* * * * *
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime.And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;—
Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.
* * * * *
When God at first made man,Having a glass of blessings standing by,Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,Contract into a span.
So strength first made a way;Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure:When almost all was out, God made a stay,Perceiving that, alone, of all his treasure,Rest in the bottom lay.
For if I should (said he)Bestow this jewel also on my creature,He would adore my gifts instead of me,And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:So both should losers be.
Yet let him keep the rest,But keep them with repining restlessness:Let him be rich and weary, that, at least,If goodness lead him not, yet wearinessMay toss him to my breast.
* * * * *
I slept and dreamed that life was Beauty:I woke and found that life was Duty:Was then thy dream a shadowy lie?Toil on, sad heart, courageously,And thou shalt find thy dream to beA noonday light and truth to thee.
* * * * *
Stern daughter of the voice of God!O Duty! if that name thou loveWho art a light to guide, a rodTo check the erring, and reprove—Thou, who art victory and lawWhen empty terrors overawe;From vain temptations dost set free,And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eyeBe on them; who, in love and truthWhere no misgiving is, relyUpon the genial sense of youth:Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,Who do thy work, and know it not;Long may the kindly impulse last!But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!
Serene will be our days and bright,And happy will our nature be,When love is an unerring light.And joy its own security.And they a blissful course may holdEven now, who, not unwisely bold.Live in the spirit of this creed;Yet find that other strength, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried,No sport of every random gust,Yet being to myself a guide,Too blindly have reposed my trust;And oft, when in my heart was heardThy timely mandate, I deferredThe task, in smoother walks to stray;But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,Or strong compunction in me wrought,I supplicate for thy control,But in the quietness of thought;Me this unchartered freedom tires;I feel the weight of chance desires,My hopes no more must change their name,I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wearThe Godhead's most benignant grace;Nor know we any thing so fairAs is the smile upon thy face;Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,And fragrance in thy footing treads;Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful power!I call thee: I myself commendUnto thy guidance from this hour;Oh, let my weakness have an end!Give unto me, made lowly wise,The spirit of self-sacrifice;The confidence of reason give;And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
* * * * *
Let not soft slumber close my eyes,Before I've recollected thriceThe train of action through the day!Where have my feet chose out their way?What have I learnt, where'er I've been,From all I have heard, from all I've seen?What know I more that's worth the knowing?What have I done that's worth the doing?What have I sought that I should shun?What duty have I left undone?Or into what new follies run?These self-inquiries are the roadThat leads to virtue and to God.
* * * * *
"Sweet, thou art pale.""More pale to see,Christ hung upon the cruel treeAnd bore his Father's wrath for me."
"Sweet, thou art sad.""Beneath a rodMore heavy Christ for my sake trodThe wine-press of the wrath of God."
"Sweet, thou art weary.""Not so Christ:Whose mighty love of me sufficedFor strength, salvation, eucharist."
"Sweet, thou art footsore.""If I bleed,His feet have bled: yea, in my needHis heart once bled for mine indeed."
"Sweet, thou art young.""So he was youngWho for my sake in silence hungUpon the cross with passion wrung."
"Look, thou art fair.""He was more fairThan men, who deigned for me to wearA visage marred beyond compare."
"And thou hast riches.""Daily bread:All else is his; who living, dead,For me lacked where to lay his head."
"And life is sweet.""It was not soTo him, whose cup did overflowWith mine unutterable woe."
"Thou drinkest deep.""When Christ would supHe drained the dregs from out my cup;So how should I be lifted up?"
"Thou shalt win glory.""In the skies,Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes.Lest they should look on vanities."
"Thou shalt have knowledge.""Helpless dust,In thee, O Lord, I put my trust:Answer thou for me, Wise and Just."
* * * * *
Said I not so,—that I would sin no more?Witness, my God, I did;Yet I am run again upon the score:My faults cannot be hid.
What shall I do?—make vows and break them still?'Twill be but labor lost;My good cannot prevail against mine ill:The business will be crost.
O, say not so; thou canst not tell what strengthThy God may give thee at the length.Renew thy vows, and if thou keep the last,Thy God will pardon all that's past.Vow while thou canst; while thou canst vow, thou may'stPerhaps perform it when thou thinkest least.
