Readthou first, and well approve, the books thou givest to thy child;But remember the weakness of his thought, and that wisdom for him must be diluted:In the honied waters of infant tales, let him taste the strong wine of truth:Pathetic stories soften the heart; but legends of terror breed midnight misery;Fairy fictions cram the mind with folly, and knowledge of evil tempteth to like evil:Be not loth to curb imagination, nor be fearful that truths will depress it;And for evil, he will learn it soon enough; be not thou the devil's envoy.Induce not precocity of intellect, for so shouldst thou nourish vanity;Neither can a plant, forced in the hot-bed, stand against the frozen breath of winter.The mind is made wealthy by ideas, but the multitude of words is a clogging weight:Therefore be understood in thy teaching, and instruct to the measure of capacity.Analogy is milk for babes, but abstract truths are strong meat;Precepts and rules are repulsive to a child, but happy illustration winneth him:In vain shalt thou preach of industry and prudence, till he learn of the bee and the ant;Dimly will he think of his soul, till the acorn and the chrysalis have taught him;He will fear God in thunder, and worship His loveliness in flowers;And parables shall charm his heart, while doctrines seem dead mystery:Faith shall he learn of the husbandman casting good corn into the soil;And if thou train him to trust thee, he will not withhold his reliance from the Lord.Fearest thou the dark, poor child? I would not have thee left to thy terrors;Darkness is the semblance of evil, and nature regardeth it with dread:Yet know thy father's God is with thee still, to guard thee:It is a simple lesson of dependence; let thy tost mind anchor upon Him.Did a sudden noise affright thee? lo, this or that hath caused it:Things undefined are full of dread, and stagger stouter nerves.The seeds of misery and madness have been sowed in the nights of infancy;Therefore be careful that ghastly fears be not the night companions of thy child.
Readthou first, and well approve, the books thou givest to thy child;
But remember the weakness of his thought, and that wisdom for him must be diluted:
In the honied waters of infant tales, let him taste the strong wine of truth:
Pathetic stories soften the heart; but legends of terror breed midnight misery;
Fairy fictions cram the mind with folly, and knowledge of evil tempteth to like evil:
Be not loth to curb imagination, nor be fearful that truths will depress it;
And for evil, he will learn it soon enough; be not thou the devil's envoy.
Induce not precocity of intellect, for so shouldst thou nourish vanity;
Neither can a plant, forced in the hot-bed, stand against the frozen breath of winter.
The mind is made wealthy by ideas, but the multitude of words is a clogging weight:
Therefore be understood in thy teaching, and instruct to the measure of capacity.
Analogy is milk for babes, but abstract truths are strong meat;
Precepts and rules are repulsive to a child, but happy illustration winneth him:
In vain shalt thou preach of industry and prudence, till he learn of the bee and the ant;
Dimly will he think of his soul, till the acorn and the chrysalis have taught him;
He will fear God in thunder, and worship His loveliness in flowers;
And parables shall charm his heart, while doctrines seem dead mystery:
Faith shall he learn of the husbandman casting good corn into the soil;
And if thou train him to trust thee, he will not withhold his reliance from the Lord.
Fearest thou the dark, poor child? I would not have thee left to thy terrors;
Darkness is the semblance of evil, and nature regardeth it with dread:
Yet know thy father's God is with thee still, to guard thee:
It is a simple lesson of dependence; let thy tost mind anchor upon Him.
Did a sudden noise affright thee? lo, this or that hath caused it:
Things undefined are full of dread, and stagger stouter nerves.
The seeds of misery and madness have been sowed in the nights of infancy;
Therefore be careful that ghastly fears be not the night companions of thy child.
Lo,thou art a landmark on a hill; thy little ones copy thee in all things:Let, then, thy religion be perfect: so shalt thou be honoured in thy house.Be instructed in all wisdom, and communicate that thou knowest,Otherwise thy learning is hidden, and thus thou seemest unwise.A sluggard hath no respect; an epicure commandeth not reverence;Meanness is always despicable, and folly provoketh contempt.Those parents are best honoured whose characters best deserve it;Show me a child undutiful, I shall know where to look for a foolish father:Never hath a father done his duty, and lived to be despised of his son:But how can that son reverence an example he dare not follow?Should he imitate thee in thine evil? his scorn is thy rebuke.Nay, but bring him up aright, in obedience to God and to thee;Begin betimes, lest thou fail of his fear; and with judgment, that thou lose not his love:Herein use good discretion, and govern not all alike,Yet, perhaps, the fault will be in thee, if kindness prove not all sufficient:By kindness, the wolf and the zebra become docile as the spaniel and the horse;The kite feedeth with the starling, under the law of kindness:That law shall tame the fiercest, bring down the battlements of pride,Cherish the weak, control the strong, and win the fearful spirit.Be obeyed when thou commandest; but command not often:Let thy carriage be the gentleness of love, not the stern front of tyranny.Make not one child a warning to another; but chide the offender apart:For self-conceit and wounded pride rankle like poisons in the soul.A mild rebuke in the season of calmness, is better than a rod in the heat of passion;Nevertheless, spare not, if thy word hath passed for punishment;Let not thy child see thee humbled, nor learn to think thee false;Suffer none to reprove thee before him, and reprove not thine own purposes by change;Yet speedily turn thou again, and reward him where thou canst,For kind encouragement in good cutteth at the roots of evil.
Lo,thou art a landmark on a hill; thy little ones copy thee in all things:
Let, then, thy religion be perfect: so shalt thou be honoured in thy house.
Be instructed in all wisdom, and communicate that thou knowest,
Otherwise thy learning is hidden, and thus thou seemest unwise.
A sluggard hath no respect; an epicure commandeth not reverence;
Meanness is always despicable, and folly provoketh contempt.
Those parents are best honoured whose characters best deserve it;
Show me a child undutiful, I shall know where to look for a foolish father:
Never hath a father done his duty, and lived to be despised of his son:
But how can that son reverence an example he dare not follow?
Should he imitate thee in thine evil? his scorn is thy rebuke.
Nay, but bring him up aright, in obedience to God and to thee;
Begin betimes, lest thou fail of his fear; and with judgment, that thou lose not his love:
Herein use good discretion, and govern not all alike,
Yet, perhaps, the fault will be in thee, if kindness prove not all sufficient:
By kindness, the wolf and the zebra become docile as the spaniel and the horse;
The kite feedeth with the starling, under the law of kindness:
That law shall tame the fiercest, bring down the battlements of pride,
Cherish the weak, control the strong, and win the fearful spirit.
Be obeyed when thou commandest; but command not often:
Let thy carriage be the gentleness of love, not the stern front of tyranny.
Make not one child a warning to another; but chide the offender apart:
For self-conceit and wounded pride rankle like poisons in the soul.
A mild rebuke in the season of calmness, is better than a rod in the heat of passion;
Nevertheless, spare not, if thy word hath passed for punishment;
Let not thy child see thee humbled, nor learn to think thee false;
Suffer none to reprove thee before him, and reprove not thine own purposes by change;
Yet speedily turn thou again, and reward him where thou canst,
For kind encouragement in good cutteth at the roots of evil.
Drivenot a timid infant from his home, in the early spring-time of his life,Commit not that treasure to an hireling, nor wrench the young heart's fibres:In his helplessness leave him not alone, a stranger among strange children,Where affection longeth for thy love, counting the dreary hours;Where religion is made a terror, and innocence weepeth unheard;Where oppression grindeth without remedy, and cruelty delighteth in smiting.Wherefore comply with an evil fashion? Is it not to spare thee trouble?Can he gather no knowledge at thy mouth? Wilt thou yield thine honour to another?What can he gain in learning, to equal what he loseth in innocence?Alas! for the price above gold, by which such learning cometh!For emulative pride and envy are the specious idols of the diligent,Oaths and foul-mouthed sin burn in the language of the idle:Bolder in that mimic world of boys stareth brazen-fronted vice,Than thereafter in the haunts of men, where society doth shame her into corners.My soul, look well around thee, ere thou give thy timid infant unto sorrows.There be many that say, We were happiest in days long past,When our deepest care was an ill-conned book,And when we sported in that merry sunshine of our life,Sadness a stranger to the heart, and cheerfulness its gay inhabitant.True, ye are now less pure, and therefore are more wretched:But have ye quite forgotten how sorely ye travailed at your tasks,How childish griefs and disappointments bowed down the childish mind?How sorrow sat upon your pillow, and terror hath waked you up betimes,Dreading the strict hand of justice, that would not wait for a reason,Or the whims of petty tyrants, children like yourselves,Or the pestilent extract of evil poured into the ear of innocence?Behold the coral island, fresh from the floor of the Atlantic,It is dinted by every ripple, and a soft wave can smooth its surface;But soon its substance hardeneth in the winds and tropic sun,And weakly the foaming billows break against its adamantine wall:Even thus, though sin and care dash upon the firmness of manhood,The timid child is wasted most by his petty troubles;And seldom, when life is mature, and the strength proportioned to the burden,Will the feeling mind, that can remember, acknowledge to deeper anguish,Than when, as a stranger and a little one, the heart first ached with anxiety,And the sprouting buds of sensibility were bruised by the harshness of a school.My soul, look well around thee, ere thou give thine infant unto sorrows.Yet there be boisterous tempers, stout nerves, and stubborn hearts,And there is a riper season, when the mind is well disciplined in good,And a time, when youth may be bettered by the wholesome occasions of knowledge,Which rarely will he meet with so well, as among the congregation of his fellows.Only for infancy, fond mother, rend not those first affections;Only for the sensitive and timorous, consign not thy darling unto misery.
