DeeplymusingOn the many mysteries of life;Half excusingAll man’s seeming failures in the strife;Through the cityDid I take my lonely way at night;Filled with pityFor the miseries that met my sight,In the faces, sickly, sad and sunken,In the faces, meager, mean and shrunken,Wanton, leering, passionate and drunken,Which I saw that night,Passing through the city—Saw them by the street-lamps’ changing light.Burning brightly,Looked the watching stars from heaven above;As if lightlyThey beheld these wrecks of human love.“O, how distant,”Said I, “are they from this earth apart!How resistantTo the woes that rend the human heart!Countless worlds! your radiant courses rounding,With your light the depth of distance sounding,Is there not some fount of love abounding?O, thou starlit nightBrooding o’er the city!Would that truth might as thy stars shine bright.”Very lightlyWas a woman’s hand laid on my arm.Pressing slightly—And a voice said—striving to be calm—“I am dying,Slowly dying for the want of love;Vainly tryingTo believe there is a God above.For I feel that I am sinking slowly,Losing daily, faith and patience lowly,Doomed to ways of sin and deeds unholy—All the weary night,Through this cruel cityDo I wander till the morning light.“Hear me kindly,For I am not what I would have been,If most blindlyI had not been tempted unto sin.I am lonely,And I long to shriek in anguish wild,O, if onlyI could be once more a little child!See! my eyes are weary-worn with weeping;Sorrow’s tide across my soul is sweeping;God no longer holds me in his keeping—I have prayed to-night,Wandering through the city,That I might not see the morning light.”Breathless, gazingOn her pallid and impassioned face,How amazingWas the likeness that I there could trace!“Sister!” “Brother!”From our lips as by one impulse broke.Not anotherWord, then, for an instant brief we spoke.But the sweet and tender recollectionOf our childhood, with its fond affection,And at last, the broken, lost connection,Came afresh that night,Standing in the cityUnderneath the street-lamps’ changing light.Pale and slender,Like a lily did she bow her head.Low and tenderWas the earnest tone in which she said—“O, my brother!Tell me of our father.”—“He is dead.”“And our mother?”“And she, also, rests in peace,” I said.Only to my grievous words replying,By a long-drawn, deep and painful sighing,Sinking downward, as if crushed and dying,Did she seem that night,Standing in the cityUnderneath the street-lamps’ changing light.Wherefore should IThrust her from my guilty heart away?Ah, how could I!Whatsoe’er therighteousworld might say—She, my sister,One who shared in mine own life a part—Nay, I kissed her,And upraised her to a brother’s heart.And I said, “Henceforth we will not sever,But with faith and patience failing never,We will work for truth and right forever.Ministers of light,Watching o’er the city!Guide! O, guide our erring feet aright!”Gently o’er usCame a breath of warm and balmy air,And before usStood a man with silvery, flowing hair.How appearingFrom the murky gloom that round us fell,Mild and cheeringIn his presence, I could never tell.But I say with solemn asservation,That it was no fanciful creation,Bearing to this life no true relation,Which we saw that night,Standing in the city,Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.“Children!” said he,“One of life’s great lessons you are taught;Be then readyTo apply the teaching as you ought.Allare brothers—Allare sisters in this lower life.Many othersMake sad failures in the weary strife;But each failure is a grand expressionOf the law which underlies progression,Which will raise the soul above transgression.Yea, this very night,All throughout this city,Every soul is striving toward the light.”“Bruised and broken,Many hearts in patient sorrow wait,To hear spokenWords of love, which often come too late.Lift their crosses,And their sins—the heaviest load of all—Bear their losses,And be patient with them when they fall.”Then he vanished, as the shadows parted,Leaving us alone, but hopeful hearted,Gazing into space where he departedFrom our wondering sight,In that mazy city—Vanished in the shadows of the night.Sacred presence!Dwelling just beyond our mortal sense,Through thine essence,Fill our beings with a life intense.By creationMan fulfills a destiny sublime,And salvationComes to each in its appointed time.In that region of celestial splendor,Where the angel-faces look so tender,Human weakness needeth no defender.In the perfect lightOf the heavenly city,Souls can read the law of life aright.
DeeplymusingOn the many mysteries of life;Half excusingAll man’s seeming failures in the strife;Through the cityDid I take my lonely way at night;Filled with pityFor the miseries that met my sight,In the faces, sickly, sad and sunken,In the faces, meager, mean and shrunken,Wanton, leering, passionate and drunken,Which I saw that night,Passing through the city—Saw them by the street-lamps’ changing light.Burning brightly,Looked the watching stars from heaven above;As if lightlyThey beheld these wrecks of human love.“O, how distant,”Said I, “are they from this earth apart!How resistantTo the woes that rend the human heart!Countless worlds! your radiant courses rounding,With your light the depth of distance sounding,Is there not some fount of love abounding?O, thou starlit nightBrooding o’er the city!Would that truth might as thy stars shine bright.”Very lightlyWas a woman’s hand laid on my arm.Pressing slightly—And a voice said—striving to be calm—“I am dying,Slowly dying for the want of love;Vainly tryingTo believe there is a God above.For I feel that I am sinking slowly,Losing daily, faith and patience lowly,Doomed to ways of sin and deeds unholy—All the weary night,Through this cruel cityDo I wander till the morning light.“Hear me kindly,For I am not what I would have been,If most blindlyI had not been tempted unto sin.I am lonely,And I long to shriek in anguish wild,O, if onlyI could be once more a little child!See! my eyes are weary-worn with weeping;Sorrow’s tide across my soul is sweeping;God no longer holds me in his keeping—I have prayed to-night,Wandering through the city,That I might not see the morning light.”Breathless, gazingOn her pallid and impassioned face,How amazingWas the likeness that I there could trace!“Sister!” “Brother!”From our lips as by one impulse broke.Not anotherWord, then, for an instant brief we spoke.But the sweet and tender recollectionOf our childhood, with its fond affection,And at last, the broken, lost connection,Came afresh that night,Standing in the cityUnderneath the street-lamps’ changing light.Pale and slender,Like a lily did she bow her head.Low and tenderWas the earnest tone in which she said—“O, my brother!Tell me of our father.”—“He is dead.”“And our mother?”“And she, also, rests in peace,” I said.Only to my grievous words replying,By a long-drawn, deep and painful sighing,Sinking downward, as if crushed and dying,Did she seem that night,Standing in the cityUnderneath the street-lamps’ changing light.Wherefore should IThrust her from my guilty heart away?Ah, how could I!Whatsoe’er therighteousworld might say—She, my sister,One who shared in mine own life a part—Nay, I kissed her,And upraised her to a brother’s heart.And I said, “Henceforth we will not sever,But with faith and patience failing never,We will work for truth and right forever.Ministers of light,Watching o’er the city!Guide! O, guide our erring feet aright!”Gently o’er usCame a breath of warm and balmy air,And before usStood a man with silvery, flowing hair.How appearingFrom the murky gloom that round us fell,Mild and cheeringIn his presence, I could never tell.But I say with solemn asservation,That it was no fanciful creation,Bearing to this life no true relation,Which we saw that night,Standing in the city,Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.“Children!” said he,“One of life’s great lessons you are taught;Be then readyTo apply the teaching as you ought.Allare brothers—Allare sisters in this lower life.Many othersMake sad failures in the weary strife;But each failure is a grand expressionOf the law which underlies progression,Which will raise the soul above transgression.Yea, this very night,All throughout this city,Every soul is striving toward the light.”“Bruised and broken,Many hearts in patient sorrow wait,To hear spokenWords of love, which often come too late.Lift their crosses,And their sins—the heaviest load of all—Bear their losses,And be patient with them when they fall.”Then he vanished, as the shadows parted,Leaving us alone, but hopeful hearted,Gazing into space where he departedFrom our wondering sight,In that mazy city—Vanished in the shadows of the night.Sacred presence!Dwelling just beyond our mortal sense,Through thine essence,Fill our beings with a life intense.By creationMan fulfills a destiny sublime,And salvationComes to each in its appointed time.In that region of celestial splendor,Where the angel-faces look so tender,Human weakness needeth no defender.In the perfect lightOf the heavenly city,Souls can read the law of life aright.
