearTo rouse their neighbours slumbering near,The trees wake from their sleeping.
Dear Lord, such wondrous thoughts of TheeMy raptured soul are filling,That, like a bird upon the tree,With sweet yet wordless minstrelsyMy inmost heart is thrilling.
Asnow my feet are strayingWhere all the dead are lying,O trees, what are ye sayingThat sets my soul a-sighing?Your sound is as the weepingOf one that dreads the morrow,Or sob of sad heart sleepingFor fulness of its sorrow.Methinks your rootlets, gropingBeneath the dark earth’s layers,Have found the doubt and hoping,The blasphemies and prayers,Of hearts that here are feedingThe worm; and now, in pity,Ye storm with intercedingThe floor of God’s great city.
Asnow my feet are strayingWhere all the dead are lying,O trees, what are ye sayingThat sets my soul a-sighing?Your sound is as the weepingOf one that dreads the morrow,Or sob of sad heart sleepingFor fulness of its sorrow.Methinks your rootlets, gropingBeneath the dark earth’s layers,Have found the doubt and hoping,The blasphemies and prayers,Of hearts that here are feedingThe worm; and now, in pity,Ye storm with intercedingThe floor of God’s great city.
Asnow my feet are strayingWhere all the dead are lying,O trees, what are ye sayingThat sets my soul a-sighing?
Your sound is as the weepingOf one that dreads the morrow,Or sob of sad heart sleepingFor fulness of its sorrow.
Methinks your rootlets, gropingBeneath the dark earth’s layers,Have found the doubt and hoping,The blasphemies and prayers,
Of hearts that here are feedingThe worm; and now, in pity,Ye storm with intercedingThe floor of God’s great city.
I metonce, in a country lane,A little cripple, pale and thin,Who from my presence sought againThe shadows she had hidden in.Her wasted cheeks the sunset skiesHad hallowed with their fading glow;And in her large and lustrous eyesThere dwelt a child’s unuttered woe.She crept into the autumn wood,The parted bushes closed behind;Poor little heart, I understoodThe shameless shame that filled her mind.I understood, and loved her wellFor one sad face I loved of yore,—And down the lane the dead leaves fell,Like dreams that pass for evermore.
I metonce, in a country lane,A little cripple, pale and thin,Who from my presence sought againThe shadows she had hidden in.Her wasted cheeks the sunset skiesHad hallowed with their fading glow;And in her large and lustrous eyesThere dwelt a child’s unuttered woe.She crept into the autumn wood,The parted bushes closed behind;Poor little heart, I understoodThe shameless shame that filled her mind.I understood, and loved her wellFor one sad face I loved of yore,—And down the lane the dead leaves fell,Like dreams that pass for evermore.
I metonce, in a country lane,A little cripple, pale and thin,Who from my presence sought againThe shadows she had hidden in.
Her wasted cheeks the sunset skiesHad hallowed with their fading glow;And in her large and lustrous eyesThere dwelt a child’s unuttered woe.
She crept into the autumn wood,The parted bushes closed behind;Poor little heart, I understoodThe shameless shame that filled her mind.
I understood, and loved her wellFor one sad face I loved of yore,—And down the lane the dead leaves fell,Like dreams that pass for evermore.
Inthe little French church at the bend of the river,When rainy and loud was the wind in the night,An altar-lamp burnt to the mighty Grace-giver,The Holy Child Jesus—the Light of the Light.It was hung on a chain from the roof, and was swinging,As if the unseemly commotion to chide,Like the choir-master’s baton when hushing the singing,Or the tongue of the bell when its tollings subside.It lit up the poor paper flowers on the altar,And odd were the shadows it scattered aroundOn pulpit and lectern, on choir-seat and psalter,While the chains threw the ghost of a cross on the ground.The people at home in their cabins were sleeping,The curé was tucked in his four-posted bed;While under the willows the river was creepingAs if silent with fear of the wind overhead.But the little dark church had its own congregation—The shadows that swayed on the pews and the floor—While the rafters that creaked were a choir whose laudationHad an organ for base in the hurricane’s roar.The rusty gilt cock on the flèche was the preacher,And scolding and grumpy his voice was to hear,As he turned to the storm like some faithful old teacherWho prophesies hard things regardless of fear.But the service reflected the state of the weather,For though each, I must say, did his part with a will,The preacher and choir spoke and sang all together,And the shapes on the benches would never sit still.Yet there was the Host, in the midst of the altar,Where that little red curtain of damask was hung,—The God whom King David has praised in the psalter,And to whom the whole choir of the ages has sung.But so big is the heart of our God, the Life-giver,That in it life’s humour and pathos both meet;So I doubt not that night in the church by the river,The poor old storm’s service to Him sounded sweet.