Drivenot a timid infant from his home, in the early spring-time of his life,
Commit not that treasure to an hireling, nor wrench the young heart's fibres:
In his helplessness leave him not alone, a stranger among strange children,
Where affection longeth for thy love, counting the dreary hours;
Where religion is made a terror, and innocence weepeth unheard;
Where oppression grindeth without remedy, and cruelty delighteth in smiting.
Wherefore comply with an evil fashion? Is it not to spare thee trouble?
Can he gather no knowledge at thy mouth? Wilt thou yield thine honour to another?
What can he gain in learning, to equal what he loseth in innocence?
Alas! for the price above gold, by which such learning cometh!
For emulative pride and envy are the specious idols of the diligent,
Oaths and foul-mouthed sin burn in the language of the idle:
Bolder in that mimic world of boys stareth brazen-fronted vice,
Than thereafter in the haunts of men, where society doth shame her into corners.
My soul, look well around thee, ere thou give thy timid infant unto sorrows.
There be many that say, We were happiest in days long past,
When our deepest care was an ill-conned book,
And when we sported in that merry sunshine of our life,
Sadness a stranger to the heart, and cheerfulness its gay inhabitant.
True, ye are now less pure, and therefore are more wretched:
But have ye quite forgotten how sorely ye travailed at your tasks,
How childish griefs and disappointments bowed down the childish mind?
How sorrow sat upon your pillow, and terror hath waked you up betimes,
Dreading the strict hand of justice, that would not wait for a reason,
Or the whims of petty tyrants, children like yourselves,
Or the pestilent extract of evil poured into the ear of innocence?
Behold the coral island, fresh from the floor of the Atlantic,
It is dinted by every ripple, and a soft wave can smooth its surface;
But soon its substance hardeneth in the winds and tropic sun,
And weakly the foaming billows break against its adamantine wall:
Even thus, though sin and care dash upon the firmness of manhood,
The timid child is wasted most by his petty troubles;
And seldom, when life is mature, and the strength proportioned to the burden,
Will the feeling mind, that can remember, acknowledge to deeper anguish,
Than when, as a stranger and a little one, the heart first ached with anxiety,
And the sprouting buds of sensibility were bruised by the harshness of a school.
My soul, look well around thee, ere thou give thine infant unto sorrows.
Yet there be boisterous tempers, stout nerves, and stubborn hearts,
And there is a riper season, when the mind is well disciplined in good,
And a time, when youth may be bettered by the wholesome occasions of knowledge,
Which rarely will he meet with so well, as among the congregation of his fellows.
Only for infancy, fond mother, rend not those first affections;
Only for the sensitive and timorous, consign not thy darling unto misery.
A manlooketh on his little one, as a being of better hope;In himself ambition is dead, but it hath a resurrection in his son:That vein is yet untried,—and who can tell if it be not golden?While his, well nigh worked out, never yielded aught but lead:And thus is he hurt more sorely, if his wishes are defeated there,He has staked his all upon a throw, and lo! the dice have foiled him.All ways, and at all times, men follow on in flocks,And the rife epidemic of the day shall tincture the stream of education.Fashion is a foolish watcher posted at the tree of knowledge,Who plucketh its unripe fruit to pelt away the birds;But, for its golden apples,—they dry upon the boughs,And few have the courage or the wisdom to eat in spite of fashion.One while, the fever is to learn, what none will be wiser for knowing,Exploded errors in extinct tongues, and occasions for their use are small;And the bright morning of life, for years of misspent time,Wasted in following sounds, hath tracked up little sense,Till at noon a man is thrown upon the world, with a mind expert in trifles,Having yet everything to learn that can make him good or useful:The curious spirit of youth is crammed with unwholesome garbage,While starving for the mother's milk the breasts of nature yield;And high-coloured fables of depravity lure with their classic varnish,While truth is holding out in vain her mirror much despised.
A manlooketh on his little one, as a being of better hope;
In himself ambition is dead, but it hath a resurrection in his son:
That vein is yet untried,—and who can tell if it be not golden?
While his, well nigh worked out, never yielded aught but lead:
And thus is he hurt more sorely, if his wishes are defeated there,
He has staked his all upon a throw, and lo! the dice have foiled him.
All ways, and at all times, men follow on in flocks,
And the rife epidemic of the day shall tincture the stream of education.
Fashion is a foolish watcher posted at the tree of knowledge,
Who plucketh its unripe fruit to pelt away the birds;
But, for its golden apples,—they dry upon the boughs,
And few have the courage or the wisdom to eat in spite of fashion.
One while, the fever is to learn, what none will be wiser for knowing,
Exploded errors in extinct tongues, and occasions for their use are small;
And the bright morning of life, for years of misspent time,
Wasted in following sounds, hath tracked up little sense,
Till at noon a man is thrown upon the world, with a mind expert in trifles,
Having yet everything to learn that can make him good or useful:
The curious spirit of youth is crammed with unwholesome garbage,
While starving for the mother's milk the breasts of nature yield;
And high-coloured fables of depravity lure with their classic varnish,
While truth is holding out in vain her mirror much despised.
Ofolden time, the fashion was for arms, to make an accomplished slayer,And set gregarious man a-tilting with his fellows;Thereafter, occult sciences, and mystic arts, and symbols,How to exorcise a wizard, and how to lay a ghost;Anon, all for gallantry and presence, the minuet, the palfrey, and the foil,And the grand aim of education was to produce a coxcomb;Soon came scholastical dispute with hydra-headed argument,And the true philosophy of mind confounded in a labyrinth of words;Then the Pantheon, and its orgies, initiating docile childhood,While diligent youth strove hard to render his all unto Cæsar;And now is seen the passion for utility, when all things are accounted by their price,And the wisdom of the wise is busied in hatching golden eggs:Perchance, not many moons to come, and all will again be for abstrusity,Unravelling the figured veil that hideth Egypt's gods;Or in those strange Avatars seeking benignant Vishnu,Kali, and Kamala the fair, and much invoked Ganesa.
Ofolden time, the fashion was for arms, to make an accomplished slayer,
And set gregarious man a-tilting with his fellows;
Thereafter, occult sciences, and mystic arts, and symbols,
How to exorcise a wizard, and how to lay a ghost;
Anon, all for gallantry and presence, the minuet, the palfrey, and the foil,
And the grand aim of education was to produce a coxcomb;
Soon came scholastical dispute with hydra-headed argument,
And the true philosophy of mind confounded in a labyrinth of words;
Then the Pantheon, and its orgies, initiating docile childhood,
While diligent youth strove hard to render his all unto Cæsar;
And now is seen the passion for utility, when all things are accounted by their price,
And the wisdom of the wise is busied in hatching golden eggs:
Perchance, not many moons to come, and all will again be for abstrusity,
Unravelling the figured veil that hideth Egypt's gods;
Or in those strange Avatars seeking benignant Vishnu,
Kali, and Kamala the fair, and much invoked Ganesa.
Themines of knowledge are oft laid bare through the forked hazel wand of chance,And in a mountain of quartz we find a grain of gold.Of a truth, it were well to know all things, and to learn them all at once,And what, though mortal insufficiency attain to small knowledge of any?Man loveth exclusions, delighting in the sterile trodden path,While the broad green meadow is jewelled with wild flowers:And whether is it better with the many to follow a beaten track,Or by eccentric wanderings to cull unheeded sweets?
Themines of knowledge are oft laid bare through the forked hazel wand of chance,
And in a mountain of quartz we find a grain of gold.
Of a truth, it were well to know all things, and to learn them all at once,
And what, though mortal insufficiency attain to small knowledge of any?
