She,that lieth in thy bosom, the tender wife of thy affections,Must obey thee, and be subject, that evil drop not on thy dwelling.The child that is used to constraint, feareth not more than he loveth;But give thy son his way, he will hate thee and scorn thee together.The master of a well-ordered home knoweth to be kind to his servants;Yet he exacteth reverence, and each one feareth at his post.There is nothing on earth so lowly, but duty giveth it importance;No station so degrading, but it is ennobled by obedience:Yea, break stones upon the highway, acknowledging the Lord in thy lot,Happy shalt thou be, and honourable, more than many children of the mighty.Thou that despisest the outward forms, beware thou lose not the inward spirit;For they are as words unto ideas, as symbols to things unseen.Keep then the form that is good; retain, and do reverence to example;And in all things observe subordination, for that is the whole duty of man.
She,that lieth in thy bosom, the tender wife of thy affections,
Must obey thee, and be subject, that evil drop not on thy dwelling.
The child that is used to constraint, feareth not more than he loveth;
But give thy son his way, he will hate thee and scorn thee together.
The master of a well-ordered home knoweth to be kind to his servants;
Yet he exacteth reverence, and each one feareth at his post.
There is nothing on earth so lowly, but duty giveth it importance;
No station so degrading, but it is ennobled by obedience:
Yea, break stones upon the highway, acknowledging the Lord in thy lot,
Happy shalt thou be, and honourable, more than many children of the mighty.
Thou that despisest the outward forms, beware thou lose not the inward spirit;
For they are as words unto ideas, as symbols to things unseen.
Keep then the form that is good; retain, and do reverence to example;
And in all things observe subordination, for that is the whole duty of man.
A horseknoweth his rider, be he confident or timid,And the fierce spirit of Bucephalus stoopeth unto none but Alexander;The tigress, roused in the jungle by the prying spaniels of the fowler,Will quail at the eye of man, so he assert his dignity;Nay, the very ships, those giant swans breasting the mighty waters,Roll in the trough, or break the wave, to the pilot's fear or courage:How much more shall man, discerning the Fountain of authority,Bow to superior commands, and make his own obeyed.And yet, in travelling the world, hast thou not often knownA gallant host led on to ruin by a feeble Xerxes?Hast thou not often seen the wanton luxury of indolenceSullying with its sleepy mist the tarnished crown of headship?Alas! for a thousand fathers, whose indulgent slothHath emptied the vial of confusion over a thousand homes:Alas! for the palaces and hovels, that might have been nurseries for heaven,By hot intestine broils blighted into schools for hell:None knoweth his place, yet all refuse to serve,None weareth the crown, yet all usurp the sceptre;And perchance some fiercer spirit, of natural nobility of mind,That needed but the kindness of constraint to have grown up great and good,Now—the rich harvest of his heart choked by unweeded tares,—All bold to dare and do, unchecked by wholesome fear,A scoffer about bigotry and priestcraft, a rebel against government and God,And standard-bearer of the turbulent, leading on the sons of Belial,Such an one is king of that small state, head tyrant of the thirty,Brandishing the torch of discord in his village home:And the timid Eli of the house, yon humble parish-priest,Liveth in shame and sorrow, fearing his own handywork;The mother, heart-stricken years agone, hath dropped into an early grave;The silent sisters long to leave a home they cannot love;The brothers, casting off restraint, follow their wayward wills;And the chance-guest, early departing, blesseth his kind stars,That on his humbler home hath brooded no domestic curse!Yet is that curse the fruit; wouldest thou the root of the evil?A kindness—most unkind, that hath always spared the rod;A weak and numbing indecision in the mind that should be master;A foolish love, pregnant of hate, that never frowned on sin;A moral cowardice of heart, that never dared command.
A horseknoweth his rider, be he confident or timid,
And the fierce spirit of Bucephalus stoopeth unto none but Alexander;
The tigress, roused in the jungle by the prying spaniels of the fowler,
Will quail at the eye of man, so he assert his dignity;
Nay, the very ships, those giant swans breasting the mighty waters,
Roll in the trough, or break the wave, to the pilot's fear or courage:
How much more shall man, discerning the Fountain of authority,
Bow to superior commands, and make his own obeyed.
And yet, in travelling the world, hast thou not often known
A gallant host led on to ruin by a feeble Xerxes?
Hast thou not often seen the wanton luxury of indolence
Sullying with its sleepy mist the tarnished crown of headship?
Alas! for a thousand fathers, whose indulgent sloth
Hath emptied the vial of confusion over a thousand homes:
Alas! for the palaces and hovels, that might have been nurseries for heaven,
By hot intestine broils blighted into schools for hell:
None knoweth his place, yet all refuse to serve,
None weareth the crown, yet all usurp the sceptre;
And perchance some fiercer spirit, of natural nobility of mind,
That needed but the kindness of constraint to have grown up great and good,
Now—the rich harvest of his heart choked by unweeded tares,—
All bold to dare and do, unchecked by wholesome fear,
A scoffer about bigotry and priestcraft, a rebel against government and God,
And standard-bearer of the turbulent, leading on the sons of Belial,
Such an one is king of that small state, head tyrant of the thirty,
Brandishing the torch of discord in his village home:
And the timid Eli of the house, yon humble parish-priest,
Liveth in shame and sorrow, fearing his own handywork;
The mother, heart-stricken years agone, hath dropped into an early grave;
The silent sisters long to leave a home they cannot love;
The brothers, casting off restraint, follow their wayward wills;
And the chance-guest, early departing, blesseth his kind stars,
That on his humbler home hath brooded no domestic curse!
Yet is that curse the fruit; wouldest thou the root of the evil?
A kindness—most unkind, that hath always spared the rod;
A weak and numbing indecision in the mind that should be master;
A foolish love, pregnant of hate, that never frowned on sin;
A moral cowardice of heart, that never dared command.
A kingdomis a nest of families, and a family a small kingdom;And the government of whole or part differeth in nothing but extent.The house, where the master ruleth, is strong in united subjection,And the only commandment with promise, being honoured, is a blessing to that house:But and if he yieldeth up the reins, it is weak in discordant anarchy,And the bonds of love and union melt away, as ropes of sand.The realm, that is ruled with vigour, lacketh neither peace nor glory,It dreadeth not foes from without, nor the sons of riot from within:But the meanness of temporizing fear robbeth a kingdom of its honour,And the weakness of indulgent sloth ravageth its bowels with discord.The best of human governments is the patriarchal rule;The authorized supremacy of one, the prescriptive subjection of many:Therefore, the children of the East have thriven from age to age,Obeying, even as a god, the royal father of Cathay:Therefore, to this our day, the Rechabite wanteth not a man,But they stand before the Lord, forsaking not the mandate of their sire:Therefore shall Magog among nations arise from his northern lair,And rend, in the fury of his power, the insurgent world beneath him:For the thunderbolt of concentrated strength can be hurled by the will of one,While the dissipated forces of many are harmless as summer lightning.
A kingdomis a nest of families, and a family a small kingdom;
And the government of whole or part differeth in nothing but extent.
The house, where the master ruleth, is strong in united subjection,
And the only commandment with promise, being honoured, is a blessing to that house:
But and if he yieldeth up the reins, it is weak in discordant anarchy,
And the bonds of love and union melt away, as ropes of sand.
The realm, that is ruled with vigour, lacketh neither peace nor glory,
It dreadeth not foes from without, nor the sons of riot from within:
But the meanness of temporizing fear robbeth a kingdom of its honour,
And the weakness of indulgent sloth ravageth its bowels with discord.
The best of human governments is the patriarchal rule;
The authorized supremacy of one, the prescriptive subjection of many:
Therefore, the children of the East have thriven from age to age,
Obeying, even as a god, the royal father of Cathay:
Therefore, to this our day, the Rechabite wanteth not a man,
But they stand before the Lord, forsaking not the mandate of their sire:
Therefore shall Magog among nations arise from his northern lair,
And rend, in the fury of his power, the insurgent world beneath him:
For the thunderbolt of concentrated strength can be hurled by the will of one,
While the dissipated forces of many are harmless as summer lightning.