Thy God hath not denied thee all,Whilst he permits thee but to call.Call to thy God for grace to keepThy vows; and if thou break them, weep.Weep for thy broken vows, and vow again:Vows made with tears cannot be still in vain.Then once againI vow to mend my ways;Lord, say Amen,And thine be all the praise.
* * * * *
Nothing but leaves; the spirit grievesOver a wasted life;Sin committed while conscience slept,Promises made, but never kept,Hatred, battle, and strife;Nothing but leaves!
Nothing but leaves; no garnered sheavesOf life's fair, ripened grain;Words, idle words, for earnest deeds;We sow our seeds,—lo! tares and weeds:We reap, with toil and pain,Nothing but leaves!
Nothing but leaves; memory weavesNo veil to screen the past:As we retrace our weary way,Counting each lost and misspent day,We find, sadly, at last,Nothing but leaves!
And shall we meet the Master so,Bearing our withered leaves?The Saviour looks for perfect fruit,We stand before him, humbled, mute;Waiting the words he breathes,—"Nothing but leaves?"
* * * * *
"And when he is come, he will reprove the world of sin, and ofrighteousness, and of judgment."—JOHN xvi. 8.
The world is wise, for the world is old;Five thousand years their tale have told;Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The world is kind if we ask not too much;It is sweet to the taste, and smooth to the touch;Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The world is strong, with an awful strength,And full of life in its breadth and length;Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The world is so beautiful one may fearIts borrowed beauty might make it too dear,Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be—Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The world is good in its own poor way,There is rest by night and high spirits by day;Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The cross shines fair, and the church-bell rings,And the earth is peopled with holy things;Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
What lackest thou, world? for God made thee of old;Why,—thy faith hath gone out, and thy love grown cold;Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be,For the want of Christ's simplicity.
It is blood that thou lackest, thou poor old world!Who shall make thy love hot for thee, frozen old world?Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be,For the love of dear Jesus is little in thee.
Poor world! if thou cravest a better day,Remember that Christ must have his own way;I mourn thou art not as thou mightest be,But the love of God would do all for thee.
* * * * *
"There is no God," the foolish saith,But none, "There is no sorrow";And nature oft the cry of faithIn bitter need will borrow:Eyes which the preacher could not school,By wayside graves are raised;And lips say, "God be pitiful,"Who ne'er said, "God be praised."Be pitiful, O God!
The tempest stretches from the steepThe shadow of its coming;The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,As help were in the human:Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grindWe spirits tremble under!—The hills have echoes; but we findNo answer for the thunder.Be pitiful, O God!
The battle hurtles on the plains—Earth feels new scythes upon her:We reap our brothers for the wains,And call the harvest, honor,—Draw face to face, front line to line,One image all inherit,—Then kill, curse on, by that same sign,Clay, clay,—and spirit, spirit.Be pitiful, O God!
The plague runs festering through the town,And never a bell is tolling:And corpses jostled 'neath the moon,Nod to the dead-cart's rolling.The young child calleth for the cup—The strong man brings it weeping;The mother from her babe looks up,And shrieks away its sleeping.Be pitiful, O God!
The plague of gold strides far and near,And deep and strong it enters:This purple chimar which we wear,Makes madder than the centaur's.Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange;We cheer the pale gold-diggers—Each soul is worth so much on 'Change,And marked, like sheep, with figures.Be pitiful, O God!
The curse of gold upon the land,The lack of bread enforces—The rail-cars snort from strand to strand,Like more of Death's White Horses:The rich preach "rights" and future days,And hear no angel scoffing:The poor die mute—with starving gazeOn corn-ships in the offing.Be pitiful, O God!
We meet together at the feast—To private mirth betake us—We stare down in the winecup lestSome vacant chair should shake us!We name delight, and pledge it round—"It shall be ours to-morrow!"God's seraphs, do your voices soundAs sad in naming sorrow?Be pitiful, O God!
We sit together, with the skies,The steadfast skies, above us:We look into each other's eyes,"And how long will you love us?"The eyes grow dim with prophecy,The voice is low and breathless—"Till death us part!"—O words, to beOurbestfor love the deathless!Be pitiful, dear God!
We tremble by the harmless bedOf one loved and departed—Our tears drop on the lids that saidLast night, "Be stronger hearted!"O God,—to clasp those fingers close,And yet to feel so lonely!—To see a light upon such brows,Which is the daylight only!Be pitiful, O God!