Man loveth exclusions, delighting in the sterile trodden path,
While the broad green meadow is jewelled with wild flowers:
And whether is it better with the many to follow a beaten track,
Or by eccentric wanderings to cull unheeded sweets?
Whenhis reason yieldeth fruit, make thy child thy friend;For a filial friend is a double gain, a diamond set in gold.As an infant, thy mandate was enough, but now let him see thy reasons;Confide in him, but with discretion: and bend a willing ear to his questions.More to thee than to all beside, let him owe good counsel and good guidance;Let him feel his pursuits have an interest, more to thee than to all beside.Watch his native capacities; nourish that which suiteth him the readiest;And cultivate early those good inclinations wherein thou fearest he is most lacking:Is he phlegmatic and desponding? let small successes comfort his hope:Is he obstinate and sanguine? let petty crosses accustom him to life:Showeth he a sordid spirit? be quick, and teach him generosity:Inclineth he to liberal excess? prove to him how hard it is to earn.Gather to thy hearth such friends as are worthy of honour and attention;For the company a man chooseth is a visible index of his heart:But let not the pastor whom thou hearest be too much a familiar in thy house,For thy children may see his infirmities, and learn to cavil at his teaching.It is well to take hold on occasions, and render indirect instruction;It is better to teach upon a system, and reap the wisdom of books:The history of nations yieldeth grand outlines: of persons, minute details:Poetry is polish to the mind, and high abstractions cleanse it.Consider the station of thy son, and breed him to his fortune with judgment:The rich may profit in much which would bring small advantage to the poor.But with all thy care for thy son, with all thy strivings for his welfare,Expect disappointment, and look for pain: for he is of an evil stock, and will grieve thee.
Whenhis reason yieldeth fruit, make thy child thy friend;
For a filial friend is a double gain, a diamond set in gold.
As an infant, thy mandate was enough, but now let him see thy reasons;
Confide in him, but with discretion: and bend a willing ear to his questions.
More to thee than to all beside, let him owe good counsel and good guidance;
Let him feel his pursuits have an interest, more to thee than to all beside.
Watch his native capacities; nourish that which suiteth him the readiest;
And cultivate early those good inclinations wherein thou fearest he is most lacking:
Is he phlegmatic and desponding? let small successes comfort his hope:
Is he obstinate and sanguine? let petty crosses accustom him to life:
Showeth he a sordid spirit? be quick, and teach him generosity:
Inclineth he to liberal excess? prove to him how hard it is to earn.
Gather to thy hearth such friends as are worthy of honour and attention;
For the company a man chooseth is a visible index of his heart:
But let not the pastor whom thou hearest be too much a familiar in thy house,
For thy children may see his infirmities, and learn to cavil at his teaching.
It is well to take hold on occasions, and render indirect instruction;
It is better to teach upon a system, and reap the wisdom of books:
The history of nations yieldeth grand outlines: of persons, minute details:
Poetry is polish to the mind, and high abstractions cleanse it.
Consider the station of thy son, and breed him to his fortune with judgment:
The rich may profit in much which would bring small advantage to the poor.
But with all thy care for thy son, with all thy strivings for his welfare,
Expect disappointment, and look for pain: for he is of an evil stock, and will grieve thee.
A wiseman in a crowded street winneth his way with gentleness,Nor rudely pusheth aside the stranger that standeth in his path;He knoweth that blind hurry will but hinder, stirring up contention against him,Yet holdeth he steadily right on, with his face to the scope of his pursuit:Even so, in the congress of opinions, the bustling highway of intelligence,Each man should ask of his neighbour, and yield to him again, concession.Terms ill-defined, and forms misunderstood, and customs, where their reasons are unknown,Have stirred up many zealous souls to fight against imaginary giants:But wisdom will hear the matter out, and often, by keenness of perception,Will find in strange disguise the precious truth he seeketh;So he leaveth unto prejudice or taste the garb and the manner of her presence,Content to see so nigh the mistress of his love.There is no similitude in nature that owneth not also to a difference,Yea, no two berries are alike, though twins upon one stem;No drop in the ocean, no pebble on the beach, no leaf in the forest, hath its counterpart,No mind in its dwelling of mortality, no spirit in the world unseen:And therefore, since capacity and essence differ alike with accident,None but a bigot partizan will hope for impossible unity.Wilt thou ensue peace, nor buffet with the waters of contention,Wilt thou be counted wise and gain the love of men,Let unobtruded error escape the frown of censure,Nor lift the glass of truth alway before thy fellows:I say not, compromise the right, I would not have thee countenance the wrong,But hear with charitable heart the reasons of an honest judgment;For thou also hast erred, and knowest not when thou art most right,Nor whether to-morrow's wisdom may not prove thee simple to-day:Perchance thou art chiding in another what once thou wast thyself;Perchance thou sharply reprovest what thou wilt be hereafter.A man that can render a reason, is a man worthy of an answer;But he that argueth for victory, deserveth not the tenderness of Truth.
A wiseman in a crowded street winneth his way with gentleness,
Nor rudely pusheth aside the stranger that standeth in his path;
He knoweth that blind hurry will but hinder, stirring up contention against him,
Yet holdeth he steadily right on, with his face to the scope of his pursuit:
Even so, in the congress of opinions, the bustling highway of intelligence,
Each man should ask of his neighbour, and yield to him again, concession.
Terms ill-defined, and forms misunderstood, and customs, where their reasons are unknown,
Have stirred up many zealous souls to fight against imaginary giants:
But wisdom will hear the matter out, and often, by keenness of perception,
Will find in strange disguise the precious truth he seeketh;
So he leaveth unto prejudice or taste the garb and the manner of her presence,
Content to see so nigh the mistress of his love.
There is no similitude in nature that owneth not also to a difference,
Yea, no two berries are alike, though twins upon one stem;
No drop in the ocean, no pebble on the beach, no leaf in the forest, hath its counterpart,
No mind in its dwelling of mortality, no spirit in the world unseen:
And therefore, since capacity and essence differ alike with accident,
None but a bigot partizan will hope for impossible unity.
Wilt thou ensue peace, nor buffet with the waters of contention,
Wilt thou be counted wise and gain the love of men,
Let unobtruded error escape the frown of censure,
Nor lift the glass of truth alway before thy fellows:
I say not, compromise the right, I would not have thee countenance the wrong,
But hear with charitable heart the reasons of an honest judgment;
For thou also hast erred, and knowest not when thou art most right,
Nor whether to-morrow's wisdom may not prove thee simple to-day:
Perchance thou art chiding in another what once thou wast thyself;
Perchance thou sharply reprovest what thou wilt be hereafter.
A man that can render a reason, is a man worthy of an answer;
But he that argueth for victory, deserveth not the tenderness of Truth.
Whilesa man liveth he may mend: count not thy brother reprobate;When he is dead his chance is gone: remember not his faults in bitterness.A man, till he dieth, is immortal in thy sight; and then he is as nothing:Make not the living thy foe, nor take weak vengeance of the dead.For life is as a game of chess, where least causeth greatest,And an ill move bringeth loss, and a pawn may ensure victory.Dost thou suspect? seek out certainty: for now, by self-inflicted pain,Or ill-directed wrath, thou wrongest thyself or thy neighbour:Suspicion is an early lesson, taught in the school of experience,Neither shalt thou easily unlearn it, though charity ply thee with her preaching;Yet look thou well for reasons, or ever mistrust hath marred thee,Or fear curdled thy blood, or jealousy goaded thee to madness;For a look, or a word, or an act, may be taken well or illAs construed by the latitude of love, or the closeness of cold suspicion.
Whilesa man liveth he may mend: count not thy brother reprobate;
When he is dead his chance is gone: remember not his faults in bitterness.
A man, till he dieth, is immortal in thy sight; and then he is as nothing:
Make not the living thy foe, nor take weak vengeance of the dead.
For life is as a game of chess, where least causeth greatest,
And an ill move bringeth loss, and a pawn may ensure victory.
Dost thou suspect? seek out certainty: for now, by self-inflicted pain,
Or ill-directed wrath, thou wrongest thyself or thy neighbour:
Suspicion is an early lesson, taught in the school of experience,
Neither shalt thou easily unlearn it, though charity ply thee with her preaching;
Yet look thou well for reasons, or ever mistrust hath marred thee,
Or fear curdled thy blood, or jealousy goaded thee to madness;
For a look, or a word, or an act, may be taken well or ill
As construed by the latitude of love, or the closeness of cold suspicion.
