The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above;Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do:Amid the things allow'd thee live and love,Some day thou shalt it view.Arthur Hugh Clough.

The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above;Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do:Amid the things allow'd thee live and love,Some day thou shalt it view.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

Greatthings were ne'er begotten in an hour;Ephemerons in birth, are such in life;And he who dareth, in the noble strifeOf intellects, to cope for real power,—Such as God giveth as His rarest dowerOf mastery, to the few with greatness rife,—Must, ere the morning mists have ceased to lowerTill the long shadows of the night arrive,Stand in the arena. Laurels that are won,Pluck'd from green boughs, soon wither; those that lastAre gather'd patiently, when sultry noonAnd summer's fiery glare in vain are past.Life is the hour of labor; on Earth's breastSerene and undisturb'd shall be thy rest.

Didever on painter's canvas liveThe power of his fancy's dream?Did ever poet's pen achieveFruition of his theme?Did marble ever take the lifeThat the sculptor's soul conceiv'd?Or ambition win in passion's strifeWhat its glowing hopes believ'd?Did ever racer's eager feetRest as he reach'd the goal,Finding the prize achiev'd was meetTo satisfy his soul?

Notmuch time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil name which you will get from the detractors of the city, who will say that you killed Socrates, a wise man; for they will call me wise, even although I am not wise, when they want to reproach you. If you had waited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled in the course of nature. For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from death. I am speaking now only to those of you who have condemned me to death. And I have another thing to say to them: You think that I was convicted through deficiency of words—I mean, that if I had thought fit to leave nothing undone, nothing unsaid, I might have gained an acquittal. Not so; the deficiency which led to my conviction was not of words—certainly not. But I had not the boldness or impudence or inclination to address you as you would have liked me to address you, weeping and wailing and lamenting, and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed to hear from others, and which, as I say, are unworthy of me. But I thought that I ought not to do anything common or mean in the hour of danger: nor do I now repent of the manner of my defense, and I would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live. For neither in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every way of escaping death. For often in battle there is no doubt that if a man will throw away his arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape death; and inother dangers there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoiding death, but in avoiding unrighteousness; for that runs faster than death. I am old and move slowly, and the slower runner has overtaken me, and my accusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart hence, condemned by you to suffer the penalty of death, and they too go their ways, condemned by the truth to suffer the penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my award—let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded as fated,—and I think that they are well.And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you; for I am about to die, and that is the hour in which men are gifted with prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my murderers, that immediately after my death punishment far heavier than you have inflicted on me will surely await you. Me you have killed because you wanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an account of your lives. But that will not be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say that there will be more accusers of you than there are now; accusers whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are younger they will be more severe with you, and you will be more offended at them. For if you think that by killing men you can avoid the accuser censuring your lives, you are mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible or honorable; the easiest and the noblest way is not to be crushing others, but to be improving yourselves. This is the prophecy which I utter before my departure to the judges who have condemned me.Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with you about this thing which has happened, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then a while, for we may as well talk with one another while there is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event which has happened to me. O my judges—for you I may truly call judges—I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the familiar oracle within me has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, if I was going to make a slip or error about anything; and now as you see there has come upon me that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either as I was leaving my house and going out in the morning, or when I was going up into this court, or while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in nothing I either said or did touching this matter has the oracle opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this? I will tell you. I regard this as a proof that what has happened to me is a good, and that those of us who think that death is an evil are in error. This is a great proof to me of what I am saying, for the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and not to good.Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that death is a good, for one of two things: either death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but asleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by the sight of dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great king will not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now if death is like this, I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead are, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this world, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and,Æacus, and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musæus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true, let me die again and again. I, too, shall have a wonderful interest in a place where I can converse with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and other heroes of old, who have suffered death through an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so also in that; I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too? What infinite delight would there be in conversing with them and asking them questions! For in that world they do not put a man to death for this; certainly not. For besides being happier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, if what is said is true.Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know this of a truth—that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that to die and be released was better for me; and therefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with my accusers or my condemners; they have done me no harm, although neither of them meant to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them.Still I have a favor to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my friends, to punish them, and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to be something when they are really nothing,—then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, I and my sons will have received justice at your hands.The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better God only knows.

And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you; for I am about to die, and that is the hour in which men are gifted with prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my murderers, that immediately after my death punishment far heavier than you have inflicted on me will surely await you. Me you have killed because you wanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an account of your lives. But that will not be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say that there will be more accusers of you than there are now; accusers whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are younger they will be more severe with you, and you will be more offended at them. For if you think that by killing men you can avoid the accuser censuring your lives, you are mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible or honorable; the easiest and the noblest way is not to be crushing others, but to be improving yourselves. This is the prophecy which I utter before my departure to the judges who have condemned me.

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with you about this thing which has happened, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then a while, for we may as well talk with one another while there is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event which has happened to me. O my judges—for you I may truly call judges—I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the familiar oracle within me has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, if I was going to make a slip or error about anything; and now as you see there has come upon me that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either as I was leaving my house and going out in the morning, or when I was going up into this court, or while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in nothing I either said or did touching this matter has the oracle opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this? I will tell you. I regard this as a proof that what has happened to me is a good, and that those of us who think that death is an evil are in error. This is a great proof to me of what I am saying, for the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and not to good.

Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that death is a good, for one of two things: either death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but asleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by the sight of dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great king will not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now if death is like this, I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead are, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this world, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and,Æacus, and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musæus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true, let me die again and again. I, too, shall have a wonderful interest in a place where I can converse with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and other heroes of old, who have suffered death through an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so also in that; I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too? What infinite delight would there be in conversing with them and asking them questions! For in that world they do not put a man to death for this; certainly not. For besides being happier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, if what is said is true.

Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know this of a truth—that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that to die and be released was better for me; and therefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with my accusers or my condemners; they have done me no harm, although neither of them meant to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them.

Still I have a favor to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my friends, to punish them, and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to be something when they are really nothing,—then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, I and my sons will have received justice at your hands.

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better God only knows.

Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only.Socrates, in thePhædo.—Plato.

Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only.

Socrates, in thePhædo.—Plato.

OfCæsar it may be said that he came into the world at a special time and for a special object. The old religions were dead, from the Pillars of Hercules to the Euphrates and the Nile, and the principles on which human society had been constructed were dead also. There remained of spiritual conviction only the common and human sense of justice and morality; and out of this sense some ordered system of government had to be constructed, under which quiet men could live, and labor, and eat the fruit of their industry. Under a rule of this material kind there can be no enthusiasm, no chivalry, no saintly aspirations, no patriotism of the heroic type. It was not to last forever. A new life was about to dawn for mankind. Poetry, and faith, and devotion were to spring again out of the seeds which were sleeping in the heart of humanity. But the life which is to endure grows slowly; and as the soil must be prepared before the wheat can be sown, so before the Kingdom of Heaven could throw up its shoots there was needed a kingdom of this world where the nations were neither torn in pieces by violence nor were rushing after false ideals and spurious ambitions. Such a kingdom was the Empire of the Cæsars—a kingdom where peaceful men could work, think, and speak as they pleased, and travel freely among provinces ruled for the most part by Gallios who protected life and property, and forbade fanatics to tear each other in pieces for their religious opinions. "It is not lawful for us to put any man to death," was the complaint of the Jewish priests to the Roman governor. Had Europe and Asia been covered with independent nations, each with a local religion represented in its ruling powers, Christianity must have been stifled in its cradle. If St. Paul had escaped the Sanhedrim at Jerusalem, he would have been torn to pieces by the silversmiths at Ephesus. The appeal to Cæsar's judgment-seat was the shield of his mission, and alone made possible his success.