In thesilent watches of the night, calm night that breedeth thoughts,When the task-weary mind disporteth in the careless play-hours of sleep,I dreamed; and behold, a valley, green and sunny and well watered,And thousands moving across it, thousands and tens of thousands:And though many seemed faint and toil-worn, and stumbled often, and fell,Yet moved they on unresting, as the ever-flowing cataract.Then I noted adders in the grass, and pitfalls under the flowers,And chasms yawned among the hills, and the ground was cracked and slippery:But Hope and her brother Fear suffered not a foot to linger;Bright phantoms of false joys beckoned alluringly forward,While yelling grisly shapes of dread came hunting on behind:And ceaselessly, like Lapland swarms, that miserable crowd sped alongTo the mist-involved banks of a dark and sullen river.There saw I, midway in the water, standing a giant fisher,And he held many lines in his hand, and they called him Iron Destiny.So I tracked those subtle chains, and each held one among the multitude:Then I understood what hindered, that they rested not in their path:For the fisher had sport in his fishing, and drew in his lines continually,And the new-born babe, and the aged man, were dragged into that dark river:And he pulled all those myriads along, and none might rest by the way,Till many, for sheer weariness, were eager to plunge into the drowning stream.
In thesilent watches of the night, calm night that breedeth thoughts,
When the task-weary mind disporteth in the careless play-hours of sleep,
I dreamed; and behold, a valley, green and sunny and well watered,
And thousands moving across it, thousands and tens of thousands:
And though many seemed faint and toil-worn, and stumbled often, and fell,
Yet moved they on unresting, as the ever-flowing cataract.
Then I noted adders in the grass, and pitfalls under the flowers,
And chasms yawned among the hills, and the ground was cracked and slippery:
But Hope and her brother Fear suffered not a foot to linger;
Bright phantoms of false joys beckoned alluringly forward,
While yelling grisly shapes of dread came hunting on behind:
And ceaselessly, like Lapland swarms, that miserable crowd sped along
To the mist-involved banks of a dark and sullen river.
There saw I, midway in the water, standing a giant fisher,
And he held many lines in his hand, and they called him Iron Destiny.
So I tracked those subtle chains, and each held one among the multitude:
Then I understood what hindered, that they rested not in their path:
For the fisher had sport in his fishing, and drew in his lines continually,
And the new-born babe, and the aged man, were dragged into that dark river:
And he pulled all those myriads along, and none might rest by the way,
Till many, for sheer weariness, were eager to plunge into the drowning stream.
So Iknew that valley was Life, and it sloped to the waters of Death.But far on the thither side spread out a calm and silent shore,Where all was tranquil as a sleep, and the crowded strand was quiet:And I saw there many I had known, but their eyes glared chillingly upon me,As set in deepest slumber; and they pressed their fingers to their lips.Then I knew that shore was the dwelling of Rest, where spirits held their Sabbath,And it seemed they would have told me much, but they might not break that silence;For the law of their being was mystery: they glided on, hushing as they went.Yet further, under the sun, at the roots of purple mountains,I noted a blaze of glory, as the night-fires on northern skies;And I heard the hum of joy, as it were a sea of melody;And far as the eye could reach, were millions of happy creaturesBasking in the golden light; and I knew that land was Heaven.Then the hill whereon I stood split asunder, and a crater yawned at my feet,Black and deep and dreadful, fenced round with ragged rocks;Dimly was the darkness lit up by spires of distant flame:And I saw below a moving mass of life, like reptiles bred in corruption,Where all was terrible unrest, shrieks and groans and thunder.
So Iknew that valley was Life, and it sloped to the waters of Death.
But far on the thither side spread out a calm and silent shore,
Where all was tranquil as a sleep, and the crowded strand was quiet:
And I saw there many I had known, but their eyes glared chillingly upon me,
As set in deepest slumber; and they pressed their fingers to their lips.
Then I knew that shore was the dwelling of Rest, where spirits held their Sabbath,
And it seemed they would have told me much, but they might not break that silence;
For the law of their being was mystery: they glided on, hushing as they went.
Yet further, under the sun, at the roots of purple mountains,
I noted a blaze of glory, as the night-fires on northern skies;
And I heard the hum of joy, as it were a sea of melody;
And far as the eye could reach, were millions of happy creatures
Basking in the golden light; and I knew that land was Heaven.
Then the hill whereon I stood split asunder, and a crater yawned at my feet,
Black and deep and dreadful, fenced round with ragged rocks;
Dimly was the darkness lit up by spires of distant flame:
And I saw below a moving mass of life, like reptiles bred in corruption,
Where all was terrible unrest, shrieks and groans and thunder.
So Iwoke, and I thought upon my dream; for it seemed of Wisdom's ministration.What man is he that findeth Rest, though he hunt for it year after year?As a child he had not yet been wearied, and cared not then to court it;As a youth he loved not to be quiet, for excitement spurred him into strife;As a man he tracketh rest in vain, toiling painfully to catch it,But still is he pulled from the pursuit, by the strong compulsion of his fate:So he hopeth to have peace in old age, as he cannot rest in manhood,But troubles thicken with his years, till Death hath dodged him to the grave.There remaineth a rest for the spirit on the shadowy side of life;But unto this world's pilgrim no rest for the sole of his foot.Ever, from stage to stage, he travelleth wearily forward,And though he pluck flowers by the way, he may not sleep among the flowers.Mind is the perpetual motion; for it is a running streamFrom an unfathomable source, the depth of the Divine Intelligence:And though it be stopped in its flowing, yet hath it a current within,The surface may sleep unruffled, but underneath are whirlpools of contention.Seekest thou rest, O mortal?—seek it no more on earth,For destiny will not cease from dragging thee through the rough wilderness of life;Seekest thou rest, O immortal?—hope not to find it in heaven,For sloth yieldeth not happiness: the bliss of a spirit is action.Rest dwelleth only on an island in the midst of the ocean of existence,Where the world-weary soul for a while may fold its tired wings,Until, after short sufficient slumber, it is quickened unto deathless energy,And speedeth in eagle flight to the Sun of unapproachable Perfection.
So Iwoke, and I thought upon my dream; for it seemed of Wisdom's ministration.
What man is he that findeth Rest, though he hunt for it year after year?
As a child he had not yet been wearied, and cared not then to court it;
As a youth he loved not to be quiet, for excitement spurred him into strife;
As a man he tracketh rest in vain, toiling painfully to catch it,
But still is he pulled from the pursuit, by the strong compulsion of his fate:
So he hopeth to have peace in old age, as he cannot rest in manhood,
But troubles thicken with his years, till Death hath dodged him to the grave.
There remaineth a rest for the spirit on the shadowy side of life;
But unto this world's pilgrim no rest for the sole of his foot.
Ever, from stage to stage, he travelleth wearily forward,
And though he pluck flowers by the way, he may not sleep among the flowers.
Mind is the perpetual motion; for it is a running stream
From an unfathomable source, the depth of the Divine Intelligence:
And though it be stopped in its flowing, yet hath it a current within,
The surface may sleep unruffled, but underneath are whirlpools of contention.
Seekest thou rest, O mortal?—seek it no more on earth,
For destiny will not cease from dragging thee through the rough wilderness of life;
Seekest thou rest, O immortal?—hope not to find it in heaven,
For sloth yieldeth not happiness: the bliss of a spirit is action.
Rest dwelleth only on an island in the midst of the ocean of existence,
Where the world-weary soul for a while may fold its tired wings,
Until, after short sufficient slumber, it is quickened unto deathless energy,
And speedeth in eagle flight to the Sun of unapproachable Perfection.
Viceis grown aweary of her gawds, and donneth russet garments,Loving for change to walk as a nun, beneath a modest veil:For Pride hath noted how all admire the fairness of Humility,And to clutch the praise he coveteth, is content to be drest in hair-cloth;And wily Lust tempteth the young heart, that is proof against the bravery of harlots,With timid tears and retiring looks of an artful seeming maid;And indolent Apathy, sleepily ashamed of his dull lack-lustre face,Is glad of the livery of meekness, that charitable cloak and cowl;And Hatred hideth his demon frown beneath a gentle mask;And Slander, snake-like, creepeth in the dust, thinking to escape recrimination.But the world hath gained somewhat from its years, and is quick to penetrate disguises,Neither in all these is it deceived, but divideth the true from the false.
Viceis grown aweary of her gawds, and donneth russet garments,
Loving for change to walk as a nun, beneath a modest veil:
For Pride hath noted how all admire the fairness of Humility,
And to clutch the praise he coveteth, is content to be drest in hair-cloth;
And wily Lust tempteth the young heart, that is proof against the bravery of harlots,
With timid tears and retiring looks of an artful seeming maid;
And indolent Apathy, sleepily ashamed of his dull lack-lustre face,
Is glad of the livery of meekness, that charitable cloak and cowl;
And Hatred hideth his demon frown beneath a gentle mask;
And Slander, snake-like, creepeth in the dust, thinking to escape recrimination.