The happy children come to us,And look up in our faces:They ask us—Was it thus, and thus,When we were in their places?We cannot speak:—we see anewThe hills we used to live in;And feel our mother's smile press throughThe kisses she is giving.Be pitiful, O God!
We pray together at the kirk,For mercy, mercy, solely—Hands weary with the evil work,We lift them to the Holy!The corpse is calm below our knee—Its spirit bright before thee—Between them, worse than either, we—Without the rest of glory!Be pitiful, O God!
We leave the communing of men,The murmur of the passions;And live alone, to live againWith endless generations.Are we so brave?—The sea and skyIn silence lift their mirrors;And, glassed therein, our spirits highRecoil from their own terrors.Be pitiful, O God!
We sit on hills our childhood wist,Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding:The sun strikes through the farthest mist,The city's spire to golden.The city's golden spire it was,When hope and health were strong;But now it is the churchyard grass,We look upon the longest.Be pitiful, O God!
And soon all vision waxeth dull—Men whisper, "He is dying":We cry no more, "Be pitiful!"—We have no strength for crying:No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine,Look up and triumph rather—Lo! in the depth of God's Divine,The Son adjures the Father—BE PITIFUL, O GOD.
* * * * *
"Behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift youas wheat."—LUKE xxii. 31.
In Saint Luke's Gospel we are toldHow Peter in the days of oldWas sifted;And now, though ages intervene,Sin is the same, while time and sceneAre shifted.
Satan desires us, great and small,As wheat, to sift us, and we allAre tempted;Not one, however rich or great,Is by his station or estateExempted.
No house so safely guarded isBut he, by some device of his,Can enter;No heart hath armor so completeBut he can pierce with arrows fleetIts centre.
For all at last the cock will crowWho hear the warning voice, but goUnheeding,Till thrice and more they have deniedThe Man of Sorrows, crucifiedAnd bleeding.
One look of that pale suffering faceWill make us feel the deep disgraceOf weakness;We shall be sifted till the strengthOf self-conceit be changed at lengthTo meekness.
Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache;The reddening scars remain, and makeConfession;Lost innocence returns no more;We are not what we were beforeTransgression.
But noble souls, through dust and heat,Rise from disaster and defeatThe stronger.And conscious still of the divineWithin them, lie on earth supineNo longer.
* * * * *
The sun comes up and the sun goes down,And day and night are the same as one;The year grows green, and the year grows brown.And what is it all, when all is done?Grains of sombre or shining sand,Gliding into and out of the hand.
And men go down in ships to the seas,And a hundred ships are the same as one;And backward and forward blows the breeze,And what is it all, when all is done?A tide with never a shore in sightGetting steadily on to the night.
The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,And a hundred streams are the same as one;And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream,And what is it all, when all is done?The net of the fisher the burden breaks,And alway the dreaming the dreamer wakes.
* * * * *
Some murmur when their sky is clearAnd wholly bright to view,If one small speck of dark appearIn their great heaven of blue;And some with thankful love are filledIf but one streak of light,One ray of God's good mercy, gildThe darkness of their night.
In palaces are hearts that ask,In discontent and pride,Why life is such a dreary task,And all good things denied;And hearts in poorest huts admireHow Love has in their aid(Love that not ever seems to tire)Such rich provision made.
* * * * *
Recovery,—daughter of Creation too,Though not for immortality designed,—The Lord of life and deathSent thee from heaven to me!Had I not heard thy gentle tread approach,Not heard the whisper of thy welcome voice,Death had with iron footMy chilly forehead pressed.'Tis true, I then had wandered where the earthsRoll around suns; had strayed along the pathsWhere the maned comet soarsBeyond the armèd eye;And with the rapturous, eager greet had hailedThe inmates of those earths and of those suns;Had hailed the countless hostThat throng the comet's disc;Had asked the novice questions, and obtainedSuch answers as a sage vouchsafes to youth;Had learned in hours far moreThan ages here unfold!But I had then not ended here belowWhat, in the enterprising bloom of life,Fate with no light behestRequired me to begin.Recovery,—daughter of Creation too,Though not for immortality designed,—The Lord of life and deathSent thee from heaven to me!
From the German of FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.
Translation of W. TAYLOR.
* * * * *
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,That of our vices we can frameA ladder, if we will but treadBeneath our feet each deed of shame!