Andnow, returning to the broader question what these arts and labors of life have to teach us of its mystery, this is the first of their lessons—that the more beautiful the art, the more it is essentially the work of people whofeel themselves wrong;—who are striving for the fulfilment of a law, and the grasp of a loveliness, which they have not yet attained, which they feel even farther and farther from attaining, the more they strive for it. And yet, in still deeper sense, it is the work of people who know also that they are right. The very sense of inevitable error from their purpose marks the perfectness of that purpose, and the continued sense of failure arises from the continued opening of the eyes more clearly to all the sacredest laws of truth.This is one lesson. The second is a very plain, and greatly precious one, namely:—that whenever the artsand labors of life are fulfilled in this spirit of striving against misrule, and doing whatever we have to do, honorably and perfectly, they invariably bring happiness, as much as seems possible to the nature of man. In all other paths, by which that happiness is pursued, there is disappointment, or destruction: for ambition and for passion there is no rest—no fruition; the fairest pleasures of youth perish in a darkness greater than their past light; and the loftiest and purest love too often does but inflame the cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But, ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of human industry, that industry worthily followed, gives peace. Ask the laborer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine; ask the patient, delicate-fingered artisan, or the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker in bronze, and in marble, and with the colors of light; and none of these, who are true workmen, will ever tell you, that they have found the law of heaven an unkind one—that in the sweat of their face they should eat bread, till they return to the ground; nor that they ever found it an unrewarded obedience, if, indeed, it was rendered faithfully to the command—"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do—do it with thy might."These are the two great and constant lessons which our laborers teach us of the mystery of life. But there is another, and a sadder one, which they cannot teach us, which we must read on their tombstones."Do it with thy might." There have been myriads upon myriads of human creatures who have obeyed this law—who have put every breath and nerve of their being into its toil—who have devoted every hour, and exhausted every faculty—who have bequeathed their unaccomplished thoughts at death—who being dead, have yet spoken, by majesty of memory, and strength of example.And, at last, what has all this "Might" of humanity accomplished, in six thousand years of labor and sorrow? What has itdone? Take the three chief occupations and arts of men, one by one, and count their achievements. Begin with the first—the lord of them all—agriculture. Six thousand years have passed since we were set to till the ground, from which we were taken. How much of it is tilled? How much of that which is, wisely or well? In the very centre and chief garden of Europe—where the two forms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses—where the noble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and the noble Protestants of the Vaudois valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their faiths and liberties—there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild in devastation: and the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeem with a year's labor, still blast their helpless inhabitants into fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe! While, on the near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab woman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for famine. And, with all the treasures of the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no more; but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them perish of hunger.Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the next head of human arts—weaving; the art of queens, honored of all noble Heathen women, in the person of their virgin goddess—honored of all Hebrew women, by the word of their wisest king—"She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet. She maketh herself covering of tapestry, herclothing is silk and purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles to the merchant." What have we done in all these thousands of years with this bright art of Greek maid and Christian matron? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave? Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every feeble breast fenced with sweet colors from the cold? What have we done? Our fingers are too few, it seems, to twist together some poor covering for our bodies. We set our streams to work for us, and choke the air with fire, to turn our spinning-wheels,—and—are we yet clothed? Are not the streets of the capitals of Europe foul with the sale of cast clouts and rotten rags? Is not the beauty of your sweet children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, with better honor, nature clothes the brood of the bird in its nest, and the suckling of the wolf in her den? And does not every winter's snow robe what you have not robed, and shroud what you have not shrouded; and every winter's wind bear up to heaven its wasted souls, to witness against you hereafter, by the voice of their Christ,—"I was naked, and ye clothed me not"?Lastly—take the Art of Building—the strongest-proudest—most orderly—most enduring of the arts of man, that of which the produce is in the surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, or be replaced; but if once well done will stand more strongly than the unbalanced rocks—more prevalently than the crumbling hills. The art which is associated with all civic pride and sacred principle; with which men record their power—satisfy their enthusiasm—make sure their defence—define and make dear their habitation. And, in six thousand years of building, what have we done? Of the greater part ofall that skill and strength,novestige is left, but fallen stones, that encumber the fields and impede the streams. But from this waste of disorder, and of time, and of rage, whatisleft to us? Constructive and progressive creatures, that we are, with ruling brains, and forming hands; capable of fellowship, and thirsting for fame, can we not contend, in comfort, with the insects of the forest, or, in achievement, with the worm of the sea? The white surf rages in vain against the ramparts built by poor atoms of scarcely nascent life; but only ridges of formless ruin mark the places where once dwelt our noblest multitudes. The ant and the moth have cells for each of their young, but our little ones lie in festering heaps, in homes that consume them like graves; and night by night, from the corners of our streets, rises up the cry of the homeless—"I was a stranger, and ye took me not in."Must it be always thus? Is our life forever to be without profit—without possession? Shall the strength of its generations be as barren as death; or cast away their labor, as the wild fig-tree casts her untimely figs? Is it all a dream then—the desire of the eyes and the pride of life—or, if it be, might we not live in nobler dream than this? The poets and prophets, the wise men, and the scribes, though they have told us nothing about a life to come, have told us much about the life that is now. They have had—they also,—their dreams, and we have laughed at them. They have dreamed of mercy, and of justice; they have dreamed of peace and good-will; they have dreamed of labor undisappointed, and of rest undisturbed; they have dreamed of fulness in harvest, and overflowing in store; they have dreamed of wisdom in council, and of providence in law; of gladness of parents, and strength of children, and glory of gray hairs. Andat these visions of theirs we have mocked, and held them for idle and vain, unreal and unaccomplishable. What have we accomplished with our realities? Is this what has come of our worldly wisdom, tried against their folly? this our mightiest possible, against their impotent ideal? or have we only wandered among the spectra of a baser felicity, and chased phantoms of the tombs, instead of visions of the Almighty; and walked after the imaginations of our evil hearts, instead of after the counsels of Eternity, until our lives—not in the likeness of the cloud of heaven, but of the smoke of hell—have become "as a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away"?Doesit vanish then? Are you sure of that?—sure, that the nothingness of the grave will be a rest from this troubled nothingness; and that the coiling shadow, which disquiets itself in vain, cannot change into the smoke of the torment that ascends forever? Will any answer that theyaresure of it, and that there is no fear, nor hope, nor desire, nor labor, whither they go? Be it so; will you not, then, make as sure of the Life, that now is, as you are of the Death that is to come? Your hearts are wholly in this world—will you not give them to it wisely, as well as perfectly? And see, first of all, that youhavehearts, and sound hearts, too, to give. Because you have no heaven to look for, is that any reason that you should remain ignorant of this wonderful and infinite earth, which is firmly and instantly given you in possession? Although your days are numbered, and the following darkness sure, is it necessary that you should share the degradation of the brute, because you are condemned to its mortality; or live the life of the moth, and of the worm, because you are to companion them in the dust?Not so; we may have but a few thousands of days to spend, perhaps hundreds only—perhaps tens; nay, the longest of our time and best, looked back on, will be but as a moment, as the twinkling of an eye; still, we are men, not insects; we are living spirits, not passing clouds. "He maketh the winds His messengers; the momentary fire, His minister;" and shall we do less thanthese? Let us do the work of men while we bear the form of them; and, as we snatch our narrow portion of time out of Eternity, snatch also our narrow inheritance of passion out of Immortality—even though our livesbeas a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.But there are some of you who believe not this—who think this cloud of life has no such close—that it is to float, revealed and illumined, upon the floor of heaven, in the day when He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see Him. Some day, you believe, within these five, or ten, or twenty years, for every one of us the judgment will be set, and the books opened. If that be true, far more than that must be true. Is there but one day of judgment? Why, for us every day is a day of judgment—every day is a Dies Iræ, and writes its irrevocable verdict in the flame of its West. Think you that judgment waits till the doors of the grave are opened? It waits at the doors of your houses—it waits at the corners of your streets; we are in the midst of judgment—the insects that we crush are our judges—the moments we fret away are our judges—the elements that feed us, judge, as they minister—and the pleasures that deceive us, judge as they indulge. Let us, for our lives, do the work of Men while we bear the Form of them, if indeed those lives areNotas a vapor, and doNotvanish away.