But the world hath gained somewhat from its years, and is quick to penetrate disguises,
Neither in all these is it deceived, but divideth the true from the false.
Yetthere is a meanness of spirit, that is fair in the eyes of most men,Yea, and seemeth fair unto itself, loving to be thought Humility.Its choler is not roused by insolence, neither do injuries disturb it:Honest indignation is strange unto its breast, and just reproof unto its lip.It shrinketh, looking fearfully on men, fawning at the feet of the great;The breath of calumny is sweet unto its ear, and it courteth the rod of persecution.But what! art thou not a man, deputed chief of the creation?Art thou not a soldier of the right, militant for God and good?Shall virtue and truth be degraded, because thou art too base to uphold them?Or Goliath be bolder in blaspheming for want of a David in the camp?I say not, avenge injuries; for the ministry of vengeance is not thine:But wherefore rebuke not a liar? wherefore do dishonour to thyself?Wherefore let the evil triumph, when the just and the right are on thy side?Such Humility is abject, it lacketh the life of sensibility,And that resignation is but mock, where the burden is not felt:Suspect thyself and thy meekness: thou art mean and indifferent to sin;And the heart that should grieve and forgive, is case-hardened and forgetteth.
Yetthere is a meanness of spirit, that is fair in the eyes of most men,
Yea, and seemeth fair unto itself, loving to be thought Humility.
Its choler is not roused by insolence, neither do injuries disturb it:
Honest indignation is strange unto its breast, and just reproof unto its lip.
It shrinketh, looking fearfully on men, fawning at the feet of the great;
The breath of calumny is sweet unto its ear, and it courteth the rod of persecution.
But what! art thou not a man, deputed chief of the creation?
Art thou not a soldier of the right, militant for God and good?
Shall virtue and truth be degraded, because thou art too base to uphold them?
Or Goliath be bolder in blaspheming for want of a David in the camp?
I say not, avenge injuries; for the ministry of vengeance is not thine:
But wherefore rebuke not a liar? wherefore do dishonour to thyself?
Wherefore let the evil triumph, when the just and the right are on thy side?
Such Humility is abject, it lacketh the life of sensibility,
And that resignation is but mock, where the burden is not felt:
Suspect thyself and thy meekness: thou art mean and indifferent to sin;
And the heart that should grieve and forgive, is case-hardened and forgetteth.
Humilitymainly becometh the converse of man with his Maker,But oftentimes it seemeth out of place in the intercourse of man with man:Yea, it is the cringer to his equal, that is chiefly seen bold to his God,While the martyr, whom a world cannot brow-beat, is humble as a child before Him.Render unto all men their due, but remember thou also art a man,And cheat not thyself of the reverence which is owing to thy reasonable being.Be courteous, and listen, and learn: but teach and answer if thou canst:Serve thee of thy neighbour's wisdom, but be not enslaved as to a master.Where thou perceivest knowledge, bend the ear of attention and respect;But yield not further to the teaching, than as thy mind is warranted by reasons.Better is an obstinate disputant, that yieldeth inch by inch,Than the shallow traitor to himself, who surrendereth to half an argument.
Humilitymainly becometh the converse of man with his Maker,
But oftentimes it seemeth out of place in the intercourse of man with man:
Yea, it is the cringer to his equal, that is chiefly seen bold to his God,
While the martyr, whom a world cannot brow-beat, is humble as a child before Him.
Render unto all men their due, but remember thou also art a man,
And cheat not thyself of the reverence which is owing to thy reasonable being.
Be courteous, and listen, and learn: but teach and answer if thou canst:
Serve thee of thy neighbour's wisdom, but be not enslaved as to a master.
Where thou perceivest knowledge, bend the ear of attention and respect;
But yield not further to the teaching, than as thy mind is warranted by reasons.
Better is an obstinate disputant, that yieldeth inch by inch,
Than the shallow traitor to himself, who surrendereth to half an argument.
Modestywinneth good report, but scorn cometh close upon servility;Therefore, use meekness with discretion, casting not pearls before swine.For a fool will tread upon thy neck, if he seeth thee lying in the dust;And there be companies and seasons where a resolute bearing is but duty.If a good man discloseth his secret failings unto the view of the profane,What doeth he but harm unto his brother, confirming him in his sin?There is a concealment that is right, and an open-mouthed humility that erreth;There is a candour near akin to folly, and a meekness looking like shame.Masculine sentiments, vigorously holden, well become a man;But a weak mind hath a timorous grasp, and mistaketh it for tenderness of conscience.Many are despised for their folly, who put it to the account of their religion,And because men treat them with contempt, they look to their God for glory;But contempt shall still be their reward, who betray their Master unto ridicule,Reflecting on Him in themselves, meanness and ignorance and cowardice.A Christian hath a royal spirit, and need not be ashamed but unto One:Among just men walketh he softly, but the world should see him as a champion.His humbleness is far unlike the shame that covereth the profligate and weak,When the sober reproof of virtue hath touched their tingling ears;It is born of love and wisdom, and is worthy of all honour,And the sweet persuasion of its smile changeth contempt into reverence.
Modestywinneth good report, but scorn cometh close upon servility;
Therefore, use meekness with discretion, casting not pearls before swine.
For a fool will tread upon thy neck, if he seeth thee lying in the dust;
And there be companies and seasons where a resolute bearing is but duty.
If a good man discloseth his secret failings unto the view of the profane,
What doeth he but harm unto his brother, confirming him in his sin?
There is a concealment that is right, and an open-mouthed humility that erreth;
There is a candour near akin to folly, and a meekness looking like shame.
Masculine sentiments, vigorously holden, well become a man;
But a weak mind hath a timorous grasp, and mistaketh it for tenderness of conscience.
Many are despised for their folly, who put it to the account of their religion,
And because men treat them with contempt, they look to their God for glory;
But contempt shall still be their reward, who betray their Master unto ridicule,
Reflecting on Him in themselves, meanness and ignorance and cowardice.
A Christian hath a royal spirit, and need not be ashamed but unto One:
Among just men walketh he softly, but the world should see him as a champion.
His humbleness is far unlike the shame that covereth the profligate and weak,
When the sober reproof of virtue hath touched their tingling ears;
It is born of love and wisdom, and is worthy of all honour,
And the sweet persuasion of its smile changeth contempt into reverence.
A manof a haughty spirit is daily adding to his enemies:He standeth as the Arab in the desert, and the hands of all men are against him:A man of a base mind daily subtracteth from his friends,For he holdeth himself so cheaply, that others learn to despise him:But where the meekness of self-knowledge veileth the front of self-respect,There look thou for the man, whom none can know but they will honour.Humility is the softening shadow before the stature of Excellence,And lieth lowly on the ground, beloved and lovely as the violet:Humility is the fair-haired maid, that calleth Worth her brother,The gentle silent nurse, that fostereth infant virtues:Humility bringeth no excuse; she is welcome to God and to man:Her countenance is needful unto all, who would prosper in either world:And the mild light of her sweet face is mirrored in the eyes of her companions,And straightway stand they accepted, children of penitence and love.As when the blind man is nigh unto a rose, its sweetness is the herald of its beauty,So when thou savourest Humility, be sure thou art nigh unto merit.A gift rejoiceth the covetous, and praise fatteneth the vain,And the pride of man delighteth in the humble bearing of his fellow;But to the tender benevolence of the unthanked Almoner of good,Humility is queen among the graces, for she giveth Him occasion to bestow.
A manof a haughty spirit is daily adding to his enemies:
He standeth as the Arab in the desert, and the hands of all men are against him:
A man of a base mind daily subtracteth from his friends,
For he holdeth himself so cheaply, that others learn to despise him:
But where the meekness of self-knowledge veileth the front of self-respect,
There look thou for the man, whom none can know but they will honour.
Humility is the softening shadow before the stature of Excellence,
And lieth lowly on the ground, beloved and lovely as the violet:
Humility is the fair-haired maid, that calleth Worth her brother,
The gentle silent nurse, that fostereth infant virtues:
Humility bringeth no excuse; she is welcome to God and to man:
Her countenance is needful unto all, who would prosper in either world:
And the mild light of her sweet face is mirrored in the eyes of her companions,
And straightway stand they accepted, children of penitence and love.
As when the blind man is nigh unto a rose, its sweetness is the herald of its beauty,
So when thou savourest Humility, be sure thou art nigh unto merit.
