There are hermit souls that live withdrawnIn the peace of their self-content;There are souls, like stars, that dwell apartIn a fellowless firmament;There are pioneer souls that blaze their pathsWhere highways never ran—But let me live by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man.Let me live in a house by the side of the road,Where the race of men go by—The men who are good and the men who are bad,As good and as bad as I.I would not sit in the scorner's seat,Or hurl the cynic's ban—Let me live in a house by the side of the road,And be a friend to man.I see from my house by the side of the road,By the side of the highway of life,The men who press with the ardor of hopeThe men who are faint with the strife.But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears—Both parts of an infinite plan—Let me live in a house by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man.I know there are brook-gladdened meadows aheadAnd mountains of wearisome height;And the road passes on through the long afternoonAnd stretches away to the night.But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,And weep with the strangers that moan,Nor live in my house by the side of the roadLike a man who dwells alone.Let me live in my house by the side of the roadWhere the race of men go by—They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,Wise, foolish—so am I.Then why should I sit in the scorner's seatOr hurl the cynic's ban?Let me live in my house by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man.—Sam Walter Foss.
There are hermit souls that live withdrawnIn the peace of their self-content;There are souls, like stars, that dwell apartIn a fellowless firmament;There are pioneer souls that blaze their pathsWhere highways never ran—But let me live by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man.
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran—
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,Where the race of men go by—The men who are good and the men who are bad,As good and as bad as I.I would not sit in the scorner's seat,Or hurl the cynic's ban—Let me live in a house by the side of the road,And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by—
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban—
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road,By the side of the highway of life,The men who press with the ardor of hopeThe men who are faint with the strife.But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears—Both parts of an infinite plan—Let me live in a house by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears—
Both parts of an infinite plan—
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows aheadAnd mountains of wearisome height;And the road passes on through the long afternoonAnd stretches away to the night.But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,And weep with the strangers that moan,Nor live in my house by the side of the roadLike a man who dwells alone.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
And the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the roadWhere the race of men go by—They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,Wise, foolish—so am I.Then why should I sit in the scorner's seatOr hurl the cynic's ban?Let me live in my house by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by—
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish—so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
—Sam Walter Foss.
—Sam Walter Foss.
———
Say, is your lamp burning, my brother?I pray you look quickly and see;For if it were burning, then surelySome beams would fall brightly on me.Straight, straight is the road, but I falter.And oft I fall out by the way;Then lift your lamp higher, my brother,Lest I should make fatal delay.There are many and many around youWho follow wherever you go;If you thought that they walked in the shadowYour lamp would burn brighter, I know.Upon the dark mountains they stumble,They are bruised on the rocks, and they lieWith their white pleading faces turned upwardTo the clouds and the pitiful sky.There is many a lamp that is lighted,We behold them anear and afar,But not many among them, my brother,Shine steadily on, like a star.I think, were they trimmed night and morning,They would never burn down or go out,Though from the four quarters of heavenThe winds were all blowing about.If once all the lamps that are lightedShould steadily blaze in a line,Wide over the land and the ocean,What a girdle of glory would shine!How all the dark places would brighten!How the mists would roll up and away!How the earth would laugh out in her gladnessTo hail the millennial day!Say, is your lamp burning, my brother?I pray you look quickly and see;For if it were burning, then surelySome beams would fall brightly on me.
Say, is your lamp burning, my brother?I pray you look quickly and see;For if it were burning, then surelySome beams would fall brightly on me.
Say, is your lamp burning, my brother?
I pray you look quickly and see;
For if it were burning, then surely
Some beams would fall brightly on me.
Straight, straight is the road, but I falter.And oft I fall out by the way;Then lift your lamp higher, my brother,Lest I should make fatal delay.
Straight, straight is the road, but I falter.
And oft I fall out by the way;
Then lift your lamp higher, my brother,
Lest I should make fatal delay.
There are many and many around youWho follow wherever you go;If you thought that they walked in the shadowYour lamp would burn brighter, I know.
There are many and many around you
Who follow wherever you go;
If you thought that they walked in the shadow
Your lamp would burn brighter, I know.
Upon the dark mountains they stumble,They are bruised on the rocks, and they lieWith their white pleading faces turned upwardTo the clouds and the pitiful sky.
Upon the dark mountains they stumble,
They are bruised on the rocks, and they lie
With their white pleading faces turned upward
To the clouds and the pitiful sky.
There is many a lamp that is lighted,We behold them anear and afar,But not many among them, my brother,Shine steadily on, like a star.
There is many a lamp that is lighted,
We behold them anear and afar,
But not many among them, my brother,
Shine steadily on, like a star.
I think, were they trimmed night and morning,They would never burn down or go out,Though from the four quarters of heavenThe winds were all blowing about.
I think, were they trimmed night and morning,
They would never burn down or go out,
Though from the four quarters of heaven
The winds were all blowing about.
If once all the lamps that are lightedShould steadily blaze in a line,Wide over the land and the ocean,What a girdle of glory would shine!
If once all the lamps that are lighted
Should steadily blaze in a line,
Wide over the land and the ocean,
What a girdle of glory would shine!
How all the dark places would brighten!How the mists would roll up and away!How the earth would laugh out in her gladnessTo hail the millennial day!
How all the dark places would brighten!
How the mists would roll up and away!
How the earth would laugh out in her gladness
To hail the millennial day!
Say, is your lamp burning, my brother?I pray you look quickly and see;For if it were burning, then surelySome beams would fall brightly on me.
Say, is your lamp burning, my brother?
I pray you look quickly and see;
For if it were burning, then surely
Some beams would fall brightly on me.
———
If I should die to-night,My friends would look upon my quiet faceBefore they laid it in its resting-place,And deem that death had left it almost fair,And laying snow-white flowers upon my hair,Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,And fold my hands with lingering caress—Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!If I should die to-night,My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought,Some gentle word the frozen lips had said—Errands on which the willing feet had sped;The memory of my selfishness and pride,My hasty words, would all be put aside,And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.If I should die to-night,Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,Recalling other days remorsefully.The eyes that chill me with averted glanceWould look upon me as of yore, perchance,And soften in the old familiar way;For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay?So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night.O friends, I pray to-night,Keep not your kisses for my dead cold brow.The way is lonely; let me feel them now.Think gently of me; I am travel-worn,My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.Forgive! O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!When ceaseless bliss is mine I shall not needThe tenderness for which I long to-night.—Belle Eugenia Smith.
If I should die to-night,My friends would look upon my quiet faceBefore they laid it in its resting-place,And deem that death had left it almost fair,And laying snow-white flowers upon my hair,Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,And fold my hands with lingering caress—Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!
If I should die to-night,
My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting-place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair,
And laying snow-white flowers upon my hair,
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress—
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!
If I should die to-night,My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought,Some gentle word the frozen lips had said—Errands on which the willing feet had sped;The memory of my selfishness and pride,My hasty words, would all be put aside,And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.
If I should die to-night,
My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought,
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said—
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words, would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.
If I should die to-night,Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,Recalling other days remorsefully.The eyes that chill me with averted glanceWould look upon me as of yore, perchance,And soften in the old familiar way;For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay?So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night.
If I should die to-night,
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully.
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,
And soften in the old familiar way;
For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay?
So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night.