This is one lesson. The second is a very plain, and greatly precious one, namely:—that whenever the artsand labors of life are fulfilled in this spirit of striving against misrule, and doing whatever we have to do, honorably and perfectly, they invariably bring happiness, as much as seems possible to the nature of man. In all other paths, by which that happiness is pursued, there is disappointment, or destruction: for ambition and for passion there is no rest—no fruition; the fairest pleasures of youth perish in a darkness greater than their past light; and the loftiest and purest love too often does but inflame the cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But, ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of human industry, that industry worthily followed, gives peace. Ask the laborer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine; ask the patient, delicate-fingered artisan, or the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker in bronze, and in marble, and with the colors of light; and none of these, who are true workmen, will ever tell you, that they have found the law of heaven an unkind one—that in the sweat of their face they should eat bread, till they return to the ground; nor that they ever found it an unrewarded obedience, if, indeed, it was rendered faithfully to the command—"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do—do it with thy might."

These are the two great and constant lessons which our laborers teach us of the mystery of life. But there is another, and a sadder one, which they cannot teach us, which we must read on their tombstones.

"Do it with thy might." There have been myriads upon myriads of human creatures who have obeyed this law—who have put every breath and nerve of their being into its toil—who have devoted every hour, and exhausted every faculty—who have bequeathed their unaccomplished thoughts at death—who being dead, have yet spoken, by majesty of memory, and strength of example.And, at last, what has all this "Might" of humanity accomplished, in six thousand years of labor and sorrow? What has itdone? Take the three chief occupations and arts of men, one by one, and count their achievements. Begin with the first—the lord of them all—agriculture. Six thousand years have passed since we were set to till the ground, from which we were taken. How much of it is tilled? How much of that which is, wisely or well? In the very centre and chief garden of Europe—where the two forms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses—where the noble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and the noble Protestants of the Vaudois valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their faiths and liberties—there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild in devastation: and the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeem with a year's labor, still blast their helpless inhabitants into fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe! While, on the near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab woman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for famine. And, with all the treasures of the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no more; but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them perish of hunger.

Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the next head of human arts—weaving; the art of queens, honored of all noble Heathen women, in the person of their virgin goddess—honored of all Hebrew women, by the word of their wisest king—"She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet. She maketh herself covering of tapestry, herclothing is silk and purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles to the merchant." What have we done in all these thousands of years with this bright art of Greek maid and Christian matron? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave? Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every feeble breast fenced with sweet colors from the cold? What have we done? Our fingers are too few, it seems, to twist together some poor covering for our bodies. We set our streams to work for us, and choke the air with fire, to turn our spinning-wheels,—and—are we yet clothed? Are not the streets of the capitals of Europe foul with the sale of cast clouts and rotten rags? Is not the beauty of your sweet children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, with better honor, nature clothes the brood of the bird in its nest, and the suckling of the wolf in her den? And does not every winter's snow robe what you have not robed, and shroud what you have not shrouded; and every winter's wind bear up to heaven its wasted souls, to witness against you hereafter, by the voice of their Christ,—"I was naked, and ye clothed me not"?

Lastly—take the Art of Building—the strongest-proudest—most orderly—most enduring of the arts of man, that of which the produce is in the surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, or be replaced; but if once well done will stand more strongly than the unbalanced rocks—more prevalently than the crumbling hills. The art which is associated with all civic pride and sacred principle; with which men record their power—satisfy their enthusiasm—make sure their defence—define and make dear their habitation. And, in six thousand years of building, what have we done? Of the greater part ofall that skill and strength,novestige is left, but fallen stones, that encumber the fields and impede the streams. But from this waste of disorder, and of time, and of rage, whatisleft to us? Constructive and progressive creatures, that we are, with ruling brains, and forming hands; capable of fellowship, and thirsting for fame, can we not contend, in comfort, with the insects of the forest, or, in achievement, with the worm of the sea? The white surf rages in vain against the ramparts built by poor atoms of scarcely nascent life; but only ridges of formless ruin mark the places where once dwelt our noblest multitudes. The ant and the moth have cells for each of their young, but our little ones lie in festering heaps, in homes that consume them like graves; and night by night, from the corners of our streets, rises up the cry of the homeless—"I was a stranger, and ye took me not in."