A gift rejoiceth the covetous, and praise fatteneth the vain,
And the pride of man delighteth in the humble bearing of his fellow;
But to the tender benevolence of the unthanked Almoner of good,
Humility is queen among the graces, for she giveth Him occasion to bestow.
Deepis the sea, and deep is hell, but Pride mineth deeper;It is coiled as a poisonous worm about the foundations of the soul.If thou expose it in thy motives, and track it in thy springs of thought,Complacent in its own detection, it will seem indignant virtue;Smoothly will it gratulate thy skill, O subtle anatomist of self,And spurn at its very being, while it nestleth the deeper in thy bosom.Pride is a double traitor, and betrayeth itself to entrap thee,Making thee vain of thy self-knowledge; proud of thy discoveries of Pride.Fruitlessly thou strainest for humility, by darkly diving into self;Rather look away from innate evil, and gaze upon extraneous good:For in sounding the deep things of the heart, thou shalt learn to be vain of its capacities,But in viewing the heights above thee, thou shalt be taught thy littleness:Could an emmet pry into itself, it might marvel at its own anatomy,But let it look on eagles, to discern how mean a thing it is.And all things hang upon comparison; to the greater, great is small:Neither is there anything so vile, but somewhat yet is viler:On all sides is there an infinity: the culprit at the gallows hath his worse,And the virgin martyr at the stake need not look far for a better.Therefore see thou that thine aim reacheth unto higher than thyself:Beware that the standard of thy soul wave from the loftiest battlement:For Pride is a pestilent meteor, flitting on the marshes of corruption,That will lure thee forward to thy death, if thou seek to track it to its source:Pride is a gloomy bow, arching the infernal firmament,That will lead thee on, if thou wilt hunt it, even to the dwelling of despair.Deep calleth unto deep, and mountain overtoppeth mountain,And still shalt thou fathom to no end the depth and the height of Pride:For it is the vast ambition of the soul, warped to an idol object,And nothing but a Deity in Self can quench its insatiable thirst.
Deepis the sea, and deep is hell, but Pride mineth deeper;
It is coiled as a poisonous worm about the foundations of the soul.
If thou expose it in thy motives, and track it in thy springs of thought,
Complacent in its own detection, it will seem indignant virtue;
Smoothly will it gratulate thy skill, O subtle anatomist of self,
And spurn at its very being, while it nestleth the deeper in thy bosom.
Pride is a double traitor, and betrayeth itself to entrap thee,
Making thee vain of thy self-knowledge; proud of thy discoveries of Pride.
Fruitlessly thou strainest for humility, by darkly diving into self;
Rather look away from innate evil, and gaze upon extraneous good:
For in sounding the deep things of the heart, thou shalt learn to be vain of its capacities,
But in viewing the heights above thee, thou shalt be taught thy littleness:
Could an emmet pry into itself, it might marvel at its own anatomy,
But let it look on eagles, to discern how mean a thing it is.
And all things hang upon comparison; to the greater, great is small:
Neither is there anything so vile, but somewhat yet is viler:
On all sides is there an infinity: the culprit at the gallows hath his worse,
And the virgin martyr at the stake need not look far for a better.
Therefore see thou that thine aim reacheth unto higher than thyself:
Beware that the standard of thy soul wave from the loftiest battlement:
For Pride is a pestilent meteor, flitting on the marshes of corruption,
That will lure thee forward to thy death, if thou seek to track it to its source:
Pride is a gloomy bow, arching the infernal firmament,
That will lead thee on, if thou wilt hunt it, even to the dwelling of despair.
Deep calleth unto deep, and mountain overtoppeth mountain,
And still shalt thou fathom to no end the depth and the height of Pride:
For it is the vast ambition of the soul, warped to an idol object,
And nothing but a Deity in Self can quench its insatiable thirst.
Beaware of the smiling enemy, that openly sheatheth his weapon,But mingleth poison in secret with the sacred salt of hospitality:For Pride will lie dormant in thy heart, to snatch his secret opportunity,Watching, as a lion-ant, in the bottom of his toils.Stay not to parley with thy foe, for his tongue is more potent than his arm;But be wiser, fighting against Pride in the simple panoply of prayer.As one also of the poets hath said, let not the Proteus escape thee;For he will blaze forth as fire, and quench himself in likeness of water;He will fright thee as a roaring beast, or charm thee as a subtle reptile.Mark, amid all his transformations, the complicate deceitfulness of Pride,And the more he striveth to elude thee, bind him the closer in thy toils.Prayer is the net that snareth him; prayer is the fetter that holdeth him:Thou canst not nourish Pride, while waiting as an almsman on thy God,—Waiting in sincerity and trust, or Pride shall meet thee even there;Yea, from the palaces of Heaven, hath Pride cast down his millions.Root up the mandrake from thy heart, though it cost thee blood and groans,Or the cherished garden of thy graces will fade and perish utterly.
Beaware of the smiling enemy, that openly sheatheth his weapon,
But mingleth poison in secret with the sacred salt of hospitality:
For Pride will lie dormant in thy heart, to snatch his secret opportunity,
Watching, as a lion-ant, in the bottom of his toils.
Stay not to parley with thy foe, for his tongue is more potent than his arm;
But be wiser, fighting against Pride in the simple panoply of prayer.
As one also of the poets hath said, let not the Proteus escape thee;
For he will blaze forth as fire, and quench himself in likeness of water;
He will fright thee as a roaring beast, or charm thee as a subtle reptile.
Mark, amid all his transformations, the complicate deceitfulness of Pride,
And the more he striveth to elude thee, bind him the closer in thy toils.
Prayer is the net that snareth him; prayer is the fetter that holdeth him:
Thou canst not nourish Pride, while waiting as an almsman on thy God,—
Waiting in sincerity and trust, or Pride shall meet thee even there;
Yea, from the palaces of Heaven, hath Pride cast down his millions.
Root up the mandrake from thy heart, though it cost thee blood and groans,
Or the cherished garden of thy graces will fade and perish utterly.
I knewthat age was enriched with the hard-earned wages of knowledge,And I saw that hoary wisdom was bred in the school of disappointment:I noted that the wisest of youth, though provident and cautious of evil,Yet sailed along unsteadily, as lacking some ballast of the mind:And the cause seemed to lie in this, that while they considered around them,And warded off all dangers from without, they forgat their own weakness within.So steer they in self-confidence, until, from the multitude of perils,They begin to be wary of themselves, and learn the first lesson of Experience.I knew that in the morning of life, before its wearisome journey,The youthful soul doth expand, in the simple luxury of being;It hath not contracted its wishes, nor set a limit to its hopes;The wing of fancy is unclipt, and sin hath not seared the feelings:Each feature is stamped with immortality, for all its desires are infinite,And it seeketh an ocean of happiness, to fill the deep hollow within.But the old and the grave look on, pitying that generous youth,For they also have tasted long ago the bitterness of hope destroyed:They pity him, and are sad, remembering the days that are past,But they know he must taste for himself, or he will not give ear to their wisdom.For Experience hath another lesson, which a man will do well if he learn,By checking the flight of expectation, to cheat disappointment of its pain.
I knewthat age was enriched with the hard-earned wages of knowledge,
And I saw that hoary wisdom was bred in the school of disappointment:
I noted that the wisest of youth, though provident and cautious of evil,
Yet sailed along unsteadily, as lacking some ballast of the mind:
And the cause seemed to lie in this, that while they considered around them,
And warded off all dangers from without, they forgat their own weakness within.
So steer they in self-confidence, until, from the multitude of perils,
They begin to be wary of themselves, and learn the first lesson of Experience.
I knew that in the morning of life, before its wearisome journey,
The youthful soul doth expand, in the simple luxury of being;
It hath not contracted its wishes, nor set a limit to its hopes;
The wing of fancy is unclipt, and sin hath not seared the feelings:
Each feature is stamped with immortality, for all its desires are infinite,
And it seeketh an ocean of happiness, to fill the deep hollow within.
But the old and the grave look on, pitying that generous youth,
For they also have tasted long ago the bitterness of hope destroyed:
They pity him, and are sad, remembering the days that are past,
But they know he must taste for himself, or he will not give ear to their wisdom.
For Experience hath another lesson, which a man will do well if he learn,
By checking the flight of expectation, to cheat disappointment of its pain.