Inthe little French church at the bend of the river,When rainy and loud was the wind in the night,An altar-lamp burnt to the mighty Grace-giver,The Holy Child Jesus—the Light of the Light.It was hung on a chain from the roof, and was swinging,As if the unseemly commotion to chide,Like the choir-master’s baton when hushing the singing,Or the tongue of the bell when its tollings subside.It lit up the poor paper flowers on the altar,And odd were the shadows it scattered aroundOn pulpit and lectern, on choir-seat and psalter,While the chains threw the ghost of a cross on the ground.The people at home in their cabins were sleeping,The curé was tucked in his four-posted bed;While under the willows the river was creepingAs if silent with fear of the wind overhead.But the little dark church had its own congregation—The shadows that swayed on the pews and the floor—While the rafters that creaked were a choir whose laudationHad an organ for base in the hurricane’s roar.The rusty gilt cock on the flèche was the preacher,And scolding and grumpy his voice was to hear,As he turned to the storm like some faithful old teacherWho prophesies hard things regardless of fear.But the service reflected the state of the weather,For though each, I must say, did his part with a will,The preacher and choir spoke and sang all together,And the shapes on the benches would never sit still.Yet there was the Host, in the midst of the altar,Where that little red curtain of damask was hung,—The God whom King David has praised in the psalter,And to whom the whole choir of the ages has sung.But so big is the heart of our God, the Life-giver,That in it life’s humour and pathos both meet;So I doubt not that night in the church by the river,The poor old storm’s service to Him sounded sweet.
Inthe little French church at the bend of the river,When rainy and loud was the wind in the night,An altar-lamp burnt to the mighty Grace-giver,The Holy Child Jesus—the Light of the Light.
It was hung on a chain from the roof, and was swinging,As if the unseemly commotion to chide,Like the choir-master’s baton when hushing the singing,Or the tongue of the bell when its tollings subside.
It lit up the poor paper flowers on the altar,And odd were the shadows it scattered aroundOn pulpit and lectern, on choir-seat and psalter,While the chains threw the ghost of a cross on the ground.
The people at home in their cabins were sleeping,The curé was tucked in his four-posted bed;While under the willows the river was creepingAs if silent with fear of the wind overhead.
But the little dark church had its own congregation—The shadows that swayed on the pews and the floor—While the rafters that creaked were a choir whose laudationHad an organ for base in the hurricane’s roar.
The rusty gilt cock on the flèche was the preacher,And scolding and grumpy his voice was to hear,As he turned to the storm like some faithful old teacherWho prophesies hard things regardless of fear.
But the service reflected the state of the weather,For though each, I must say, did his part with a will,The preacher and choir spoke and sang all together,And the shapes on the benches would never sit still.
Yet there was the Host, in the midst of the altar,Where that little red curtain of damask was hung,—The God whom King David has praised in the psalter,And to whom the whole choir of the ages has sung.
But so big is the heart of our God, the Life-giver,That in it life’s humour and pathos both meet;So I doubt not that night in the church by the river,The poor old storm’s service to Him sounded sweet.
SweetLady, queen-star of my life and thought,Whose honour, heart and name are one with mine,Who dost above life’s troubled currents shineWith such clear beam as oftentimes hath broughtThe storm-tossed spirit into harbours wroughtBy love and peace on life’s rough margin-line;I wish no wish which is not wholly thine,I hope no hope but what thyself hast sought.Thou losest not, my Lady, in the wife,The golden love-light of our earlier days;Time dims it not, it mounteth like the sun,Till earth and sky are radiant. Sweet, my lifeLies at thy feet, and all life’s gifts and praise,Yet are they nought to what thy knight hath won.
SweetLady, queen-star of my life and thought,Whose honour, heart and name are one with mine,Who dost above life’s troubled currents shineWith such clear beam as oftentimes hath broughtThe storm-tossed spirit into harbours wroughtBy love and peace on life’s rough margin-line;I wish no wish which is not wholly thine,I hope no hope but what thyself hast sought.Thou losest not, my Lady, in the wife,The golden love-light of our earlier days;Time dims it not, it mounteth like the sun,Till earth and sky are radiant. Sweet, my lifeLies at thy feet, and all life’s gifts and praise,Yet are they nought to what thy knight hath won.