Betteris the wrong with sincerity, rather than the right with falsehood:And a prudent man will not lay siege to the stronghold of ignorant bigotry.To unsettle a weak mind were an easy inglorious triumph,And a strong cause taketh little count of the worthless suffrage of a fool:Lightly he held to the wrong, loosely will he cling to the right;Weakness is the essence of his mind, and the reed cannot yield an acorn.Dogged obstinacy is oftentimes the buttress that proppeth an unstable spirit,But a candid man blusheth not to own, he is wiser to-day than yesterday.A man of a little wisdom is a sage among fools;But himself is chief among the fools, if he look for admiration from them.A heresy is an evil thing, for its shame is its pride:Its necessary difference of error is the character it most esteemeth:Give a man all things short of liberty, thou shalt have no thanks,And little wilt thou speed with thine opponent, by proving points he will concede.The tost sand darkeneth the waves; and clear had been the pages of truth,Had not the glosses of men obscured the simplicity of faith.In all things consider thine own ignorance, and gladly take occasion to be taught;But suffer not excess of liberality to neutralize thy mental independence.
Betteris the wrong with sincerity, rather than the right with falsehood:
And a prudent man will not lay siege to the stronghold of ignorant bigotry.
To unsettle a weak mind were an easy inglorious triumph,
And a strong cause taketh little count of the worthless suffrage of a fool:
Lightly he held to the wrong, loosely will he cling to the right;
Weakness is the essence of his mind, and the reed cannot yield an acorn.
Dogged obstinacy is oftentimes the buttress that proppeth an unstable spirit,
But a candid man blusheth not to own, he is wiser to-day than yesterday.
A man of a little wisdom is a sage among fools;
But himself is chief among the fools, if he look for admiration from them.
A heresy is an evil thing, for its shame is its pride:
Its necessary difference of error is the character it most esteemeth:
Give a man all things short of liberty, thou shalt have no thanks,
And little wilt thou speed with thine opponent, by proving points he will concede.
The tost sand darkeneth the waves; and clear had been the pages of truth,
Had not the glosses of men obscured the simplicity of faith.
In all things consider thine own ignorance, and gladly take occasion to be taught;
But suffer not excess of liberality to neutralize thy mental independence.
Thefaults and follies of most men make their deaths a gain:But thou also art a man, full of faults and follies:Therefore sorrow for the dead, or none shall weep for thee,For the measure of charity thou dealest, shall be poured into thine own bosom.That which vexeth thee now, provoking thee to hate thy brother,Bear with it; the annoyance passeth, and may not return for ever:The same combinations and results which aggravate thy soul to-day,May not meet again for centuries in the kaleidoscope of circumstance;For men and matters change, new elements mixing in continually,And, as with chemical magic, the sour is transmuted into sweetness:A little explained, a little endured, a little passed over as a foible,And lo, the jagged atoms fit like smooth mosaic.Thou canst not shape another's mind to suit thine own body,Think not, then, to be furnishing his brain with thy special notions.Charity walketh with a high step, and stumbleth not at a trifle:Charity hath keen eyes, but the lashes half conceal them:Charity is praised of all, and fear not thou that praise,God will not love thee less, because men love thee more.
Thefaults and follies of most men make their deaths a gain:
But thou also art a man, full of faults and follies:
Therefore sorrow for the dead, or none shall weep for thee,
For the measure of charity thou dealest, shall be poured into thine own bosom.
That which vexeth thee now, provoking thee to hate thy brother,
Bear with it; the annoyance passeth, and may not return for ever:
The same combinations and results which aggravate thy soul to-day,
May not meet again for centuries in the kaleidoscope of circumstance;
For men and matters change, new elements mixing in continually,
And, as with chemical magic, the sour is transmuted into sweetness:
A little explained, a little endured, a little passed over as a foible,
And lo, the jagged atoms fit like smooth mosaic.
Thou canst not shape another's mind to suit thine own body,
Think not, then, to be furnishing his brain with thy special notions.
Charity walketh with a high step, and stumbleth not at a trifle:
Charity hath keen eyes, but the lashes half conceal them:
Charity is praised of all, and fear not thou that praise,
God will not love thee less, because men love thee more.
I said,I will seek out Sorrow, and minister the balm of pity;So I sought her in the house of mourning; but peace followed in her train.Then I marked her brooding silently in the gloomy cavern of Regret;But a sunbeam of heavenly hope gleamed on her folded wing.So I turned to the cabin of the poor, where famine dwelt with disease:But the bed of the sick was smoothed, and the ploughman whistled at his labour.So I stopt, and mused within myself, to remember where Sorrow dwelt,For I sought to see her alone, uncomforted, uncompanioned.I went to the prison, but penitence was there, and promise of better times;I listened at the madman's cell, but it echoed with deluded laughter.Then I turned me to the rich and noble; I noted the sons of fashion:A smile was on the languid cheek, that had no commerce with the heart;Unhallowed thoughts, like fires, gleamed from the window of the eye;And sorrow lived with those whose pleasures add unto their sins.
I said,I will seek out Sorrow, and minister the balm of pity;
So I sought her in the house of mourning; but peace followed in her train.
Then I marked her brooding silently in the gloomy cavern of Regret;
But a sunbeam of heavenly hope gleamed on her folded wing.
So I turned to the cabin of the poor, where famine dwelt with disease:
But the bed of the sick was smoothed, and the ploughman whistled at his labour.
So I stopt, and mused within myself, to remember where Sorrow dwelt,
For I sought to see her alone, uncomforted, uncompanioned.
I went to the prison, but penitence was there, and promise of better times;
I listened at the madman's cell, but it echoed with deluded laughter.
Then I turned me to the rich and noble; I noted the sons of fashion:
A smile was on the languid cheek, that had no commerce with the heart;
Unhallowed thoughts, like fires, gleamed from the window of the eye;
And sorrow lived with those whose pleasures add unto their sins.
Hisinfancy wanted not guilt; his life was continued evil:He drew in pride with his mother's milk, and a father's lips taught him cursing.I marked him as the wayward boy; I traced the dissolute youth:I saw him betray the innocent, and sacrifice affection to his lust;I saw him the companion of knaves, and a squanderer of ill-got gain;I heard him curse his own misery, while he hugged the chains that galled him:For well had experience declared the bitterness of guilty pleasure,But habit, with its iron net, involved him in its folds.Behind him lowered the thunder-storm, which the caldron of his wickedness had brewed;Before him was the smooth steep cliff, whose base is ruin and despair.So he rushed madly on, and tried to forget his being:The noisy revel and the low debauch, and fierce excitement of play,With dreary interchange of palling pleasures, filled the dull round of existence:Memory was to him as a foe, so he flew for false solace to the wine-cup,And stunned his enemy at even; but she rent him as a giant in the morning.
Hisinfancy wanted not guilt; his life was continued evil:
He drew in pride with his mother's milk, and a father's lips taught him cursing.
I marked him as the wayward boy; I traced the dissolute youth:
I saw him betray the innocent, and sacrifice affection to his lust;
I saw him the companion of knaves, and a squanderer of ill-got gain;
I heard him curse his own misery, while he hugged the chains that galled him:
For well had experience declared the bitterness of guilty pleasure,
But habit, with its iron net, involved him in its folds.
Behind him lowered the thunder-storm, which the caldron of his wickedness had brewed;
Before him was the smooth steep cliff, whose base is ruin and despair.
So he rushed madly on, and tried to forget his being:
The noisy revel and the low debauch, and fierce excitement of play,
With dreary interchange of palling pleasures, filled the dull round of existence:
Memory was to him as a foe, so he flew for false solace to the wine-cup,
And stunned his enemy at even; but she rent him as a giant in the morning.
I turnedaside to weep; I lost him a little while:I looked, and years had past; he was hoar with the winter of his age.And what was now his hope? where was the balm for his sadness?The memory of the past was guilt: the feeling of the present, remorse.Then he set his affections on gold, he worshipped the shrine of Mammon,And to lay richer gifts before his idol, he starved his own bowels;So, the youth spent in profligacy ended in the gripings of want:The miser grudged himself husks to take deeper vengeance of the prodigal.And I said, this is Sorrow, but pity cannot reach it;This is to be wretched indeed, to be guilty without repentance.
I turnedaside to weep; I lost him a little while:
I looked, and years had past; he was hoar with the winter of his age.
And what was now his hope? where was the balm for his sadness?
The memory of the past was guilt: the feeling of the present, remorse.
Then he set his affections on gold, he worshipped the shrine of Mammon,
And to lay richer gifts before his idol, he starved his own bowels;
So, the youth spent in profligacy ended in the gripings of want:
The miser grudged himself husks to take deeper vengeance of the prodigal.
And I said, this is Sorrow, but pity cannot reach it;
This is to be wretched indeed, to be guilty without repentance.