O friends, I pray to-night,Keep not your kisses for my dead cold brow.The way is lonely; let me feel them now.Think gently of me; I am travel-worn,My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.Forgive! O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!When ceaseless bliss is mine I shall not needThe tenderness for which I long to-night.
O friends, I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my dead cold brow.
The way is lonely; let me feel them now.
Think gently of me; I am travel-worn,
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive! O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!
When ceaseless bliss is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.
—Belle Eugenia Smith.
—Belle Eugenia Smith.
———
We scatter seeds with careless handAnd dream we ne'er shall see them more,But for a thousand yearsTheir fruit appearsIn weeds that mar the landOr helpful store.The deeds we do, the words we say—Into still air they seem to fleet;We count them ever past;But they shall last—In the dread judgment theyAnd we shall meet.I charge thee by the years gone by,For the love's sake of brethren dear,Keep thou the one true way,In work and play,Lest in that world their cryOf woe thou hear.—John Keble.
We scatter seeds with careless handAnd dream we ne'er shall see them more,But for a thousand yearsTheir fruit appearsIn weeds that mar the landOr helpful store.
We scatter seeds with careless hand
And dream we ne'er shall see them more,
But for a thousand years
Their fruit appears
In weeds that mar the land
Or helpful store.
The deeds we do, the words we say—Into still air they seem to fleet;We count them ever past;But they shall last—In the dread judgment theyAnd we shall meet.
The deeds we do, the words we say—
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them ever past;
But they shall last—
In the dread judgment they
And we shall meet.
I charge thee by the years gone by,For the love's sake of brethren dear,Keep thou the one true way,In work and play,Lest in that world their cryOf woe thou hear.
I charge thee by the years gone by,
For the love's sake of brethren dear,
Keep thou the one true way,
In work and play,
Lest in that world their cry
Of woe thou hear.
—John Keble.
—John Keble.
———
Still shines the light of holy livesLike star beams over doubt;Each sainted memory, Christlike, drivesSome dark possession out.—John Greenleaf Whittier.
Still shines the light of holy livesLike star beams over doubt;Each sainted memory, Christlike, drivesSome dark possession out.
Still shines the light of holy lives
Like star beams over doubt;
Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives
Some dark possession out.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
———
Then gently scan your brother man,Still gentler sister woman;Though they may gang a kennin' wrangTo step aside is human:One point must still be greatly dark,The movingwhythey do it:And just as lamely can ye markHow far, perhaps, they rue it.Who made the heart, 'tis He aloneDecidedly can try us;He knows each chord—its various tone,Each spring—its various bias;Then at the balance let's be mute,We never can adjust it;What's done we partly may compute,But know not what's resisted.—Robert Burns.
Then gently scan your brother man,Still gentler sister woman;Though they may gang a kennin' wrangTo step aside is human:One point must still be greatly dark,The movingwhythey do it:And just as lamely can ye markHow far, perhaps, they rue it.
Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang
To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark,
The movingwhythey do it:
And just as lamely can ye mark
How far, perhaps, they rue it.
Who made the heart, 'tis He aloneDecidedly can try us;He knows each chord—its various tone,Each spring—its various bias;Then at the balance let's be mute,We never can adjust it;What's done we partly may compute,But know not what's resisted.
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord—its various tone,
Each spring—its various bias;
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.
—Robert Burns.
—Robert Burns.
———
Couldst thou boast, O child of weakness,O'er the sons of wrong and strife,Were their strong temptations plantedIn thy path of life?He alone whose hand is boundingHuman power and human will,Looking through each soul's surrounding,Knows its good or ill.Earnest words must needs be spokenWhen the warm heart bleeds or burnsWith its scorn of wrong, or pityFor the wronged, by turns.But, by all thy nature's weakness,Hidden faults and follies known,Be thou, in rebuking evil,Conscious of thine own.Not the less shall stern-eyed DutyTo thy lips her trumpet set,But with harsher blasts shall mingleWailings of regret.So when thoughts of evil-doersWaken scorn or hatred move,Shall a mournful fellow-feelingTemper all with love.—John Greenleaf Whittier.
Couldst thou boast, O child of weakness,O'er the sons of wrong and strife,Were their strong temptations plantedIn thy path of life?
Couldst thou boast, O child of weakness,
O'er the sons of wrong and strife,
Were their strong temptations planted
In thy path of life?
He alone whose hand is boundingHuman power and human will,Looking through each soul's surrounding,Knows its good or ill.
He alone whose hand is bounding
Human power and human will,
Looking through each soul's surrounding,
Knows its good or ill.
Earnest words must needs be spokenWhen the warm heart bleeds or burnsWith its scorn of wrong, or pityFor the wronged, by turns.
Earnest words must needs be spoken
When the warm heart bleeds or burns
With its scorn of wrong, or pity
For the wronged, by turns.
But, by all thy nature's weakness,Hidden faults and follies known,Be thou, in rebuking evil,Conscious of thine own.
But, by all thy nature's weakness,
Hidden faults and follies known,
Be thou, in rebuking evil,
Conscious of thine own.
Not the less shall stern-eyed DutyTo thy lips her trumpet set,But with harsher blasts shall mingleWailings of regret.
Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty
To thy lips her trumpet set,
But with harsher blasts shall mingle
Wailings of regret.
So when thoughts of evil-doersWaken scorn or hatred move,Shall a mournful fellow-feelingTemper all with love.
So when thoughts of evil-doers
Waken scorn or hatred move,
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling
Temper all with love.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
———
'Tis the Almighty's gracious plan,That man shall be the joy of man.—From the Scandinavian, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.
'Tis the Almighty's gracious plan,That man shall be the joy of man.
'Tis the Almighty's gracious plan,
That man shall be the joy of man.
—From the Scandinavian, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.
—From the Scandinavian, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.
———
Judge not; the workings of his brainAnd of his heart thou canst not see;What looks to thy dim eyes a stainIn God's pure light may only beA scar—brought from some well-won fieldWhere thou wouldst only faint and yield.The look, the air, that frets thy sightMay be a token that, below,The soul has closed in deadly fightWith some infernal fiery foe—Whose glance would scorch thy smiling graceAnd cast thee shuddering on thy face!The fall thou darest to despise—May be the angel's slackened handHas suffered it, that he may riseAnd take a firmer, surer stand;Or, trusting less to earthly things,May henceforth learn to use his wings.And judge none lost; but wait and seeWith hopeful pity, not disdain,The depth of the abyss may beThe measure of the height of pain,And love and glory that may raiseThis soul to God in after days.—Adelaide Anne Procter.
Judge not; the workings of his brainAnd of his heart thou canst not see;What looks to thy dim eyes a stainIn God's pure light may only beA scar—brought from some well-won fieldWhere thou wouldst only faint and yield.
Judge not; the workings of his brain
And of his heart thou canst not see;
What looks to thy dim eyes a stain
In God's pure light may only be
A scar—brought from some well-won field
Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.
The look, the air, that frets thy sightMay be a token that, below,The soul has closed in deadly fightWith some infernal fiery foe—Whose glance would scorch thy smiling graceAnd cast thee shuddering on thy face!
The look, the air, that frets thy sight
May be a token that, below,
The soul has closed in deadly fight
With some infernal fiery foe—
Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace
And cast thee shuddering on thy face!
The fall thou darest to despise—May be the angel's slackened handHas suffered it, that he may riseAnd take a firmer, surer stand;Or, trusting less to earthly things,May henceforth learn to use his wings.