Experienceteacheth many things, and all men are his scholars:Yet is he a strange tutor, unteaching that which he hath taught.Youth is confident, manhood wary, and old age confident again:Youth is kind, manhood cold, and age returneth unto kindness.For youth suspecteth nought, till manhood, bitterly learned,Mistrusteth all, overleaping the mark; and age correcteth his excess.Suspicion is the scaffold unto faith, a temporary needful eyesore,By which the strong man's dwelling is slowly builded up behind;But soon as the top-stone hath been set to the well-proved goodly edifice,The scaffold is torn down, and timely trust taketh its long leave of suspicion.
Experienceteacheth many things, and all men are his scholars:
Yet is he a strange tutor, unteaching that which he hath taught.
Youth is confident, manhood wary, and old age confident again:
Youth is kind, manhood cold, and age returneth unto kindness.
For youth suspecteth nought, till manhood, bitterly learned,
Mistrusteth all, overleaping the mark; and age correcteth his excess.
Suspicion is the scaffold unto faith, a temporary needful eyesore,
By which the strong man's dwelling is slowly builded up behind;
But soon as the top-stone hath been set to the well-proved goodly edifice,
The scaffold is torn down, and timely trust taketh its long leave of suspicion.
A thousandvolumes in a thousand tongues enshrine the lessons of Experience,Yet a man shall read them all, and go forth none the wiser:For self-love lendeth him a glass, to colour all he conneth,Lest in the features of another he find his own complexion.And we secretly judge of ourselves as differing greatly from all men,And love to challenge causes to show how we can master their effects:Pride is pampered in expecting that we need not fear a common fate,Or wrong-headed prejudice exulteth, in combating old Experience;Or perchance caprice and discontent are the spurs that goad us into danger,Careless, and half in hope to find there an enemy to joust with.Private Experience is an unsafe teacher, for we rarely learn both sides,And from the gilt surface reckon not on steel beneath:The torrid sons of Guinea think scorn of icy seas,And the frostbitten Greenlander disbelieveth suns too hot.But thou, student of Wisdom, feed on the marrow of the matter:If thou wilt suspect, let it be thyself; if thou wilt expect, let it not be gladness.
A thousandvolumes in a thousand tongues enshrine the lessons of Experience,
Yet a man shall read them all, and go forth none the wiser:
For self-love lendeth him a glass, to colour all he conneth,
Lest in the features of another he find his own complexion.
And we secretly judge of ourselves as differing greatly from all men,
And love to challenge causes to show how we can master their effects:
Pride is pampered in expecting that we need not fear a common fate,
Or wrong-headed prejudice exulteth, in combating old Experience;
Or perchance caprice and discontent are the spurs that goad us into danger,
Careless, and half in hope to find there an enemy to joust with.
Private Experience is an unsafe teacher, for we rarely learn both sides,
And from the gilt surface reckon not on steel beneath:
The torrid sons of Guinea think scorn of icy seas,
And the frostbitten Greenlander disbelieveth suns too hot.
But thou, student of Wisdom, feed on the marrow of the matter:
If thou wilt suspect, let it be thyself; if thou wilt expect, let it not be gladness.
Rashly,nor ofttimes truly, doth man pass judgment on his brother;For he seeth not the springs of the heart, nor heareth the reasons of the mind.And the world is not wiser than of old, when justice was meted by the sword,When the spear avenged the wrong, and the lot decided the right,When the footsteps of blinded innocence were tracked by burning plough-shares,And the still condemning water delivered up the wizard to the stake:For we wait, like the sage of Salamis, to see what the end will be,Fixing the right or the wrong, by the issues of failure or success.Judge not of things by their events: neither of character by providence;And count not a man more evil, because he is more unfortunate:For the blessings of a better covenant lie not in the sunshine of prosperity,But pain and chastisement the rather show the wise Father's love.
Rashly,nor ofttimes truly, doth man pass judgment on his brother;
For he seeth not the springs of the heart, nor heareth the reasons of the mind.
And the world is not wiser than of old, when justice was meted by the sword,
When the spear avenged the wrong, and the lot decided the right,
When the footsteps of blinded innocence were tracked by burning plough-shares,
And the still condemning water delivered up the wizard to the stake:
For we wait, like the sage of Salamis, to see what the end will be,
Fixing the right or the wrong, by the issues of failure or success.
Judge not of things by their events: neither of character by providence;
And count not a man more evil, because he is more unfortunate:
For the blessings of a better covenant lie not in the sunshine of prosperity,
But pain and chastisement the rather show the wise Father's love.
Beholdthat daughter of the world: she is full of gaiety and gladness;The diadem of rank is on her brow, uncounted wealth is in her coffers:She tricketh out her beauty like Jezebel, and is welcome in the courts of kings:She is queen of the fools of fashion, and ruleth the revels of luxury:And though she sitteth not as Tamar, nor standeth in the ways as Rahab,Yet in the secret of her chamber, she shrinketh not from dalliance and guilt.She careth not if there be a God, or a soul, or a time of retribution;Pleasure is the idol of her heart: she thirsteth for no purer heaven.And she laugheth with light good humour, and all men praise her gentleness;They are glad in her lovely smile, and the river of her bounty filleth them.So she prospered in the world: the worship and desire of thousands;And she died even as she had lived, careless and courteous and liberal.The grave swallowed up her pomp, the marble proclaimed her virtues,For men esteemed her excellent, and charities soundeth forth her praise:But elsewhere far other judgment setteth her—with infidels and harlots!She abused the trust of her splendour: and the wages of her sin shall be hereafter.
Beholdthat daughter of the world: she is full of gaiety and gladness;
The diadem of rank is on her brow, uncounted wealth is in her coffers:
She tricketh out her beauty like Jezebel, and is welcome in the courts of kings:
She is queen of the fools of fashion, and ruleth the revels of luxury:
And though she sitteth not as Tamar, nor standeth in the ways as Rahab,
Yet in the secret of her chamber, she shrinketh not from dalliance and guilt.
She careth not if there be a God, or a soul, or a time of retribution;
Pleasure is the idol of her heart: she thirsteth for no purer heaven.
And she laugheth with light good humour, and all men praise her gentleness;
They are glad in her lovely smile, and the river of her bounty filleth them.
So she prospered in the world: the worship and desire of thousands;
And she died even as she had lived, careless and courteous and liberal.
The grave swallowed up her pomp, the marble proclaimed her virtues,
For men esteemed her excellent, and charities soundeth forth her praise:
But elsewhere far other judgment setteth her—with infidels and harlots!
She abused the trust of her splendour: and the wages of her sin shall be hereafter.
Lookagain on this fair girl, the orphan of a village pastorWho is dead, and hath left her his all,—his blessing, and a name unstained.And friends, with busy zeal, that their purses be not taxed,Place the sad mourner in a home, poor substitute for that she hath lost.A stranger among strange faces she drinketh the wormwood of dependence;She is marked as a child of want: and the world hateth poverty.Prayer is not heard in that house; the day she hath loved to hallowIs noted but by deeper dissipation, the riot of luxury and gaming:And wantonness is in her master's eye, and she hath nowhere to flee to;She is cared for by none upon earth, and her God seemeth to forsake her.Then cometh, in fair show, the promise and the feint of affection,And her heart, long unused to kindness, remembereth her father, and loveth.And the villain hath wronged her trust, and mocked, and flung her from him,And men point at her and laugh; and women hate her as an outcast:But elsewhere, far other judgment seateth her—among the martyrs!And the Lord, who seemed to forsake, giveth double glory to the fallen.
Lookagain on this fair girl, the orphan of a village pastor
Who is dead, and hath left her his all,—his blessing, and a name unstained.
And friends, with busy zeal, that their purses be not taxed,
Place the sad mourner in a home, poor substitute for that she hath lost.
A stranger among strange faces she drinketh the wormwood of dependence;
She is marked as a child of want: and the world hateth poverty.
Prayer is not heard in that house; the day she hath loved to hallow
Is noted but by deeper dissipation, the riot of luxury and gaming:
And wantonness is in her master's eye, and she hath nowhere to flee to;
She is cared for by none upon earth, and her God seemeth to forsake her.
Then cometh, in fair show, the promise and the feint of affection,
And her heart, long unused to kindness, remembereth her father, and loveth.
And the villain hath wronged her trust, and mocked, and flung her from him,
And men point at her and laugh; and women hate her as an outcast:
But elsewhere, far other judgment seateth her—among the martyrs!
And the Lord, who seemed to forsake, giveth double glory to the fallen.