All common things, each day's events,That with the hour begin and end,Our pleasures and our discontents,Are rounds by which we may ascend.
The low desire, the base design,That makes another's virtues less;The revel of the ruddy wine,And all occasions of excess;
The longing for ignoble things;The strife for triumph more than truth;The hardening of the heart, that bringsIrreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,That have their root in thoughts of ill;Whatever hinders or impedesThe action of the nobler will:—
All these must first be trampled downBeneath our feet, if we would gainIn the bright fields of fair renownThe right of eminent domain.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;But we have feet to scale and climbBy slow degrees, by more and more,The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stoneThat wedge-like cleave the desert airs,When nearer seen, and better known,Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprearTheir solid bastions to the skies,Are crossed by pathways, that appearAs we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.
Standing on what too long we boreWith shoulders bent and downcast eyes,We may discern—unseen before—A path to higher destinies.
Nor deem the irrevocable PastAs wholly wasted, wholly vain,If, rising on its wrecks, at lastTo something nobler we attain.
* * * * *
"Carry me across!"The Syrian heard, rose up, and bracedHis huge limbs to the accustomed toil:"My child, see how the waters boil?The night-black heavens look angry-faced;But life is little loss.
"I'll carry thee with joy,If needs be, safe as nestling dove:For o'er this stream I pilgrims bringIn service to one Christ, a KingWhom I have never seen, yet love.""I thank thee," said the boy.
Cheerful, Arprobus tookThe burden on his shoulders great,And stepped into the waves once more;When lo! they leaping rise and roar,And 'neath the little child's light weightThe tottering giant shook.
"Who art thou?" cried he wild,Struggling in middle of the ford:"Boy as thou look'st, it seems to meThe whole world's load I bear in thee,Yet—" "For the sake of Christ, thy Lord,Carry me," said the child.
No more Arprobus swerved,But gained the farther bank, and thenA voice cried, "HenceChristopherosbe!For carrying thou hast carried Me,The King of angels and of men,The Master thou hast served."
And in the moonlight blueThe saint saw,—not the wandering boy,But him who walked upon the seaAnd o'er the plains of Galilee,Till, filled with mystic, awful joy,His dear Lord Christ he knew.
Oh, little is all loss,And brief the space 'twixt shore and shore,If thou, Lord Jesus, on us lay,Through the deep waters of our way,The burden that Christopheros bore,—To carry thee across.
* * * * *
When words are weak and foes encountering strong,Where mightier do assault than do defend,The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,And silent sees that speech could not amend.Yet higher powers most think though they repine,—When sun is set, the little stars will shine.
While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly,And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish;Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by;These fleet afloat while those do fill the dish.There is a time even for the worms to creep.And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep.
The merlin cannot ever soar on high,Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase;The tender lark will find a time to fly.And fearful hare to run a quiet race.He that high-growth on cedars did bestow,Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.
In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe;The Lazar pined while Dives' feast was kept,Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go.We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May,Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away.
* * * * *
O, it is hard to work for God,To rise and take his partUpon this battle-field of earth,And not sometimes lose heart!
He hides himself so wondrously,As though there were no God;He is least seen when all the powersOf ill are most abroad.
Or he deserts us at the hourThe fight is all but lost;And seems to leave us to ourselvesJust when we need him most.
Ill masters good, good seems to changeTo ill with greater ease;And, worst of all, the good with goodIs at cross-purposes.
Ah! God is other than we think;His ways are far above,Far beyond reason's height, and reachedOnly by childlike love.
Workman of God! O, lose not heart,But learn what God is like;And in the darkest battle-fieldThou shalt know where to strike.
Thrice blest is he to whom is givenThe instinct that can tellThat God is on the field when heIs most invisible.
Blest, is he who can divineWhere the real right doth lie,And dares to take the side that seemsWrong to man's blindfold eye.
For right is right, since God is God;And right the day must win;To doubt would be disloyalty,To falter would be sin!
* * * * *
Thus is it all over the earth!That which we call the fairest.And prize for its surpassing worth,Is always rarest.
Iron is heaped in mountain piles,And gluts the laggard forges;But gold-flakes gleam in dim defilesAnd lonely gorges.
The snowy marble flecks the landWith heaped and rounded ledges,But diamonds hide within the sandTheir starry edges.