SweetLady, queen-star of my life and thought,Whose honour, heart and name are one with mine,Who dost above life’s troubled currents shineWith such clear beam as oftentimes hath broughtThe storm-tossed spirit into harbours wroughtBy love and peace on life’s rough margin-line;I wish no wish which is not wholly thine,I hope no hope but what thyself hast sought.Thou losest not, my Lady, in the wife,The golden love-light of our earlier days;Time dims it not, it mounteth like the sun,Till earth and sky are radiant. Sweet, my lifeLies at thy feet, and all life’s gifts and praise,Yet are they nought to what thy knight hath won.
Deathmet a little child beside the sea;The child was ruddy and his face was fair,His heart was gladdened with the keen, salt air,Full of the young waves’ laughter and their glee.Then Death stooped down and kissed him, saying:“Thee,My child, will I give summers rare and bright,And flowers, and morns with never noon or night,Or clouds to darken, if thou’lt come with me.”Then the child gladly gave his little hand,And walked with Death along the shining sand,And prattled gaily, full of hope, and smiledAs a white mist curled round him on the shoreAnd hid the land and sea for evermore—Death hath no terrors for a little child.
Deathmet a little child beside the sea;The child was ruddy and his face was fair,His heart was gladdened with the keen, salt air,Full of the young waves’ laughter and their glee.Then Death stooped down and kissed him, saying:“Thee,My child, will I give summers rare and bright,And flowers, and morns with never noon or night,Or clouds to darken, if thou’lt come with me.”Then the child gladly gave his little hand,And walked with Death along the shining sand,And prattled gaily, full of hope, and smiledAs a white mist curled round him on the shoreAnd hid the land and sea for evermore—Death hath no terrors for a little child.
Deathmet a little child beside the sea;The child was ruddy and his face was fair,His heart was gladdened with the keen, salt air,Full of the young waves’ laughter and their glee.Then Death stooped down and kissed him, saying:“Thee,My child, will I give summers rare and bright,And flowers, and morns with never noon or night,Or clouds to darken, if thou’lt come with me.”Then the child gladly gave his little hand,And walked with Death along the shining sand,And prattled gaily, full of hope, and smiledAs a white mist curled round him on the shoreAnd hid the land and sea for evermore—Death hath no terrors for a little child.
There lived two souls who only lived for love;The one a maiden, full of joy and youth,The other her young lord, a man of truthAnd very valiant. Them did God aboveKnit with those holy bands none may removeSave He that formed them. But next year there cameGod’s angel, with his face and wings of flame,And bore the young wife’s soul off like a dove.Then did her lord, disconsolate many years,Cry bitterly to God to make them one,And take his life, and silence the sweet past.So Death came tenderly and stilled his tears,Clad as a priest, and ’neath the winter’s sunIn a white grave re-wedded them at last.
There lived two souls who only lived for love;The one a maiden, full of joy and youth,The other her young lord, a man of truthAnd very valiant. Them did God aboveKnit with those holy bands none may removeSave He that formed them. But next year there cameGod’s angel, with his face and wings of flame,And bore the young wife’s soul off like a dove.Then did her lord, disconsolate many years,Cry bitterly to God to make them one,And take his life, and silence the sweet past.So Death came tenderly and stilled his tears,Clad as a priest, and ’neath the winter’s sunIn a white grave re-wedded them at last.
There lived two souls who only lived for love;The one a maiden, full of joy and youth,The other her young lord, a man of truthAnd very valiant. Them did God aboveKnit with those holy bands none may removeSave He that formed them. But next year there cameGod’s angel, with his face and wings of flame,And bore the young wife’s soul off like a dove.Then did her lord, disconsolate many years,Cry bitterly to God to make them one,And take his life, and silence the sweet past.So Death came tenderly and stilled his tears,Clad as a priest, and ’neath the winter’s sunIn a white grave re-wedded them at last.