Must it be always thus? Is our life forever to be without profit—without possession? Shall the strength of its generations be as barren as death; or cast away their labor, as the wild fig-tree casts her untimely figs? Is it all a dream then—the desire of the eyes and the pride of life—or, if it be, might we not live in nobler dream than this? The poets and prophets, the wise men, and the scribes, though they have told us nothing about a life to come, have told us much about the life that is now. They have had—they also,—their dreams, and we have laughed at them. They have dreamed of mercy, and of justice; they have dreamed of peace and good-will; they have dreamed of labor undisappointed, and of rest undisturbed; they have dreamed of fulness in harvest, and overflowing in store; they have dreamed of wisdom in council, and of providence in law; of gladness of parents, and strength of children, and glory of gray hairs. Andat these visions of theirs we have mocked, and held them for idle and vain, unreal and unaccomplishable. What have we accomplished with our realities? Is this what has come of our worldly wisdom, tried against their folly? this our mightiest possible, against their impotent ideal? or have we only wandered among the spectra of a baser felicity, and chased phantoms of the tombs, instead of visions of the Almighty; and walked after the imaginations of our evil hearts, instead of after the counsels of Eternity, until our lives—not in the likeness of the cloud of heaven, but of the smoke of hell—have become "as a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away"?

Doesit vanish then? Are you sure of that?—sure, that the nothingness of the grave will be a rest from this troubled nothingness; and that the coiling shadow, which disquiets itself in vain, cannot change into the smoke of the torment that ascends forever? Will any answer that theyaresure of it, and that there is no fear, nor hope, nor desire, nor labor, whither they go? Be it so; will you not, then, make as sure of the Life, that now is, as you are of the Death that is to come? Your hearts are wholly in this world—will you not give them to it wisely, as well as perfectly? And see, first of all, that youhavehearts, and sound hearts, too, to give. Because you have no heaven to look for, is that any reason that you should remain ignorant of this wonderful and infinite earth, which is firmly and instantly given you in possession? Although your days are numbered, and the following darkness sure, is it necessary that you should share the degradation of the brute, because you are condemned to its mortality; or live the life of the moth, and of the worm, because you are to companion them in the dust?Not so; we may have but a few thousands of days to spend, perhaps hundreds only—perhaps tens; nay, the longest of our time and best, looked back on, will be but as a moment, as the twinkling of an eye; still, we are men, not insects; we are living spirits, not passing clouds. "He maketh the winds His messengers; the momentary fire, His minister;" and shall we do less thanthese? Let us do the work of men while we bear the form of them; and, as we snatch our narrow portion of time out of Eternity, snatch also our narrow inheritance of passion out of Immortality—even though our livesbeas a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.

But there are some of you who believe not this—who think this cloud of life has no such close—that it is to float, revealed and illumined, upon the floor of heaven, in the day when He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see Him. Some day, you believe, within these five, or ten, or twenty years, for every one of us the judgment will be set, and the books opened. If that be true, far more than that must be true. Is there but one day of judgment? Why, for us every day is a day of judgment—every day is a Dies Iræ, and writes its irrevocable verdict in the flame of its West. Think you that judgment waits till the doors of the grave are opened? It waits at the doors of your houses—it waits at the corners of your streets; we are in the midst of judgment—the insects that we crush are our judges—the moments we fret away are our judges—the elements that feed us, judge, as they minister—and the pleasures that deceive us, judge as they indulge. Let us, for our lives, do the work of Men while we bear the Form of them, if indeed those lives areNotas a vapor, and doNotvanish away.