Oncemore, in the matter of wealth: if thou throw thine all on a chance,Men will come around thee, and wait, and watch the turning of the wheel:And if, in the lottery of life, thou hast drawn a splendid prize,What foresight hadst thou, and skill! yea, what enterprize and wisdom!But if it fall out against thee, and thou fail in thy perilous endeavour,Behold, the simple did sow, and hath reaped the right harvest of his folly:And the world will be gladly excused, nor will reach out a finger to help;For why should this speculative dullard be a whirlpool to all around him?Go to, let him sink by himself: we knew what the end of it would be:—For the man hath missed his mark, and his fellows look no further.
Oncemore, in the matter of wealth: if thou throw thine all on a chance,
Men will come around thee, and wait, and watch the turning of the wheel:
And if, in the lottery of life, thou hast drawn a splendid prize,
What foresight hadst thou, and skill! yea, what enterprize and wisdom!
But if it fall out against thee, and thou fail in thy perilous endeavour,
Behold, the simple did sow, and hath reaped the right harvest of his folly:
And the world will be gladly excused, nor will reach out a finger to help;
For why should this speculative dullard be a whirlpool to all around him?
Go to, let him sink by himself: we knew what the end of it would be:—
For the man hath missed his mark, and his fellows look no further.
Also,touching guilt and innocence: a man shall walk in his uprightnessYear after year without reproach, in charity and honesty with all:But in one evil hour the enemy shall come in like a flood;Shall track him, and tempt him, and hem him,—till he knoweth not whither to fly.Perchance his famishing little ones shall scream in his ears for bread,And, maddened by that fierce cry, he rusheth as a thief upon the world;The world that hath left him to starve, itself wallowing in plenty,—The world, that denieth him his rights,—he daringly robbeth it of them.I say not, such an one is innocent; but, small is the measure of his guiltTo that of his wealthy neighbour, who would not help him at his need;To that of the selfish epicure, who turned away with coldness from his tale;To that of unsuffering thousands, who look with complacence on his fall.
Also,touching guilt and innocence: a man shall walk in his uprightness
Year after year without reproach, in charity and honesty with all:
But in one evil hour the enemy shall come in like a flood;
Shall track him, and tempt him, and hem him,—till he knoweth not whither to fly.
Perchance his famishing little ones shall scream in his ears for bread,
And, maddened by that fierce cry, he rusheth as a thief upon the world;
The world that hath left him to starve, itself wallowing in plenty,—
The world, that denieth him his rights,—he daringly robbeth it of them.
I say not, such an one is innocent; but, small is the measure of his guilt
To that of his wealthy neighbour, who would not help him at his need;
To that of the selfish epicure, who turned away with coldness from his tale;
To that of unsuffering thousands, who look with complacence on his fall.
Orperchance the continual dropping of the venomed words of spite,Insult and injury and scorn, have galled and pierced his heart;Yet, with all long-suffering and meekness, he forgiveth unto seventy times seven:Till, in some weaker moment, tempted beyond endurance,He striketh, more in anger than in hate; and, alas! for his heavy chance,He hath smitten unto instant death his spiteful life-long enemy!And none was by to see it; and all men knew of their contentions:Fierce voices shout for his blood, and rude hands hurry him to judgment.Then man's verdict cometh,—Murderer, with forethought malice;And his name is a note of execration; his guilt is too black for devils.But to the Righteous Judge, seemeth he the suffering victim;For his anger was not unlawful, but became him as a Christian and a man;And though his guilt was grievous when he struck that heavy bitter blow,Yet light is the sin of the smiter, and verily kicketh the beam,To the weight of that man's wickedness, whose slow relentless hatredMet him at every turn, with patient continuance in evil.Doubtless, eternal wrath shall be heaped upon that spiteful enemy.
Orperchance the continual dropping of the venomed words of spite,
Insult and injury and scorn, have galled and pierced his heart;
Yet, with all long-suffering and meekness, he forgiveth unto seventy times seven:
Till, in some weaker moment, tempted beyond endurance,
He striketh, more in anger than in hate; and, alas! for his heavy chance,
He hath smitten unto instant death his spiteful life-long enemy!
And none was by to see it; and all men knew of their contentions:
Fierce voices shout for his blood, and rude hands hurry him to judgment.
Then man's verdict cometh,—Murderer, with forethought malice;
And his name is a note of execration; his guilt is too black for devils.
But to the Righteous Judge, seemeth he the suffering victim;
For his anger was not unlawful, but became him as a Christian and a man;
And though his guilt was grievous when he struck that heavy bitter blow,
Yet light is the sin of the smiter, and verily kicketh the beam,
To the weight of that man's wickedness, whose slow relentless hatred
Met him at every turn, with patient continuance in evil.
Doubtless, eternal wrath shall be heaped upon that spiteful enemy.
Itis vain, it is vain, saith the preacher; there be none but the righteous and the wicked,Base rebels, and staunch allies, the true knight, and the traitor:And he beareth strong witness among men, There is no neutral ground,The broad highway and narrow path map out the whole domain;Sit here among the saints, these holy chosen few,Or grovel there a wretched condemned, to die among the million.And verily for ultimate results, there be but good and bad;Heaven hath no dusky twilight; hell is not gladdened with a dawn.Yet looking round among his fellows, who can pass righteous judgment,Such an one is holy and accepted, and such an one reprobate and doomed?There is so much of good among the worst, so much of evil in the best,Such seeming partialities in providence, so many things to lessen and expand,Yea, and with all man's boast, so little real freedom of his will,—That, to look a little lower than the surface, garb or dialect or fashion,Thou shalt feebly pronounce for a saint, and faintly condemn for a sinner.Over many a good heart and true, fluttereth the Great King's pennant;By many an iron hand, the pirate's black banner is unfurled:But there be many more besides, in the yacht and the trader and the fishing-boat,In the feathered war-canoe, and the quick mysterious gondola:And the army of that Great King hath no stated uniform;Of mingled characters and kinds goeth forth the countless host;There is the turbaned Damascene, with his tattooed Zealand brother,There the slim bather in the Ganges, with the sturdy Russian boor,The sluggish inmate of a Polar cave, with the fire-souled daughter of Brazil,The embruted slave from Cuba, and the Briton of gentle birth.For all are His inheritance, of all He taketh tithe:And the church, His mercy's ark, hath some of every sort.Who art thou, O man, that art fixing the limits of the fold?Wherefore settest thou stakes to spread the tent of heaven?Lay not the plummet to the line: religion hath no landmarks:No human keenness can discern the subtle shades of faith:In some it is as earliest dawn, the scarce diluted darkness;In some as dubious twilight, cold and grey and gloomy:In some the ebon east is streaked with flaming gold:In some the dayspring from on high breaketh in all its praise.And who hath determined the when, separating light from darkness?Who shall pluck from earliest dawn the promise of the day?Leave that care to the Husbandman, lest thou garner tares;Help thou the Shepherd in His seeking, but to separate be His:For I have often seen the noble erring spiritWrecked on the shoals of passion, and numbered of the lost;Often the generous heart, lit by unhallowed fire,Counted a brand among the burning, and left uncared for in his sin:Yet I waited a little year, and the mercy thou hadst forgottenHath purged that noble spirit, washing it in waters of repentance;That glowing generous heart, having burnt out all its dross,Is as a golden censer, ready for the aloes and cassia:While thou, hard-visaged man, unlovely in thy strictness,Who turned from him thy sympathies with self-complacent pride,How art thou shamed by him! his heart is a spring of love,While the dry well of thine affections is choked with secret mammon.
Itis vain, it is vain, saith the preacher; there be none but the righteous and the wicked,
Base rebels, and staunch allies, the true knight, and the traitor:
And he beareth strong witness among men, There is no neutral ground,
The broad highway and narrow path map out the whole domain;
Sit here among the saints, these holy chosen few,
Or grovel there a wretched condemned, to die among the million.
And verily for ultimate results, there be but good and bad;
Heaven hath no dusky twilight; hell is not gladdened with a dawn.
Yet looking round among his fellows, who can pass righteous judgment,
Such an one is holy and accepted, and such an one reprobate and doomed?
There is so much of good among the worst, so much of evil in the best,
Such seeming partialities in providence, so many things to lessen and expand,
Yea, and with all man's boast, so little real freedom of his will,—
That, to look a little lower than the surface, garb or dialect or fashion,
Thou shalt feebly pronounce for a saint, and faintly condemn for a sinner.
Over many a good heart and true, fluttereth the Great King's pennant;
By many an iron hand, the pirate's black banner is unfurled:
But there be many more besides, in the yacht and the trader and the fishing-boat,
In the feathered war-canoe, and the quick mysterious gondola:
And the army of that Great King hath no stated uniform;
Of mingled characters and kinds goeth forth the countless host;
There is the turbaned Damascene, with his tattooed Zealand brother,
There the slim bather in the Ganges, with the sturdy Russian boor,
The sluggish inmate of a Polar cave, with the fire-souled daughter of Brazil,
The embruted slave from Cuba, and the Briton of gentle birth.