Quoth Death to Life: “Behold what strength is mine,All others perish, yet I do not fail,Where life aboundeth most, I most prevail,I mete out all things with my measuring line.”Then answered Life: “O boastful Death, not thineThe final triumph, what thy hands undoMy busy anvil forgeth out anew,For one lamp darkened, I bring two to shine.”Then answered Death: “Thy handiwork is fair,But a slight breath will crumble it to dust.”“Nay, Death,” said Life, “for in the vernal airA sweeter blossom breaks the winter’s crust.”Then God called down and stopped the foolish strife;His servants both, for God made Death and Life.
Quoth Death to Life: “Behold what strength is mine,All others perish, yet I do not fail,Where life aboundeth most, I most prevail,I mete out all things with my measuring line.”Then answered Life: “O boastful Death, not thineThe final triumph, what thy hands undoMy busy anvil forgeth out anew,For one lamp darkened, I bring two to shine.”Then answered Death: “Thy handiwork is fair,But a slight breath will crumble it to dust.”“Nay, Death,” said Life, “for in the vernal airA sweeter blossom breaks the winter’s crust.”Then God called down and stopped the foolish strife;His servants both, for God made Death and Life.
Quoth Death to Life: “Behold what strength is mine,All others perish, yet I do not fail,Where life aboundeth most, I most prevail,I mete out all things with my measuring line.”Then answered Life: “O boastful Death, not thineThe final triumph, what thy hands undoMy busy anvil forgeth out anew,For one lamp darkened, I bring two to shine.”Then answered Death: “Thy handiwork is fair,But a slight breath will crumble it to dust.”“Nay, Death,” said Life, “for in the vernal airA sweeter blossom breaks the winter’s crust.”Then God called down and stopped the foolish strife;His servants both, for God made Death and Life.
Hecaught the words which ocean thunders hurledOn heedless eastern coasts, in days gone by,And to his dreams the ever-westering skyThe ensign of a glorious hope unfurled;So, onward to the line of mists which curledAround the setting sun, with steadfast eye,He pushed his course, and, trusting God on high,Threw wide the portals of a larger world.The heart that watched through those drear autumn nightsThe wide, dark sea, and man’s new empire sought,Alone, uncheered, hath wrought a deed sublime,Which, like a star behind the polar lights,Will shine through splendours of man’s utmost thought,Down golden eras to the end of time.1892.
Hecaught the words which ocean thunders hurledOn heedless eastern coasts, in days gone by,And to his dreams the ever-westering skyThe ensign of a glorious hope unfurled;So, onward to the line of mists which curledAround the setting sun, with steadfast eye,He pushed his course, and, trusting God on high,Threw wide the portals of a larger world.The heart that watched through those drear autumn nightsThe wide, dark sea, and man’s new empire sought,Alone, uncheered, hath wrought a deed sublime,Which, like a star behind the polar lights,Will shine through splendours of man’s utmost thought,Down golden eras to the end of time.1892.
Hecaught the words which ocean thunders hurledOn heedless eastern coasts, in days gone by,And to his dreams the ever-westering skyThe ensign of a glorious hope unfurled;So, onward to the line of mists which curledAround the setting sun, with steadfast eye,He pushed his course, and, trusting God on high,Threw wide the portals of a larger world.
The heart that watched through those drear autumn nightsThe wide, dark sea, and man’s new empire sought,Alone, uncheered, hath wrought a deed sublime,Which, like a star behind the polar lights,Will shine through splendours of man’s utmost thought,Down golden eras to the end of time.
1892.
Ineach man’s heart a secret temple standsFor rites idolatrous of praise and prayer;And dusky idols through the incensed air,On single thrones, or grouped in curious bands,Gaze at the lamp which swings in memory’s hands,—Some richly carved, with face of beauty rare,Some with brute heads and bosoms foul and bare,Yet crowned with gold and gems from distant lands.Take now thy torch, descend the winding years,The silent stair-way to thy secret shrine,And see what Dagon crowns the topmost shelfWith front aggressive, served through hopes and fearsIn ceaseless cult by love that counts divineHis every blemish,—is not Dagon SELF?
Ineach man’s heart a secret temple standsFor rites idolatrous of praise and prayer;And dusky idols through the incensed air,On single thrones, or grouped in curious bands,Gaze at the lamp which swings in memory’s hands,—Some richly carved, with face of beauty rare,Some with brute heads and bosoms foul and bare,Yet crowned with gold and gems from distant lands.Take now thy torch, descend the winding years,The silent stair-way to thy secret shrine,And see what Dagon crowns the topmost shelfWith front aggressive, served through hopes and fearsIn ceaseless cult by love that counts divineHis every blemish,—is not Dagon SELF?
Ineach man’s heart a secret temple standsFor rites idolatrous of praise and prayer;And dusky idols through the incensed air,On single thrones, or grouped in curious bands,Gaze at the lamp which swings in memory’s hands,—Some richly carved, with face of beauty rare,Some with brute heads and bosoms foul and bare,Yet crowned with gold and gems from distant lands.
Take now thy torch, descend the winding years,The silent stair-way to thy secret shrine,And see what Dagon crowns the topmost shelfWith front aggressive, served through hopes and fearsIn ceaseless cult by love that counts divineHis every blemish,—is not Dagon SELF?
A doubleline of columns, white as snow,And vaulted with mosaics rich in flowers,Makes square this cypress grove where fountain showersFrom golden basins cool the grass below;While from that archway strains of music flow,And laughings of fair girls beguile the hours.But brooding, like one held by evil powers,The great King heeds not, pacing sad and slow.His heart hath drained earth’s pleasures to the lees,Hath quivered with life’s finest ecstasies;Yet now some power reveals as in a glassThe soul’s unrest and death’s dark mysteries,And down the courts the scared slaves watch him pass,Reiterating, “Omnia Vanitas!”
A doubleline of columns, white as snow,And vaulted with mosaics rich in flowers,Makes square this cypress grove where fountain showersFrom golden basins cool the grass below;While from that archway strains of music flow,And laughings of fair girls beguile the hours.But brooding, like one held by evil powers,The great King heeds not, pacing sad and slow.His heart hath drained earth’s pleasures to the lees,Hath quivered with life’s finest ecstasies;Yet now some power reveals as in a glassThe soul’s unrest and death’s dark mysteries,And down the courts the scared slaves watch him pass,Reiterating, “Omnia Vanitas!”
A doubleline of columns, white as snow,And vaulted with mosaics rich in flowers,Makes square this cypress grove where fountain showersFrom golden basins cool the grass below;While from that archway strains of music flow,And laughings of fair girls beguile the hours.But brooding, like one held by evil powers,The great King heeds not, pacing sad and slow.
His heart hath drained earth’s pleasures to the lees,Hath quivered with life’s finest ecstasies;Yet now some power reveals as in a glassThe soul’s unrest and death’s dark mysteries,And down the courts the scared slaves watch him pass,Reiterating, “Omnia Vanitas!”
Thehuge winds gather on the midnight lake,Shaggy with rain and loud with foam-white feet,Then bound through miles of darkness till they meetThe harboured ships and city’s squares, and wakeFrom steeples, domes and houses sounds that takeA human speech, the storm’s mad course to greet;And nightmare voices through the rain and sleetPass shrieking, till the town’s rock-sinews shake.Howl, winds, around us in this gas-lit room!Wild lake, with thunders beat thy prison bars!A brother’s life is ebbing fast away,And, mounting on your music through the gloom,A pure soul mingles with the morning stars,And with them melts into the blaze of day.St. Luke’s Hospital,Duluth, May 17th, 1894.
Thehuge winds gather on the midnight lake,Shaggy with rain and loud with foam-white feet,Then bound through miles of darkness till they meetThe harboured ships and city’s squares, and wakeFrom steeples, domes and houses sounds that takeA human speech, the storm’s mad course to greet;And nightmare voices through the rain and sleetPass shrieking, till the town’s rock-sinews shake.Howl, winds, around us in this gas-lit room!Wild lake, with thunders beat thy prison bars!A brother’s life is ebbing fast away,And, mounting on your music through the gloom,A pure soul mingles with the morning stars,And with them melts into the blaze of day.St. Luke’s Hospital,Duluth, May 17th, 1894.
Thehuge winds gather on the midnight lake,Shaggy with rain and loud with foam-white feet,Then bound through miles of darkness till they meetThe harboured ships and city’s squares, and wakeFrom steeples, domes and houses sounds that takeA human speech, the storm’s mad course to greet;And nightmare voices through the rain and sleetPass shrieking, till the town’s rock-sinews shake.
Howl, winds, around us in this gas-lit room!Wild lake, with thunders beat thy prison bars!A brother’s life is ebbing fast away,And, mounting on your music through the gloom,A pure soul mingles with the morning stars,And with them melts into the blaze of day.
St. Luke’s Hospital,Duluth, May 17th, 1894.