DeeplymusingOn the many mysteries of life;Half excusingAll man’s seeming failures in the strife;Through the cityDid I take my lonely way at night;Filled with pityFor the miseries that met my sight,In the faces, sickly, sad and sunken,In the faces, meager, mean and shrunken,Wanton, leering, passionate and drunken,Which I saw that night,Passing through the city—Saw them by the street-lamps’ changing light.
Burning brightly,Looked the watching stars from heaven above;As if lightlyThey beheld these wrecks of human love.“O, how distant,”Said I, “are they from this earth apart!How resistantTo the woes that rend the human heart!Countless worlds! your radiant courses rounding,With your light the depth of distance sounding,Is there not some fount of love abounding?O, thou starlit nightBrooding o’er the city!Would that truth might as thy stars shine bright.”
Very lightlyWas a woman’s hand laid on my arm.Pressing slightly—And a voice said—striving to be calm—“I am dying,Slowly dying for the want of love;Vainly tryingTo believe there is a God above.For I feel that I am sinking slowly,Losing daily, faith and patience lowly,Doomed to ways of sin and deeds unholy—All the weary night,Through this cruel cityDo I wander till the morning light.
“Hear me kindly,For I am not what I would have been,If most blindlyI had not been tempted unto sin.I am lonely,And I long to shriek in anguish wild,O, if onlyI could be once more a little child!See! my eyes are weary-worn with weeping;Sorrow’s tide across my soul is sweeping;God no longer holds me in his keeping—I have prayed to-night,Wandering through the city,That I might not see the morning light.”
Breathless, gazingOn her pallid and impassioned face,How amazingWas the likeness that I there could trace!“Sister!” “Brother!”From our lips as by one impulse broke.Not anotherWord, then, for an instant brief we spoke.But the sweet and tender recollectionOf our childhood, with its fond affection,And at last, the broken, lost connection,Came afresh that night,Standing in the cityUnderneath the street-lamps’ changing light.
Pale and slender,Like a lily did she bow her head.Low and tenderWas the earnest tone in which she said—“O, my brother!Tell me of our father.”—“He is dead.”“And our mother?”“And she, also, rests in peace,” I said.Only to my grievous words replying,By a long-drawn, deep and painful sighing,Sinking downward, as if crushed and dying,Did she seem that night,Standing in the cityUnderneath the street-lamps’ changing light.
Wherefore should IThrust her from my guilty heart away?Ah, how could I!Whatsoe’er therighteousworld might say—She, my sister,One who shared in mine own life a part—Nay, I kissed her,And upraised her to a brother’s heart.And I said, “Henceforth we will not sever,But with faith and patience failing never,We will work for truth and right forever.Ministers of light,Watching o’er the city!Guide! O, guide our erring feet aright!”
Gently o’er usCame a breath of warm and balmy air,And before usStood a man with silvery, flowing hair.How appearingFrom the murky gloom that round us fell,Mild and cheeringIn his presence, I could never tell.But I say with solemn asservation,That it was no fanciful creation,Bearing to this life no true relation,Which we saw that night,Standing in the city,Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.
“Children!” said he,“One of life’s great lessons you are taught;Be then readyTo apply the teaching as you ought.Allare brothers—Allare sisters in this lower life.Many othersMake sad failures in the weary strife;But each failure is a grand expressionOf the law which underlies progression,Which will raise the soul above transgression.Yea, this very night,All throughout this city,Every soul is striving toward the light.”
“Bruised and broken,Many hearts in patient sorrow wait,To hear spokenWords of love, which often come too late.Lift their crosses,And their sins—the heaviest load of all—Bear their losses,And be patient with them when they fall.”Then he vanished, as the shadows parted,Leaving us alone, but hopeful hearted,Gazing into space where he departedFrom our wondering sight,In that mazy city—Vanished in the shadows of the night.
Sacred presence!Dwelling just beyond our mortal sense,Through thine essence,Fill our beings with a life intense.By creationMan fulfills a destiny sublime,And salvationComes to each in its appointed time.In that region of celestial splendor,Where the angel-faces look so tender,Human weakness needeth no defender.In the perfect lightOf the heavenly city,Souls can read the law of life aright.
“Arespectablelie, sir! Pray what do you mean?Why the term initselfis a plain contradiction.A lie is alie, and deserves no respect,But merciless judgment, and speedy conviction.It springs from corruption, is servile and mean,An evil conception, a coward’s invention,And whether direct, or but simply implied,Has naught but deceit for its end and intention.”Ah, yes! very well! Sogood moralswould teach;Butfactsare themoststubborn things in existence,Andtheytend to show thatgreatlies win respect,And hold their position with wondrous persistence.Thesmalllies, thewhitelies, the liesfeebly told,The world will condemn both in spirit and letter;But thegreat, bloatedlies will be held in respect,And thelargerandoldera lie is, the better.A respectable lie, from apopularman,On apopulartheme, never taxes endurance;And the pure, golden coin ofunpopulartruth,Is oftenrefusedfor thebrass of assurance.You may dare all the laws of the land to defy,And bear to the truth the most shameless relation,But never attacka respectable lie,If you value a name, or a good reputation.A lie well established, and hoary with age,Resists the assaults of the boldest seceder;While he is accounted the greatest of saints,Who silences reason and follows the leader.Whenever a mortal hasdaredto be wise,And seize upon Truth, as the soul’s “Magna Charta,”He always has won from the lovers of lies,The name of a fool, or the fate of a martyr.There are popular lies, and political lies,And “lies that stick fast between buying and selling,”And lies of politeness—conventional lies—(Which scarcely are reckoned as such in the telling.)There are lies of sheer malice, and slanderous lies,From those who delight to peck filth like a pigeon;But theoldestand farmost respectablelies,Are those that are told in the name of Religion.Theology sits like a tyrant enthroned,A systemper sewith a fixed nomenclature,Derived from strange doctrines, and dogmas, and creeds,At war with man’s reason, with God and with Nature;And he who subscribes to the popular faith,Never questions the fact of divine inspiration,But holds to the Bible as absolute truth,From Genesis through to St. John’s Revelation.We mock at the Catholic bigots at Rome,Who strive with their dogmas man’s reason to fetter;But we turn to the Protestant bigots at home,And we find that their dogmas are scarce a whit better.We are called to believe in the wrath of the Lord—In endless damnation, and torments infernal;While around and above us, the Infinite Truth,Scarce heeded or heard, speaks sublime and eternal.It is sad—but the day-star is shining on high,And Science comes in with her conquering legions;And ev’ry respectable, time-honored lie,Will fly from her face to the mythical regions.The soul shall no longer with terror beholdThe red waves of wrath that leap up to engulf her,For Science ignores the existence of hell,And chemistry finds better uses for sulphur.We may dare to repose in the beautiful faith,That an Infinite Life is the source of all being;And though we must strive with delusion and Death,We can trust to a love and a wisdom all-*seeing;We may dare in the strength of the soul to arise,And walk where our feet shall not stumble or falter;And, freed from the bondage of time-honored lies,To lay all we have on the Truth’s sacred altar.