Mysoul was sickened within me, so I sought the dwelling place of Joy:And I met it not in laughter; I found it not in wealth or power;But I saw it in the pleasant home, where religion smiled upon content,And the satisfied ambition of the heart rejoiced in the favour of its God.Behold the happy man, his face is rayed with pleasure,His thoughts are of calm delight, and none can know his blessedness.I have watched him from his infancy, and seen him in the grasp of death,Yet, never have I noted on his brow the cloud of desponding sorrow.He hath knelt beside his cradle; his mother's hymn lulled him to sleep:In childhood he hath loved holiness, and drank from that fountain-head of peace.Wisdom took him for her scholar, guiding his steps in purity:He lived unpolluted by the world; and his young heart hated sin.But he owned not the spurious religion engendered of faction and moroseness,Neither were the sproutings of his soul seared by the brand of superstition.His love is pure and single, sincere, and knoweth not change;For his manhood hath been blest with the pleasant choice of his youth:Behold his one beloved, she leaneth on his arm,And he looketh on the years that are past, to review the dawn of her affection.Memory is sweet unto him, as a perfect landscape to the sight;Each object is lovely in itself, but the whole is the harmony of nature.Behold his little ones around him, they bask in the warmth of his smile,And infant innocence and joy lighten their happy faces;He is holy, and they honour him: he is loving, and they love him:He is consistent, and they esteem him: he is firm, and they fear him.His friends are the excellent among men; and the bands of their friendship are strong:His house is the palace of peace: for the Prince of Peace is there.As the wearied man to his couch, as the thoughtful man to his musings,Even so, from the bustle of life, he goeth to his well-ordered home.And though he often sin, he returneth with weeping eyes:For he feeleth the mercies of forgiveness, and gloweth with warmer gratitude.
Mysoul was sickened within me, so I sought the dwelling place of Joy:
And I met it not in laughter; I found it not in wealth or power;
But I saw it in the pleasant home, where religion smiled upon content,
And the satisfied ambition of the heart rejoiced in the favour of its God.
Behold the happy man, his face is rayed with pleasure,
His thoughts are of calm delight, and none can know his blessedness.
I have watched him from his infancy, and seen him in the grasp of death,
Yet, never have I noted on his brow the cloud of desponding sorrow.
He hath knelt beside his cradle; his mother's hymn lulled him to sleep:
In childhood he hath loved holiness, and drank from that fountain-head of peace.
Wisdom took him for her scholar, guiding his steps in purity:
He lived unpolluted by the world; and his young heart hated sin.
But he owned not the spurious religion engendered of faction and moroseness,
Neither were the sproutings of his soul seared by the brand of superstition.
His love is pure and single, sincere, and knoweth not change;
For his manhood hath been blest with the pleasant choice of his youth:
Behold his one beloved, she leaneth on his arm,
And he looketh on the years that are past, to review the dawn of her affection.
Memory is sweet unto him, as a perfect landscape to the sight;
Each object is lovely in itself, but the whole is the harmony of nature.
Behold his little ones around him, they bask in the warmth of his smile,
And infant innocence and joy lighten their happy faces;
He is holy, and they honour him: he is loving, and they love him:
He is consistent, and they esteem him: he is firm, and they fear him.
His friends are the excellent among men; and the bands of their friendship are strong:
His house is the palace of peace: for the Prince of Peace is there.
As the wearied man to his couch, as the thoughtful man to his musings,
Even so, from the bustle of life, he goeth to his well-ordered home.
And though he often sin, he returneth with weeping eyes:
For he feeleth the mercies of forgiveness, and gloweth with warmer gratitude.
Thusdid he walk in happiness, and sorrow was a stranger to his soul;The light of affection sunned his heart, the tear of the grateful bedewed his feet,He put his hand with constancy to good, and angels knew him as a brother,And the busy satellites of evil trembled as at God's ally:He used his wealth as a wise steward, making him friends for futurity:He bent his learning to religion, and religion was with him at the last:For I saw him after many days, when the time of his release was come,And I longed for a congregated world, to behold that dying saint.As the aloe is green and well-liking, till the last best summer of its age,And then hangeth out its golden bells, to mingle glory with corruption;As a meteor travelleth in splendour, but bursteth in dazzling light;Such was the end of the righteous: his death was the sun at its setting.
Thusdid he walk in happiness, and sorrow was a stranger to his soul;
The light of affection sunned his heart, the tear of the grateful bedewed his feet,
He put his hand with constancy to good, and angels knew him as a brother,
And the busy satellites of evil trembled as at God's ally:
He used his wealth as a wise steward, making him friends for futurity:
He bent his learning to religion, and religion was with him at the last:
For I saw him after many days, when the time of his release was come,
And I longed for a congregated world, to behold that dying saint.
As the aloe is green and well-liking, till the last best summer of its age,
And then hangeth out its golden bells, to mingle glory with corruption;
As a meteor travelleth in splendour, but bursteth in dazzling light;
Such was the end of the righteous: his death was the sun at its setting.
Lookon this picture of joy, and remember that portrait of sorrow:Behold the beauty of holiness, behold the deformity of sin!How long, ye sons of men, will ye scorn the words of wisdom?How long will ye hunt for happiness in the caverns that breed despair?Will ye comfort yourselves in misery, by denying the existence of delight,And from experience in woe, will ye reason that none are happy?Joy is not in your path, for it loveth not that bleak broad road,But its flowers are hung upon the hedges that line a narrower way;And there the faint travellers of earth may wander and gather for themselves,To soothe their wounded hearts with balm from the amaranths of heaven.
Lookon this picture of joy, and remember that portrait of sorrow:
Behold the beauty of holiness, behold the deformity of sin!
How long, ye sons of men, will ye scorn the words of wisdom?
How long will ye hunt for happiness in the caverns that breed despair?
Will ye comfort yourselves in misery, by denying the existence of delight,
And from experience in woe, will ye reason that none are happy?
Joy is not in your path, for it loveth not that bleak broad road,
But its flowers are hung upon the hedges that line a narrower way;
And there the faint travellers of earth may wander and gather for themselves,
To soothe their wounded hearts with balm from the amaranths of heaven.
ΘΕΩ ΔΟΞΑ.
Comeagain, and greet me as a friend, fellow-pilgrim upon life's highway,Leave awhile the hot and dusty road, to loiter in the greenwood of Reflection.Come unto my cool dim grotto, that is watered by the rivulet of truth,And over whose time-stained rock climb the fairy flowers of content;Here, upon this mossy bank of leisure fling thy load of cares,Taste my simple store, and rest one soothing hour.
Comeagain, and greet me as a friend, fellow-pilgrim upon life's highway,
Leave awhile the hot and dusty road, to loiter in the greenwood of Reflection.
Come unto my cool dim grotto, that is watered by the rivulet of truth,
And over whose time-stained rock climb the fairy flowers of content;
Here, upon this mossy bank of leisure fling thy load of cares,
Taste my simple store, and rest one soothing hour.
Behold,I would count thee for a brother, and commune with thy charitable soul;Though wrapt within the mantle of a prophet, I stand mine own weak scholar.Heed no disciple for a teacher, if knowledge be not found upon his tongue;For vanity and folly were the lessons these lips untaught could give:The precious staple of my merchandise cometh from a better country,The harvest of my reaping sprang of foreign seed:And this poor pensioner of Mercy—should he boast of merit?The grafted stock,—should that be proud of apples not its own?Into the bubbling brook I dip my hermit shell;Man receiveth as a cup, but Wisdom is the river.
Behold,I would count thee for a brother, and commune with thy charitable soul;
Though wrapt within the mantle of a prophet, I stand mine own weak scholar.
Heed no disciple for a teacher, if knowledge be not found upon his tongue;
For vanity and folly were the lessons these lips untaught could give:
The precious staple of my merchandise cometh from a better country,
The harvest of my reaping sprang of foreign seed:
And this poor pensioner of Mercy—should he boast of merit?
The grafted stock,—should that be proud of apples not its own?
Into the bubbling brook I dip my hermit shell;
Man receiveth as a cup, but Wisdom is the river.
Moreover,for this fillagree of fancy, this Oriental garnish of similitude,Alas, the world is old,—and all things old within it:I walk a trodden path, I love the good old ways;Prophets, and priests, and kings have tuned the harp I faintly touch.Truth, in a garment of the past, is my choice and simple theme;No truth is new to-day: and the mantle was another's.
Moreover,for this fillagree of fancy, this Oriental garnish of similitude,
Alas, the world is old,—and all things old within it:
I walk a trodden path, I love the good old ways;
Prophets, and priests, and kings have tuned the harp I faintly touch.
Truth, in a garment of the past, is my choice and simple theme;
No truth is new to-day: and the mantle was another's.