For all are His inheritance, of all He taketh tithe:
And the church, His mercy's ark, hath some of every sort.
Who art thou, O man, that art fixing the limits of the fold?
Wherefore settest thou stakes to spread the tent of heaven?
Lay not the plummet to the line: religion hath no landmarks:
No human keenness can discern the subtle shades of faith:
In some it is as earliest dawn, the scarce diluted darkness;
In some as dubious twilight, cold and grey and gloomy:
In some the ebon east is streaked with flaming gold:
In some the dayspring from on high breaketh in all its praise.
And who hath determined the when, separating light from darkness?
Who shall pluck from earliest dawn the promise of the day?
Leave that care to the Husbandman, lest thou garner tares;
Help thou the Shepherd in His seeking, but to separate be His:
For I have often seen the noble erring spirit
Wrecked on the shoals of passion, and numbered of the lost;
Often the generous heart, lit by unhallowed fire,
Counted a brand among the burning, and left uncared for in his sin:
Yet I waited a little year, and the mercy thou hadst forgotten
Hath purged that noble spirit, washing it in waters of repentance;
That glowing generous heart, having burnt out all its dross,
Is as a golden censer, ready for the aloes and cassia:
While thou, hard-visaged man, unlovely in thy strictness,
Who turned from him thy sympathies with self-complacent pride,
How art thou shamed by him! his heart is a spring of love,
While the dry well of thine affections is choked with secret mammon.
Sometimesat a glance thou judgest well; years could add little to thy knowledge:When charity gloweth on the cheek, or malice is lowering in the eye,When honesty's open brow, or the weasel-face of cunning is before thee,Or the loose lip of wantonness, or clear bright forehead of reflection.But often, by shrewd scrutiny, thou judgest to the good man's harm:For it may be his hour of trial, or he slumbereth at his post,Or he hath slain his foe, but not yet levelled the stronghold,Or barely recovered of the wounds, that fleshed him in his fray with passion.Also, of the worst, through prejudice, thou loosely shalt think well:For none is altogether evil, and thou mayst catch him at his prayers:There may be one small prize, though all beside be blanks;A silver thread of goodness in the black serge-cloth of crime.
Sometimesat a glance thou judgest well; years could add little to thy knowledge:
When charity gloweth on the cheek, or malice is lowering in the eye,
When honesty's open brow, or the weasel-face of cunning is before thee,
Or the loose lip of wantonness, or clear bright forehead of reflection.
But often, by shrewd scrutiny, thou judgest to the good man's harm:
For it may be his hour of trial, or he slumbereth at his post,
Or he hath slain his foe, but not yet levelled the stronghold,
Or barely recovered of the wounds, that fleshed him in his fray with passion.
Also, of the worst, through prejudice, thou loosely shalt think well:
For none is altogether evil, and thou mayst catch him at his prayers:
There may be one small prize, though all beside be blanks;
A silver thread of goodness in the black serge-cloth of crime.
Thereis to whom all things are easy; his mind, as a master-key,Can open, with intuitive address, the treasuries of art and science:There is to whom all things are hard; but industry giveth him a crow-bar,To force, with groaning labour, the stubborn lock of learning:And often, when thou lookest on an eye, dim in native dulness,Little shalt thou wot of the wealth diligence hath gathered to its gaze;Often, the brow that should be bright with the dormant fire of genius,Within its ample halls, hath ignorance the tenant.Yet are not the sons of men cast as in moulds by the lot?The like in frame and feature have much alike in spirit;Such a shape hath such a soul, so that a deep discernerFrom his make will read the man, and err not far in judgment:Yea, and it holdeth in the converse, that growing similarity of mindFindeth or maketh for itself an apposite dwelling in the body:Accident may modify, circumstance may bevil, externals seem to change it,But still the primitive crystal is latent in its many variations:For the map of the face, and the picture of the eye, are traced by the pen of passion;And the mind fashioneth a tabernacle suitable for itself.A mean spirit boweth down the back, and the bowing fostereth meanness;A resolute purpose knitteth the knees, and the firm tread nourisheth decision;Love looketh softly from the eye, and kindleth love by looking;Hate furroweth the brow, and a man may frown till he hateth:For mind and body, spirit and matter, have reciprocities of power,And each keepeth up the strife; a man's works make or mar him.
Thereis to whom all things are easy; his mind, as a master-key,
Can open, with intuitive address, the treasuries of art and science:
There is to whom all things are hard; but industry giveth him a crow-bar,
To force, with groaning labour, the stubborn lock of learning:
And often, when thou lookest on an eye, dim in native dulness,
Little shalt thou wot of the wealth diligence hath gathered to its gaze;
Often, the brow that should be bright with the dormant fire of genius,
Within its ample halls, hath ignorance the tenant.
Yet are not the sons of men cast as in moulds by the lot?
The like in frame and feature have much alike in spirit;
Such a shape hath such a soul, so that a deep discerner
From his make will read the man, and err not far in judgment:
Yea, and it holdeth in the converse, that growing similarity of mind
Findeth or maketh for itself an apposite dwelling in the body:
Accident may modify, circumstance may bevil, externals seem to change it,
But still the primitive crystal is latent in its many variations:
For the map of the face, and the picture of the eye, are traced by the pen of passion;
And the mind fashioneth a tabernacle suitable for itself.
A mean spirit boweth down the back, and the bowing fostereth meanness;
A resolute purpose knitteth the knees, and the firm tread nourisheth decision;
Love looketh softly from the eye, and kindleth love by looking;
Hate furroweth the brow, and a man may frown till he hateth:
For mind and body, spirit and matter, have reciprocities of power,
And each keepeth up the strife; a man's works make or mar him.
Therebe deeper things than these, lying in the twilight of truth;But few can discern them aright, from surrounding dimness of error.For perchance, if thou knewest the whole, and largely with comprehensive mindCouldst read the history of character, the chequered story of a life,And into the great account, which summeth a mortal's destiny,Wert to add the forces from without, dragging him this way and that,And the secret qualities within, grafted on the soul from the womb,And the might of other men's example, among whom his lot is cast,And the influence of want or wealth, of kindness or harsh ill-usage,Of ignorance he cannot help, and knowledge found for him by others,And first impressions, hard to be effaced, and leadings to right or to wrong,And inheritance of likeness from a father, and natural human frailty,And the habit of health or disease, and prejudices poured into his mind,And the myriad little matters none but Omniscience can know,And accidents that steer the thoughts, where none but Ubiquity can trace them;—If thou couldst compass all these, and the consequents flowing from them,And the scope to which they tend, and the necessary fitness of all things,Then shouldst thou see as He seeth, who judgeth all men equal,—Equal, touching innocence and guilt; and different alone in this,That one acknowledged his evil, and looketh to his God for mercy;Another boasteth of his good, and calleth on his God for justice;So He, that sendeth none away, is largely munificent to prayer,But, in the heart of presumption, sheatheth the sword of vengeance.
Therebe deeper things than these, lying in the twilight of truth;
But few can discern them aright, from surrounding dimness of error.
For perchance, if thou knewest the whole, and largely with comprehensive mind
Couldst read the history of character, the chequered story of a life,
And into the great account, which summeth a mortal's destiny,
Wert to add the forces from without, dragging him this way and that,
And the secret qualities within, grafted on the soul from the womb,
And the might of other men's example, among whom his lot is cast,
And the influence of want or wealth, of kindness or harsh ill-usage,
Of ignorance he cannot help, and knowledge found for him by others,
And first impressions, hard to be effaced, and leadings to right or to wrong,
And inheritance of likeness from a father, and natural human frailty,
And the habit of health or disease, and prejudices poured into his mind,
And the myriad little matters none but Omniscience can know,
And accidents that steer the thoughts, where none but Ubiquity can trace them;—
If thou couldst compass all these, and the consequents flowing from them,
And the scope to which they tend, and the necessary fitness of all things,
Then shouldst thou see as He seeth, who judgeth all men equal,—
Equal, touching innocence and guilt; and different alone in this,
That one acknowledged his evil, and looketh to his God for mercy;
Another boasteth of his good, and calleth on his God for justice;
So He, that sendeth none away, is largely munificent to prayer,
But, in the heart of presumption, sheatheth the sword of vengeance.