“Arespectablelie, sir! Pray what do you mean?Why the term initselfis a plain contradiction.A lie is alie, and deserves no respect,But merciless judgment, and speedy conviction.It springs from corruption, is servile and mean,An evil conception, a coward’s invention,And whether direct, or but simply implied,Has naught but deceit for its end and intention.”Ah, yes! very well! Sogood moralswould teach;Butfactsare themoststubborn things in existence,Andtheytend to show thatgreatlies win respect,And hold their position with wondrous persistence.Thesmalllies, thewhitelies, the liesfeebly told,The world will condemn both in spirit and letter;But thegreat, bloatedlies will be held in respect,And thelargerandoldera lie is, the better.A respectable lie, from apopularman,On apopulartheme, never taxes endurance;And the pure, golden coin ofunpopulartruth,Is oftenrefusedfor thebrass of assurance.You may dare all the laws of the land to defy,And bear to the truth the most shameless relation,But never attacka respectable lie,If you value a name, or a good reputation.A lie well established, and hoary with age,Resists the assaults of the boldest seceder;While he is accounted the greatest of saints,Who silences reason and follows the leader.Whenever a mortal hasdaredto be wise,And seize upon Truth, as the soul’s “Magna Charta,”He always has won from the lovers of lies,The name of a fool, or the fate of a martyr.There are popular lies, and political lies,And “lies that stick fast between buying and selling,”And lies of politeness—conventional lies—(Which scarcely are reckoned as such in the telling.)There are lies of sheer malice, and slanderous lies,From those who delight to peck filth like a pigeon;But theoldestand farmost respectablelies,Are those that are told in the name of Religion.Theology sits like a tyrant enthroned,A systemper sewith a fixed nomenclature,Derived from strange doctrines, and dogmas, and creeds,At war with man’s reason, with God and with Nature;And he who subscribes to the popular faith,Never questions the fact of divine inspiration,But holds to the Bible as absolute truth,From Genesis through to St. John’s Revelation.We mock at the Catholic bigots at Rome,Who strive with their dogmas man’s reason to fetter;But we turn to the Protestant bigots at home,And we find that their dogmas are scarce a whit better.We are called to believe in the wrath of the Lord—In endless damnation, and torments infernal;While around and above us, the Infinite Truth,Scarce heeded or heard, speaks sublime and eternal.It is sad—but the day-star is shining on high,And Science comes in with her conquering legions;And ev’ry respectable, time-honored lie,Will fly from her face to the mythical regions.The soul shall no longer with terror beholdThe red waves of wrath that leap up to engulf her,For Science ignores the existence of hell,And chemistry finds better uses for sulphur.We may dare to repose in the beautiful faith,That an Infinite Life is the source of all being;And though we must strive with delusion and Death,We can trust to a love and a wisdom all-*seeing;We may dare in the strength of the soul to arise,And walk where our feet shall not stumble or falter;And, freed from the bondage of time-honored lies,To lay all we have on the Truth’s sacred altar.
“Arespectablelie, sir! Pray what do you mean?Why the term initselfis a plain contradiction.A lie is alie, and deserves no respect,But merciless judgment, and speedy conviction.It springs from corruption, is servile and mean,An evil conception, a coward’s invention,And whether direct, or but simply implied,Has naught but deceit for its end and intention.”
Ah, yes! very well! Sogood moralswould teach;Butfactsare themoststubborn things in existence,Andtheytend to show thatgreatlies win respect,And hold their position with wondrous persistence.Thesmalllies, thewhitelies, the liesfeebly told,The world will condemn both in spirit and letter;But thegreat, bloatedlies will be held in respect,And thelargerandoldera lie is, the better.
A respectable lie, from apopularman,On apopulartheme, never taxes endurance;And the pure, golden coin ofunpopulartruth,Is oftenrefusedfor thebrass of assurance.You may dare all the laws of the land to defy,And bear to the truth the most shameless relation,But never attacka respectable lie,If you value a name, or a good reputation.
A lie well established, and hoary with age,Resists the assaults of the boldest seceder;While he is accounted the greatest of saints,Who silences reason and follows the leader.Whenever a mortal hasdaredto be wise,And seize upon Truth, as the soul’s “Magna Charta,”He always has won from the lovers of lies,The name of a fool, or the fate of a martyr.
There are popular lies, and political lies,And “lies that stick fast between buying and selling,”And lies of politeness—conventional lies—(Which scarcely are reckoned as such in the telling.)There are lies of sheer malice, and slanderous lies,From those who delight to peck filth like a pigeon;But theoldestand farmost respectablelies,Are those that are told in the name of Religion.
Theology sits like a tyrant enthroned,A systemper sewith a fixed nomenclature,Derived from strange doctrines, and dogmas, and creeds,At war with man’s reason, with God and with Nature;And he who subscribes to the popular faith,Never questions the fact of divine inspiration,But holds to the Bible as absolute truth,From Genesis through to St. John’s Revelation.
We mock at the Catholic bigots at Rome,Who strive with their dogmas man’s reason to fetter;But we turn to the Protestant bigots at home,And we find that their dogmas are scarce a whit better.We are called to believe in the wrath of the Lord—In endless damnation, and torments infernal;While around and above us, the Infinite Truth,Scarce heeded or heard, speaks sublime and eternal.
It is sad—but the day-star is shining on high,And Science comes in with her conquering legions;And ev’ry respectable, time-honored lie,Will fly from her face to the mythical regions.The soul shall no longer with terror beholdThe red waves of wrath that leap up to engulf her,For Science ignores the existence of hell,And chemistry finds better uses for sulphur.
We may dare to repose in the beautiful faith,That an Infinite Life is the source of all being;And though we must strive with delusion and Death,We can trust to a love and a wisdom all-*seeing;We may dare in the strength of the soul to arise,And walk where our feet shall not stumble or falter;And, freed from the bondage of time-honored lies,To lay all we have on the Truth’s sacred altar.
’Twasa faith that was held by the Northmen bold,In the ages long, long ago,That the river of death, so dark and cold,Was spanned by a radiant bow;A rainbow bridge to the blest abodeOf the strong Gods—free from ill,Where the beautiful Urda fountain flowed,Near the ash tree Igdrasill.They held that when, in life’s weary march,They should come to that river wide,They would set their feet on the shining arch,And would pass to the other side.And they said that the Gods and the Heroes crossedThat bridge from the world of light,To strengthen the Soul when its hope seemed lost,In the conflict for the right.O, beautiful faith of the grand old past!So simple, yet so sublime,A light from that rainbow bridge is castFar down o’er the tide of time.We raise our eyes, and we see above,The souls in their homeward march;They wave their hands and they smile in love,From the height of the rainbow arch.We know they will drink from the fountain pureThat springs by the Tree of Life,We know that their spirits will rest secureFrom the tempests of human strife;So we fold our hands, and we close our eyes,And we strive to forget our pain,Lest the weak and the selfish wish should rise,To ask for them back again.The swelling tide of our grief we stay,While our warm hearts fondly yearn,And we ask if over that shining wayThey shall nevermore return.O, we oft forget that our lonely hoursAre known to the souls we love,And they strew the path of our life with flowers,From that rainbow arch above.We hear them call, and their voices sweetFloat down from that bridge of light,Where the gold and crimson and azure meet,And mingle their glories bright.We hear them call, and the soul replies,From the depths of the life below,And we strive on the wings of faith to riseTo the height of that radiant bow.Like the crystal ladder that Jacob saw,Is that beautiful vision given,The weary pilgrims of earth to drawTo the life of their native heaven.For ’tis better that souls should upward tend,And strive for the victor’s crown,Than to ask the angels their help to lend,And come to man’s weakness down.That rainbow bridge in the crystal dome,O’er a swiftly flowing tide,Is the shining way to the spirit home,That lies on the other side.To man is the tempest cloud below,And the storm wind’s fatal breath,But for those who cross o’er that shining bow,There is no more pain nor death.O, fair and bright does that archway stand,Through the silent lapse of years,Fashioned and reared by no human hand,From the sunshine of love and tears.Sweet spirits, our footsteps are nearing fastThe light of the shining shore;We shall cross that rainbow bridge at last,And greet you in joy once more.