Thereturn of the robin is commonly announced by the newspapers, like that of eminent or notorious people to a watering-place, as the first authentic notification of spring. And such his appearance in the orchard and garden undoubtedly is. But, in spite of his name of migratory thrush, he stays with us all winter, and I have seen him when the thermometer marked 15 degrees below zero of Fahrenheit, armed impregnably within, like Emerson's Titmouse, and as cheerful as he. The robin has a bad reputation among people who do not value themselves less for being fond of cherries. There is, I admit, a spice of vulgarity in him, and his song is rather of the Bloomfield sort, too largely ballasted with prose. His ethics are of the Poor Richard school, and the main chance which calls forth all his energy is altogether of the belly. He never has those fine intervals of lunacy into which his cousins, the catbird and the mavis, are apt to fall. But for a' that and twice as muckle 's a' that, I would not exchange him for all the cherries that ever came out of Asia Minor. With whatever faults, he has not wholly forfeited that superiority which belongs to the children of nature. He has a finer taste in fruit than could be distilled from many successive committees of the Horticultural Society, and he eats with a relishing gulp not inferior to Dr. Johnson's. He feels and freely exercises his right of eminent domain. His is the earliest mess of green peas; his all the mulberries I had fancied mine. But if he get also the lion's share of the raspberries, he is a great planter, and sows those wild ones in the woods, that solace the pedestrian and give a momentary calm even to the jaded victims of the White Hills. He keeps a strict eye over one's fruit, and knows to a shade of purple when your grapes have cooked long enough in the sun. During a severe drought a few years ago, the robins wholly vanished from my garden. I neither saw nor heard one for three weeks. Meanwhile a small foreign grape-vine, rather shy of bearing, seemed to find the dusty air congenial, and, dreaming perhaps of its sweet Argos across the sea, decked itself, with a score or so of fair bunches. I watched them from day to day till they should have secreted sugar enough from the sunbeams, and at last made up my mind that I would celebrate my vintage the next morning. But the robins too had somehow kept note of them. They must have sent out spies, as did the Jews into the promised land, before I was stirring. When I went with my basket, at least a dozen of these winged vintagers bustled out from among the leaves, and alighting on the nearest trees interchanged some shrill remarks about me of a derogatory nature. They had fairly sacked the vine. Not Wellington's veterans made cleaner work of a Spanish town; not Federals or Confederates were ever more impartial in the confiscation of neutral chickens. I was keeping my grapes a secret to surprise the fair Fidele with, but the robins made them a profounder secret to her than I had meant. The tattered remnant of a single bunch was all my harvest-home. How paltry it looked at the bottom of my basket,—as if a humming-bird had laid her egg in an eagle's nest! I could not help laughing; and the robins seemed to join heartily in the merriment. There was a native grape-vine close by, blue with its less refinedabundance, but my cunning thieves preferred the foreign flavor. Could I tax them with want of taste?The robins are not good solo singers, but their chorus, as, like primitive fire-worshippers, they hail the return of light and warmth to the world, is unrivalled. There are a hundred singing like one. They are noisy enough then, and sing, as poets should, with no afterthought. But when they come after cherries to the tree near my window, they muffle their voices, and their faintpip, pip, pop! sounds far away at the bottom of the garden, where they know I shall not suspect them of robbing the great black-walnut of its bitter-rinded store.[P]They are feathered Pecksniffs, to be sure, but then how brightly their breasts, that look rather shabby in the sunlight, shine in a rainy day against the dark green of the fringe-tree! After they have pinched and shaken all the life out of an earthworm, as Italian cooks pound all the spirit out of a steak, and then gulped him, they stand up in honest self-confidence, expand their red waistcoats with the virtuous air of a lobby member, and outface you with an eye that calmly challenges inquiry. "DoIlook like a bird that knows the flavor of raw vermin? I throw myself upon a jury of my peers. Ask any robin if he ever ate anything less ascetic than the frugal berry of the juniper, and he will answer that his vow forbids him." Can such an open bosom cover such depravity? Alas, yes! I have no doubt his breast was redder at that very moment with the blood of my raspberries. On the whole, he is a doubtful friend in the garden. He makes his dessert of all kinds of berries, and is not aversefrom early pears. But when we remember how omnivorous he is, eating his own weight in an incredibly short time, and that Nature seems exhaustless in her invention of new insects hostile to vegetation, perhaps we may reckon that he does more good than harm. For my own part, I would rather have his cheerfulness and kind neighborhood than many berries.

The robins are not good solo singers, but their chorus, as, like primitive fire-worshippers, they hail the return of light and warmth to the world, is unrivalled. There are a hundred singing like one. They are noisy enough then, and sing, as poets should, with no afterthought. But when they come after cherries to the tree near my window, they muffle their voices, and their faintpip, pip, pop! sounds far away at the bottom of the garden, where they know I shall not suspect them of robbing the great black-walnut of its bitter-rinded store.[P]They are feathered Pecksniffs, to be sure, but then how brightly their breasts, that look rather shabby in the sunlight, shine in a rainy day against the dark green of the fringe-tree! After they have pinched and shaken all the life out of an earthworm, as Italian cooks pound all the spirit out of a steak, and then gulped him, they stand up in honest self-confidence, expand their red waistcoats with the virtuous air of a lobby member, and outface you with an eye that calmly challenges inquiry. "DoIlook like a bird that knows the flavor of raw vermin? I throw myself upon a jury of my peers. Ask any robin if he ever ate anything less ascetic than the frugal berry of the juniper, and he will answer that his vow forbids him." Can such an open bosom cover such depravity? Alas, yes! I have no doubt his breast was redder at that very moment with the blood of my raspberries. On the whole, he is a doubtful friend in the garden. He makes his dessert of all kinds of berries, and is not aversefrom early pears. But when we remember how omnivorous he is, eating his own weight in an incredibly short time, and that Nature seems exhaustless in her invention of new insects hostile to vegetation, perhaps we may reckon that he does more good than harm. For my own part, I would rather have his cheerfulness and kind neighborhood than many berries.

FOOTNOTES:[P]The screech-owl, whose cry, despite his ill name, is one of the sweetest sounds in nature, softens his voice in the same way with the most beguiling mockery of distance.—Author's Note.

[P]The screech-owl, whose cry, despite his ill name, is one of the sweetest sounds in nature, softens his voice in the same way with the most beguiling mockery of distance.—Author's Note.

Andthis was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny,Such cosy dimensions go clearly to showYou were an exceedingly small pickaninnySome nineteen or twenty short summers ago.Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled channel;I see you, as then, in your impotent strife,A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,Perplex'd with the newly-found fardel of Life.To hint at an infantile frailty's a scandal;Let bygones be bygones, for somebody knowsIt was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle,—Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes.Ay, here is your Cradle; and Hope, a bright spirit,With Love now is watching beside it, I know.They guard the wee nest it was yours to inheritSome nineteen or twenty short summers ago.It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling,Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask,"My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?"If mask'd, still it pleases—then raise not its mask.Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin—From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny;I see you, except for those infantine woes,Little changed since you were but a small pickaninny—Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes!Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to my liking,Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped.Hark! As I'm talking there's six o'clock striking,—It is timeJenny's babyshould be in its bed.

Andthis was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny,Such cosy dimensions go clearly to showYou were an exceedingly small pickaninnySome nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled channel;I see you, as then, in your impotent strife,A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,Perplex'd with the newly-found fardel of Life.