Still,there is an insect swarm, the buzzing cloud of imagery,Mote-like steaming on my sight, and thronging my reluctant mind;The memories of studious culling, and multiplied analogies of nature,Fresh feelings unrepressed, welling from the heart spontaneous,Facts, and comparisons, and meditative atoms, gathered on the heap of combination,Mingle in the fashion of my speech with gossamer dreams of Reverie.I need not beat the underwood for game; my pheasants flock upon the lawn,And gamboling hares disport fearless in my dewy field;I roam no heath-empurpled hills, wearily watching for a covey,But thoughts fly swift to my decoy, eager to be caught;I sit no quiet angler, lingering patiently for sport,But spread my nets for a draught, and take the glittering shoal;I chase no solitary stag, tracking it with breathless toil,But hunt with Aurung-zebe, and spear surrounded thousands.
Still,there is an insect swarm, the buzzing cloud of imagery,
Mote-like steaming on my sight, and thronging my reluctant mind;
The memories of studious culling, and multiplied analogies of nature,
Fresh feelings unrepressed, welling from the heart spontaneous,
Facts, and comparisons, and meditative atoms, gathered on the heap of combination,
Mingle in the fashion of my speech with gossamer dreams of Reverie.
I need not beat the underwood for game; my pheasants flock upon the lawn,
And gamboling hares disport fearless in my dewy field;
I roam no heath-empurpled hills, wearily watching for a covey,
But thoughts fly swift to my decoy, eager to be caught;
I sit no quiet angler, lingering patiently for sport,
But spread my nets for a draught, and take the glittering shoal;
I chase no solitary stag, tracking it with breathless toil,
But hunt with Aurung-zebe, and spear surrounded thousands.
Whatthen,—count ye this a boast?—sweet charity, think it other,For the dog-fish and poisonous ray are captured in the mullet-haul:The crane and the kite are of my thoughts, alike with the partridge and the quail,And unclean meats as of the clean hang upon my Seric shambles.—How saith he? shall a man deceive, dressing up his jackal as a lion?Or colour in staid hues of fact the changing vest of falsehood?—Brother, unwittingly he may; doubtless, unwillingly he doth:For men are full of fault, and how should he be righteous?Carefully my garden hath been weeded, yet shall it be foul with thistle;My grapery is diligently thinned, and yet many berries will be sour:From my nets have I flung the bad away, to my small skill and caution;Yet may some slimy snake have counted for an eel.The rudder of Man's best hope cannot always steer himself from error;The arrow of Man's straightest aim flieth short of truth.Thus, the confession of sincerity visit not as if it were presumption:Nor own me for a leader, where thy reason is not guide.
Whatthen,—count ye this a boast?—sweet charity, think it other,
For the dog-fish and poisonous ray are captured in the mullet-haul:
The crane and the kite are of my thoughts, alike with the partridge and the quail,
And unclean meats as of the clean hang upon my Seric shambles.
Or colour in staid hues of fact the changing vest of falsehood?—
Brother, unwittingly he may; doubtless, unwillingly he doth:
For men are full of fault, and how should he be righteous?
Carefully my garden hath been weeded, yet shall it be foul with thistle;
My grapery is diligently thinned, and yet many berries will be sour:
From my nets have I flung the bad away, to my small skill and caution;
Yet may some slimy snake have counted for an eel.
The rudder of Man's best hope cannot always steer himself from error;
The arrow of Man's straightest aim flieth short of truth.
Thus, the confession of sincerity visit not as if it were presumption:
Nor own me for a leader, where thy reason is not guide.
Takecourage, prisoner of time, for there be many comforts,Cease thy labour in the pit, and bask awhile with truants in the sun;Be cheerful, man of care, for great is the multitude of chances,Burst thy fetters of anxiety, and walk among the citizens of ease:Wherefore dost thou doubt? if present good is round thee,It may be well to look for change, but to trust in a continuance is better;Whilst, at the crisis of adversity, to hope for some amends were wisdom,And cheerfully to bear thy cross in patient strength is duty.I speak of common troubles, and the petty plagues of life,The phantom-spies of Unbelief, that lurk about his outposts:Sharp suspicion, dull distrust, and sullen stern morosenessAre captains in that locust swarm to lead the cloudy host.Thou hast need of fortitude and faith, for the adversaries come on thickly,And he that fled hath added wings to his pursuing foes;Fight them, and the cravens flee; thy boldness is their panic;Fear them, and thy treacherous heart hath lent the ranks a legion:Among their shouts of victory resoundeth the wail of Heraclitus,While Democrite, confident and cheerful, hath plucked up the standard of their camp.
Takecourage, prisoner of time, for there be many comforts,
Cease thy labour in the pit, and bask awhile with truants in the sun;
Be cheerful, man of care, for great is the multitude of chances,
Burst thy fetters of anxiety, and walk among the citizens of ease:
Wherefore dost thou doubt? if present good is round thee,
It may be well to look for change, but to trust in a continuance is better;
Whilst, at the crisis of adversity, to hope for some amends were wisdom,
And cheerfully to bear thy cross in patient strength is duty.
I speak of common troubles, and the petty plagues of life,
The phantom-spies of Unbelief, that lurk about his outposts:
Sharp suspicion, dull distrust, and sullen stern moroseness
Are captains in that locust swarm to lead the cloudy host.
Thou hast need of fortitude and faith, for the adversaries come on thickly,
And he that fled hath added wings to his pursuing foes;
Fight them, and the cravens flee; thy boldness is their panic;
Fear them, and thy treacherous heart hath lent the ranks a legion:
Among their shouts of victory resoundeth the wail of Heraclitus,
While Democrite, confident and cheerful, hath plucked up the standard of their camp.
Notfew nor light are the burdens of life; then load it not with heaviness of spirit;Sicknesses, and penury, and travail,—there be real ills enow:We are wandering benighted, with a waning moon; plunge not rashly into jungles,Where cold and poisonous damps will quench the torch of hope:The tide is strong against us; good oarsmen, pull or perish,—If your arms be slack for fear, ye shall not stem the torrent.A wise traveller goeth on cheerily, through fair weather or foul;He knoweth that his journey must be sped, so he carrieth his sunshine with him.Calamities come not as a curse,—nor prosperity for other than a trial;Struggle,—thou art better for the strife, and the very energy shall hearten thee.Good is taught in a Spartan school,—hard lessons and a rough discipline;But evil cometh idly of itself, in the luxury of Capuan holidays:And Wisdom will go bravely forth to meet the chastening scourge,Enduring with a thankful heart that punishment of Love.
Notfew nor light are the burdens of life; then load it not with heaviness of spirit;
Sicknesses, and penury, and travail,—there be real ills enow:
We are wandering benighted, with a waning moon; plunge not rashly into jungles,
Where cold and poisonous damps will quench the torch of hope:
The tide is strong against us; good oarsmen, pull or perish,—
If your arms be slack for fear, ye shall not stem the torrent.
A wise traveller goeth on cheerily, through fair weather or foul;
He knoweth that his journey must be sped, so he carrieth his sunshine with him.
Calamities come not as a curse,—nor prosperity for other than a trial;
Struggle,—thou art better for the strife, and the very energy shall hearten thee.
Good is taught in a Spartan school,—hard lessons and a rough discipline;
But evil cometh idly of itself, in the luxury of Capuan holidays:
And Wisdom will go bravely forth to meet the chastening scourge,
Enduring with a thankful heart that punishment of Love.
Therebe three chief rivers of despondency: sin, sorrow, fear;Sin is the deepest, sorrow hath its shallows, and fear is a noisy rapid:But even to the darkest holes in guilt's profoundest riverHope can pierce with quickening ray, and all those depths are lightened.So long as there is mercy in a God, hope is the privilege of creatures,And so soon as there is penitence in creatures, that hope is exalted into duty.Verily, consider this for courage; that the fearful and the unbelievingAre classed with idolaters and liars, because they trusted not in God:For it is none other than selfish sin, a hard and proud ingratitude,Where seeming repentance is herald of despair, instead of hope's forerunner.
Therebe three chief rivers of despondency: sin, sorrow, fear;
Sin is the deepest, sorrow hath its shallows, and fear is a noisy rapid:
But even to the darkest holes in guilt's profoundest river
Hope can pierce with quickening ray, and all those depths are lightened.
So long as there is mercy in a God, hope is the privilege of creatures,
And so soon as there is penitence in creatures, that hope is exalted into duty.
Verily, consider this for courage; that the fearful and the unbelieving
Are classed with idolaters and liars, because they trusted not in God:
For it is none other than selfish sin, a hard and proud ingratitude,
Where seeming repentance is herald of despair, instead of hope's forerunner.