’Twasa faith that was held by the Northmen bold,In the ages long, long ago,That the river of death, so dark and cold,Was spanned by a radiant bow;A rainbow bridge to the blest abodeOf the strong Gods—free from ill,Where the beautiful Urda fountain flowed,Near the ash tree Igdrasill.They held that when, in life’s weary march,They should come to that river wide,They would set their feet on the shining arch,And would pass to the other side.And they said that the Gods and the Heroes crossedThat bridge from the world of light,To strengthen the Soul when its hope seemed lost,In the conflict for the right.O, beautiful faith of the grand old past!So simple, yet so sublime,A light from that rainbow bridge is castFar down o’er the tide of time.We raise our eyes, and we see above,The souls in their homeward march;They wave their hands and they smile in love,From the height of the rainbow arch.We know they will drink from the fountain pureThat springs by the Tree of Life,We know that their spirits will rest secureFrom the tempests of human strife;So we fold our hands, and we close our eyes,And we strive to forget our pain,Lest the weak and the selfish wish should rise,To ask for them back again.The swelling tide of our grief we stay,While our warm hearts fondly yearn,And we ask if over that shining wayThey shall nevermore return.O, we oft forget that our lonely hoursAre known to the souls we love,And they strew the path of our life with flowers,From that rainbow arch above.We hear them call, and their voices sweetFloat down from that bridge of light,Where the gold and crimson and azure meet,And mingle their glories bright.We hear them call, and the soul replies,From the depths of the life below,And we strive on the wings of faith to riseTo the height of that radiant bow.Like the crystal ladder that Jacob saw,Is that beautiful vision given,The weary pilgrims of earth to drawTo the life of their native heaven.For ’tis better that souls should upward tend,And strive for the victor’s crown,Than to ask the angels their help to lend,And come to man’s weakness down.That rainbow bridge in the crystal dome,O’er a swiftly flowing tide,Is the shining way to the spirit home,That lies on the other side.To man is the tempest cloud below,And the storm wind’s fatal breath,But for those who cross o’er that shining bow,There is no more pain nor death.O, fair and bright does that archway stand,Through the silent lapse of years,Fashioned and reared by no human hand,From the sunshine of love and tears.Sweet spirits, our footsteps are nearing fastThe light of the shining shore;We shall cross that rainbow bridge at last,And greet you in joy once more.
’Twasa faith that was held by the Northmen bold,In the ages long, long ago,That the river of death, so dark and cold,Was spanned by a radiant bow;A rainbow bridge to the blest abodeOf the strong Gods—free from ill,Where the beautiful Urda fountain flowed,Near the ash tree Igdrasill.
They held that when, in life’s weary march,They should come to that river wide,They would set their feet on the shining arch,And would pass to the other side.And they said that the Gods and the Heroes crossedThat bridge from the world of light,To strengthen the Soul when its hope seemed lost,In the conflict for the right.
O, beautiful faith of the grand old past!So simple, yet so sublime,A light from that rainbow bridge is castFar down o’er the tide of time.We raise our eyes, and we see above,The souls in their homeward march;They wave their hands and they smile in love,From the height of the rainbow arch.
We know they will drink from the fountain pureThat springs by the Tree of Life,We know that their spirits will rest secureFrom the tempests of human strife;So we fold our hands, and we close our eyes,And we strive to forget our pain,Lest the weak and the selfish wish should rise,To ask for them back again.
The swelling tide of our grief we stay,While our warm hearts fondly yearn,And we ask if over that shining wayThey shall nevermore return.O, we oft forget that our lonely hoursAre known to the souls we love,And they strew the path of our life with flowers,From that rainbow arch above.
We hear them call, and their voices sweetFloat down from that bridge of light,Where the gold and crimson and azure meet,And mingle their glories bright.We hear them call, and the soul replies,From the depths of the life below,And we strive on the wings of faith to riseTo the height of that radiant bow.
Like the crystal ladder that Jacob saw,Is that beautiful vision given,The weary pilgrims of earth to drawTo the life of their native heaven.For ’tis better that souls should upward tend,And strive for the victor’s crown,Than to ask the angels their help to lend,And come to man’s weakness down.
That rainbow bridge in the crystal dome,O’er a swiftly flowing tide,Is the shining way to the spirit home,That lies on the other side.To man is the tempest cloud below,And the storm wind’s fatal breath,But for those who cross o’er that shining bow,There is no more pain nor death.
O, fair and bright does that archway stand,Through the silent lapse of years,Fashioned and reared by no human hand,From the sunshine of love and tears.Sweet spirits, our footsteps are nearing fastThe light of the shining shore;We shall cross that rainbow bridge at last,And greet you in joy once more.
“And the token that the angel gave her, that he was a true messenger, was an arrow, with a point sharpened with Love, let easily into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with her, that at the time appointed she must be gone.”Pilgrim’s Progress.
“And the token that the angel gave her, that he was a true messenger, was an arrow, with a point sharpened with Love, let easily into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with her, that at the time appointed she must be gone.”
Pilgrim’s Progress.
Restthou in peace! Beneath the sheltering sodThere is a lowly door, a narrow way,That leadeth to the Paradise of God;There, weary pilgrim, let thy wanderings stay.Rest thou in peace! We would not call thee backTo know the grief that comes with riper years,To tread in sorrow all Life’s thorny track,And drain with us the bitter cup of tears.Rest thou in peace! With chastened hearts we bow,And pour for thee a low and solemn strain;Thy voice shall chant the hymns of Zion now,But it shall mingle not with ours again.Rest thou in peace! Not in the silent grave—Thy spirit heard the summons from above,And blessed the token that the angel gave—An arrow, sharpened—but with tenderest love.Rest thou in peace! With blessings on thy head,Pass to the land where sinless spirits dwell—Gone, but not lost!—We will not call theedead—The angels claimed thee! Dear one—Fare-thee-well.
Restthou in peace! Beneath the sheltering sodThere is a lowly door, a narrow way,That leadeth to the Paradise of God;There, weary pilgrim, let thy wanderings stay.Rest thou in peace! We would not call thee backTo know the grief that comes with riper years,To tread in sorrow all Life’s thorny track,And drain with us the bitter cup of tears.Rest thou in peace! With chastened hearts we bow,And pour for thee a low and solemn strain;Thy voice shall chant the hymns of Zion now,But it shall mingle not with ours again.Rest thou in peace! Not in the silent grave—Thy spirit heard the summons from above,And blessed the token that the angel gave—An arrow, sharpened—but with tenderest love.Rest thou in peace! With blessings on thy head,Pass to the land where sinless spirits dwell—Gone, but not lost!—We will not call theedead—The angels claimed thee! Dear one—Fare-thee-well.
Restthou in peace! Beneath the sheltering sodThere is a lowly door, a narrow way,That leadeth to the Paradise of God;There, weary pilgrim, let thy wanderings stay.
Rest thou in peace! We would not call thee backTo know the grief that comes with riper years,To tread in sorrow all Life’s thorny track,And drain with us the bitter cup of tears.
Rest thou in peace! With chastened hearts we bow,And pour for thee a low and solemn strain;Thy voice shall chant the hymns of Zion now,But it shall mingle not with ours again.
Rest thou in peace! Not in the silent grave—Thy spirit heard the summons from above,And blessed the token that the angel gave—An arrow, sharpened—but with tenderest love.
Rest thou in peace! With blessings on thy head,Pass to the land where sinless spirits dwell—Gone, but not lost!—We will not call theedead—The angels claimed thee! Dear one—Fare-thee-well.