To hint at an infantile frailty's a scandal;Let bygones be bygones, for somebody knowsIt was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle,—Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes.

Ay, here is your Cradle; and Hope, a bright spirit,With Love now is watching beside it, I know.They guard the wee nest it was yours to inheritSome nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling,Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask,"My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?"If mask'd, still it pleases—then raise not its mask.

Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin—From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny;I see you, except for those infantine woes,Little changed since you were but a small pickaninny—Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes!

Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to my liking,Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped.Hark! As I'm talking there's six o'clock striking,—It is timeJenny's babyshould be in its bed.

Coldly, sadly descendsThe autumn-evening. The fieldStrewn with its dank yellow driftsOf wither'd leaves, and the elms,Fade into dimness apace,Silent;—hardly a shoutFrom a few boys late at their play!The lights come out in the street,In the school-room windows—but cold,Solemn, unlighted, austere,Through the gathering darkness, ariseThe chapel-walls, in whose boundThou, my father! art laid.There thou dost lie, in the gloomOf the autumn evening. But ah!That word,gloom, to my mindBrings thee back in the lightOf thy radiant vigor again:In the gloom of November we pass'dDays not dark at thy side;Seasons impair'd not the rayOf thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.Such thou wast! and I standIn the autumn evening, and thinkOf bygone autumns with thee.Fifteen years have gone roundSince thou arosest to tread,In the summer-morning, the roadOf death, at a call unforeseen,Sudden. For fifteen years,We who till then in thy shadeRested as under the boughsOf a mighty oak, have enduredSunshine and rain as we might,Bare, unshaded, alone,Lacking the shelter of thee.O strong soul, by what shoreTarriest thou now? For that force,Surely, has not been left vain!Somewhere, surely, afar,In the sounding labor-house vastOf being, is practis'd that strength,Zealous, beneficent, firm!Yes, in some far-shining sphere,Conscious or not of the past,Still thou performest the wordOf the Spirit in whom thou dost live—Prompt, unwearied, as here!Still thou upraisest with zealThe humble good from the ground,Sternly repressest the bad!Still, like a trumpet, dost rouseThose who with half-open eyesTread the border-land dim'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,Succorest!—this was thy work.This was thy life upon earth.What is the course of the lifeOf mortal men on the earth?—Most men eddy aboutHere and there—eat and drink,Chatter and love and hate,Gather and squander, are rais'dAloft, are hurl'd in the dust,Striving blindly, achievingNothing; and then they die—Perish—and no one asksWho or what they have been,More than he asks what waves,In the moonlit solitudes mildOf the midmost Ocean, have swell'd,Foam'd for a moment, and gone.And there are some, whom a thirstArdent, unquenchable, fires,Not with the crowd to be spent,Not without aim to go roundIn an eddy of purposeless dustEffort unmeaning and vain.Ah yes! some of us striveNot without action to dieFruitless, but something to snatchFrom dull oblivion, nor allGlut the devouring grave!We, we have chosen our path—Path to a clear-purpos'd goal,Path of advance!—but it leadsA long, steep journey, through sunkGorges, o'er mountains in snow.Cheerful, with friends, we set forth—Then, on the height, comes the storm.Thunder crashes from rockTo rock, the cataracts reply;Lightnings dazzle our eyes;Roaring torrents have breach'dThe track, the stream-bed descendsIn the place where the wayfarer oncePlanted his footstep—the sprayBoils o'er its borders! aloftThe unseen snow-beds dislodgeTheir hanging ruin!—alas,Havoc is made in our train!Friends, who set forth at our side,Falter, are lost in the storm.We, we only are left!—With frowning foreheads, with lipsSternly compress'd, we strain onOn—and at nightfall at lastCome to the end of our way,To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;Where the gaunt and taciturn hostStands on the threshold, the windShaking his thin white hairs—Holds his lantern to scanOur storm-beat figures, and asks:Whom in our party we bring?Whom we have left in the snow?Sadly we answer: We bringOnly ourselves! we lostSight of the rest in the storm.Hardly ourselves we fought through,Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.Friends, companions, and train,The avalanche swept from our side.But thou would'st notaloneBe saved, my father!aloneConquer and come to thy goal,Leaving the rest in the wild.We were weary; and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and to die.Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand.If, in the paths of the world,Stones might have wounded thy feet,Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing—to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was givenMany to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day,O faithful shepherd! to come,Bringing thy sheep in thy hand,And through thee I believeIn the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honor'd and blestBy former ages, who else—Such, so soulless, so poor,Is the race of men whom I see—Seem'd but a dream of the heart,Seem'd but a cry of desire.Yes! I believe that there liv'dOthers like thee in the past,Not like the men of the crowdWho all round me to-dayBluster or cringe, and make lifeHideous, and arid, and vile;But souls temper'd with fire,Fervent, heroic, and good,Helpers and friends of mankind.Servants of God!—or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind,His, who unwillingly seesOne of his little ones lost—Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted, and fallen, and died!See! In the rocks of the worldMarches the host of mankind,A feeble, wavering line.Where are they tending?—A GodMarshall'd them, gave them their goal.—Ah, but the way is so long!Years they have been in the wild!Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks,Rising all round, overawe;Factions divide them, their hostThreatens to break, to dissolve.—Ah, keep, keep them combined!Else, of the myriads who fillThat army, not one shall arrive;Sole they shall stray; on the rocksBatter forever in vain,Die one by one in the waste.Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race,Ye, like angels, appear,Radiant with ardor divine.Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not on your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice,Panic, despair, flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, re-inspire the brave.Order, courage, return;Eyes rekindling, and prayers,Follow your steps as ye go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.