The finny armies clog the twineThat sweeps the lazy river,But pearls come singly from the brineWith the pale diver.
God gives no value unto menUnmatched by meed of labor;And Cost of Worth has ever beenThe closest neighbor.
* * * * *
All common good has common price;Exceeding good, exceeding;Christ bought the keys of ParadiseBy cruel bleeding;
And every soul that wins a placeUpon its hills of pleasure,Must give it all, and beg for graceTo fill the measure.
* * * * *
Up the broad stairs that Value rearsStand motives beck'ning earthward,To summon men to nobler spheres,And lead them worthward.
* * * * *
Stand up—erect! Thou hast the formAnd likeness of thy God!—Who more?A soul as dauntless 'mid the stormOf daily life, a heart as warmAnd pure, as breast e'er wore.
What then?—Thou art as true a manAs moves the human mass among;As much a part of the great planThat with creation's dawn began,As any of the throng.
Who is thine enemy? The highIn station, or in wealth the chief?The great, who coldly pass thee by,With proud step and averted eye?Nay! nurse not such belief.
If true unto thyself thou wast,What were the proud one's scorn to thee?A feather which thou mightest castAside, as idly as the blastThe light leaf from the tree.
No: uncurbed passions, low desires,Absence of noble self-respect.Death, in the breast's consuming fires,To that high nature which aspiresForever, till thus checked;—
These are thine enemies—thy worst:They chain thee to thy lowly lot;Thy labor and thy life accursed.O, stand erect, and from them burst,And longer suffer not.
Thou art thyself thine enemy:The great!—what better they than thou?As theirs is not thy will as free?Has God with equal favors theeNeglected to endow?
True, wealth thou hast not—'tis but dust;Nor place—uncertain as the wind;But that thou hast, which, with thy crustAnd water, may despise the lustOf both—a noble mind.
With this, and passions under ban,True faith, and holy trust in God,Thou art the peer of any man.Look up then; that thy little spanOf life may be well trod.
* * * * *
Is this a fast,—to keepThe larder lean,And cleanFrom fat of veals and sheep?
Is it to quit the dishOf flesh, yet stillTo fillThe platter high with fish?
Is it to fast an hour.Or ragg'd to go,Or showA downcast look, and sour?
No! 't is a fast to doleThy sheaf of wheat,And meat,Unto the hungry soul.
It is to fast from strife,From old debateAnd hate,—To circumcise thy life.
To show a heart grief-rent;To starve thy sin,Not bin,—And that's to keep thy Lent.
* * * * *
Thou whose sweet youth and early hopes enhanceThy rate and price, and mark thee for a treasure.Hearken unto a Verser, who may chanceRhyme thee to good, and make a bait of pleasure:A verse may find him who a sermon fliesAnd turn delight into a sacrifice.
When thou dost purpose aught (within thy power),Be sure to doe it, though it be but small;Constancie knits the bones, and make us stowre,When wanton pleasures beckon us to thrall.Who breaks his own bond, forfeiteth himself:What nature made a ship, he makes a shelf.
* * * * *
By all means use sometimes to be alone.Salute thyself: see what thy soul doth wear.Dare to look in thy chest; for 't is thine own;And tumble up and down what thou find'st there.Who cannot rest till he good fellows finde,He breaks up house, turns out of doores his minde.
In clothes, cheap handsomenesse doth bear the bell.Wisdome's a trimmer thing than shop e'er gave.Say not then, This with that lace will do well;But, This with my discretion will be brave.Much curiousnesse is a perpetual wooing;Nothing, with labor; folly, long a doing.
* * * * *
When once thy foot enters the church, be bare.God is more there than thou; for thou art thereOnly by his permission. Then beware,And make thyself all reverence and fear.Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state;All equal are within the church's gate.
Resort to sermons, but to prayers most:Praying's the end of preaching. O, be drest!Stay not for th' other pin: why thou hast lostA joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jestAway thy blessings, and extremely flout thee,Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.
Judge not the preacher; for he is thy judge:If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not.God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudgeTo pick out treasures from an earthen pot.The worst speak something good: ifallwant sense,God takes a text, and preacheth Pa-ti-ence.
* * * * *
The conscious water saw its God and blushed.
Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land,Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand:The other's wanton wealth foams high, and brave;The other cast away, she only gave.