Bluntedunto goodness is the heart which anger never stirreth,But that which hatred swelleth, is keen to carve out evil.Anger is a noble infirmity, the generous failing of the just,The one degree that riseth above zeal, asserting the prerogatives of virtue:But hatred is a slow continuing crime, a fire in the bad man's breast,A dull and hungry flame, for ever craving insatiate.Hatred would harm another; anger would indulge itself:Hatred is a simmering poison; anger, the opening of a valve:Hatred destroyeth as the upas-tree; anger smiteth as a staff:Hatred is the atmosphere of hell; but anger is known in heaven.Is there not a righteous wrath, an anger just and holy,When goodness is sitting in the dust, and wickedness enthroned on Babel?Doth pity condemn guilt?—is justice not a feeling but a lawAppealing to the line and to the plummet, incognizant of moral sense?Thou that condemnest anger, small is thy sympathy with angels,Thou that hast accounted it for sin, cold is thy communion with heaven.
Bluntedunto goodness is the heart which anger never stirreth,
But that which hatred swelleth, is keen to carve out evil.
Anger is a noble infirmity, the generous failing of the just,
The one degree that riseth above zeal, asserting the prerogatives of virtue:
But hatred is a slow continuing crime, a fire in the bad man's breast,
A dull and hungry flame, for ever craving insatiate.
Hatred would harm another; anger would indulge itself:
Hatred is a simmering poison; anger, the opening of a valve:
Hatred destroyeth as the upas-tree; anger smiteth as a staff:
Hatred is the atmosphere of hell; but anger is known in heaven.
Is there not a righteous wrath, an anger just and holy,
When goodness is sitting in the dust, and wickedness enthroned on Babel?
Doth pity condemn guilt?—is justice not a feeling but a law
Appealing to the line and to the plummet, incognizant of moral sense?
Thou that condemnest anger, small is thy sympathy with angels,
Thou that hast accounted it for sin, cold is thy communion with heaven.
Bewareof the angry in his passion; but fear not to approach him afterward;For if thou acknowledge thine error, he himself will be sorry for his wrath:Beware of the hater in his coolness; for he meditateth evil against thee:Commending the resources of his mind calmly to work thy ruin.Deceit and treachery skulk with hatred, but an honest spirit flieth with anger:The one lieth secret, as a serpent; the other chaseth, as a leopard.Speedily be reconciled in love, and receive the returning offender,For wittingly prolonging Anger, thou tamperest unconsciously with Hatred.Patience is power in a man, nerving him to rein his spirit:Passion is as palsy to his arm, while it yelleth on the coursers to their speed:Patience keepeth counsel, and standeth in solid self-possession,But the weakness of sudden passion layeth bare the secrets of the soul.The sentiment of anger is not ill, when thou lookest on the impudence of vice,Or savourest the breath of calumny, or hast earned the hard wages of injustice;But see that thou curb it in expression, rendering the mildness of rebuke,So shall thou stand without reproach, mailed in all the dignity of virtue.
Bewareof the angry in his passion; but fear not to approach him afterward;
For if thou acknowledge thine error, he himself will be sorry for his wrath:
Beware of the hater in his coolness; for he meditateth evil against thee:
Commending the resources of his mind calmly to work thy ruin.
Deceit and treachery skulk with hatred, but an honest spirit flieth with anger:
The one lieth secret, as a serpent; the other chaseth, as a leopard.
Speedily be reconciled in love, and receive the returning offender,
For wittingly prolonging Anger, thou tamperest unconsciously with Hatred.
Patience is power in a man, nerving him to rein his spirit:
Passion is as palsy to his arm, while it yelleth on the coursers to their speed:
Patience keepeth counsel, and standeth in solid self-possession,
But the weakness of sudden passion layeth bare the secrets of the soul.
The sentiment of anger is not ill, when thou lookest on the impudence of vice,
Or savourest the breath of calumny, or hast earned the hard wages of injustice;
But see that thou curb it in expression, rendering the mildness of rebuke,
So shall thou stand without reproach, mailed in all the dignity of virtue.
I heardthe man of sin reproaching the goodness of Jehovah,Wherefore, if He be Almighty Love, permitteth He misery and pain?I saw the child of hope vexed in the labyrinth of doubt,Wherefore, O holy One and just, is the horn of Thy foul foe so high exalted?And, alas! for this our groaning world, for that grief and guilt are here;Alas! for that Earth is the battle-field, where good must combat with evil:Angels look on and hold their breath, burning to mingle in the conflict,But the troops of the Captain of Salvation may be none but the soldiers of the cross:And that slender band must fight alone, and yet shall triumph gloriously,Enough shall they be for conquest, and the motto of their standard is,Enough.Thou art sad, O denizen of earth, for pains and diseases and death,But remember, thy hand hath earned them; grudge not at the wages of thy doings:Thy guilt, and thy fathers' guilt, must bring many sorrows in their company,And if thou wilt drink sweet poison, doubtless it shall rot thee to the core.What art thou but the heritor of evil, with a right to nothing good?The respite of an interval of ease were a boon which Justice might deny thee:Therefore lay thy hand upon thy mouth, O man much to be forgiven,And wait, thou child of hope, for time shall teach thee all things.
I heardthe man of sin reproaching the goodness of Jehovah,
Wherefore, if He be Almighty Love, permitteth He misery and pain?
I saw the child of hope vexed in the labyrinth of doubt,
Wherefore, O holy One and just, is the horn of Thy foul foe so high exalted?
And, alas! for this our groaning world, for that grief and guilt are here;
Alas! for that Earth is the battle-field, where good must combat with evil:
Angels look on and hold their breath, burning to mingle in the conflict,
But the troops of the Captain of Salvation may be none but the soldiers of the cross:
And that slender band must fight alone, and yet shall triumph gloriously,
Enough shall they be for conquest, and the motto of their standard is,Enough.
Thou art sad, O denizen of earth, for pains and diseases and death,
But remember, thy hand hath earned them; grudge not at the wages of thy doings:
Thy guilt, and thy fathers' guilt, must bring many sorrows in their company,
And if thou wilt drink sweet poison, doubtless it shall rot thee to the core.
What art thou but the heritor of evil, with a right to nothing good?
The respite of an interval of ease were a boon which Justice might deny thee:
Therefore lay thy hand upon thy mouth, O man much to be forgiven,
And wait, thou child of hope, for time shall teach thee all things.
Yethear, for my speech shall comfort thee: reverently, but with boldness,I would raise the sable curtain, that hideth the symmetry of Providence.Pain and sin are convicts, and toil in their fetters for good;The weapons of evil are turned against itself, fighting under better banners:The leech delighteth in stinging, and the wicked loveth to do harm,But the wise Physician of the Universe useth that ill tendency for health.Verily, from others' griefs are gendered sympathy and kindness;Patience, humility, and faith, spring not seldom from thine own:An enemy, humbled by his sorrows, cannot be far from thy forgiveness;A friend, who hath tasted of calamity, shall fan the dying incense of thy love:And for thyself, is it a small thing, so to learn thy frailty,That from an aching bone thou savest the whole body?The furnace of affliction may be fierce, but if it refineth thy soul,The good of one meek thought shall outweigh years of torment.Nevertheless, wretched man, if thy bad heart be hardened in the flame,Being earth-born, as of clay, and not of moulded wax,Judge not the hand that smiteth, as if thou wert visited in wrath:Reproach thyself, for He is Justice; repent thee, for He is Mercy.
Yethear, for my speech shall comfort thee: reverently, but with boldness,
I would raise the sable curtain, that hideth the symmetry of Providence.
Pain and sin are convicts, and toil in their fetters for good;
The weapons of evil are turned against itself, fighting under better banners:
The leech delighteth in stinging, and the wicked loveth to do harm,
But the wise Physician of the Universe useth that ill tendency for health.
Verily, from others' griefs are gendered sympathy and kindness;
Patience, humility, and faith, spring not seldom from thine own:
An enemy, humbled by his sorrows, cannot be far from thy forgiveness;
A friend, who hath tasted of calamity, shall fan the dying incense of thy love:
And for thyself, is it a small thing, so to learn thy frailty,
That from an aching bone thou savest the whole body?
The furnace of affliction may be fierce, but if it refineth thy soul,
The good of one meek thought shall outweigh years of torment.
Nevertheless, wretched man, if thy bad heart be hardened in the flame,
Being earth-born, as of clay, and not of moulded wax,
Judge not the hand that smiteth, as if thou wert visited in wrath:
Reproach thyself, for He is Justice; repent thee, for He is Mercy.