There thou dost lie, in the gloomOf the autumn evening. But ah!That word,gloom, to my mindBrings thee back in the lightOf thy radiant vigor again:In the gloom of November we pass'dDays not dark at thy side;Seasons impair'd not the rayOf thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.Such thou wast! and I standIn the autumn evening, and thinkOf bygone autumns with thee.

Fifteen years have gone roundSince thou arosest to tread,In the summer-morning, the roadOf death, at a call unforeseen,Sudden. For fifteen years,We who till then in thy shadeRested as under the boughsOf a mighty oak, have enduredSunshine and rain as we might,Bare, unshaded, alone,Lacking the shelter of thee.

O strong soul, by what shoreTarriest thou now? For that force,Surely, has not been left vain!Somewhere, surely, afar,In the sounding labor-house vastOf being, is practis'd that strength,Zealous, beneficent, firm!Yes, in some far-shining sphere,Conscious or not of the past,Still thou performest the wordOf the Spirit in whom thou dost live—Prompt, unwearied, as here!Still thou upraisest with zealThe humble good from the ground,Sternly repressest the bad!Still, like a trumpet, dost rouseThose who with half-open eyesTread the border-land dim'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,Succorest!—this was thy work.This was thy life upon earth.

What is the course of the lifeOf mortal men on the earth?—Most men eddy aboutHere and there—eat and drink,Chatter and love and hate,Gather and squander, are rais'dAloft, are hurl'd in the dust,Striving blindly, achievingNothing; and then they die—Perish—and no one asksWho or what they have been,More than he asks what waves,In the moonlit solitudes mildOf the midmost Ocean, have swell'd,Foam'd for a moment, and gone.

And there are some, whom a thirstArdent, unquenchable, fires,Not with the crowd to be spent,Not without aim to go roundIn an eddy of purposeless dustEffort unmeaning and vain.Ah yes! some of us striveNot without action to dieFruitless, but something to snatchFrom dull oblivion, nor allGlut the devouring grave!We, we have chosen our path—Path to a clear-purpos'd goal,Path of advance!—but it leadsA long, steep journey, through sunkGorges, o'er mountains in snow.Cheerful, with friends, we set forth—Then, on the height, comes the storm.Thunder crashes from rockTo rock, the cataracts reply;Lightnings dazzle our eyes;Roaring torrents have breach'dThe track, the stream-bed descendsIn the place where the wayfarer oncePlanted his footstep—the sprayBoils o'er its borders! aloftThe unseen snow-beds dislodgeTheir hanging ruin!—alas,Havoc is made in our train!Friends, who set forth at our side,Falter, are lost in the storm.We, we only are left!—With frowning foreheads, with lipsSternly compress'd, we strain onOn—and at nightfall at lastCome to the end of our way,To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;Where the gaunt and taciturn hostStands on the threshold, the windShaking his thin white hairs—Holds his lantern to scanOur storm-beat figures, and asks:Whom in our party we bring?Whom we have left in the snow?

Sadly we answer: We bringOnly ourselves! we lostSight of the rest in the storm.Hardly ourselves we fought through,Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.Friends, companions, and train,The avalanche swept from our side.

But thou would'st notaloneBe saved, my father!aloneConquer and come to thy goal,Leaving the rest in the wild.We were weary; and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and to die.Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand.If, in the paths of the world,Stones might have wounded thy feet,Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing—to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was givenMany to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day,O faithful shepherd! to come,Bringing thy sheep in thy hand,And through thee I believeIn the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honor'd and blestBy former ages, who else—Such, so soulless, so poor,Is the race of men whom I see—Seem'd but a dream of the heart,Seem'd but a cry of desire.Yes! I believe that there liv'dOthers like thee in the past,Not like the men of the crowdWho all round me to-dayBluster or cringe, and make lifeHideous, and arid, and vile;But souls temper'd with fire,Fervent, heroic, and good,Helpers and friends of mankind.

Servants of God!—or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind,His, who unwillingly seesOne of his little ones lost—Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted, and fallen, and died!

See! In the rocks of the worldMarches the host of mankind,A feeble, wavering line.Where are they tending?—A GodMarshall'd them, gave them their goal.—Ah, but the way is so long!

Years they have been in the wild!Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks,Rising all round, overawe;Factions divide them, their hostThreatens to break, to dissolve.—Ah, keep, keep them combined!Else, of the myriads who fillThat army, not one shall arrive;Sole they shall stray; on the rocksBatter forever in vain,Die one by one in the waste.

Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race,Ye, like angels, appear,Radiant with ardor divine.Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not on your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice,Panic, despair, flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, re-inspire the brave.Order, courage, return;Eyes rekindling, and prayers,Follow your steps as ye go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.

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