Two went to pray? O, rather say,One went to brag, the other to pray;
One stands up close and treads on high,Where the other dares not lend his eye;
One nearer to God's altar trod,The other to the altar's God.
* * * * *
God of the thunder! from whose cloudy seatThe fiery winds of Desolation flow;Father of vengeance, that with purple feetLike a full wine-press tread'st the world below;The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay,Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey,Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way,Till thou hast marked the guilty land for woe.
God of the rainbow! at whose gracious signThe billows of the proud their rage suppress;Father of mercies! at one word of thineAn Eden blooms in the waste wilderness,And fountains sparkle in the arid sands,And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands,And marble cities crown the laughing lands,And pillared temples rise thy name to bless.
O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord!The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate,Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's sword,Even her foes wept to see her fallen state;And heaps her ivory palaces became,Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame,Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame,For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate.
O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam,And the sad City lift her crownless head,And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleamIn streets where broods the silence of the dead.The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowersTo deck at blushing eye their bridal bowers,And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.
Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand,And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves.With fettered steps we left our pleasant land,Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves.The strangers' bread with bitter tears we steep,And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep,In the mute midnight we steal forth to weep.Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves.
The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home;He that went forth a tender prattling boyYet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come;And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear,And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare,And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer,Where o'er the cherub seated God full blazed the irradiate dome.
* * * * *
We scatter seeds with careless hand,And dream we ne'er shall see them more;But for a thousand yearsTheir fruit appears,In weeds that mar the land,Or healthful store.
The deeds we do, the words we say,—Into still air they seem to fleet,We count them ever past;But they shall last,—In the dread judgment theyAnd we shall meet.
I charge thee by the years gone by,For the love's sake of brethren dear,Keep thou the one true way,In work and play,Lest in that world their cryOf woe thou hear.
* * * * *
A traveller through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea;And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree.Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breath its early vows;And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask beneath its boughs;The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore;It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.
A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern,A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men might turn;He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink.He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life besides.
A dreamer dropped a random thought; 't was old, and yet 't was new;A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true.It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light becameA lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.The thought was small; its issue great; a watch-fire on the hill,It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!
A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart,Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown,—a transitory breath,—It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last.
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Thou for whose birth the whole creation yearnedThrough countless ages of the morning world,Who, first in fiery vapors dimly hurled,Next to the senseless crystal slowly turned,Then to the plant which grew to something more,—Humblest of creatures that draw breath of life,—Wherefrom through infinites of patient painCame conscious man to reason and adore:Shall we be shamed because such things have been,Or bate one jot of our ancestral pride?Nay, in thyself art thou not deifiedThat from such depths thou couldst such summits win?While the long way behind is prophecyOf those perfections which are yet to be.
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I would I were an excellent divine.That had the Bible at my fingers' ends;That men might hear out of this mouth of mineHow God doth make his enemies his friends;Rather than with a thundering and long prayerBe led into presumption, or despair.
This would I be, and would none other be,But a religious servant of my God;And know there is none other God but he.And willingly to suffer mercy's rod,—Joy in his grace, and live but in his love,And seek my bliss but in the world above.
And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer,For all estates within the state of grace,That careful love might never know despair.Nor servile fear might faithful love deface;And this would I both day and night deviseTo make my humble spirit's exercise.
And I would read the rules of sacred life;Persuade the troubled soul to patience;The husband care, and comfort to the wife,To child and servant due obedience;Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace,That love might live, and quarrels all might cease.
Prayer for the health of all that are diseased,Confession unto all that are convicted,And patience unto all that are displeased,And comfort unto all that are afflicted,And mercy unto all that have offended,And grace to all, that all may be amended.
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The pastor sits in his easy-chair,With the Bible upon his knee.From gold to purple the clouds in the westAre changing momently;The shadows lie in the valleys below,And hide in the curtain's fold;And the page grows dim whereon he reads,"I remember the days of old."
"Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith,The pastor's memories are;No day that is gone was shadowless,No night was without its star;But mingled bitter and sweet hath beenThe portion of his cup:"The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith,"In love hath bound us up."
Fleet flies his thoughts over many a fieldOf stubble and snow and bloom,And now it trips through a festival,And now it halts at a tomb;Young faces smile in his reverie,Of those that are young no more,And voices are heard that only comeWith the winds from a far-off shore.