The fall thou darest to despise—
May be the angel's slackened hand
Has suffered it, that he may rise
And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.
And judge none lost; but wait and seeWith hopeful pity, not disdain,The depth of the abyss may beThe measure of the height of pain,And love and glory that may raiseThis soul to God in after days.
And judge none lost; but wait and see
With hopeful pity, not disdain,
The depth of the abyss may be
The measure of the height of pain,
And love and glory that may raise
This soul to God in after days.
—Adelaide Anne Procter.
—Adelaide Anne Procter.
———
Think gently of the erring;Ye know not of the powerWith which the dark temptation cameIn some unguarded hour;Ye may not know how earnestlyThey struggled, or how well,Until the hour of weakness cameAnd sadly thus they fell.Think gently of the erring;Oh, do not thou forget,However darkly stained by sin,He is thy brother yet;Heir of the self-same heritage,Child of the self-same God,He has but stumbled in the pathThou hast in weakness trod.Speak gently to the erring;For is it not enoughThat innocence and peace have gone,Without thy censure rough?It sure must be a weary lot,That sin-stained heart to bear,And those who share a happier fateTheir chidings well may spare.Speak gently to the erring;Thou yet mayst lead them back,With holy words and tones of love,From misery's thorny track;Forget not thou hast often sinned,And sinful yet must be;Deal gently with the erring, then,As God has dealt with thee.—Julia A. Fletcher.
Think gently of the erring;Ye know not of the powerWith which the dark temptation cameIn some unguarded hour;Ye may not know how earnestlyThey struggled, or how well,Until the hour of weakness cameAnd sadly thus they fell.
Think gently of the erring;
Ye know not of the power
With which the dark temptation came
In some unguarded hour;
Ye may not know how earnestly
They struggled, or how well,
Until the hour of weakness came
And sadly thus they fell.
Think gently of the erring;Oh, do not thou forget,However darkly stained by sin,He is thy brother yet;Heir of the self-same heritage,Child of the self-same God,He has but stumbled in the pathThou hast in weakness trod.
Think gently of the erring;
Oh, do not thou forget,
However darkly stained by sin,
He is thy brother yet;
Heir of the self-same heritage,
Child of the self-same God,
He has but stumbled in the path
Thou hast in weakness trod.
Speak gently to the erring;For is it not enoughThat innocence and peace have gone,Without thy censure rough?It sure must be a weary lot,That sin-stained heart to bear,And those who share a happier fateTheir chidings well may spare.
Speak gently to the erring;
For is it not enough
That innocence and peace have gone,
Without thy censure rough?
It sure must be a weary lot,
That sin-stained heart to bear,
And those who share a happier fate
Their chidings well may spare.
Speak gently to the erring;Thou yet mayst lead them back,With holy words and tones of love,From misery's thorny track;Forget not thou hast often sinned,And sinful yet must be;Deal gently with the erring, then,As God has dealt with thee.
Speak gently to the erring;
Thou yet mayst lead them back,
With holy words and tones of love,
From misery's thorny track;
Forget not thou hast often sinned,
And sinful yet must be;
Deal gently with the erring, then,
As God has dealt with thee.
—Julia A. Fletcher.
—Julia A. Fletcher.
———
O God! whose thoughts are brightest light,Whose love runs always clear,To whose kind wisdom sinning soulsAmidst their sins are dear,Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heartWith charity like thine,Till self shall be the only spotOn earth which does not shine.I often see in my own thoughts,When they lie nearest Thee,That the worst men I ever knewWere better men than me.He whom no praise can reach is ayeMen's least attempts approving;Whom justice makes all-mercifulOmniscience makes all-loving.How thou canst think so well of usYet be the God thou art,Is darkness to my intellect,But sunshine to my heart.Yet habits linger in the soul;More grace, O Lord! more grace!More sweetness from thy loving heart!More sunshine from thy face!The discord is within, which jarsSo sadly in life's song;'Tis we, not they, who are in fault,When others seem so wrong.'Tis we who weigh upon ourselves;Self is the irksome weight;To those who can see straight themselves,All things look always straight.My God, with what surpassing loveThou lovest all on earth;How good the least good is to thee,How much each soul is worth!All bitterness is from ourselves;All sweetness is from thee;Sweet God! for evermore be thouFountain and fire in me!—Frederick William Faber.
O God! whose thoughts are brightest light,Whose love runs always clear,To whose kind wisdom sinning soulsAmidst their sins are dear,
O God! whose thoughts are brightest light,
Whose love runs always clear,
To whose kind wisdom sinning souls
Amidst their sins are dear,
Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heartWith charity like thine,Till self shall be the only spotOn earth which does not shine.
Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heart
With charity like thine,
Till self shall be the only spot
On earth which does not shine.
I often see in my own thoughts,When they lie nearest Thee,That the worst men I ever knewWere better men than me.
I often see in my own thoughts,
When they lie nearest Thee,
That the worst men I ever knew
Were better men than me.
He whom no praise can reach is ayeMen's least attempts approving;Whom justice makes all-mercifulOmniscience makes all-loving.
He whom no praise can reach is aye
Men's least attempts approving;
Whom justice makes all-merciful
Omniscience makes all-loving.
How thou canst think so well of usYet be the God thou art,Is darkness to my intellect,But sunshine to my heart.
How thou canst think so well of us
Yet be the God thou art,
Is darkness to my intellect,
But sunshine to my heart.
Yet habits linger in the soul;More grace, O Lord! more grace!More sweetness from thy loving heart!More sunshine from thy face!
Yet habits linger in the soul;
More grace, O Lord! more grace!
More sweetness from thy loving heart!
More sunshine from thy face!
The discord is within, which jarsSo sadly in life's song;'Tis we, not they, who are in fault,When others seem so wrong.
The discord is within, which jars
So sadly in life's song;
'Tis we, not they, who are in fault,
When others seem so wrong.
'Tis we who weigh upon ourselves;Self is the irksome weight;To those who can see straight themselves,All things look always straight.
'Tis we who weigh upon ourselves;
Self is the irksome weight;
To those who can see straight themselves,
All things look always straight.
My God, with what surpassing loveThou lovest all on earth;How good the least good is to thee,How much each soul is worth!
My God, with what surpassing love
Thou lovest all on earth;
How good the least good is to thee,
How much each soul is worth!
All bitterness is from ourselves;All sweetness is from thee;Sweet God! for evermore be thouFountain and fire in me!
All bitterness is from ourselves;
All sweetness is from thee;
Sweet God! for evermore be thou
Fountain and fire in me!
—Frederick William Faber.
—Frederick William Faber.
———
"Judge the people by their actions"—tis a rule you often get—"Judge the actions by their people" is a wiser maxim yet.Have I known you, brother, sister? Have I looked into your heart?Mingled with your thoughts my feelings, taken of your life my part?Through the warp of your convictions sent the shuttle of my thoughtTill the web became the Credo, for us both, of Should and Ought?Seen in thousand ways your nature, in all act and look and speech?By that large induction only I your law of being reach.Now I hear of this wrong action—what is that to you and me?Sin within you may have done it—fruit not nature to the tree.Foreign graft has come to bearing—mistletoe grown on your bough—If I ever really knew you, then, my friend, I know you now.So I say, "He never did it," or, "He did not so intend";Or, "Some foreign power o'ercame him"—so I judge the action, friend.Let the mere outside observer note appearance as he can;We, more righteous judgment passing, test each action by its man.—James Freeman Clarke.