Moreover,in thy day of grief,—for friends, or fame, or fortune,Well I wot the heart shall ache, and mind be numbed in torpor;Let nature weep; leave her alone; the freshet of her sorrow must run off;And sooner will the lake be clear, relieved of turbid floodings.Yet see that her license hath a limit; with the novelty her agony is over;Hasten in that earliest calm, to tie her in the leash with Reason.For regrets are an enervating folly, and the season for energy is come,Yea rather, that the future may repair with diligence the ruins of the past.
Moreover,in thy day of grief,—for friends, or fame, or fortune,
Well I wot the heart shall ache, and mind be numbed in torpor;
Let nature weep; leave her alone; the freshet of her sorrow must run off;
And sooner will the lake be clear, relieved of turbid floodings.
Yet see that her license hath a limit; with the novelty her agony is over;
Hasten in that earliest calm, to tie her in the leash with Reason.
For regrets are an enervating folly, and the season for energy is come,
Yea rather, that the future may repair with diligence the ruins of the past.
Again,for empty fears, the harassings of possible calamity,Pray, and thou shalt prosper; trust in God, and tread them down.Yield to the phantasy,—thou sinnest; resist it, He will aid thee:Out of Him there is no help, nor any sober courage.Feeble is the comfort of the faithless, a man without a God;Who dare counsel such an one to fling away his fears?Fear is the heritage of him, a portion wise and merciful,To drive the trembler into safety, if haply he may turn and flee:Nevertheless, let him reckon an he will, that all be counteth casualMay as well be for him as against him; dice have many sides:And, even as in ailments of the body, diseases follow closely upon dreads,So, with infirmities of mind, is fear the pallid harbinger of failure.It were wise to walk undaunted even in an accidental chaos,For the brave man is at peace, and free to get the mastery of circumstance.The stoutest armour of defence is that which is worn within the bosom,And the weapon that no enemy can parry, is a bold and cheerful spirit:Catapults in old war worked like Titans, crushing foes with rocks;So doth a strong-springed heart throw back every load on its assailants.
Again,for empty fears, the harassings of possible calamity,
Pray, and thou shalt prosper; trust in God, and tread them down.
Yield to the phantasy,—thou sinnest; resist it, He will aid thee:
Out of Him there is no help, nor any sober courage.
Feeble is the comfort of the faithless, a man without a God;
Who dare counsel such an one to fling away his fears?
Fear is the heritage of him, a portion wise and merciful,
To drive the trembler into safety, if haply he may turn and flee:
Nevertheless, let him reckon an he will, that all be counteth casual
May as well be for him as against him; dice have many sides:
And, even as in ailments of the body, diseases follow closely upon dreads,
So, with infirmities of mind, is fear the pallid harbinger of failure.
It were wise to walk undaunted even in an accidental chaos,
For the brave man is at peace, and free to get the mastery of circumstance.
The stoutest armour of defence is that which is worn within the bosom,
And the weapon that no enemy can parry, is a bold and cheerful spirit:
Catapults in old war worked like Titans, crushing foes with rocks;
So doth a strong-springed heart throw back every load on its assailants.
I wentheavily for cares, and fell into the trance of sorrow;And behold, a vision in my trance, and my ministering angel brought it.There stood a mountain huge and steep, the awful Rock of Ages;The sun upon its summit, and storms midway, and deep ravines at foot.And, as I looked, a dense black cloud, suddenly dropping from the thunder,Filled, like a cataract with yeasty foam, a narrow smiling valley:Close and hard that vaporous mass seemed to press the ground,And lamentable sounds came up, as of some that were smothering beneath.Then, as I walked upon the mountain, clear in summer's noon,For charity I called aloud, Ho! climb up hither to the sunshine.And even like a stream of light my voice had pierced the mist;I saw below two families of men, and knew their names of old:Courage, struggling through the darkness, stout of heart and gladsome,Ran up the shining ladder which the voice of Hope had made;And tripping lightly by his side, a sweet-eyed helpmate with him,I looked upon her face to welcome pleasant Cheerfulness;And a babe was cradled in her bosom, a laughing little prattler,The child of Cheerfulness and Courage,—could his name be other than Success?So, from his happy wife, when they both stood beside me on the mountain,The fond father took that babe, and set him on his shoulder in the sunshine.
I wentheavily for cares, and fell into the trance of sorrow;
And behold, a vision in my trance, and my ministering angel brought it.
There stood a mountain huge and steep, the awful Rock of Ages;
The sun upon its summit, and storms midway, and deep ravines at foot.
And, as I looked, a dense black cloud, suddenly dropping from the thunder,
Filled, like a cataract with yeasty foam, a narrow smiling valley:
Close and hard that vaporous mass seemed to press the ground,
And lamentable sounds came up, as of some that were smothering beneath.
Then, as I walked upon the mountain, clear in summer's noon,
For charity I called aloud, Ho! climb up hither to the sunshine.
And even like a stream of light my voice had pierced the mist;
I saw below two families of men, and knew their names of old:
Courage, struggling through the darkness, stout of heart and gladsome,
Ran up the shining ladder which the voice of Hope had made;
And tripping lightly by his side, a sweet-eyed helpmate with him,
I looked upon her face to welcome pleasant Cheerfulness;
And a babe was cradled in her bosom, a laughing little prattler,
The child of Cheerfulness and Courage,—could his name be other than Success?
So, from his happy wife, when they both stood beside me on the mountain,
The fond father took that babe, and set him on his shoulder in the sunshine.
AgainI peered into the valley, for I heard a gasping moan,A desolate weak cry, as muffled in the vapours.So down that crystal shaft into the poisonous mineI sped for charity to seek and save,—and those I sought fled from me.At length, I spied, far distant, a trembling withered dwarfWho crouched beneath the cloak of a tall and spectral mourner:Then I knew Cowardice and Gloom, and followed them on in darkness,Guided by their rustling robes and moans and muffled cries,Until in a suffocating pit the wretched pair had perished,—And lo, their whitening bones were shaping out an epitaph of Failure.
AgainI peered into the valley, for I heard a gasping moan,
A desolate weak cry, as muffled in the vapours.
So down that crystal shaft into the poisonous mine
I sped for charity to seek and save,—and those I sought fled from me.
At length, I spied, far distant, a trembling withered dwarf
Who crouched beneath the cloak of a tall and spectral mourner:
Then I knew Cowardice and Gloom, and followed them on in darkness,
Guided by their rustling robes and moans and muffled cries,
Until in a suffocating pit the wretched pair had perished,—
And lo, their whitening bones were shaping out an epitaph of Failure.
SoI saw that despondency was death, and flung my burdens from me,And, lightened by that effort, I was raised above the world;Yea, in the strangeness of my vision, I seemed to soar on wings,And the names they called my wings were Cheerfulness and Wisdom.
SoI saw that despondency was death, and flung my burdens from me,
And, lightened by that effort, I was raised above the world;
Yea, in the strangeness of my vision, I seemed to soar on wings,
And the names they called my wings were Cheerfulness and Wisdom.
Speak,poor almsman of to-day, whom none can assure of a to-morrow,Tell out, with honest heart, the price thou settest upon yesterday.Is it then a writing in the dust, traced by the finger of idleness,Which Industry, clean housewife, can wipe away for ever?Is it as a furrow on the sand, fashioned by the toying waves,Quickly to be trampled then again by the feet of the returning tide?Is it as the pale blue smoke, rising from a peasant's hovel,That melted into limpid air, before it topped the larches?Is it but a vision, unstable and unreal, which wise men soon forget?Is it as the stranger of a night,—gone, we heed not whither?Alas! thou foolish heart, whose thoughts are but as these,Alas! deluded soul, that hopeth thus of Yesterday.
Speak,poor almsman of to-day, whom none can assure of a to-morrow,
Tell out, with honest heart, the price thou settest upon yesterday.
Is it then a writing in the dust, traced by the finger of idleness,
Which Industry, clean housewife, can wipe away for ever?
Is it as a furrow on the sand, fashioned by the toying waves,
Quickly to be trampled then again by the feet of the returning tide?
Is it as the pale blue smoke, rising from a peasant's hovel,
That melted into limpid air, before it topped the larches?
Is it but a vision, unstable and unreal, which wise men soon forget?
Is it as the stranger of a night,—gone, we heed not whither?
Alas! thou foolish heart, whose thoughts are but as these,
Alas! deluded soul, that hopeth thus of Yesterday.