He thinks of the day when first, with fearAnd faltering lips, he stoodTo speak in the sacred place the WordTo the waiting multitude;He walks again to the house of GodWith the voice of joy and praise,With many whose feet long time have pressedHeaven's safe and blessèd ways.
He enters again the homes of toil,And joins in the homely chat;He stands in the shop of the artisan;He sits, where the Master sat,At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast.But who to-day are the poor,And who are the rich? Ask him who keepsThe treasures that ever endure.
Once more the green and the grove resoundWith the merry children's din;He hears their shout at the Christmas tide,When Santa Claus stalks in.Once more he lists while the camp-fire roarsOn the distant mountain-side,Or, proving apostleship, plies the brookWhere the fierce young troutlings hide.
And now he beholds the wedding trainTo the altar slowly move,And the solemn words are said that sealThe sacrament of love.Anon at the font he meets once moreThe tremulous youthful pair,With a white-robed cherub crowing responseTo the consecrating prayer.
By the couch of pain he kneels again;Again, the thin hand liesCold in his palm, while the last far lookSteals into the steadfast eyes;And now the burden of hearts that breakLies heavy upon his own—The widow's woe and the orphan's cryAnd the desolate mother's moan.
So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad,Are the days that are no more,So mournfully sweet are the sounds that floatWith the winds from a far-off shore.For the pastor has learned what meaneth the wordThat is given him to keep,—"Rejoice with them that do rejoice,And weep with them that weep."
It is not in vain that he has trodThis lonely and toilsome way.It is not in vain that he has wroughtIn the vineyard all the day;For the soul that gives is the soul that lives,And bearing another's loadDoth lighten your own and shorten the way,And brighten the homeward road.
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The Rabbi Nathan, twoscore years and ten,Walked blameless through the evil world, and thenJust as the almond blossomed in his hair,Met a temptation all too strong to bear,And miserably sinned. So, adding notFalsehood to guilt, he left his seat, and taughtNo more among the elders, but went outFrom the great congregation girt aboutWith sackcloth, and with ashes on his head,Making his gray locks grayer. Long he prayed,Smiting his breast; then, as the Book he laidOpen before him for the Bath-Col's choice,Pausing to hear that Daughter of a Voice,Behold the royal preacher's words: "A friendLoveth at all times, yea, unto the end;And for the evil day thy brother lives."Marvelling, he said: "It is the Lord who givesCounsel in need. At Ecbatana dwellsRabbi Ben Isaac, who all men excelsIn righteousness and wisdom, as the treesOf Lebanon the small weeds that the beesBow with their weight. I will arise and layMy sins before him."
And he went his wayBarefooted, fasting long, with many prayers;But even as one who, followed unawares,Suddenly in the darkness feels a handThrill with its touch his own, and his cheek fannedBy odors subtly sweet, and whispers nearOf words he loathes, yet cannot choose but hear,So, while the Rabbi journeyed, chanting lowThe wail of David's penitential woe,Before him still the old temptation came,And mocked him with the motion and the shameOf such desires that, shuddering, he abhorredHimself; and, crying mightily to the LordTo free his soul and cast the demon out,Smote with his staff the blackness round about.
At length, in the low light of a spent day,The towers of Ecbatana far awayRose on the desert's rim; and Nathan, faintAnd footsore, pausing where for some dead saintThe faith of Islam reared a domèd tomb,Saw some one kneeling in the shadow, whomHe greeted kindly: "May the Holy OneAnswer thy prayers, O stranger!" WhereuponThe shape stood up with a loud cry, and then,Clasped in each other's arms, the two gray menWept, praising him whose gracious providenceMade their paths one. But straightway, as the senseOf his transgression smote him, Nathan toreHimself away: "O friend beloved, no moreWorthy am I to touch thee, for I came,Foul from my sins to tell thee all my shame.Haply thy prayers, since naught availeth mine,May purge my soul, and make it white like thine.Pity me, O Ben Isaac, I have sinned!"Awestruck Ben Isaac stood. The desert windBlew his long mantle backward, laying bareThe mournful secret of his shirt of hair."I too, O friend, if not in act," he said,"In thought have verily sinned. Hast thou not read,'Better the eye should see than that desireShould wander'? Burning with a hidden fireThat tears and prayers quench not, I come to theeFor pity and for help, as thou to me.Pray for me, O my friend!" But Nathan cried,"Pray thou for me, Ben Isaac!"