"Judge the people by their actions"—tis a rule you often get—"Judge the actions by their people" is a wiser maxim yet.Have I known you, brother, sister? Have I looked into your heart?Mingled with your thoughts my feelings, taken of your life my part?Through the warp of your convictions sent the shuttle of my thoughtTill the web became the Credo, for us both, of Should and Ought?Seen in thousand ways your nature, in all act and look and speech?By that large induction only I your law of being reach.Now I hear of this wrong action—what is that to you and me?Sin within you may have done it—fruit not nature to the tree.Foreign graft has come to bearing—mistletoe grown on your bough—If I ever really knew you, then, my friend, I know you now.So I say, "He never did it," or, "He did not so intend";Or, "Some foreign power o'ercame him"—so I judge the action, friend.Let the mere outside observer note appearance as he can;We, more righteous judgment passing, test each action by its man.
"Judge the people by their actions"—tis a rule you often get—
"Judge the actions by their people" is a wiser maxim yet.
Have I known you, brother, sister? Have I looked into your heart?
Mingled with your thoughts my feelings, taken of your life my part?
Through the warp of your convictions sent the shuttle of my thought
Till the web became the Credo, for us both, of Should and Ought?
Seen in thousand ways your nature, in all act and look and speech?
By that large induction only I your law of being reach.
Now I hear of this wrong action—what is that to you and me?
Sin within you may have done it—fruit not nature to the tree.
Foreign graft has come to bearing—mistletoe grown on your bough—
If I ever really knew you, then, my friend, I know you now.
So I say, "He never did it," or, "He did not so intend";
Or, "Some foreign power o'ercame him"—so I judge the action, friend.
Let the mere outside observer note appearance as he can;
We, more righteous judgment passing, test each action by its man.
—James Freeman Clarke.
—James Freeman Clarke.
———
If I knew you and you knew me,If both of us could clearly see,And with an inner sight divineThe meaning of your heart and mine,I'm sure that we would differ less,And clasp our hands in friendliness;Our thoughts would pleasantly agreeIf I knew you and you knew me.—Nixon Waterman.
If I knew you and you knew me,If both of us could clearly see,And with an inner sight divineThe meaning of your heart and mine,I'm sure that we would differ less,And clasp our hands in friendliness;Our thoughts would pleasantly agreeIf I knew you and you knew me.
If I knew you and you knew me,
If both of us could clearly see,
And with an inner sight divine
The meaning of your heart and mine,
I'm sure that we would differ less,
And clasp our hands in friendliness;
Our thoughts would pleasantly agree
If I knew you and you knew me.
—Nixon Waterman.
—Nixon Waterman.
———
A little word in kindness spoken,A motion, or a tear,Has often healed the heart that's brokenAnd made a friend sincere.A word, a look, has crushed to earthFull many a budding flower,Which, had a smile but owned its birth,Would bless life's darkest hour.Then deem it not an idle thingA pleasant word to speak;The face you wear, the thought you bring,A heart may heal or break.—John Greenleaf Whittier.
A little word in kindness spoken,A motion, or a tear,Has often healed the heart that's brokenAnd made a friend sincere.
A little word in kindness spoken,
A motion, or a tear,
Has often healed the heart that's broken
And made a friend sincere.
A word, a look, has crushed to earthFull many a budding flower,Which, had a smile but owned its birth,Would bless life's darkest hour.
A word, a look, has crushed to earth
Full many a budding flower,
Which, had a smile but owned its birth,
Would bless life's darkest hour.
Then deem it not an idle thingA pleasant word to speak;The face you wear, the thought you bring,A heart may heal or break.
Then deem it not an idle thing
A pleasant word to speak;
The face you wear, the thought you bring,
A heart may heal or break.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
———
If we knew the cares and sorrowsCrowded round our neighbor's way,If we knew the little losses,Sorely grievous, day by day,Would we then so often chide himFor the lack of thrift and gain,Leaving on his heart a shadowLeaving on our hearts a stain?If we knew the clouds above us,Held by gentle blessings there,Wouldwe turn away, all trembling,In our blind and weak despair?Would we shrink from little shadowsLying on the dewy grassWhile 'tis only birds of EdenJust in mercy flying past?Let us reach within our bosomsFor the key to other lives,And with love to erring naturesCherish good that still survives;So that when our disrobed spiritsSoar to realms of light again,We may say, "Dear Father, judge usAs we judged our fellow men."
If we knew the cares and sorrowsCrowded round our neighbor's way,If we knew the little losses,Sorely grievous, day by day,Would we then so often chide himFor the lack of thrift and gain,Leaving on his heart a shadowLeaving on our hearts a stain?
If we knew the cares and sorrows
Crowded round our neighbor's way,
If we knew the little losses,
Sorely grievous, day by day,
Would we then so often chide him
For the lack of thrift and gain,
Leaving on his heart a shadow
Leaving on our hearts a stain?
If we knew the clouds above us,Held by gentle blessings there,Wouldwe turn away, all trembling,In our blind and weak despair?Would we shrink from little shadowsLying on the dewy grassWhile 'tis only birds of EdenJust in mercy flying past?
If we knew the clouds above us,
Held by gentle blessings there,
Wouldwe turn away, all trembling,
In our blind and weak despair?
Would we shrink from little shadows
Lying on the dewy grass
While 'tis only birds of Eden
Just in mercy flying past?
Let us reach within our bosomsFor the key to other lives,And with love to erring naturesCherish good that still survives;So that when our disrobed spiritsSoar to realms of light again,We may say, "Dear Father, judge usAs we judged our fellow men."
Let us reach within our bosoms
For the key to other lives,
And with love to erring natures
Cherish good that still survives;
So that when our disrobed spirits
Soar to realms of light again,
We may say, "Dear Father, judge us
As we judged our fellow men."
———
Time to me this truth hath taught,'Tis a truth that's worth revealing:More offend from want of thoughtThan from want of feeling.If advice we would convey,There's a time we should convey it;If we've but a word to say,There's a time in which to say it.
Time to me this truth hath taught,'Tis a truth that's worth revealing:More offend from want of thoughtThan from want of feeling.If advice we would convey,There's a time we should convey it;If we've but a word to say,There's a time in which to say it.
Time to me this truth hath taught,
'Tis a truth that's worth revealing:
More offend from want of thought
Than from want of feeling.
If advice we would convey,
There's a time we should convey it;
If we've but a word to say,
There's a time in which to say it.
———
Great Master! teach us how to hope in man:We lift our eyes upon his works and ways,And disappointment chills us as we gaze,Our dream of him so far the truth outran,So far his deeds are ever falling short.And then we fold our graceful hands and say,"The world is vulgar." Didst thou turn away,O Sacred Spirit, delicately wrought,Because the humble souls of GalileeWere tuned not to the music of thine ownAnd chimed not to the pulsing undertoneWhich swelled Thy loving bosom like the sea?Shame thou our coldness, most benignant Friend,When we so daintily do condescend.—Martha Perry Howe.
Great Master! teach us how to hope in man:We lift our eyes upon his works and ways,And disappointment chills us as we gaze,Our dream of him so far the truth outran,So far his deeds are ever falling short.And then we fold our graceful hands and say,"The world is vulgar." Didst thou turn away,O Sacred Spirit, delicately wrought,Because the humble souls of GalileeWere tuned not to the music of thine ownAnd chimed not to the pulsing undertoneWhich swelled Thy loving bosom like the sea?Shame thou our coldness, most benignant Friend,When we so daintily do condescend.
Great Master! teach us how to hope in man:
We lift our eyes upon his works and ways,
And disappointment chills us as we gaze,
Our dream of him so far the truth outran,
So far his deeds are ever falling short.
And then we fold our graceful hands and say,
"The world is vulgar." Didst thou turn away,
O Sacred Spirit, delicately wrought,
Because the humble souls of Galilee
Were tuned not to the music of thine own
And chimed not to the pulsing undertone
Which swelled Thy loving bosom like the sea?
Shame thou our coldness, most benignant Friend,
When we so daintily do condescend.
—Martha Perry Howe.
—Martha Perry Howe.
———
That plenty but reproaches meWhich leaves my neighbor bare.Not wholly glad my heart can beWhile his is bowed with care.If I go free, and sound, and stout,While his poor fetters clank,Unsated still, I'll still cry out,And plead with Whom I thank.Almighty, thou who Father beOf him, of me, of all,Draw us together, him and me,That, whichsoever fall,The other's hand may fail him not—The other's strength declineNo task of succor that his lotMay claim from son of thine.I would be fed. I would be clad.I would be housed and dry.But if so be my heart is sad—What benefit have I?Best he whose shoulders best endureThe load that brings relief;And best shall be his joy secureWho shares that joy with grief.—Edward Sandford Martin.
That plenty but reproaches meWhich leaves my neighbor bare.Not wholly glad my heart can beWhile his is bowed with care.
That plenty but reproaches me
Which leaves my neighbor bare.
Not wholly glad my heart can be
While his is bowed with care.
If I go free, and sound, and stout,While his poor fetters clank,Unsated still, I'll still cry out,And plead with Whom I thank.
If I go free, and sound, and stout,
While his poor fetters clank,
Unsated still, I'll still cry out,
And plead with Whom I thank.
Almighty, thou who Father beOf him, of me, of all,Draw us together, him and me,That, whichsoever fall,
Almighty, thou who Father be
Of him, of me, of all,
Draw us together, him and me,
That, whichsoever fall,
The other's hand may fail him not—The other's strength declineNo task of succor that his lotMay claim from son of thine.
The other's hand may fail him not—
The other's strength decline
No task of succor that his lot
May claim from son of thine.
I would be fed. I would be clad.I would be housed and dry.But if so be my heart is sad—What benefit have I?
I would be fed. I would be clad.
I would be housed and dry.
But if so be my heart is sad—
What benefit have I?
Best he whose shoulders best endureThe load that brings relief;And best shall be his joy secureWho shares that joy with grief.
Best he whose shoulders best endure
The load that brings relief;
And best shall be his joy secure
Who shares that joy with grief.
—Edward Sandford Martin.
—Edward Sandford Martin.
———
Not in some cloistered cellDost thou, Lord, bid me dwellMy love to show,But 'mid the busy marts,Where men with burdened heartsDo come and go.Some tempted soul to cheerWhen breath of ill is nearAnd foes annoy;The sinning to restrain,To ease the throb of pain—Be such my joy.Lord, make me quick to seeEach task awaiting me,And quick to do;Oh, grant me strength, I pray,With lowly love each day,And purpose true,To go as Jesus went,Spending and being spent,Myself forgot;Supplying human needsBy loving words and deeds—Oh, happy lot!—Robert M. Offord.
Not in some cloistered cellDost thou, Lord, bid me dwellMy love to show,But 'mid the busy marts,Where men with burdened heartsDo come and go.
Not in some cloistered cell
Dost thou, Lord, bid me dwell
My love to show,
But 'mid the busy marts,
Where men with burdened hearts
Do come and go.
Some tempted soul to cheerWhen breath of ill is nearAnd foes annoy;The sinning to restrain,To ease the throb of pain—Be such my joy.
Some tempted soul to cheer
When breath of ill is near
And foes annoy;
The sinning to restrain,
To ease the throb of pain—
Be such my joy.
Lord, make me quick to seeEach task awaiting me,And quick to do;Oh, grant me strength, I pray,With lowly love each day,And purpose true,
Lord, make me quick to see
Each task awaiting me,
And quick to do;
Oh, grant me strength, I pray,
With lowly love each day,
And purpose true,
To go as Jesus went,Spending and being spent,Myself forgot;Supplying human needsBy loving words and deeds—Oh, happy lot!
To go as Jesus went,
Spending and being spent,
Myself forgot;
Supplying human needs
By loving words and deeds—
Oh, happy lot!
—Robert M. Offord.
—Robert M. Offord.
———
When thy heart with joy o'erflowingSings a thankful prayer,In thy joy, O let thy brotherWith thee share.When the harvest sheaves ingatheredFill thy barns with store,To thy God and to thy brotherGive the more.If thy soul with power upliftedYearns for glorious deed,Give thy strength to serve thy brotherIn his need.Hast thou borne a secret sorrowIn thy lonely breast?Take to thee thy sorrowing brotherFor a guest.Share with him thy bread of blessing,Sorrow's burden share;When thy heart enfolds a brother,God is there.—Theodore Chickering Williams.
When thy heart with joy o'erflowingSings a thankful prayer,In thy joy, O let thy brotherWith thee share.
When thy heart with joy o'erflowing
Sings a thankful prayer,
In thy joy, O let thy brother
With thee share.
When the harvest sheaves ingatheredFill thy barns with store,To thy God and to thy brotherGive the more.
When the harvest sheaves ingathered
Fill thy barns with store,
To thy God and to thy brother
Give the more.
If thy soul with power upliftedYearns for glorious deed,Give thy strength to serve thy brotherIn his need.
If thy soul with power uplifted
Yearns for glorious deed,
Give thy strength to serve thy brother
In his need.
Hast thou borne a secret sorrowIn thy lonely breast?Take to thee thy sorrowing brotherFor a guest.
Hast thou borne a secret sorrow
In thy lonely breast?
Take to thee thy sorrowing brother
For a guest.
Share with him thy bread of blessing,Sorrow's burden share;When thy heart enfolds a brother,God is there.
Share with him thy bread of blessing,
Sorrow's burden share;
When thy heart enfolds a brother,
God is there.
—Theodore Chickering Williams.
—Theodore Chickering Williams.
———
Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourseForetold not half life's good to me:Thy painter, Fancy, hath not forceTo show how sweet it is to be!Thy witching dreamAnd pictured schemeTo match the fact still want the power:Thy promise brave—From birth to grave—Life's boon may beggar in an hour."Ask and receive," 'tis sweetly said;Yet what to plead for know I not;For wish is wasted, hope o'ersped,And aye to thanks returns my thought.If I would pray,I've naught to sayBut this, that God may be God still;For him to liveIs still to give,And sweeter than my wish, his will.O wealth of life beyond all bound!Eternity each moment given!What plummet may the Present soundWho promises a future heaven?Or glad or grieved,Oppressed, relieved,In blackest night or brightest day,Still pours the floodOf golden good,And more than heartful fills me aye.My wealth is common; I possessNo petty province, but the whole.What's mine alone is mine far lessThan treasure shared by every soul,Talk not of store,Millions or more—Of values which the purse may hold—But this divine!I own the mineWhose grains outweigh a planet's gold.I have a stake in every star,In every beam that fills the day;All hearts of men my coffers are,My ores arterial tides convey;The fields and skiesAnd sweet repliesOf thought to thought are my gold-dust,The oaks and brooksAnd speaking looksOf lovers' faith and friendship's trust.Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flowFor him who lives above all years;Who all-immortal makes the Now,And is not ta'en in Time's arrears;His life's a hymnThe seraphimMight stop to hear or help to sing,And to his soulThe boundless wholeIts bounty all doth daily bring."All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith;"The wealth I am must then becomeRicher and richer, breath by breath—Immortal gain, immortal room!"And since all hisMine also is,Life's gift outruns my fancies far,And drowns the dreamIn larger stream,As morning drinks the morning star.—David Atwood Wasson.
Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourseForetold not half life's good to me:Thy painter, Fancy, hath not forceTo show how sweet it is to be!Thy witching dreamAnd pictured schemeTo match the fact still want the power:Thy promise brave—From birth to grave—Life's boon may beggar in an hour.
Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourse
Foretold not half life's good to me:
Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force
To show how sweet it is to be!
Thy witching dream
And pictured scheme
To match the fact still want the power:
Thy promise brave—
From birth to grave—
Life's boon may beggar in an hour.
"Ask and receive," 'tis sweetly said;Yet what to plead for know I not;For wish is wasted, hope o'ersped,And aye to thanks returns my thought.If I would pray,I've naught to sayBut this, that God may be God still;For him to liveIs still to give,And sweeter than my wish, his will.
"Ask and receive," 'tis sweetly said;
Yet what to plead for know I not;
For wish is wasted, hope o'ersped,
And aye to thanks returns my thought.
If I would pray,
I've naught to say
But this, that God may be God still;
For him to live
Is still to give,
And sweeter than my wish, his will.
O wealth of life beyond all bound!Eternity each moment given!What plummet may the Present soundWho promises a future heaven?Or glad or grieved,Oppressed, relieved,In blackest night or brightest day,Still pours the floodOf golden good,And more than heartful fills me aye.
O wealth of life beyond all bound!
Eternity each moment given!
What plummet may the Present sound
Who promises a future heaven?
Or glad or grieved,
Oppressed, relieved,
In blackest night or brightest day,
Still pours the flood
Of golden good,
And more than heartful fills me aye.
My wealth is common; I possessNo petty province, but the whole.What's mine alone is mine far lessThan treasure shared by every soul,Talk not of store,Millions or more—Of values which the purse may hold—But this divine!I own the mineWhose grains outweigh a planet's gold.
My wealth is common; I possess
No petty province, but the whole.
What's mine alone is mine far less
Than treasure shared by every soul,
Talk not of store,
Millions or more—
Of values which the purse may hold—
But this divine!
I own the mine
Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold.
I have a stake in every star,In every beam that fills the day;All hearts of men my coffers are,My ores arterial tides convey;The fields and skiesAnd sweet repliesOf thought to thought are my gold-dust,The oaks and brooksAnd speaking looksOf lovers' faith and friendship's trust.
I have a stake in every star,
In every beam that fills the day;
All hearts of men my coffers are,
My ores arterial tides convey;
The fields and skies
And sweet replies
Of thought to thought are my gold-dust,
The oaks and brooks
And speaking looks
Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust.
Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flowFor him who lives above all years;Who all-immortal makes the Now,And is not ta'en in Time's arrears;His life's a hymnThe seraphimMight stop to hear or help to sing,And to his soulThe boundless wholeIts bounty all doth daily bring.
Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow
For him who lives above all years;
Who all-immortal makes the Now,
And is not ta'en in Time's arrears;
His life's a hymn
The seraphim
Might stop to hear or help to sing,
And to his soul
The boundless whole
Its bounty all doth daily bring.
"All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith;"The wealth I am must then becomeRicher and richer, breath by breath—Immortal gain, immortal room!"And since all hisMine also is,Life's gift outruns my fancies far,And drowns the dreamIn larger stream,As morning drinks the morning star.
"All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith;
"The wealth I am must then become
Richer and richer, breath by breath—
Immortal gain, immortal room!"
And since all his
Mine also is,
Life's gift outruns my fancies far,
And drowns the dream
In larger stream,
As morning drinks the morning star.
—David Atwood Wasson.
—David Atwood Wasson.
———
How doth death speak of our belovedWhen it has laid them low,When it has set its hallowing touchOn speechless lip and brow?It clothes their every gift and graceWith radiance from the holiest place,With light as from an angel's face,Recalling with resistless forceAnd tracing to their hidden sourceDeeds scarcely noticed in their course—This little loving fond device,That daily act of sacrifice,Of which too late we learned the price.Opening our weeping eyes to traceSimple unnoticed kindnesses,Forgotten tones of tenderness,Which evermore to us must beSacred as hymns in infancyLearnt listening at a mother's knee.Thus doth death speak of our belovedWhen it has laid them low.Then let love antedate the work of death,And speak thus now.* * * * * * *How does death speak of our belovedWhen it has laid them low,When it has set its hallowing touchOn speechless lip and brow?It sweeps their faults with heavy handAs sweeps the sea the trampled sand,Till scarce the faintest print is scanned.It shows how much the vexing deedWas but a generous nature's weedOr some choice virtue run to seed;How that small fretting fretfulnessWas but love's overanxiousness,Which had not been had love been less;This failing at which we repinedBut the dim shade of day declinedWhich should have made us doubly kind.It takes each failing on our partAnd brands it in upon the heartWith caustic power and cruel art.The small neglect that may have painedA giant stature will have gainedWhen it can never be explained;The little service which had provedHow tenderly we watched and loved,And those mute lips to smiles had moved;The little gift from out our storeWhich might have cheered some cheerless hourWhen they with earth's poor needs were poor.It shows our faults like fires at night;It sweeps their failings out of sight;It clothes their good in heavenly light.O Christ, our life, foredate the work of deathAnd do this now;Thou, who art love, thus hallow our beloved;Not death, but Thou!—Elizabeth Rundle Charles.
How doth death speak of our belovedWhen it has laid them low,When it has set its hallowing touchOn speechless lip and brow?
How doth death speak of our beloved
When it has laid them low,
When it has set its hallowing touch
On speechless lip and brow?
It clothes their every gift and graceWith radiance from the holiest place,With light as from an angel's face,
It clothes their every gift and grace
With radiance from the holiest place,
With light as from an angel's face,
Recalling with resistless forceAnd tracing to their hidden sourceDeeds scarcely noticed in their course—
Recalling with resistless force
And tracing to their hidden source
Deeds scarcely noticed in their course—
This little loving fond device,That daily act of sacrifice,Of which too late we learned the price.
This little loving fond device,
That daily act of sacrifice,
Of which too late we learned the price.
Opening our weeping eyes to traceSimple unnoticed kindnesses,Forgotten tones of tenderness,
Opening our weeping eyes to trace
Simple unnoticed kindnesses,
Forgotten tones of tenderness,
Which evermore to us must beSacred as hymns in infancyLearnt listening at a mother's knee.
Which evermore to us must be
Sacred as hymns in infancy
Learnt listening at a mother's knee.
Thus doth death speak of our belovedWhen it has laid them low.Then let love antedate the work of death,And speak thus now.
Thus doth death speak of our beloved
When it has laid them low.
Then let love antedate the work of death,
And speak thus now.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
How does death speak of our belovedWhen it has laid them low,When it has set its hallowing touchOn speechless lip and brow?
How does death speak of our beloved
When it has laid them low,
When it has set its hallowing touch
On speechless lip and brow?
It sweeps their faults with heavy handAs sweeps the sea the trampled sand,Till scarce the faintest print is scanned.
It sweeps their faults with heavy hand
As sweeps the sea the trampled sand,
Till scarce the faintest print is scanned.
It shows how much the vexing deedWas but a generous nature's weedOr some choice virtue run to seed;
It shows how much the vexing deed
Was but a generous nature's weed
Or some choice virtue run to seed;
How that small fretting fretfulnessWas but love's overanxiousness,Which had not been had love been less;
How that small fretting fretfulness
Was but love's overanxiousness,
Which had not been had love been less;
This failing at which we repinedBut the dim shade of day declinedWhich should have made us doubly kind.
This failing at which we repined
But the dim shade of day declined
Which should have made us doubly kind.
It takes each failing on our partAnd brands it in upon the heartWith caustic power and cruel art.
It takes each failing on our part
And brands it in upon the heart
With caustic power and cruel art.
The small neglect that may have painedA giant stature will have gainedWhen it can never be explained;
The small neglect that may have pained
A giant stature will have gained
When it can never be explained;
The little service which had provedHow tenderly we watched and loved,And those mute lips to smiles had moved;
The little service which had proved
How tenderly we watched and loved,
And those mute lips to smiles had moved;
The little gift from out our storeWhich might have cheered some cheerless hourWhen they with earth's poor needs were poor.
The little gift from out our store
Which might have cheered some cheerless hour
When they with earth's poor needs were poor.
It shows our faults like fires at night;It sweeps their failings out of sight;It clothes their good in heavenly light.
It shows our faults like fires at night;
It sweeps their failings out of sight;
It clothes their good in heavenly light.
O Christ, our life, foredate the work of deathAnd do this now;Thou, who art love, thus hallow our beloved;Not death, but Thou!
O Christ, our life, foredate the work of death
And do this now;
Thou, who art love, thus hallow our beloved;
Not death, but Thou!
—Elizabeth Rundle Charles.
—Elizabeth Rundle Charles.
———
God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then givesThat lamp due measure of oil: Lamp lighted—hold high, wave wide,Its comfort for others to share!—Muleykeh.
God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then givesThat lamp due measure of oil: Lamp lighted—hold high, wave wide,Its comfort for others to share!
God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives
That lamp due measure of oil: Lamp lighted—hold high, wave wide,
Its comfort for others to share!
—Muleykeh.
—Muleykeh.
———
It is coming! it is coming! The day is just a-dawningWhen man shall be to fellow-man a helper and a brother;When the mansion, with its gilded hall, its tower and arch and awning,Shall be to hovel desolate a kind and foster-mother.When the men who work for wages shall not toil from morn till even,With no vision of the sunlight, nor flowers, nor birds a-singing;When the men who hire the workers, blest with all the gifts of heaven,Shall the golden rule remember, its glad millennium bringing.The time is coming when the man who cares not for anotherShall be accounted as a stain upon a fair creation;Who lives to fill his coffers full, his better self to smother,As blight and mildew on the fame and glory of a nation.Thehours are growing shorter for the millions who are toiling,And the homes are growing better for the millions yet to be;And the poor shall learn the lesson, how that waste and sin are spoilingThe fairest and the finest of a grand humanity.It is coming! it is coming! and men's thoughts are growing deeper;They are giving of their millions as they never gave before;They are learning the new gospel, man must be his brother's keeper,And right, not might, shall triumph, and the selfish rule no more.—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
It is coming! it is coming! The day is just a-dawningWhen man shall be to fellow-man a helper and a brother;When the mansion, with its gilded hall, its tower and arch and awning,Shall be to hovel desolate a kind and foster-mother.
It is coming! it is coming! The day is just a-dawning
When man shall be to fellow-man a helper and a brother;
When the mansion, with its gilded hall, its tower and arch and awning,
Shall be to hovel desolate a kind and foster-mother.
When the men who work for wages shall not toil from morn till even,With no vision of the sunlight, nor flowers, nor birds a-singing;When the men who hire the workers, blest with all the gifts of heaven,Shall the golden rule remember, its glad millennium bringing.
When the men who work for wages shall not toil from morn till even,
With no vision of the sunlight, nor flowers, nor birds a-singing;
When the men who hire the workers, blest with all the gifts of heaven,
Shall the golden rule remember, its glad millennium bringing.
The time is coming when the man who cares not for anotherShall be accounted as a stain upon a fair creation;Who lives to fill his coffers full, his better self to smother,As blight and mildew on the fame and glory of a nation.
The time is coming when the man who cares not for another
Shall be accounted as a stain upon a fair creation;
Who lives to fill his coffers full, his better self to smother,
As blight and mildew on the fame and glory of a nation.
Thehours are growing shorter for the millions who are toiling,And the homes are growing better for the millions yet to be;And the poor shall learn the lesson, how that waste and sin are spoilingThe fairest and the finest of a grand humanity.
Thehours are growing shorter for the millions who are toiling,
And the homes are growing better for the millions yet to be;
And the poor shall learn the lesson, how that waste and sin are spoiling
The fairest and the finest of a grand humanity.
It is coming! it is coming! and men's thoughts are growing deeper;They are giving of their millions as they never gave before;They are learning the new gospel, man must be his brother's keeper,And right, not might, shall triumph, and the selfish rule no more.
It is coming! it is coming! and men's thoughts are growing deeper;
They are giving of their millions as they never gave before;
They are learning the new gospel, man must be his brother's keeper,
And right, not might, shall triumph, and the selfish rule no more.
—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
———
To a darning-needle once exclaimed the kitchen sieve,"You've a hole right through your body, and I wonder how you live."But the needle (who was sharp) replied, "I too have wonderedThat you notice myonehole, when in you there are a hundred!"—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.
To a darning-needle once exclaimed the kitchen sieve,"You've a hole right through your body, and I wonder how you live."But the needle (who was sharp) replied, "I too have wonderedThat you notice myonehole, when in you there are a hundred!"
To a darning-needle once exclaimed the kitchen sieve,
"You've a hole right through your body, and I wonder how you live."
But the needle (who was sharp) replied, "I too have wondered
That you notice myonehole, when in you there are a hundred!"
—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.
—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.
———
The Master came one evening to the gateOf a fair city; it was growing late,And sending his disciples to buy food,He wandered forth intent on doing good,As was his wont. And in the market-placeHe saw a crowd, close gathered in one space,Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground,Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he foundA noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck—A dead dog with a halter round his neck,And those who stood by mocked the object there,And one said, scoffing, "It pollutes the air!"Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-nightShall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?""Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,"You could not cut even a shoe from it,"And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed,"A fourth chimed in, "an unclean wretch indeed!""He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried.And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side.Then Jesus, standing by them in the street,Looked on the poor, spent creature at his feet,And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men,"Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." And thenThe people at each other gazed, asking,"Who is this stranger pitying this vile thing?"Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath,"This surely is the Man of Nazareth;This must be Jesus, for none else but heSomething to praise in a dead dog could see!"And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head,And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.
The Master came one evening to the gateOf a fair city; it was growing late,And sending his disciples to buy food,He wandered forth intent on doing good,As was his wont. And in the market-placeHe saw a crowd, close gathered in one space,Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground,Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he foundA noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck—A dead dog with a halter round his neck,And those who stood by mocked the object there,And one said, scoffing, "It pollutes the air!"Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-nightShall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?""Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,"You could not cut even a shoe from it,"And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed,"A fourth chimed in, "an unclean wretch indeed!""He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried.And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side.Then Jesus, standing by them in the street,Looked on the poor, spent creature at his feet,And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men,"Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." And thenThe people at each other gazed, asking,"Who is this stranger pitying this vile thing?"Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath,"This surely is the Man of Nazareth;This must be Jesus, for none else but heSomething to praise in a dead dog could see!"And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head,And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.
The Master came one evening to the gate
Of a fair city; it was growing late,
And sending his disciples to buy food,
He wandered forth intent on doing good,
As was his wont. And in the market-place
He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space,
Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground,
Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found
A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck—
A dead dog with a halter round his neck,
And those who stood by mocked the object there,
And one said, scoffing, "It pollutes the air!"
Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night
Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?"
"Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,
"You could not cut even a shoe from it,"
And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed,"
A fourth chimed in, "an unclean wretch indeed!"
"He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried.
And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side.
Then Jesus, standing by them in the street,
Looked on the poor, spent creature at his feet,
And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men,
"Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." And then
The people at each other gazed, asking,
"Who is this stranger pitying this vile thing?"
Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath,
"This surely is the Man of Nazareth;
This must be Jesus, for none else but he
Something to praise in a dead dog could see!"
And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head,
And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.
———
Vice is a monster of so frightful mienAs, to be hated, needs but to be seen;Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,We first endure, then pity, then embrace.—Alexander Pope.
Vice is a monster of so frightful mienAs, to be hated, needs but to be seen;Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
Vice is a monster of so frightful mien
As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
—Alexander Pope.
—Alexander Pope.
———
What might be done if men were wise—What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,Would they uniteIn love and right,And cease their scorn of one another!Oppression's heart might be imbuedWith kindling drops of loving-kindness,And knowledge pourFrom shore to shoreLight on the eyes of mental blindness.All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs,All vice and crime, might die together;And wine and cornTo each man bornBe free as warmth in summer weather.The meanest wretch that ever trod,The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow,Might stand erectIn self-respect,And share the teeming world to-morrow.What might be done? This might be done.And more than this, my suffering brother;More than the tongueE'er said or sungIf men were wise and loved each other.—Charles Mackay.
What might be done if men were wise—What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,Would they uniteIn love and right,And cease their scorn of one another!
What might be done if men were wise—
What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,
Would they unite
In love and right,
And cease their scorn of one another!
Oppression's heart might be imbuedWith kindling drops of loving-kindness,And knowledge pourFrom shore to shoreLight on the eyes of mental blindness.
Oppression's heart might be imbued
With kindling drops of loving-kindness,
And knowledge pour
From shore to shore
Light on the eyes of mental blindness.
All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs,All vice and crime, might die together;And wine and cornTo each man bornBe free as warmth in summer weather.
All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs,
All vice and crime, might die together;
And wine and corn
To each man born
Be free as warmth in summer weather.
The meanest wretch that ever trod,The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow,Might stand erectIn self-respect,And share the teeming world to-morrow.
The meanest wretch that ever trod,
The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow,
Might stand erect
In self-respect,
And share the teeming world to-morrow.
What might be done? This might be done.And more than this, my suffering brother;More than the tongueE'er said or sungIf men were wise and loved each other.
What might be done? This might be done.
And more than this, my suffering brother;
More than the tongue
E'er said or sung
If men were wise and loved each other.
—Charles Mackay.
—Charles Mackay.
———
If I could seeA brother languishing in sore distress,And I should turn and leave him comfortless,When I might beA messenger of hope and happiness—How could I ask to have that I deniedIn my own hour of bitterness supplied?If I might shareA brother's load along the dusty way,And I should turn and walk alone that day,How could I dare—When in the evening watch I kneel to pray—To ask for help to bear my pain and loss,If I had heeded not my brother's cross?
If I could seeA brother languishing in sore distress,And I should turn and leave him comfortless,When I might beA messenger of hope and happiness—How could I ask to have that I deniedIn my own hour of bitterness supplied?
If I could see
A brother languishing in sore distress,
And I should turn and leave him comfortless,
When I might be
A messenger of hope and happiness—
How could I ask to have that I denied
In my own hour of bitterness supplied?
If I might shareA brother's load along the dusty way,And I should turn and walk alone that day,How could I dare—When in the evening watch I kneel to pray—To ask for help to bear my pain and loss,If I had heeded not my brother's cross?
If I might share
A brother's load along the dusty way,
And I should turn and walk alone that day,
How could I dare—
When in the evening watch I kneel to pray—
To ask for help to bear my pain and loss,
If I had heeded not my brother's cross?
———
I said it in the meadow path,I say it on the mountain-stairs:The best things any mortal hathAre those which every mortal shares.The air we breathe—the sky—the breeze—The light without us and within—Life with its unlocked treasuries—God's riches, are for all to win.The grass is softer to my treadFor rest it yields unnumbered feet;Sweeter to me the wild-rose redBecause she makes the whole world sweet.Into your heavenly lonelinessYe welcomed me, O solemn peaks!And me in every guest you blessWho reverently your mystery seeks.And up the radiant peopled wayThat opens into worlds unknownIt will be life's delight to say,"Heaven is not heaven for me alone."Rich through my brethren's poverty!Such wealth were hideous! I am blestOnly in what they share with me,In what I share with all the rest.—Lucy Larcom.
I said it in the meadow path,I say it on the mountain-stairs:The best things any mortal hathAre those which every mortal shares.
I said it in the meadow path,
I say it on the mountain-stairs:
The best things any mortal hath
Are those which every mortal shares.
The air we breathe—the sky—the breeze—The light without us and within—Life with its unlocked treasuries—God's riches, are for all to win.
The air we breathe—the sky—the breeze—
The light without us and within—
Life with its unlocked treasuries—
God's riches, are for all to win.
The grass is softer to my treadFor rest it yields unnumbered feet;Sweeter to me the wild-rose redBecause she makes the whole world sweet.
The grass is softer to my tread
For rest it yields unnumbered feet;
Sweeter to me the wild-rose red
Because she makes the whole world sweet.
Into your heavenly lonelinessYe welcomed me, O solemn peaks!And me in every guest you blessWho reverently your mystery seeks.
Into your heavenly loneliness
Ye welcomed me, O solemn peaks!
And me in every guest you bless
Who reverently your mystery seeks.
And up the radiant peopled wayThat opens into worlds unknownIt will be life's delight to say,"Heaven is not heaven for me alone."
And up the radiant peopled way
That opens into worlds unknown
It will be life's delight to say,
"Heaven is not heaven for me alone."
Rich through my brethren's poverty!Such wealth were hideous! I am blestOnly in what they share with me,In what I share with all the rest.
Rich through my brethren's poverty!
Such wealth were hideous! I am blest
Only in what they share with me,
In what I share with all the rest.
—Lucy Larcom.
—Lucy Larcom.
———