Ofall the flowers that greet the light,Or open ’neath the summer’s sun,With fragrance sweet, and beauty bright,The Lily is the fairest one,And in its incense-cup there liesA perfume, as from Paradise.O, once there lived a fair, sweet child,And Lily was her gentle name;As beautiful and meekly mild,As if from Heaven’s pure life she came—A breathing psalm, a living prayer,To make men think of worlds more fair.O, there was sunshine in her smile,And music in her dancing feet,And every tender, artless wile,Made her dear presence seem more sweet;But ever in her childish play,A strange, unfathomed mystery lay.Her playmates—well, we could not seeThat which our darling Lily saw—But often in her childish glee,She filled our loving hearts with awe,When, pointing to the viewless air,She told us of the Angels there.“O, very beautiful!” she said,“And very gentle are they all;At night they watch around my bed,And always answer to my call.I asked to go with them one day,But a tall angel told me nay.”Yes—the “tall Angel” told her nay,But it was only for a time;We knew our Lily could not stayLong in this uncongenial clime.Into their home of love and lightThe Angels led her from our sight.They led her from the earth away,Into the blesséd “summer-land,”Leaving to us her form of clay,With budding lilies in the hand;An emblem of her life, to beUnfolded in Eternity.O, though there falls a gloom like nightFrom Sorrow’s overshadowing wing,How often does returning lightA ray of heavenly brightness bring,And problems that were dark beforeCan vex the soul with doubt no more.Beneath that heavy cloud we stood,Through which no ray of gladness stole,But well we knew that Sorrow’s floodWould cleanse and purify the soul;And when its ministry should cease,Our lives would blossom fair with peace.One evening, when the summer moonWith silver radiance filled the sky,And through the fragrant flowers of JuneThe balmy breeze sighed dreamily,With spirits calm and reconciled,We talked of our dear Angel child.We spoke of her we loved so well,As one who only went before—When lo! just where the moonlight fellWith mellow lustre on the floor,We saw our own sweet darling stand,With half-blown lilies in her hand.She seemed more beautiful and fairThan when a simple child of earth;The golden glory in her hairBetokened her celestial birth;But as she sweetly looked and smiled,We knew she was our own dear child.O, strange to say! we did not start,We did not even wildly weep,For each had schooled the wayward heartThe law of perfect peace to keep—And deep as Love’s unfathomed seaHad been our faith thatthis would be.O, shall we tell those moments o’er—And all her words of love repeat—And say how, through Time’s open doorShe glided in with noiseless feet?Nay, rather let us purely holdSuch things too sacred to be told.Enough to say we wait our time,With heaven’s own sunshine in the heart,Rejoicing in the faith sublime,That those who lovecan never part,And wheresoe’er the soul may dwell,That God will order all things well.
Ofall the flowers that greet the light,Or open ’neath the summer’s sun,With fragrance sweet, and beauty bright,The Lily is the fairest one,And in its incense-cup there liesA perfume, as from Paradise.O, once there lived a fair, sweet child,And Lily was her gentle name;As beautiful and meekly mild,As if from Heaven’s pure life she came—A breathing psalm, a living prayer,To make men think of worlds more fair.O, there was sunshine in her smile,And music in her dancing feet,And every tender, artless wile,Made her dear presence seem more sweet;But ever in her childish play,A strange, unfathomed mystery lay.Her playmates—well, we could not seeThat which our darling Lily saw—But often in her childish glee,She filled our loving hearts with awe,When, pointing to the viewless air,She told us of the Angels there.“O, very beautiful!” she said,“And very gentle are they all;At night they watch around my bed,And always answer to my call.I asked to go with them one day,But a tall angel told me nay.”Yes—the “tall Angel” told her nay,But it was only for a time;We knew our Lily could not stayLong in this uncongenial clime.Into their home of love and lightThe Angels led her from our sight.They led her from the earth away,Into the blesséd “summer-land,”Leaving to us her form of clay,With budding lilies in the hand;An emblem of her life, to beUnfolded in Eternity.O, though there falls a gloom like nightFrom Sorrow’s overshadowing wing,How often does returning lightA ray of heavenly brightness bring,And problems that were dark beforeCan vex the soul with doubt no more.Beneath that heavy cloud we stood,Through which no ray of gladness stole,But well we knew that Sorrow’s floodWould cleanse and purify the soul;And when its ministry should cease,Our lives would blossom fair with peace.One evening, when the summer moonWith silver radiance filled the sky,And through the fragrant flowers of JuneThe balmy breeze sighed dreamily,With spirits calm and reconciled,We talked of our dear Angel child.We spoke of her we loved so well,As one who only went before—When lo! just where the moonlight fellWith mellow lustre on the floor,We saw our own sweet darling stand,With half-blown lilies in her hand.She seemed more beautiful and fairThan when a simple child of earth;The golden glory in her hairBetokened her celestial birth;But as she sweetly looked and smiled,We knew she was our own dear child.O, strange to say! we did not start,We did not even wildly weep,For each had schooled the wayward heartThe law of perfect peace to keep—And deep as Love’s unfathomed seaHad been our faith thatthis would be.O, shall we tell those moments o’er—And all her words of love repeat—And say how, through Time’s open doorShe glided in with noiseless feet?Nay, rather let us purely holdSuch things too sacred to be told.Enough to say we wait our time,With heaven’s own sunshine in the heart,Rejoicing in the faith sublime,That those who lovecan never part,And wheresoe’er the soul may dwell,That God will order all things well.
Ofall the flowers that greet the light,Or open ’neath the summer’s sun,With fragrance sweet, and beauty bright,The Lily is the fairest one,And in its incense-cup there liesA perfume, as from Paradise.
O, once there lived a fair, sweet child,And Lily was her gentle name;As beautiful and meekly mild,As if from Heaven’s pure life she came—A breathing psalm, a living prayer,To make men think of worlds more fair.
O, there was sunshine in her smile,And music in her dancing feet,And every tender, artless wile,Made her dear presence seem more sweet;But ever in her childish play,A strange, unfathomed mystery lay.
Her playmates—well, we could not seeThat which our darling Lily saw—But often in her childish glee,She filled our loving hearts with awe,When, pointing to the viewless air,She told us of the Angels there.
“O, very beautiful!” she said,“And very gentle are they all;At night they watch around my bed,And always answer to my call.I asked to go with them one day,But a tall angel told me nay.”
Yes—the “tall Angel” told her nay,But it was only for a time;We knew our Lily could not stayLong in this uncongenial clime.Into their home of love and lightThe Angels led her from our sight.
They led her from the earth away,Into the blesséd “summer-land,”Leaving to us her form of clay,With budding lilies in the hand;An emblem of her life, to beUnfolded in Eternity.
O, though there falls a gloom like nightFrom Sorrow’s overshadowing wing,How often does returning lightA ray of heavenly brightness bring,And problems that were dark beforeCan vex the soul with doubt no more.
Beneath that heavy cloud we stood,Through which no ray of gladness stole,But well we knew that Sorrow’s floodWould cleanse and purify the soul;And when its ministry should cease,Our lives would blossom fair with peace.
One evening, when the summer moonWith silver radiance filled the sky,And through the fragrant flowers of JuneThe balmy breeze sighed dreamily,With spirits calm and reconciled,We talked of our dear Angel child.
We spoke of her we loved so well,As one who only went before—When lo! just where the moonlight fellWith mellow lustre on the floor,We saw our own sweet darling stand,With half-blown lilies in her hand.
She seemed more beautiful and fairThan when a simple child of earth;The golden glory in her hairBetokened her celestial birth;But as she sweetly looked and smiled,We knew she was our own dear child.
O, strange to say! we did not start,We did not even wildly weep,For each had schooled the wayward heartThe law of perfect peace to keep—And deep as Love’s unfathomed seaHad been our faith thatthis would be.
O, shall we tell those moments o’er—And all her words of love repeat—And say how, through Time’s open doorShe glided in with noiseless feet?Nay, rather let us purely holdSuch things too sacred to be told.
Enough to say we wait our time,With heaven’s own sunshine in the heart,Rejoicing in the faith sublime,That those who lovecan never part,And wheresoe’er the soul may dwell,That God will order all things well.
Howbeautiful the roses bloomAround the portals of the tomb!How fair the meek white lilies growFrom elements of death below!How tender and serenely brightThe stars light up the depths of night!Thus beauty unto ruin clings,And light from deepest darkness springs;The Soul its noblest strength must gainThrough ministries of grief and pain;Great victories only come through strife,And death is but the gate of life.The ocean waves that darkly flow,Sweep over priceless pearls below;The tempest cloud, when wild winds rest,Builds up the rainbow on its breast,And truths, unseen when all is bright,Shine like the stars in sorrow’s night.O Thou, in whom the vine bears fruit!In whom the violets take their root,For Thee the summer roses blow;For Thee the fair white lilies grow;And from Thine all-sustaining heartThe Soul’s immortal currents start.O, when the circle, made complete,Shall in thy boundless being meet,We feel, we know, that we shall beMade perfect in our love to Thee;That good will triumph in that hour,And weakness be exchanged for power.
