But he who lets his feelings run In soft luxurious flow, Shrinks when hard service must be done, And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears, Where hearts and wills are weighed, Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, Which bloom their hour, and fade.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

* * * * *

SANTA FILOMENA.

[FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.]

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,

The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

A DEED AND A WORD.

A little stream 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 all might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside.

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

CHARLES MACKAY.

* * * * *

SOGGARTH AROON.

Am I the slave they say, Soggarth aroon?[A] Since you did show the way, Soggarth aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Old Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon.

Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth aroon?

Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be not slave to you, Soggarth aroon, Nor, out of fear to you, Stand up so near to you— Och! out of fear to you, Soggarth aroon!

Who, in the winter's night, Soggarth aroon, When the cold blasts did bite, Soggarth aroon, Came to my cabin-door, And on my earthen-floor Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon?

Who, on the marriage day, Soggarth aroon, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth aroon, And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon?

Who, as friends only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon; And when my heart was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth aroon?

Och! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon! Our love they'll never shake, When for ould Ireland's sake We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon!

JOHN BANIM.

[Footnote A: Priest, dear.]

* * * * *

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST.

Over his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream.

* * * * *

Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.

Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its Benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us: The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in. The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,— In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it; We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by: And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,— And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving; 'T is as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,— 'Tis the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remember the keeping of his vow?

PART FIRST.

"My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail: Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep; Here on the rushes will I sleep, And perchance there may come a vision true Ere day create the world anew." Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim; Slumber fell like a cloud on him, And into his soul the vision flew.

The crows flapped over by twos and threes, In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year, And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees: The castle alone in the landscape lay Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray; 'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree; