SERVICE

I reach a duty, yet I do it not,And therefore see no higher; but, if done,My view is brightened and another spotSeen on my moral sun.For, be the duty high as angels' flight,Fulfill it, and a higher will ariseE'en from its ashes. Duty is infinite—Receding as the skies.And thus it is the purest most deploreTheir want of purity. As fold by fold,In duties done, falls from their eyes, the moreOf duty they behold.Were it not wisdom, then, to close our eyesOn duties crowding only to appal?No; duty is our ladder to the skies,And, climbing not, we fall.—Robert Leighton (1611-1684).

I reach a duty, yet I do it not,And therefore see no higher; but, if done,My view is brightened and another spotSeen on my moral sun.

I reach a duty, yet I do it not,

And therefore see no higher; but, if done,

My view is brightened and another spot

Seen on my moral sun.

For, be the duty high as angels' flight,Fulfill it, and a higher will ariseE'en from its ashes. Duty is infinite—Receding as the skies.

For, be the duty high as angels' flight,

Fulfill it, and a higher will arise

E'en from its ashes. Duty is infinite—

Receding as the skies.

And thus it is the purest most deploreTheir want of purity. As fold by fold,In duties done, falls from their eyes, the moreOf duty they behold.

And thus it is the purest most deplore

Their want of purity. As fold by fold,

In duties done, falls from their eyes, the more

Of duty they behold.

Were it not wisdom, then, to close our eyesOn duties crowding only to appal?No; duty is our ladder to the skies,And, climbing not, we fall.

Were it not wisdom, then, to close our eyes

On duties crowding only to appal?

No; duty is our ladder to the skies,

And, climbing not, we fall.

—Robert Leighton (1611-1684).

———

"And do the hours step fast or slow?And are ye sad or gay?And is your heart with your liege lord, lady,Or is it far away?"The lady raised her calm, proud head,Though her tears fell, one by one:"Life counts not hours by joy or pangs,But just by duties done."And when I lie in the green kirkyard,With the mould upon my breast,Say not that 'She did well—or ill,'Only, 'She did her best.'"—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

"And do the hours step fast or slow?And are ye sad or gay?And is your heart with your liege lord, lady,Or is it far away?"

"And do the hours step fast or slow?

And are ye sad or gay?

And is your heart with your liege lord, lady,

Or is it far away?"

The lady raised her calm, proud head,Though her tears fell, one by one:"Life counts not hours by joy or pangs,But just by duties done.

The lady raised her calm, proud head,

Though her tears fell, one by one:

"Life counts not hours by joy or pangs,

But just by duties done.

"And when I lie in the green kirkyard,With the mould upon my breast,Say not that 'She did well—or ill,'Only, 'She did her best.'"

"And when I lie in the green kirkyard,

With the mould upon my breast,

Say not that 'She did well—or ill,'

Only, 'She did her best.'"

—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

———

The longer on this earth we liveAnd weigh the various qualities of men,Seeing how most are fugitiveOr fitful gifts at best, of now and then—Wind-favored corpse-lights, daughters of the fen—The more we feel the high, stern-featured beautyOf plain devotedness to duty,Steadfast and still, nor paid with mortal praise,But finding amplest recompenseFor life's ungarlanded expenseIn work done squarely and unwasted days.—James Russell Lowell.

The longer on this earth we live

And weigh the various qualities of men,

Seeing how most are fugitive

Or fitful gifts at best, of now and then—

Wind-favored corpse-lights, daughters of the fen—

The more we feel the high, stern-featured beauty

Of plain devotedness to duty,

Steadfast and still, nor paid with mortal praise,

But finding amplest recompense

For life's ungarlanded expense

In work done squarely and unwasted days.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

A tone of pride or petulance repressedA selfish inclination firmly fought,A shadow of annoyance set at naught,A measure of disquietude suppressed;A peace in importunity possessed,A reconcilement generously sought,A purpose put aside, a banished thought,A word of self-explaining unexpressed:Trifles they seem, these petty soul-restraints,Yet he who proves them so must needs possessA constancy and courage grand and bold;They are the trifles that have made the saints.Give me to practice them in humblenessAnd nobler power than mine doth no man hold.

A tone of pride or petulance repressed

A selfish inclination firmly fought,

A shadow of annoyance set at naught,

A measure of disquietude suppressed;

A peace in importunity possessed,

A reconcilement generously sought,

A purpose put aside, a banished thought,

A word of self-explaining unexpressed:

Trifles they seem, these petty soul-restraints,

Yet he who proves them so must needs possess

A constancy and courage grand and bold;

They are the trifles that have made the saints.

Give me to practice them in humbleness

And nobler power than mine doth no man hold.

———

The world is full of beauty,As other worlds above;And if we did our dutyIt might be full of love.—Gerald Massey.

The world is full of beauty,As other worlds above;And if we did our dutyIt might be full of love.

The world is full of beauty,

As other worlds above;

And if we did our duty

It might be full of love.

—Gerald Massey.

———

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just;And he but naked, though locked up in steel,Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.—William Shakespeare.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just;And he but naked, though locked up in steel,Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?

Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just;

And he but naked, though locked up in steel,

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

—William Shakespeare.

———

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;I woke, and found that life was Duty.Was thy dream then, a shadowy lie?Toil on, sad heart, courageously,And thou shalt find that dream to beA noonday light and truth to thee.—Ellen Sturgis Hooper.

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;

I woke, and found that life was Duty.

Was thy dream then, a shadowy lie?

Toil on, sad heart, courageously,

And thou shalt find that dream to be

A noonday light and truth to thee.

—Ellen Sturgis Hooper.

———

Do thy duty; that is best;Leave unto thy Lord the rest.—James Russell Lowell.

Do thy duty; that is best;Leave unto thy Lord the rest.

Do thy duty; that is best;

Leave unto thy Lord the rest.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

While I sought Happiness she fledBefore me constantly.Weary, I turned to Duty's path,And Happiness sought me,Saying, "I walk this road to-day,I'll bear thee company."

While I sought Happiness she fled

Before me constantly.

Weary, I turned to Duty's path,

And Happiness sought me,

Saying, "I walk this road to-day,

I'll bear thee company."

———

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,So near is God to man,When Duty whispers low, "Thou must,"The youth replies, "I can."—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,So near is God to man,When Duty whispers low, "Thou must,"The youth replies, "I can."

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,

So near is God to man,

When Duty whispers low, "Thou must,"

The youth replies, "I can."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

Faithfully faithful to every trust,Honestly honest in every deed,Righteously righteous and justly just;This is the whole of the good man's creed.

Faithfully faithful to every trust,

Honestly honest in every deed,

Righteously righteous and justly just;

This is the whole of the good man's creed.

———

Find out what God would have you do,And do that little well;For what is great and what is small'Tis only he can tell.

Find out what God would have you do,

And do that little well;

For what is great and what is small

'Tis only he can tell.

I have done at length with dreaming;Henceforth, O thou soul of mine!Thou must take up sword and buckler,Waging warfare most divine.Life is struggle, combat, victory!Wherefore have I slumbered onWith my forces all unmarshaled,With my weapons all undrawn?O how many a glorious recordHad the angels of me keptHad I done instead of doubted,Had I warred instead of wept!But begone, regret, bewailing!Ye had weakened at the best;I have tried the trusty weaponsResting erst within my breast.I have wakened to my duty,To a knowledge strong and deep,That I recked not of aforetime,In my long inglorious sleep.For the end of life is service,And I felt it not before,And I dreamed not how stupendousWas the meaning that it bore.In this subtle sense of being,Newly stirred in every vein,I can feel a throb electric—Pleasure half allied with pain.'Tis so sweet, and yet so awful,So bewildering, yet brave,To be king in every conflictWhere before I crouched a slave!'Tis so glorious to be consciousOf a growing power withinStronger than the rallying forcesOf a charged and marshaled sin!Never in those old romancesFelt I half the thrill of lifeThat I feel within me stirring,Standing in this place of strife.O those olden days of dalliance,When I wantoned with my fate;When I trifled with the knowledgeThat had well-nigh come too late.Yet, my soul, look not behind thee;Thou hast work to do at last;Let the brave toil of the presentOverarch the crumbling past.Build thy great acts high and higher;Build them on the conquered sodWhere thy weakness first fell bleeding,And thy first prayer rose to God.—Caroline Atherton Mason.

I have done at length with dreaming;Henceforth, O thou soul of mine!Thou must take up sword and buckler,Waging warfare most divine.

I have done at length with dreaming;

Henceforth, O thou soul of mine!

Thou must take up sword and buckler,

Waging warfare most divine.

Life is struggle, combat, victory!Wherefore have I slumbered onWith my forces all unmarshaled,With my weapons all undrawn?

Life is struggle, combat, victory!

Wherefore have I slumbered on

With my forces all unmarshaled,

With my weapons all undrawn?

O how many a glorious recordHad the angels of me keptHad I done instead of doubted,Had I warred instead of wept!

O how many a glorious record

Had the angels of me kept

Had I done instead of doubted,

Had I warred instead of wept!

But begone, regret, bewailing!Ye had weakened at the best;I have tried the trusty weaponsResting erst within my breast.

But begone, regret, bewailing!

Ye had weakened at the best;

I have tried the trusty weapons

Resting erst within my breast.

I have wakened to my duty,To a knowledge strong and deep,That I recked not of aforetime,In my long inglorious sleep.

I have wakened to my duty,

To a knowledge strong and deep,

That I recked not of aforetime,

In my long inglorious sleep.

For the end of life is service,And I felt it not before,And I dreamed not how stupendousWas the meaning that it bore.

For the end of life is service,

And I felt it not before,

And I dreamed not how stupendous

Was the meaning that it bore.

In this subtle sense of being,Newly stirred in every vein,I can feel a throb electric—Pleasure half allied with pain.

In this subtle sense of being,

Newly stirred in every vein,

I can feel a throb electric—

Pleasure half allied with pain.

'Tis so sweet, and yet so awful,So bewildering, yet brave,To be king in every conflictWhere before I crouched a slave!

'Tis so sweet, and yet so awful,

So bewildering, yet brave,

To be king in every conflict

Where before I crouched a slave!

'Tis so glorious to be consciousOf a growing power withinStronger than the rallying forcesOf a charged and marshaled sin!

'Tis so glorious to be conscious

Of a growing power within

Stronger than the rallying forces

Of a charged and marshaled sin!

Never in those old romancesFelt I half the thrill of lifeThat I feel within me stirring,Standing in this place of strife.

Never in those old romances

Felt I half the thrill of life

That I feel within me stirring,

Standing in this place of strife.

O those olden days of dalliance,When I wantoned with my fate;When I trifled with the knowledgeThat had well-nigh come too late.

O those olden days of dalliance,

When I wantoned with my fate;

When I trifled with the knowledge

That had well-nigh come too late.

Yet, my soul, look not behind thee;Thou hast work to do at last;Let the brave toil of the presentOverarch the crumbling past.

Yet, my soul, look not behind thee;

Thou hast work to do at last;

Let the brave toil of the present

Overarch the crumbling past.

Build thy great acts high and higher;Build them on the conquered sodWhere thy weakness first fell bleeding,And thy first prayer rose to God.

Build thy great acts high and higher;

Build them on the conquered sod

Where thy weakness first fell bleeding,

And thy first prayer rose to God.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

———

A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea;And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree.Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows;And age was pleased, in heat of noon, to bask beneath its boughs;The dormouse loved its dangling twigs the birds sweet music bore;It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern,A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn;He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink.He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new;A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true.It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light becameA lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill,It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart,Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown—a transitory breath—It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last!—Charles Mackay.

A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea;

And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree.

Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows;

And age was pleased, in heat of noon, to bask beneath its boughs;

The dormouse loved its dangling twigs the birds sweet music bore;

It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern,A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn;He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink.He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern,

A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn;

He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink;

He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink.

He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried,

Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new;A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true.It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light becameA lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill,It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new;

A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true.

It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became

A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.

The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill,

It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!

A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart,Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown—a transitory breath—It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last!

A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart,

Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart;

A whisper on the tumult thrown—a transitory breath—

It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death.

O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast!

Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last!

—Charles Mackay.

———

O may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence; liveIn pulses stirred to generosity,In deeds of daring rectitude, in scornFor miserable aims that end with self,In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,And with their mild persistence urge man's searchTo vaster issues.So to live is heaven:To make undying music in the world,Breathing as beauteous order that controlsWith growing sway the growing life of man.So we inherit that sweet purityFor which we struggled, failed and agonized,With widening retrospect that bred despair.Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,A vicious parent shaming still its childPoor, anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,Die in the large and charitable air.And all our rarer, better, truer, self,That sobbed religiously in yearning song,That watched to ease the burden of the world,Laboriously tracing what must be,And what may yet be better—saw withinA worthier image for the sanctuary,And shaped it forth before the multitudeDivinely human, raising worship soTo higher reverence more mixed with love—That better self shall live till human TimeShall fold its eyelids, and the human skyBe gathered like a scroll within the tomb,Unread forever.This is life to come,Which martyred men have made more gloriousFor us who strive to follow. May I reachThat purest heaven, be to other soulsThe cup of strength in some great agony,Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,And in diffusion ever more intense.So shall I join the choir invisibleWhose music is the gladness of the world.—George Eliot.

O may I join the choir invisible

Of those immortal dead who live again

In minds made better by their presence; live

In pulses stirred to generosity,

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn

For miserable aims that end with self,

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,

And with their mild persistence urge man's search

To vaster issues.

So to live is heaven:

To make undying music in the world,

Breathing as beauteous order that controls

With growing sway the growing life of man.

So we inherit that sweet purity

For which we struggled, failed and agonized,

With widening retrospect that bred despair.

Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,

A vicious parent shaming still its child

Poor, anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;

Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,

Die in the large and charitable air.

And all our rarer, better, truer, self,

That sobbed religiously in yearning song,

That watched to ease the burden of the world,

Laboriously tracing what must be,

And what may yet be better—saw within

A worthier image for the sanctuary,

And shaped it forth before the multitude

Divinely human, raising worship so

To higher reverence more mixed with love—

That better self shall live till human Time

Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky

Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb,

Unread forever.

This is life to come,

Which martyred men have made more glorious

For us who strive to follow. May I reach

That purest heaven, be to other souls

The cup of strength in some great agony,

Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,

Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—

Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,

And in diffusion ever more intense.

So shall I join the choir invisible

Whose music is the gladness of the world.

—George Eliot.

———

To love some one more dearly ev'ry day,To help a wandering child to find his way,To ponder o'er a noble thought, and pray,And smile when evening falls.To follow truth as blind men long for light,To do my best from dawn of day till night,To keep my heart fit for His holy sight,And answer when He calls.—Maude Louise Ray.

To love some one more dearly ev'ry day,To help a wandering child to find his way,To ponder o'er a noble thought, and pray,And smile when evening falls.

To love some one more dearly ev'ry day,

To help a wandering child to find his way,

To ponder o'er a noble thought, and pray,

And smile when evening falls.

To follow truth as blind men long for light,To do my best from dawn of day till night,To keep my heart fit for His holy sight,And answer when He calls.

To follow truth as blind men long for light,

To do my best from dawn of day till night,

To keep my heart fit for His holy sight,

And answer when He calls.

—Maude Louise Ray.

———

Give! as the morning that flows out of heaven;Give! as the waves when their channel is riven;Give! as the free air and sunshine are given;Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give!Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing;Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing;Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing:Give as He gave thee who gave thee to live.Pour out thy love like the rush of a river,Wasting its waters, forever and ever,Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver:Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.Scatter thy life as the summer's shower pouring;What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring?What if no blossom looks upward adoring?Look to the life that was lavished for thee!So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses:Evil and thankless the desert it blesses;Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses;Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing.What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses?What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes?Sweeter is music with minor-keyed closes,Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.Almost the day of thy giving is over;Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted cloverThou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover:What shall thy longing avail in the grave?Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking—Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking;Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking,Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave.—Rose Terry Cooke.

Give! as the morning that flows out of heaven;

Give! as the waves when their channel is riven;

Give! as the free air and sunshine are given;

Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give!

Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing;

Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing;

Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing:

Give as He gave thee who gave thee to live.

Pour out thy love like the rush of a river,Wasting its waters, forever and ever,Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver:Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.Scatter thy life as the summer's shower pouring;What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring?What if no blossom looks upward adoring?Look to the life that was lavished for thee!

Pour out thy love like the rush of a river,

Wasting its waters, forever and ever,

Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver:

Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.

Scatter thy life as the summer's shower pouring;

What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring?

What if no blossom looks upward adoring?

Look to the life that was lavished for thee!

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses:Evil and thankless the desert it blesses;Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses;Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing.What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses?What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes?Sweeter is music with minor-keyed closes,Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses:

Evil and thankless the desert it blesses;

Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses;

Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing.

What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses?

What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes?

Sweeter is music with minor-keyed closes,

Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.

Almost the day of thy giving is over;Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted cloverThou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover:What shall thy longing avail in the grave?Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking—Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking;Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking,Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave.

Almost the day of thy giving is over;

Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover

Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover:

What shall thy longing avail in the grave?

Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking—

Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking;

Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking,

Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave.

—Rose Terry Cooke.

———

There are so many helpful things to doAlong life's way(Helps to the helper, if we did but know),From day to day.So many troubled hearts to soothe,So many pathways rough to smooth,So many comforting words to say,To the hearts that falter along the way.Here is a lamp of hope gone outAlong the way.Some one stumbled and fell, no doubt—But, brother, stay!Out of thy store of oil refill;Kindle the courage that smoulders still;Think what Jesus would do to-dayFor one who had fallen beside the way.How many lifted hands still pleadAlong life's way!The old, sad story of human needReads on for aye.But let us follow the Saviour's plan—Love unstinted to every man;Content if, at most, the world should say:"He helped his brother along the way!"

There are so many helpful things to do

Along life's way

(Helps to the helper, if we did but know),

From day to day.

So many troubled hearts to soothe,

So many pathways rough to smooth,

So many comforting words to say,

To the hearts that falter along the way.

Here is a lamp of hope gone outAlong the way.Some one stumbled and fell, no doubt—But, brother, stay!Out of thy store of oil refill;Kindle the courage that smoulders still;Think what Jesus would do to-dayFor one who had fallen beside the way.

Here is a lamp of hope gone out

Along the way.

Some one stumbled and fell, no doubt—

But, brother, stay!

Out of thy store of oil refill;

Kindle the courage that smoulders still;

Think what Jesus would do to-day

For one who had fallen beside the way.

How many lifted hands still pleadAlong life's way!The old, sad story of human needReads on for aye.But let us follow the Saviour's plan—Love unstinted to every man;Content if, at most, the world should say:"He helped his brother along the way!"

How many lifted hands still plead

Along life's way!

The old, sad story of human need

Reads on for aye.

But let us follow the Saviour's plan—

Love unstinted to every man;

Content if, at most, the world should say:

"He helped his brother along the way!"

———

Is thy cruse of comfort failing?Rise and share it with another,And through all the years of famineIt shall serve thee and thy brother.Love divine will fill thy storehouseOr thy handful still renew;Scanty fare for one will oftenMake a royal feast for two.For the heart grows rich in giving—All its wealth is living gain;Seeds which mildew in the garnerScattered fill with gold the plain.Is thy burden hard and heavy?Do thy steps drag wearily?Help to bear thy brother's burden;God will bear both it and thee.Numb and weary on the mountains,Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow?Chafe that frozen form beside thee,And together both shall glow.Art thou stricken in life's battle?Many wounded round thee moan:Lavish on their wounds thy balsam,And that balm shall heal thine own.Is thy heart a well left empty?None but God the void can fill.Nothing but the ceaseless FountainCan its ceaseless longings still.Is the heart a living power?Self-entwined its strength sinks low.It can only live in loving,And by serving love will grow.

Is thy cruse of comfort failing?Rise and share it with another,And through all the years of famineIt shall serve thee and thy brother.

Is thy cruse of comfort failing?

Rise and share it with another,

And through all the years of famine

It shall serve thee and thy brother.

Love divine will fill thy storehouseOr thy handful still renew;Scanty fare for one will oftenMake a royal feast for two.

Love divine will fill thy storehouse

Or thy handful still renew;

Scanty fare for one will often

Make a royal feast for two.

For the heart grows rich in giving—All its wealth is living gain;Seeds which mildew in the garnerScattered fill with gold the plain.

For the heart grows rich in giving—

All its wealth is living gain;

Seeds which mildew in the garner

Scattered fill with gold the plain.

Is thy burden hard and heavy?Do thy steps drag wearily?Help to bear thy brother's burden;God will bear both it and thee.

Is thy burden hard and heavy?

Do thy steps drag wearily?

Help to bear thy brother's burden;

God will bear both it and thee.

Numb and weary on the mountains,Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow?Chafe that frozen form beside thee,And together both shall glow.

Numb and weary on the mountains,

Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow?

Chafe that frozen form beside thee,

And together both shall glow.

Art thou stricken in life's battle?Many wounded round thee moan:Lavish on their wounds thy balsam,And that balm shall heal thine own.

Art thou stricken in life's battle?

Many wounded round thee moan:

Lavish on their wounds thy balsam,

And that balm shall heal thine own.

Is thy heart a well left empty?None but God the void can fill.Nothing but the ceaseless FountainCan its ceaseless longings still.

Is thy heart a well left empty?

None but God the void can fill.

Nothing but the ceaseless Fountain

Can its ceaseless longings still.

Is the heart a living power?Self-entwined its strength sinks low.It can only live in loving,And by serving love will grow.

Is the heart a living power?

Self-entwined its strength sinks low.

It can only live in loving,

And by serving love will grow.

———

A certain wise man, deeply versedIn all the learning of the East,Grew tired in spirit, and athirstFrom life to be released.So to Eliab, holy manOf God he came: "Ah, give me, friend,The herb of death, that now the spanOf my vain life may end."Eliab gently answered: "EreThe soul may free itself indeed,This herb of healing thou must bearTo seven men in need;"When thou hast lightened each man's grief,And brought him hope and joy again,Return; nor shalt thou seek reliefAt Allah's hands in vain."The wise man sighed, and humbly said:"As Allah willeth, so is best."And with the healing herb he spedAway upon his quest.And as he journeyed on, intentTo serve the sorrowing in the landOn deeds of love and mercy bent,The herb bloomed in his hand,And through his pulses shot a fireOf strength and hope and happiness;His heart leaped with a glad desireTo live and serve and bless.Lord of all earthly woe and need,Be this, life's flower, mine!To love, to comfort, and to heal—Therein is life divine!—Josephine Troup.

A certain wise man, deeply versedIn all the learning of the East,Grew tired in spirit, and athirstFrom life to be released.

A certain wise man, deeply versed

In all the learning of the East,

Grew tired in spirit, and athirst

From life to be released.

So to Eliab, holy manOf God he came: "Ah, give me, friend,The herb of death, that now the spanOf my vain life may end."

So to Eliab, holy man

Of God he came: "Ah, give me, friend,

The herb of death, that now the span

Of my vain life may end."

Eliab gently answered: "EreThe soul may free itself indeed,This herb of healing thou must bearTo seven men in need;

Eliab gently answered: "Ere

The soul may free itself indeed,

This herb of healing thou must bear

To seven men in need;

"When thou hast lightened each man's grief,And brought him hope and joy again,Return; nor shalt thou seek reliefAt Allah's hands in vain."

"When thou hast lightened each man's grief,

And brought him hope and joy again,

Return; nor shalt thou seek relief

At Allah's hands in vain."

The wise man sighed, and humbly said:"As Allah willeth, so is best."And with the healing herb he spedAway upon his quest.

The wise man sighed, and humbly said:

"As Allah willeth, so is best."

And with the healing herb he sped

Away upon his quest.

And as he journeyed on, intentTo serve the sorrowing in the landOn deeds of love and mercy bent,The herb bloomed in his hand,

And as he journeyed on, intent

To serve the sorrowing in the land

On deeds of love and mercy bent,

The herb bloomed in his hand,

And through his pulses shot a fireOf strength and hope and happiness;His heart leaped with a glad desireTo live and serve and bless.

And through his pulses shot a fire

Of strength and hope and happiness;

His heart leaped with a glad desire

To live and serve and bless.

Lord of all earthly woe and need,Be this, life's flower, mine!To love, to comfort, and to heal—Therein is life divine!

Lord of all earthly woe and need,

Be this, life's flower, mine!

To love, to comfort, and to heal—

Therein is life divine!

—Josephine Troup.

———

For strength we askFor the ten thousand times repeated task,The endless smallnesses of every day.No, not to layMy life down in the cause I cherish most,That were too easy. But, whate'er it cost,To fail no moreIn gentleness toward the ungentle, norIn love toward the unlovely, and to give,Each day I live,To every hour with outstretched hand, its meedOf not-to-be-regretted thought and deed.—Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald.

For strength we askFor the ten thousand times repeated task,The endless smallnesses of every day.

For strength we ask

For the ten thousand times repeated task,

The endless smallnesses of every day.

No, not to layMy life down in the cause I cherish most,That were too easy. But, whate'er it cost,

No, not to lay

My life down in the cause I cherish most,

That were too easy. But, whate'er it cost,

To fail no moreIn gentleness toward the ungentle, norIn love toward the unlovely, and to give,

To fail no more

In gentleness toward the ungentle, nor

In love toward the unlovely, and to give,

Each day I live,To every hour with outstretched hand, its meedOf not-to-be-regretted thought and deed.

Each day I live,

To every hour with outstretched hand, its meed

Of not-to-be-regretted thought and deed.

—Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald.

———

I cannot choose; I should have liked so muchTo sit at Jesus' feet—to feel the touchOf his kind gentle hand upon my headWhile drinking in the gracious words he said.And yet to serve Him!—Oh, divine employ—To minister and give the Master joy;To bathe in coolest springs his weary feet,And wait upon Him while He sat at meat!Worship or service—which? Ah, that is bestTo which he calls us, be it toil or rest;To labor for Him in life's busy stir,Or seek His feet, a silent worshiper.—Caroline Atherton Mason.

I cannot choose; I should have liked so muchTo sit at Jesus' feet—to feel the touchOf his kind gentle hand upon my headWhile drinking in the gracious words he said.

I cannot choose; I should have liked so much

To sit at Jesus' feet—to feel the touch

Of his kind gentle hand upon my head

While drinking in the gracious words he said.

And yet to serve Him!—Oh, divine employ—To minister and give the Master joy;To bathe in coolest springs his weary feet,And wait upon Him while He sat at meat!

And yet to serve Him!—Oh, divine employ—

To minister and give the Master joy;

To bathe in coolest springs his weary feet,

And wait upon Him while He sat at meat!

Worship or service—which? Ah, that is bestTo which he calls us, be it toil or rest;To labor for Him in life's busy stir,Or seek His feet, a silent worshiper.

Worship or service—which? Ah, that is best

To which he calls us, be it toil or rest;

To labor for Him in life's busy stir,

Or seek His feet, a silent worshiper.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

———

This is the gospel of labor—ring it, ye bells of the kirk—The Lord of Love came down from above to live with the men who work.This is the rose that he planted, here in the thorn-cursed soil;Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil.—Henry van Dyke.

This is the gospel of labor—ring it, ye bells of the kirk—

The Lord of Love came down from above to live with the men who work.

This is the rose that he planted, here in the thorn-cursed soil;

Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil.

—Henry van Dyke.

———

Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve!Not all with tranquil heart,Even at Thy dear feet,Wrapped in devotion sweet,May sit apart!Yes, Lord! Yet some must bearThe burden of the day,Its labor and its heat,While others at Thy feetMay muse and pray.Yes, Lord! Yet some must doLife's daily task-work; someWho fain would sing must toilAmid earth's dust and moil,While lips are dumb!Yes, Lord! Yet man must earnAnd woman bake the bread;And some must watch and wakeEarly for others' sake,Who pray instead!Yes, Lord! Yet even thouHast need of earthly care;I bring the bread and wineTo Thee a Guest divine—Be this my prayer!—Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.

Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve!Not all with tranquil heart,Even at Thy dear feet,Wrapped in devotion sweet,May sit apart!

Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve!

Not all with tranquil heart,

Even at Thy dear feet,

Wrapped in devotion sweet,

May sit apart!

Yes, Lord! Yet some must bearThe burden of the day,Its labor and its heat,While others at Thy feetMay muse and pray.

Yes, Lord! Yet some must bear

The burden of the day,

Its labor and its heat,

While others at Thy feet

May muse and pray.

Yes, Lord! Yet some must doLife's daily task-work; someWho fain would sing must toilAmid earth's dust and moil,While lips are dumb!

Yes, Lord! Yet some must do

Life's daily task-work; some

Who fain would sing must toil

Amid earth's dust and moil,

While lips are dumb!

Yes, Lord! Yet man must earnAnd woman bake the bread;And some must watch and wakeEarly for others' sake,Who pray instead!

Yes, Lord! Yet man must earn

And woman bake the bread;

And some must watch and wake

Early for others' sake,

Who pray instead!

Yes, Lord! Yet even thouHast need of earthly care;I bring the bread and wineTo Thee a Guest divine—Be this my prayer!

Yes, Lord! Yet even thou

Hast need of earthly care;

I bring the bread and wine

To Thee a Guest divine—

Be this my prayer!

—Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.

———

If we sit down at set of sunAnd count the things that we have done,And counting, findOne self-denying act, one wordThat eased the heart of him who heard,One glance most kind,That fell like sunshine where it went,Then we may count the day well spent.But if through all the livelong dayWe've eased no heart by yea or nay;If through it allWe've nothing done that we can traceThat brought the sunshine to a face,No act most smallThat helped some soul, and nothing cost,Then count that day as worse than lost.

If we sit down at set of sun

And count the things that we have done,

And counting, find

One self-denying act, one word

That eased the heart of him who heard,

One glance most kind,

That fell like sunshine where it went,

Then we may count the day well spent.

But if through all the livelong dayWe've eased no heart by yea or nay;If through it allWe've nothing done that we can traceThat brought the sunshine to a face,No act most smallThat helped some soul, and nothing cost,Then count that day as worse than lost.

But if through all the livelong day

We've eased no heart by yea or nay;

If through it all

We've nothing done that we can trace

That brought the sunshine to a face,

No act most small

That helped some soul, and nothing cost,

Then count that day as worse than lost.

———

This for the day of life I ask:Some all-absorbing, useful task;And when 'tis wholly, truly done,A tranquil rest at set of sun.

This for the day of life I ask:

Some all-absorbing, useful task;

And when 'tis wholly, truly done,

A tranquil rest at set of sun.

———

Ah! grand is the world's work, and noble, forsooth,The doing one's part, be it ever so small!You, reaping with Boaz, I, gleaning with Ruth,Are honored by serving, yet servants of all.No drudge in his corner but speeds the world's wheels;No serf in the field but is sowing God's seed—More noble, I think, in the dust though he kneels,Than the pauper of wealth, who makes scorn of the deed.Is toil but a treadmill? Think not of the grind,But think of the grist, what is done and to do,The world growing better, more like to God's mind,By long, faithful labor of helpers like you.The broom or the spade or the shuttle, that pliesIts own honest task in its own honest way,Serves heaven not less than a star in the skies—What more could the Pleiades do than obey?—James Buckham.

Ah! grand is the world's work, and noble, forsooth,The doing one's part, be it ever so small!You, reaping with Boaz, I, gleaning with Ruth,Are honored by serving, yet servants of all.

Ah! grand is the world's work, and noble, forsooth,

The doing one's part, be it ever so small!

You, reaping with Boaz, I, gleaning with Ruth,

Are honored by serving, yet servants of all.

No drudge in his corner but speeds the world's wheels;No serf in the field but is sowing God's seed—More noble, I think, in the dust though he kneels,Than the pauper of wealth, who makes scorn of the deed.

No drudge in his corner but speeds the world's wheels;

No serf in the field but is sowing God's seed—

More noble, I think, in the dust though he kneels,

Than the pauper of wealth, who makes scorn of the deed.

Is toil but a treadmill? Think not of the grind,But think of the grist, what is done and to do,The world growing better, more like to God's mind,By long, faithful labor of helpers like you.

Is toil but a treadmill? Think not of the grind,

But think of the grist, what is done and to do,

The world growing better, more like to God's mind,

By long, faithful labor of helpers like you.

The broom or the spade or the shuttle, that pliesIts own honest task in its own honest way,Serves heaven not less than a star in the skies—What more could the Pleiades do than obey?

The broom or the spade or the shuttle, that plies

Its own honest task in its own honest way,

Serves heaven not less than a star in the skies—

What more could the Pleiades do than obey?

—James Buckham.

———

If no kindly thought or wordWe can give, some soul to bless,If our hands, from hour to hour,Do no deeds of gentleness;If to lone and weary onesWe no comfort will impart—Tho' 'tis summer in the sky,Yet 'tis winter in the heart!If we strive to lift the gloomFrom a dark and burdened life;If we seek to lull the stormOf our fallen brother's strife;If we bid all hate and scornFrom the spirit to depart—Tho' 'tis winter in the sky,Yet 'tis summer in the heart!

If no kindly thought or word

We can give, some soul to bless,

If our hands, from hour to hour,

Do no deeds of gentleness;

If to lone and weary ones

We no comfort will impart—

Tho' 'tis summer in the sky,

Yet 'tis winter in the heart!

If we strive to lift the gloomFrom a dark and burdened life;If we seek to lull the stormOf our fallen brother's strife;If we bid all hate and scornFrom the spirit to depart—Tho' 'tis winter in the sky,Yet 'tis summer in the heart!

If we strive to lift the gloom

From a dark and burdened life;

If we seek to lull the storm

Of our fallen brother's strife;

If we bid all hate and scorn

From the spirit to depart—

Tho' 'tis winter in the sky,

Yet 'tis summer in the heart!

———

Idlers all day about the market-placeThey name us, and our dumb lips answer not,Bearing the bitter while our sloth's disgrace,And our dark tasking whereof none may wot.Oh, the fair slopes where the grape-gatherers go!—Not they the day's fierce heat and burden bear,But we who on the market-stones drop slowOur barren tears, while all the bright hours wear.Lord of the vineyard, whose dear word declaresOur one hour's labor as the day's shall be,What coin divine can make our wage as theirsWho had the morning joy of work for Thee?—L. Gray Noble.

Idlers all day about the market-placeThey name us, and our dumb lips answer not,Bearing the bitter while our sloth's disgrace,And our dark tasking whereof none may wot.

Idlers all day about the market-place

They name us, and our dumb lips answer not,

Bearing the bitter while our sloth's disgrace,

And our dark tasking whereof none may wot.

Oh, the fair slopes where the grape-gatherers go!—Not they the day's fierce heat and burden bear,But we who on the market-stones drop slowOur barren tears, while all the bright hours wear.

Oh, the fair slopes where the grape-gatherers go!—

Not they the day's fierce heat and burden bear,

But we who on the market-stones drop slow

Our barren tears, while all the bright hours wear.

Lord of the vineyard, whose dear word declaresOur one hour's labor as the day's shall be,What coin divine can make our wage as theirsWho had the morning joy of work for Thee?

Lord of the vineyard, whose dear word declares

Our one hour's labor as the day's shall be,

What coin divine can make our wage as theirs

Who had the morning joy of work for Thee?

—L. Gray Noble.

———

"I have labored in vain," a preacher said,And his brow was marked with care;"I have labored in vain." He bowed down his head,And bitter and sad were the tears he shedIn that moment of dark despair."I am weary and worn, and my hands are weak,And my courage is well-nigh gone;For none give heed to the words I speak,And in vain for a promise of fruit I seekWhere the seed of the Word is sown."And again with a sorrowful heart he wept,For his spirit with grief was stirred,Till the night grew dark, and at last he slept,And a silent calm o'er his spirit crept,And a whisper of "peace" was heard.And he thought in his dream that his soul took flightTo a blessed and bright abode;He saw a throne of dazzling light,And harps were ringing, and robes were white—Made white in a Saviour's blood.And he saw such a countless throng aroundAs he never had seen before,Their brows with jewels of light were crowned,And sorrow and sighing no place had found—The troubles of time were o'er.Then a white-robed maiden came forth and said,"Joy! Joy! for the trials are passed!I am one that thy gentle words have ledIn the narrow pathway of life to tread—I welcome thee home at last!"And the preacher gazed on the maiden's face—He had seen that face on earth,Where, with anxious heart, in his wonted placeHe had told his charge of a Saviour's grace,And their need of a second birth.Then the preacher smiled, and the angel said,"Go forth to thy work again;It is not in vain that the seed is shed—If onlyonesoul to the cross is led,Thy labor is not in vain."And at last he woke, and his knee he bentIn grateful, childlike prayer,And he prayed till an answer of peace was sent,And Faith and Hope as a rainbow bentO'er the clouds of his earthly care.And he rose in joy, and his eye was bright.His sorrow and grief had fled,And his soul was calm and his heart was light,For his hands were strong in his Saviour's mightAs forth to his work he sped.

"I have labored in vain," a preacher said,And his brow was marked with care;"I have labored in vain." He bowed down his head,And bitter and sad were the tears he shedIn that moment of dark despair.

"I have labored in vain," a preacher said,

And his brow was marked with care;

"I have labored in vain." He bowed down his head,

And bitter and sad were the tears he shed

In that moment of dark despair.

"I am weary and worn, and my hands are weak,And my courage is well-nigh gone;For none give heed to the words I speak,And in vain for a promise of fruit I seekWhere the seed of the Word is sown."

"I am weary and worn, and my hands are weak,

And my courage is well-nigh gone;

For none give heed to the words I speak,

And in vain for a promise of fruit I seek

Where the seed of the Word is sown."

And again with a sorrowful heart he wept,For his spirit with grief was stirred,Till the night grew dark, and at last he slept,And a silent calm o'er his spirit crept,And a whisper of "peace" was heard.

And again with a sorrowful heart he wept,

For his spirit with grief was stirred,

Till the night grew dark, and at last he slept,

And a silent calm o'er his spirit crept,

And a whisper of "peace" was heard.

And he thought in his dream that his soul took flightTo a blessed and bright abode;He saw a throne of dazzling light,And harps were ringing, and robes were white—Made white in a Saviour's blood.

And he thought in his dream that his soul took flight

To a blessed and bright abode;

He saw a throne of dazzling light,

And harps were ringing, and robes were white—

Made white in a Saviour's blood.

And he saw such a countless throng aroundAs he never had seen before,Their brows with jewels of light were crowned,And sorrow and sighing no place had found—The troubles of time were o'er.

And he saw such a countless throng around

As he never had seen before,

Their brows with jewels of light were crowned,

And sorrow and sighing no place had found—

The troubles of time were o'er.

Then a white-robed maiden came forth and said,"Joy! Joy! for the trials are passed!I am one that thy gentle words have ledIn the narrow pathway of life to tread—I welcome thee home at last!"

Then a white-robed maiden came forth and said,

"Joy! Joy! for the trials are passed!

I am one that thy gentle words have led

In the narrow pathway of life to tread—

I welcome thee home at last!"

And the preacher gazed on the maiden's face—He had seen that face on earth,Where, with anxious heart, in his wonted placeHe had told his charge of a Saviour's grace,And their need of a second birth.

And the preacher gazed on the maiden's face—

He had seen that face on earth,

Where, with anxious heart, in his wonted place

He had told his charge of a Saviour's grace,

And their need of a second birth.

Then the preacher smiled, and the angel said,"Go forth to thy work again;It is not in vain that the seed is shed—If onlyonesoul to the cross is led,Thy labor is not in vain."

Then the preacher smiled, and the angel said,

"Go forth to thy work again;

It is not in vain that the seed is shed—

If onlyonesoul to the cross is led,

Thy labor is not in vain."

And at last he woke, and his knee he bentIn grateful, childlike prayer,And he prayed till an answer of peace was sent,And Faith and Hope as a rainbow bentO'er the clouds of his earthly care.

And at last he woke, and his knee he bent

In grateful, childlike prayer,

And he prayed till an answer of peace was sent,

And Faith and Hope as a rainbow bent

O'er the clouds of his earthly care.

And he rose in joy, and his eye was bright.His sorrow and grief had fled,And his soul was calm and his heart was light,For his hands were strong in his Saviour's mightAs forth to his work he sped.

And he rose in joy, and his eye was bright.

His sorrow and grief had fled,

And his soul was calm and his heart was light,

For his hands were strong in his Saviour's might

As forth to his work he sped.

———

Whatever dies, or is forgot—Work done for God, it dieth not.

Whatever dies, or is forgot—

Work done for God, it dieth not.

———

I asked the Lord that I might worthier be,Might grow in faith and hope and charity;And straight, "Go feed my lambs!" he answered me."Nay, Lord!" I cried. "Can outward deeds availTo cleanse my spirit? Heart and courage failAnd sins prevent, and foes and fears assail."And still, "Go, feed my lambs!" was all I heard.But should I rest upon that simple word?Was that, indeed, my message from my Lord?Behold, I thought that he his hand would layOn my sick soul, and words of healing say,And charm the plague-spot from my heart away.Half wroth, I turned to go; but oh! the lookHe on me cast—a gaze I could not brook;With deep relentings all my spirit shook."O dearest Lord," I cried, "I will obey,Say what thou wilt! only lead thou the way;For, following thee, my footsteps shall not stray."He took me at my word. He went before;He led me to the dwellings of the poor,Where wolf-eyed Want keeps watch beside the door.He beckoned me, and I essayed to goWhere Sin and Crime, more sad than Want and Woe,Hold carnival, and Vice walks to and fro.And when I faltered at the sight, He said,"Behold, I died for such! These hands have bled,This side for such has pierced been," he said."Is the disciple greater than his Lord?The servant than his Master?" Oh, that word!It smote me like a sharp, two-edged sword!And since that hour, if any work of mineHas been accepted by my Lord as signThat I was following in his steps divine;If, serving others (though imperfectly),My own poor life has worthier come to be,And I have grown in faith and charity,Dear Lord, be thine the glory! Thou hast wrought,All unaware, the blessing that I sought.O that these lips might praise thee as they ought!

I asked the Lord that I might worthier be,Might grow in faith and hope and charity;And straight, "Go feed my lambs!" he answered me.

I asked the Lord that I might worthier be,

Might grow in faith and hope and charity;

And straight, "Go feed my lambs!" he answered me.

"Nay, Lord!" I cried. "Can outward deeds availTo cleanse my spirit? Heart and courage failAnd sins prevent, and foes and fears assail."

"Nay, Lord!" I cried. "Can outward deeds avail

To cleanse my spirit? Heart and courage fail

And sins prevent, and foes and fears assail."

And still, "Go, feed my lambs!" was all I heard.But should I rest upon that simple word?Was that, indeed, my message from my Lord?

And still, "Go, feed my lambs!" was all I heard.

But should I rest upon that simple word?

Was that, indeed, my message from my Lord?

Behold, I thought that he his hand would layOn my sick soul, and words of healing say,And charm the plague-spot from my heart away.

Behold, I thought that he his hand would lay

On my sick soul, and words of healing say,

And charm the plague-spot from my heart away.

Half wroth, I turned to go; but oh! the lookHe on me cast—a gaze I could not brook;With deep relentings all my spirit shook.

Half wroth, I turned to go; but oh! the look

He on me cast—a gaze I could not brook;

With deep relentings all my spirit shook.

"O dearest Lord," I cried, "I will obey,Say what thou wilt! only lead thou the way;For, following thee, my footsteps shall not stray."

"O dearest Lord," I cried, "I will obey,

Say what thou wilt! only lead thou the way;

For, following thee, my footsteps shall not stray."

He took me at my word. He went before;He led me to the dwellings of the poor,Where wolf-eyed Want keeps watch beside the door.

He took me at my word. He went before;

He led me to the dwellings of the poor,

Where wolf-eyed Want keeps watch beside the door.

He beckoned me, and I essayed to goWhere Sin and Crime, more sad than Want and Woe,Hold carnival, and Vice walks to and fro.

He beckoned me, and I essayed to go

Where Sin and Crime, more sad than Want and Woe,

Hold carnival, and Vice walks to and fro.

And when I faltered at the sight, He said,"Behold, I died for such! These hands have bled,This side for such has pierced been," he said.

And when I faltered at the sight, He said,

"Behold, I died for such! These hands have bled,

This side for such has pierced been," he said.

"Is the disciple greater than his Lord?The servant than his Master?" Oh, that word!It smote me like a sharp, two-edged sword!

"Is the disciple greater than his Lord?

The servant than his Master?" Oh, that word!

It smote me like a sharp, two-edged sword!

And since that hour, if any work of mineHas been accepted by my Lord as signThat I was following in his steps divine;

And since that hour, if any work of mine

Has been accepted by my Lord as sign

That I was following in his steps divine;

If, serving others (though imperfectly),My own poor life has worthier come to be,And I have grown in faith and charity,

If, serving others (though imperfectly),

My own poor life has worthier come to be,

And I have grown in faith and charity,

Dear Lord, be thine the glory! Thou hast wrought,All unaware, the blessing that I sought.O that these lips might praise thee as they ought!

Dear Lord, be thine the glory! Thou hast wrought,

All unaware, the blessing that I sought.

O that these lips might praise thee as they ought!

———

The sun gives ever; so the earth—What it can give so much 'tis worth;The ocean gives in many ways—Gives baths, gives fishes, rivers, bays;So, too, the air, it gives us breath.When it stops giving, comes in death.Give, give, be always giving;Who gives not is not living;The more you giveThe more you live.God's love hath in us wealth unheapedOnly by giving it is reaped;The body withers, and the mindIs pent up by a selfish rind.Give strength, give thought, give deeds, give pelf,Give love, give tears, and give thyself.Give, give, be always giving,Who gives not is not living;The more we giveThe more we live.

The sun gives ever; so the earth—

What it can give so much 'tis worth;

The ocean gives in many ways—

Gives baths, gives fishes, rivers, bays;

So, too, the air, it gives us breath.

When it stops giving, comes in death.

Give, give, be always giving;

Who gives not is not living;

The more you give

The more you live.

God's love hath in us wealth unheapedOnly by giving it is reaped;The body withers, and the mindIs pent up by a selfish rind.Give strength, give thought, give deeds, give pelf,Give love, give tears, and give thyself.Give, give, be always giving,Who gives not is not living;The more we giveThe more we live.

God's love hath in us wealth unheaped

Only by giving it is reaped;

The body withers, and the mind

Is pent up by a selfish rind.

Give strength, give thought, give deeds, give pelf,

Give love, give tears, and give thyself.

Give, give, be always giving,

Who gives not is not living;

The more we give

The more we live.

———

Slightest actions often meet the sorest needs,For the world wants daily little kindly deeds;O, what care and sorrow you may help removeWith your song and courage, sympathy and love.

Slightest actions often meet the sorest needs,

For the world wants daily little kindly deeds;

O, what care and sorrow you may help remove

With your song and courage, sympathy and love.

———

The look of sympathy; the gentle wordSpoken so low that only angels heard;The secret act of pure self-sacrifice,Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes;These are not lost.The silent tears that fall at dead of nightOver soiled robes that once were pure and white;The prayers that rise like incense from the soul,Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole;These are not lost.The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,When dreams had less of self and more of truth;The childhood's faith, so tranquil and so sweet,Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet;These are not lost.The kindly plans devised for others' good,So seldom guessed, so little understood;The quiet, steadfast love that strove to winSome wanderer from the ways of sin;These are not lost.Not lost, O Lord! for in Thy city brightOur eyes shall see the past by clearer light,And things long hidden from our gaze belowThou wilt reveal, and we shall surely knowThey were not lost.

The look of sympathy; the gentle wordSpoken so low that only angels heard;The secret act of pure self-sacrifice,Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes;These are not lost.

The look of sympathy; the gentle word

Spoken so low that only angels heard;

The secret act of pure self-sacrifice,

Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes;

These are not lost.

The silent tears that fall at dead of nightOver soiled robes that once were pure and white;The prayers that rise like incense from the soul,Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole;These are not lost.

The silent tears that fall at dead of night

Over soiled robes that once were pure and white;

The prayers that rise like incense from the soul,

Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole;

These are not lost.

The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,When dreams had less of self and more of truth;The childhood's faith, so tranquil and so sweet,Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet;These are not lost.

The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,

When dreams had less of self and more of truth;

The childhood's faith, so tranquil and so sweet,

Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet;

These are not lost.

The kindly plans devised for others' good,So seldom guessed, so little understood;The quiet, steadfast love that strove to winSome wanderer from the ways of sin;These are not lost.

The kindly plans devised for others' good,

So seldom guessed, so little understood;

The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win

Some wanderer from the ways of sin;

These are not lost.

Not lost, O Lord! for in Thy city brightOur eyes shall see the past by clearer light,And things long hidden from our gaze belowThou wilt reveal, and we shall surely knowThey were not lost.

Not lost, O Lord! for in Thy city bright

Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light,

And things long hidden from our gaze below

Thou wilt reveal, and we shall surely know

They were not lost.

———

There's never a rose in all the worldBut makes some green spray sweeter;There's never a wind in all the skyBut makes some bird wing fleeter;There's never a star but brings to heavenSome silver radiance tender;And never a rosy cloud but helpsTo crown the sunset splendor;No robin but may thrill some heart,His dawn like gladness voicing;God gives us all some small sweet wayTo set the world rejoicing.

There's never a rose in all the world

But makes some green spray sweeter;

There's never a wind in all the sky

But makes some bird wing fleeter;

There's never a star but brings to heaven

Some silver radiance tender;

And never a rosy cloud but helps

To crown the sunset splendor;

No robin but may thrill some heart,

His dawn like gladness voicing;

God gives us all some small sweet way

To set the world rejoicing.

———

O thou who sighest for a broader fieldWherein to sow the seeds of truth and right—Who fain a fuller, nobler power would wieldO'er human souls that languish for the light—Search well the realm that even now is thine!Canst not thou in some far-off corner findA heart sin-bound, like tree with sapping vine,Waiting for help its burdens to unbind?Some human plant, perchance beneath thine eyes,Pierced through with hidden thorns of idle fears;Or drooping low for need of light from skiesObscured by doubt-clouds raining poison tears?Some bruisèd soul the balm of love would heal;Some timid spirit faith would courage give;Or maimèd brother, who, though brave and leal,Still needeth thee, to rightly walk and live?O while one soul thou findest which hath not knownThe fullest help thy soul hath power to give,Sigh not for fields still broader than thine own,But, steadfast in thine own, more broadly live.—Julia Anna Wolcott.

O thou who sighest for a broader fieldWherein to sow the seeds of truth and right—Who fain a fuller, nobler power would wieldO'er human souls that languish for the light—

O thou who sighest for a broader field

Wherein to sow the seeds of truth and right—

Who fain a fuller, nobler power would wield

O'er human souls that languish for the light—

Search well the realm that even now is thine!Canst not thou in some far-off corner findA heart sin-bound, like tree with sapping vine,Waiting for help its burdens to unbind?

Search well the realm that even now is thine!

Canst not thou in some far-off corner find

A heart sin-bound, like tree with sapping vine,

Waiting for help its burdens to unbind?

Some human plant, perchance beneath thine eyes,Pierced through with hidden thorns of idle fears;Or drooping low for need of light from skiesObscured by doubt-clouds raining poison tears?

Some human plant, perchance beneath thine eyes,

Pierced through with hidden thorns of idle fears;

Or drooping low for need of light from skies

Obscured by doubt-clouds raining poison tears?

Some bruisèd soul the balm of love would heal;Some timid spirit faith would courage give;Or maimèd brother, who, though brave and leal,Still needeth thee, to rightly walk and live?

Some bruisèd soul the balm of love would heal;

Some timid spirit faith would courage give;

Or maimèd brother, who, though brave and leal,

Still needeth thee, to rightly walk and live?

O while one soul thou findest which hath not knownThe fullest help thy soul hath power to give,Sigh not for fields still broader than thine own,But, steadfast in thine own, more broadly live.

O while one soul thou findest which hath not known

The fullest help thy soul hath power to give,

Sigh not for fields still broader than thine own,

But, steadfast in thine own, more broadly live.

—Julia Anna Wolcott.

———

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