Howbeautiful the roses bloomAround the portals of the tomb!How fair the meek white lilies growFrom elements of death below!How tender and serenely brightThe stars light up the depths of night!Thus beauty unto ruin clings,And light from deepest darkness springs;The Soul its noblest strength must gainThrough ministries of grief and pain;Great victories only come through strife,And death is but the gate of life.The ocean waves that darkly flow,Sweep over priceless pearls below;The tempest cloud, when wild winds rest,Builds up the rainbow on its breast,And truths, unseen when all is bright,Shine like the stars in sorrow’s night.O Thou, in whom the vine bears fruit!In whom the violets take their root,For Thee the summer roses blow;For Thee the fair white lilies grow;And from Thine all-sustaining heartThe Soul’s immortal currents start.O, when the circle, made complete,Shall in thy boundless being meet,We feel, we know, that we shall beMade perfect in our love to Thee;That good will triumph in that hour,And weakness be exchanged for power.
Howbeautiful the roses bloomAround the portals of the tomb!How fair the meek white lilies growFrom elements of death below!How tender and serenely brightThe stars light up the depths of night!
Thus beauty unto ruin clings,And light from deepest darkness springs;The Soul its noblest strength must gainThrough ministries of grief and pain;Great victories only come through strife,And death is but the gate of life.
The ocean waves that darkly flow,Sweep over priceless pearls below;The tempest cloud, when wild winds rest,Builds up the rainbow on its breast,And truths, unseen when all is bright,Shine like the stars in sorrow’s night.
O Thou, in whom the vine bears fruit!In whom the violets take their root,For Thee the summer roses blow;For Thee the fair white lilies grow;And from Thine all-sustaining heartThe Soul’s immortal currents start.
O, when the circle, made complete,Shall in thy boundless being meet,We feel, we know, that we shall beMade perfect in our love to Thee;That good will triumph in that hour,And weakness be exchanged for power.
“When the Son of Man cometh, shall he find faith in the earth?”Lukexviii. 8.
“When the Son of Man cometh, shall he find faith in the earth?”Lukexviii. 8.
Themerry Christmas time,With song and silvery chime,Had come at last;And brightly glowed each hearth,While winter, o’er the earth,Its snows had cast.High in the old cathedral tower,The ponderous bell majestic swung,And with its voice of solemn powerA summons to the people rung.Then, forth from lowly walls,And proud, ancestral halls,Came rich and poor,And faces wreathed with smilesThronged the cathedral aislesAs ne’er before.Rich silks trailed o’er the marble pave,And costly jewels glittered bright,For groined arch and spacious naveWere radiant with excess of light.The deep-toned organ’s swellLike billows rose and fell,In floods of sound;And the “Te Deum” rung,As if by angels sung,In space profound.Forth the majestic anthem rolledIn harmony complete, and thenPealed forth the angels’ song of old,Of “peace on earth, good will to men.”As the full chorus ceased,Up rose the white-robed priest,With solemn air;With hands toward heaven outspread,He bowed his stately headIn formal prayer.Then, like some breathless, holy spell,Upon the hushed and reverent crowd,A deep, impressive silence fell,And hands were clasped, and heads were bowed.“Saviour of All!” he cried,“Thou who wast crucifiedFor sinful man!We worship at thy feet,For thou hast made completeSalvation’s plan.Come to thy people, Lord, once more,And let the nations hear againThe song the angels sung of yore,Of ‘peace on earth, good will to men.’”As if his prayer was heard,A sudden trembling stirredThe walls around.The doors, wide open flung,On ponderous hinges swung,With solemn sound.And then, straight up the foot-worn aisle,A strange procession made its way,In garments coarse, of simplest style,A strange, incongruous array.The first, most rudely clad,A leathern girdle hadAbout him bound.The next, in humblest guise,Raised not his mournful eyesFrom off the ground.And next to these the dusky browed,And others, flushed with sin and shame,And women, with their faces bowedIn deep contrition, slowly came.No voice was heard, or sound,From the vast concourse round,Outspreading wide.But onward still they passed,Until they gained at lastThe altar side.Then said the lowly one, “O ye!Who celebrate a Saviour’s birth,Should he return again, would heFind faith among the sons of earth?”Quick, with an angry frown,The haughty priest looked downUpon the crowd.“Who are ye, that ye dareInvade this house of prayer?”He cried aloud.“This temple, sacred to the Lord,Not thus shall be profaned by you:Your deeds with his do not accord—Begone! Begone, ye vagrant crew!”The lowly one replied,“These, standing by my side,Came at my call;Nor need they have one fear,With me to enter here—God loves them all.Thou hypocrite! thou dost rejectMe, through thy mostunchristian creed,And making truth of none effect,Thou dost dishonor me indeed.”Around the stranger’s headA radiant halo spreadIts glories bright;His meek and tender faceBeamed with transcendent grace,And heavenly light.There, mighty in his power for good,So gentle and divinely sweet,The “Christus Consolator” stood,With weeping sinners at his feet.“We must go hence,” he said,“To find the living bread.Come, follow me!My Father’s house aboveIs full of light and love,And all is free.”High in the old cathedral tower,The brazen bell majestic swung,As if some strange, mysterious powerTo sudden speech had moved its tongue.O Christ! thou friend of men!When thou shalt come again,Through Truth’s new birth,May all the fruits of peaceBe found in rich increaseUpon the earth.Then shall the song of sweet accord,Sung by the heavenly hosts of yore,To hail the coming of their Lord,Sound through the ages evermore.
Themerry Christmas time,With song and silvery chime,Had come at last;And brightly glowed each hearth,While winter, o’er the earth,Its snows had cast.High in the old cathedral tower,The ponderous bell majestic swung,And with its voice of solemn powerA summons to the people rung.Then, forth from lowly walls,And proud, ancestral halls,Came rich and poor,And faces wreathed with smilesThronged the cathedral aislesAs ne’er before.Rich silks trailed o’er the marble pave,And costly jewels glittered bright,For groined arch and spacious naveWere radiant with excess of light.The deep-toned organ’s swellLike billows rose and fell,In floods of sound;And the “Te Deum” rung,As if by angels sung,In space profound.Forth the majestic anthem rolledIn harmony complete, and thenPealed forth the angels’ song of old,Of “peace on earth, good will to men.”As the full chorus ceased,Up rose the white-robed priest,With solemn air;With hands toward heaven outspread,He bowed his stately headIn formal prayer.Then, like some breathless, holy spell,Upon the hushed and reverent crowd,A deep, impressive silence fell,And hands were clasped, and heads were bowed.“Saviour of All!” he cried,“Thou who wast crucifiedFor sinful man!We worship at thy feet,For thou hast made completeSalvation’s plan.Come to thy people, Lord, once more,And let the nations hear againThe song the angels sung of yore,Of ‘peace on earth, good will to men.’”As if his prayer was heard,A sudden trembling stirredThe walls around.The doors, wide open flung,On ponderous hinges swung,With solemn sound.And then, straight up the foot-worn aisle,A strange procession made its way,In garments coarse, of simplest style,A strange, incongruous array.The first, most rudely clad,A leathern girdle hadAbout him bound.The next, in humblest guise,Raised not his mournful eyesFrom off the ground.And next to these the dusky browed,And others, flushed with sin and shame,And women, with their faces bowedIn deep contrition, slowly came.No voice was heard, or sound,From the vast concourse round,Outspreading wide.But onward still they passed,Until they gained at lastThe altar side.Then said the lowly one, “O ye!Who celebrate a Saviour’s birth,Should he return again, would heFind faith among the sons of earth?”Quick, with an angry frown,The haughty priest looked downUpon the crowd.“Who are ye, that ye dareInvade this house of prayer?”He cried aloud.“This temple, sacred to the Lord,Not thus shall be profaned by you:Your deeds with his do not accord—Begone! Begone, ye vagrant crew!”The lowly one replied,“These, standing by my side,Came at my call;Nor need they have one fear,With me to enter here—God loves them all.Thou hypocrite! thou dost rejectMe, through thy mostunchristian creed,And making truth of none effect,Thou dost dishonor me indeed.”Around the stranger’s headA radiant halo spreadIts glories bright;His meek and tender faceBeamed with transcendent grace,And heavenly light.There, mighty in his power for good,So gentle and divinely sweet,The “Christus Consolator” stood,With weeping sinners at his feet.“We must go hence,” he said,“To find the living bread.Come, follow me!My Father’s house aboveIs full of light and love,And all is free.”High in the old cathedral tower,The brazen bell majestic swung,As if some strange, mysterious powerTo sudden speech had moved its tongue.O Christ! thou friend of men!When thou shalt come again,Through Truth’s new birth,May all the fruits of peaceBe found in rich increaseUpon the earth.Then shall the song of sweet accord,Sung by the heavenly hosts of yore,To hail the coming of their Lord,Sound through the ages evermore.