Side by sideIn the low sunshine by the turban stoneThey knelt; each made his brother's woe his own,Forgetting, in the agony and stressOf pitying love, his claim of selfishness;Peace, for his friend besought, his own became;His prayers were answered in another's name;And, when at last they rose up to embrace,Each saw God's pardon in his brother's face!
Long after, when his headstone gathered moss,Traced on the targum-marge of OnkelosIn Rabbi Nathan's hand these words were read:"Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead;Forget it in love's service, and the debtThou canst not pay the angels shall forget;Heaven's gate is shut to him who comes alone;Save thou a soul, and it shall save thy own!"
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Judge not; the workings of his brainAnd of his heart thou canst not see;What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,In God's pure light may only beA scar, brought from some well-won field,Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.
The look, the air, that frets thy sightMay be a token that belowThe soul has closed in deadly fightWith some infernal fiery foe,Whose glance would scorch thy smiling graceAnd cast thee shuddering on thy face!
The fall thou darest to despise,—May be the angel's slackened handHas suffered it, that he may riseAnd take a firmer, surer stand;Or, trusting less to earthly things,May henceforth learn to use his wings.
And judge none lost; but wait and see,With hopeful pity, not disdain;The depth of the abyss may beThe measure of the height of painAnd love and glory that may raiseThis soul to God in after days!
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"My son, these maxims make a ruleAnd lump them aye thegither:The Rigid Righteous is a fool,The Rigid Wise anither:The cleanest corn that e'er was dightMay hae some pyles o' caff in;Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slightFor random fits o' daffin."
—SOLOMON,Ecclesiastesvii. 16.
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel',Sae pious and sae holy,Ye've nought to do but mark and tellYour neebor's fauts and folly:—Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,Supplied wi' store o' water.The heapèt happer's ebbing still,And still the clap plays clatter.
Hear me, ye venerable core,As counsel for poor mortals,That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door,For glaikit Folly's portals!I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,Would here propone defences,Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,And shudder at the niffer;But cast a moment's fair regard,What makes the mighty differ?Discount what scant occasion gaveThat purity ye pride in,And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)Your better art o' hidin'.
Think, when your castigated pulseGies now and then a wallop,What ragings must his veins convulse,That still eternal gallop:Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,Right on ye scud your sea-way;But in the teeth o' baith to sail,It makes an unco leeway.
See Social life and Glee sit down,All joyous and unthinking,Till, quite transmugrified, they're grownDebauchery and Drinking:O, would they stay to calculateThe eternal consequences;Or your mortal dreaded hell to state,Damnation of expenses!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,Tied up in godly laces,Before ye gie poor Frailty names,Suppose a change o' cases;A dear-loved lad, convenience snug,A treacherous inclination,—But, let me whisper i' your lug,Ye 're aiblins nae temptation.
Then gently scan your brother man,Still gentler sister woman;Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,To step aside is human.One point must still be greatly dark,The moving why they do it;And just as lamely can ye markHow far perhaps they rue it.
Who made the heart, 't is He aloneDecidedly can try us;He knows each chord,—its various tone,Each spring,—its various bias:Then at the balance let's be mute,We never can adjust it;What's done we partly may compute,But know not what's resisted.
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Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free!Draw back your skirts, lest they perchance may touchHer garment as she passes; but to himPut forth a willing hand to clasp with hisThat led her to destruction and disgrace.Shut up from her the sacred ways of toil,That she no more may win an honest meal;But ope to him all honorable pathsWhere he may win distinction; give to himFair, pressed-down measures of life's sweetest joys.Pass her, O maiden, with a pure, proud face,If she puts out a poor, polluted palm;But lay thy hand in his on bridal day,And swear to cling to him with wifely loveAnd tender reverence. Trust him who ledA sister woman to a fearful fate.
Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free!Let one soul suffer for the guilt of two—It is the doctrine of a hurried world,Too out of breath for holding balancesWhere nice distinctions and injusticesAre calmly weighed. But ah, how will it beOn that strange day of fire and flame,When men shall wither with a mystic fear,And all shall stand before the one true Judge?Shall sex makethena difference in sin?Shall He, the Searcher of the hidden heart,In His eternal and divine decreeCondemn the woman and forgive the man?
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