For,behold,—those temples of Ellora, the Brahmin's rock-built shrine,Behold—yon granite cliff, which the North Sea buffeteth in vain,—That stout old forest fir,—these waking verities of life,This guest abiding ever, not strange, nor a servant, but a son,—Such, O man, are vanity and dreams, transient as a rainbow on the cloud,Weighed against that solid fact, thine ill-remembered Yesterday.
For,behold,—those temples of Ellora, the Brahmin's rock-built shrine,
Behold—yon granite cliff, which the North Sea buffeteth in vain,—
That stout old forest fir,—these waking verities of life,
This guest abiding ever, not strange, nor a servant, but a son,—
Such, O man, are vanity and dreams, transient as a rainbow on the cloud,
Weighed against that solid fact, thine ill-remembered Yesterday.
Come,let me show thee an ensample, where Nature shall instruct us;Luxuriantly the arguments for truth spring native in her gardens.Seek we yonder woodman of the plain; he is measuring his axe to the elm,And anon the sturdy strokes ring upon the wintry air:Eagerly the village school-boys cluster on the tightened rope,Shouting, and bending to the pull, or lifted from the ground elastic;The huge tree boweth like Sisera, boweth to its foes with faintness,—Its sinews crack,—deep groans declare the reeling anguish of Goliath,The wedge is driven home,—and the saw is at its heart,—and lo, with solemn slowness,The shuddering monarch riseth from his throne,—toppled with a crash,—and is fallen!
Come,let me show thee an ensample, where Nature shall instruct us;
Luxuriantly the arguments for truth spring native in her gardens.
Seek we yonder woodman of the plain; he is measuring his axe to the elm,
And anon the sturdy strokes ring upon the wintry air:
Eagerly the village school-boys cluster on the tightened rope,
Shouting, and bending to the pull, or lifted from the ground elastic;
The huge tree boweth like Sisera, boweth to its foes with faintness,—
Its sinews crack,—deep groans declare the reeling anguish of Goliath,
The wedge is driven home,—and the saw is at its heart,—and lo, with solemn slowness,
The shuddering monarch riseth from his throne,—toppled with a crash,—and is fallen!
Nowshall the mangled stump teach proud man a lesson:Now, can we from that elm-tree's sap distil the wine of Truth.Heed ye those hundred rings, concentric from the core,Eddying in various waves to the red bark's shore-like rim?These be the gatherings of yesterdays, present all to-day,This is the tree's judgment, self-history that cannot be gainsaid:Seven years agone there was a drought,—and the seventh ring is narrowed;The fifth from hence was half a deluge,—the fifth is cellular and broad.Thus, Man, thou art a result, the growth of many yesterdays,That stamp thy secret soul with marks of weal or woe:Thou art an almanack of self, the living record of thy deeds;Spirit hath its scars as well as body, sore and aching in their season:Here is a knot,—it was a crime; there is a canker,—selfishness;Lo, here, the heart-wood rotten; lo, there, perchance, the sap-wood sound.Nature teacheth not in vain; thy works are in thee, of thee;Some present evil bent hath grown of older errors:And what if thou be walking now uprightly? Salve not thy wounds with poison,As if a petty goodness of to-day hath blotted out the sin of yesterday:It is well, thou hast life and light; and the Hewer showeth mercy,Dressing the root, pruning the branch, and looking for thy tardy fruits;But, even here as thou standest, cheerful belike and careless,The stains of ancient evil are upon thee, the record of thy wrong is in thee:For, a curse of many yesterdays is thine, many yesterdays of sin,That, haply heeded little now, shall blast thy many morrows.
Nowshall the mangled stump teach proud man a lesson:
Now, can we from that elm-tree's sap distil the wine of Truth.
Heed ye those hundred rings, concentric from the core,
Eddying in various waves to the red bark's shore-like rim?
These be the gatherings of yesterdays, present all to-day,
This is the tree's judgment, self-history that cannot be gainsaid:
Seven years agone there was a drought,—and the seventh ring is narrowed;
The fifth from hence was half a deluge,—the fifth is cellular and broad.
Thus, Man, thou art a result, the growth of many yesterdays,
That stamp thy secret soul with marks of weal or woe:
Thou art an almanack of self, the living record of thy deeds;
Spirit hath its scars as well as body, sore and aching in their season:
Here is a knot,—it was a crime; there is a canker,—selfishness;
Lo, here, the heart-wood rotten; lo, there, perchance, the sap-wood sound.
Nature teacheth not in vain; thy works are in thee, of thee;
Some present evil bent hath grown of older errors:
And what if thou be walking now uprightly? Salve not thy wounds with poison,
As if a petty goodness of to-day hath blotted out the sin of yesterday:
It is well, thou hast life and light; and the Hewer showeth mercy,
Dressing the root, pruning the branch, and looking for thy tardy fruits;
But, even here as thou standest, cheerful belike and careless,
The stains of ancient evil are upon thee, the record of thy wrong is in thee:
For, a curse of many yesterdays is thine, many yesterdays of sin,
That, haply heeded little now, shall blast thy many morrows.
Shallthen a man reck nothing, but hurl mad defiance at his Judge,Knowing that less than an Omnipotent cannot make the has been, not been?He ought,—so Satan spake; he must,—so Atheism urgeth;He may,—it was the libertine's thought; he doth,—the bad world said it.But thou of humbler heart, thou student wiser for simplicity,While Nature warneth thee betimes, heed the loving counsel of Religion.True, this change is good, and penitence most precious;But trust not thou thy change, nor rest upon repentance:For all we are corrupted at the core, smooth as surface seemeth;What health can bloom in a beautiful skin, when rottenness hath fed upon the bones?And guilt is parcel of us all; not thou, sweet nursling of affection,Art spotless, though so passing fair,—nor thou, mild patriarch of virtue.
Shallthen a man reck nothing, but hurl mad defiance at his Judge,
Knowing that less than an Omnipotent cannot make the has been, not been?
He ought,—so Satan spake; he must,—so Atheism urgeth;
He may,—it was the libertine's thought; he doth,—the bad world said it.
But thou of humbler heart, thou student wiser for simplicity,
While Nature warneth thee betimes, heed the loving counsel of Religion.
True, this change is good, and penitence most precious;
But trust not thou thy change, nor rest upon repentance:
For all we are corrupted at the core, smooth as surface seemeth;
What health can bloom in a beautiful skin, when rottenness hath fed upon the bones?
And guilt is parcel of us all; not thou, sweet nursling of affection,
Art spotless, though so passing fair,—nor thou, mild patriarch of virtue.
Beholdthen the better Tree of Life, free unto us all for grafting,Cut thee from the hollow root of self, to be budded on a richer Vine.Be desperate, O man, as of evil, so of good; tear that tunic from thee;The past can never be retrieved, be the present what it may.Vain is the penance and the scourge, vain the fast and vigil:The fencer's cautious skill to-day, can this erase his scars?It is Man's to famish as a faquir, it is Man's to die a devotee,Light is the torture and the toil, balanced with the wages of Eternity:But, it is God's to yearn in love, on the humblest, the poorest, and the worst,For He giveth freely, as a king, asking only thanks for mercy.Look upon this noble-hearted Substitute; seeing thy woes, He pitied thee,Bowed beneath the mountain of thy sin, and perished,—but for Godhead;There stood the Atlas in his power, and Prometheus in his love is there,Emptying on wretched men the blessings earned from Heaven:Put them not away, hide them in thy heart, poor and penitent receiver,Be gratitude thy counseller to good, and wholesome fear unto obedience;Remember, the pruning-knife is keen, cutting cankers even from the vine;Remember, twelve were chosen, and one among them liveth—in perdition.
Beholdthen the better Tree of Life, free unto us all for grafting,
Cut thee from the hollow root of self, to be budded on a richer Vine.
Be desperate, O man, as of evil, so of good; tear that tunic from thee;
The past can never be retrieved, be the present what it may.
Vain is the penance and the scourge, vain the fast and vigil:
The fencer's cautious skill to-day, can this erase his scars?
It is Man's to famish as a faquir, it is Man's to die a devotee,
Light is the torture and the toil, balanced with the wages of Eternity:
But, it is God's to yearn in love, on the humblest, the poorest, and the worst,
For He giveth freely, as a king, asking only thanks for mercy.
Look upon this noble-hearted Substitute; seeing thy woes, He pitied thee,
Bowed beneath the mountain of thy sin, and perished,—but for Godhead;
There stood the Atlas in his power, and Prometheus in his love is there,
Emptying on wretched men the blessings earned from Heaven:
Put them not away, hide them in thy heart, poor and penitent receiver,
Be gratitude thy counseller to good, and wholesome fear unto obedience;
Remember, the pruning-knife is keen, cutting cankers even from the vine;
Remember, twelve were chosen, and one among them liveth—in perdition.