Themerry Christmas time,With song and silvery chime,Had come at last;And brightly glowed each hearth,While winter, o’er the earth,Its snows had cast.High in the old cathedral tower,The ponderous bell majestic swung,And with its voice of solemn powerA summons to the people rung.
Then, forth from lowly walls,And proud, ancestral halls,Came rich and poor,And faces wreathed with smilesThronged the cathedral aislesAs ne’er before.Rich silks trailed o’er the marble pave,And costly jewels glittered bright,For groined arch and spacious naveWere radiant with excess of light.
The deep-toned organ’s swellLike billows rose and fell,In floods of sound;And the “Te Deum” rung,As if by angels sung,In space profound.Forth the majestic anthem rolledIn harmony complete, and thenPealed forth the angels’ song of old,Of “peace on earth, good will to men.”
As the full chorus ceased,Up rose the white-robed priest,With solemn air;With hands toward heaven outspread,He bowed his stately headIn formal prayer.Then, like some breathless, holy spell,Upon the hushed and reverent crowd,A deep, impressive silence fell,And hands were clasped, and heads were bowed.
“Saviour of All!” he cried,“Thou who wast crucifiedFor sinful man!We worship at thy feet,For thou hast made completeSalvation’s plan.Come to thy people, Lord, once more,And let the nations hear againThe song the angels sung of yore,Of ‘peace on earth, good will to men.’”
As if his prayer was heard,A sudden trembling stirredThe walls around.The doors, wide open flung,On ponderous hinges swung,With solemn sound.And then, straight up the foot-worn aisle,A strange procession made its way,In garments coarse, of simplest style,A strange, incongruous array.
The first, most rudely clad,A leathern girdle hadAbout him bound.The next, in humblest guise,Raised not his mournful eyesFrom off the ground.And next to these the dusky browed,And others, flushed with sin and shame,And women, with their faces bowedIn deep contrition, slowly came.
No voice was heard, or sound,From the vast concourse round,Outspreading wide.But onward still they passed,Until they gained at lastThe altar side.Then said the lowly one, “O ye!Who celebrate a Saviour’s birth,Should he return again, would heFind faith among the sons of earth?”
Quick, with an angry frown,The haughty priest looked downUpon the crowd.“Who are ye, that ye dareInvade this house of prayer?”He cried aloud.“This temple, sacred to the Lord,Not thus shall be profaned by you:Your deeds with his do not accord—Begone! Begone, ye vagrant crew!”
The lowly one replied,“These, standing by my side,Came at my call;Nor need they have one fear,With me to enter here—God loves them all.Thou hypocrite! thou dost rejectMe, through thy mostunchristian creed,And making truth of none effect,Thou dost dishonor me indeed.”
Around the stranger’s headA radiant halo spreadIts glories bright;His meek and tender faceBeamed with transcendent grace,And heavenly light.There, mighty in his power for good,So gentle and divinely sweet,The “Christus Consolator” stood,With weeping sinners at his feet.
“We must go hence,” he said,“To find the living bread.Come, follow me!My Father’s house aboveIs full of light and love,And all is free.”High in the old cathedral tower,The brazen bell majestic swung,As if some strange, mysterious powerTo sudden speech had moved its tongue.
O Christ! thou friend of men!When thou shalt come again,Through Truth’s new birth,May all the fruits of peaceBe found in rich increaseUpon the earth.Then shall the song of sweet accord,Sung by the heavenly hosts of yore,To hail the coming of their Lord,Sound through the ages evermore.
Ithas always been thought a most critical case,When a man was possessed of more Nature than Grace;For Theology teaches that man from the firstWas a sinner by Nature, and justly accurst;And “Salvation by Grace” was the wonderful plan,Which God had invented to save erring man.’Twas the only atonement he knew how to make,To annul the effects of his own sad mistake.Now this was the doctrine of good Parson Brown,Who preached, not long since, in a small country town.He was zealous, and earnest, and could so excelIn describing the tortures of sinners in Hell,That a famous revival commenced in the place,And hundreds of souls found “Salvation by Grace;”But he felt that he had not attained his desire,Till he had converted one Peter McGuire.This man was a blacksmith, frank, fearless and bold,With great brawny sinews like Vulcan of old;He had little respect for what ministers preach,And sometimes was very profane in his speech.His opinions were founded in clear common sense,And he spoke as he thought, though he oft gave offense;But however wanting, in whole or in part,He was sound, and all right, when you came to his heart.One day the good parson, with pious intent,To the smithy of Peter most hopefully went;And there, while the hammer industriously swung,He preached, and he prayed, and exhorted, and sung,And warned, and entreated poor Peter to flyFrom the pit of destruction before he should die;And to wash himself clean from the world’s sinful strife,In the Blood of the Lamb, and the River of Life.Well, and what would you now be inclined to expectWas the probable issue and likely effect?Why, he swore “like a Pirate,” and what do you think?From a little black bottle took something to drink!And he said, “I’ll not mention the Blood of the Lamb,But as for that River it aren’t worth a——;”Then pausing—as if to restrain his rude force—He quietly added, “a mill-dam, of course.”Quick out of the smithy the minister fled,As if a big bomb-shell had burst near his head;And as he continued to haste on his way,He was too much excited to sing or to pray;But he thought how that some were elected by Grace,As heirs of the kingdom—made sure of their place—While others were doomed to the pains of Hell-*fire,And if e’er there wasonesuch, ’twas Peter McGuire.That night, when the Storm King was riding on high,And the red shafts of lightning gleamed bright through the sky,The church of the village, “the Temple of God,”Was struck, for the want of a good lightning rod,And swiftly descending, the element direSet the minister’s house, close beside it, on fire,While he peacefully slumbered, with never a fearOf the terrible work of destruction so near.There were Mary, and Hannah, and Tommy, and Joe,All sweetly asleep in the bedroom below,While their father was near, with their mother at rest,(Like the wife of John Rogers with “one at the breast.”)But Alice, the eldest, a gentle young dove,Was asleep all alone, in the room just above;And when the wild cry of the rescuer came,She only was left to the pitiless flame.The fond mother counted her treasures of love,When lo! one was missing—“O Father above!”How madly she shrieked in her agony wild—“My Alice! My Alice! O, save my dear child!”Then down on his knees fell the Parson, and prayedThat the terrible wrath of the Lord might be stayed.Said Peter McGuire, “Prayer is good in its place,But then it don’t suitthisparticular case.”He turned down the sleeves of his red flannel shirt,To shield his great arms all besmutted with dirt;Then into the billows of smoke and of fire,Not pausing an instant, dashed Peter McGuire.O, that terrible moment of anxious suspense!How breathless their watching! their fear how intense!And then their great joy! which was freely expressedWhen Peter appeared with the child on his breast.A shout rent the air when the darling he laidIn the arms of her mother, so pale and dismayed;And as Alice looked up and most gratefully smiled,He bowed down his head and he wept like a child.O, those tears of brave manhood that rained o’er his face,Showed the true Grace of Nature, and the Nature of Grace;’Twas a manifest token, a visible sign,Of the indwelling life of the Spirit Divine.Consider such natures, and then, if you can,Preach of “total depravity” innate in man.Talk of blasphemy! why, ’tis profanity wild!To say that the Father thus cursed his own child.Go learn of the stars, and the dew-spangled sod,That all things rejoice in thegoodnessof God—That each thing created is goodin its place,And Nature is but theexpressionof Grace.
Ithas always been thought a most critical case,When a man was possessed of more Nature than Grace;For Theology teaches that man from the firstWas a sinner by Nature, and justly accurst;And “Salvation by Grace” was the wonderful plan,Which God had invented to save erring man.’Twas the only atonement he knew how to make,To annul the effects of his own sad mistake.Now this was the doctrine of good Parson Brown,Who preached, not long since, in a small country town.He was zealous, and earnest, and could so excelIn describing the tortures of sinners in Hell,That a famous revival commenced in the place,And hundreds of souls found “Salvation by Grace;”But he felt that he had not attained his desire,Till he had converted one Peter McGuire.This man was a blacksmith, frank, fearless and bold,With great brawny sinews like Vulcan of old;He had little respect for what ministers preach,And sometimes was very profane in his speech.His opinions were founded in clear common sense,And he spoke as he thought, though he oft gave offense;But however wanting, in whole or in part,He was sound, and all right, when you came to his heart.One day the good parson, with pious intent,To the smithy of Peter most hopefully went;And there, while the hammer industriously swung,He preached, and he prayed, and exhorted, and sung,And warned, and entreated poor Peter to flyFrom the pit of destruction before he should die;And to wash himself clean from the world’s sinful strife,In the Blood of the Lamb, and the River of Life.Well, and what would you now be inclined to expectWas the probable issue and likely effect?Why, he swore “like a Pirate,” and what do you think?From a little black bottle took something to drink!And he said, “I’ll not mention the Blood of the Lamb,But as for that River it aren’t worth a——;”Then pausing—as if to restrain his rude force—He quietly added, “a mill-dam, of course.”Quick out of the smithy the minister fled,As if a big bomb-shell had burst near his head;And as he continued to haste on his way,He was too much excited to sing or to pray;But he thought how that some were elected by Grace,As heirs of the kingdom—made sure of their place—While others were doomed to the pains of Hell-*fire,And if e’er there wasonesuch, ’twas Peter McGuire.That night, when the Storm King was riding on high,And the red shafts of lightning gleamed bright through the sky,The church of the village, “the Temple of God,”Was struck, for the want of a good lightning rod,And swiftly descending, the element direSet the minister’s house, close beside it, on fire,While he peacefully slumbered, with never a fearOf the terrible work of destruction so near.There were Mary, and Hannah, and Tommy, and Joe,All sweetly asleep in the bedroom below,While their father was near, with their mother at rest,(Like the wife of John Rogers with “one at the breast.”)But Alice, the eldest, a gentle young dove,Was asleep all alone, in the room just above;And when the wild cry of the rescuer came,She only was left to the pitiless flame.The fond mother counted her treasures of love,When lo! one was missing—“O Father above!”How madly she shrieked in her agony wild—“My Alice! My Alice! O, save my dear child!”Then down on his knees fell the Parson, and prayedThat the terrible wrath of the Lord might be stayed.Said Peter McGuire, “Prayer is good in its place,But then it don’t suitthisparticular case.”He turned down the sleeves of his red flannel shirt,To shield his great arms all besmutted with dirt;Then into the billows of smoke and of fire,Not pausing an instant, dashed Peter McGuire.O, that terrible moment of anxious suspense!How breathless their watching! their fear how intense!And then their great joy! which was freely expressedWhen Peter appeared with the child on his breast.A shout rent the air when the darling he laidIn the arms of her mother, so pale and dismayed;And as Alice looked up and most gratefully smiled,He bowed down his head and he wept like a child.O, those tears of brave manhood that rained o’er his face,Showed the true Grace of Nature, and the Nature of Grace;’Twas a manifest token, a visible sign,Of the indwelling life of the Spirit Divine.Consider such natures, and then, if you can,Preach of “total depravity” innate in man.Talk of blasphemy! why, ’tis profanity wild!To say that the Father thus cursed his own child.Go learn of the stars, and the dew-spangled sod,That all things rejoice in thegoodnessof God—That each thing created is goodin its place,And Nature is but theexpressionof Grace.
Ithas always been thought a most critical case,When a man was possessed of more Nature than Grace;For Theology teaches that man from the firstWas a sinner by Nature, and justly accurst;And “Salvation by Grace” was the wonderful plan,Which God had invented to save erring man.’Twas the only atonement he knew how to make,To annul the effects of his own sad mistake.
Now this was the doctrine of good Parson Brown,Who preached, not long since, in a small country town.He was zealous, and earnest, and could so excelIn describing the tortures of sinners in Hell,That a famous revival commenced in the place,And hundreds of souls found “Salvation by Grace;”But he felt that he had not attained his desire,Till he had converted one Peter McGuire.
This man was a blacksmith, frank, fearless and bold,With great brawny sinews like Vulcan of old;He had little respect for what ministers preach,And sometimes was very profane in his speech.His opinions were founded in clear common sense,And he spoke as he thought, though he oft gave offense;But however wanting, in whole or in part,He was sound, and all right, when you came to his heart.
One day the good parson, with pious intent,To the smithy of Peter most hopefully went;And there, while the hammer industriously swung,He preached, and he prayed, and exhorted, and sung,And warned, and entreated poor Peter to flyFrom the pit of destruction before he should die;And to wash himself clean from the world’s sinful strife,In the Blood of the Lamb, and the River of Life.
Well, and what would you now be inclined to expectWas the probable issue and likely effect?Why, he swore “like a Pirate,” and what do you think?From a little black bottle took something to drink!And he said, “I’ll not mention the Blood of the Lamb,But as for that River it aren’t worth a——;”Then pausing—as if to restrain his rude force—He quietly added, “a mill-dam, of course.”
Quick out of the smithy the minister fled,As if a big bomb-shell had burst near his head;And as he continued to haste on his way,He was too much excited to sing or to pray;But he thought how that some were elected by Grace,As heirs of the kingdom—made sure of their place—While others were doomed to the pains of Hell-*fire,And if e’er there wasonesuch, ’twas Peter McGuire.
That night, when the Storm King was riding on high,And the red shafts of lightning gleamed bright through the sky,The church of the village, “the Temple of God,”Was struck, for the want of a good lightning rod,And swiftly descending, the element direSet the minister’s house, close beside it, on fire,While he peacefully slumbered, with never a fearOf the terrible work of destruction so near.
There were Mary, and Hannah, and Tommy, and Joe,All sweetly asleep in the bedroom below,While their father was near, with their mother at rest,(Like the wife of John Rogers with “one at the breast.”)But Alice, the eldest, a gentle young dove,Was asleep all alone, in the room just above;And when the wild cry of the rescuer came,She only was left to the pitiless flame.
The fond mother counted her treasures of love,When lo! one was missing—“O Father above!”How madly she shrieked in her agony wild—“My Alice! My Alice! O, save my dear child!”Then down on his knees fell the Parson, and prayedThat the terrible wrath of the Lord might be stayed.Said Peter McGuire, “Prayer is good in its place,But then it don’t suitthisparticular case.”
He turned down the sleeves of his red flannel shirt,To shield his great arms all besmutted with dirt;Then into the billows of smoke and of fire,Not pausing an instant, dashed Peter McGuire.O, that terrible moment of anxious suspense!How breathless their watching! their fear how intense!And then their great joy! which was freely expressedWhen Peter appeared with the child on his breast.
A shout rent the air when the darling he laidIn the arms of her mother, so pale and dismayed;And as Alice looked up and most gratefully smiled,He bowed down his head and he wept like a child.O, those tears of brave manhood that rained o’er his face,Showed the true Grace of Nature, and the Nature of Grace;’Twas a manifest token, a visible sign,Of the indwelling life of the Spirit Divine.Consider such natures, and then, if you can,Preach of “total depravity” innate in man.Talk of blasphemy! why, ’tis profanity wild!To say that the Father thus cursed his own child.Go learn of the stars, and the dew-spangled sod,That all things rejoice in thegoodnessof God—That each thing created is goodin its place,And Nature is but theexpressionof Grace.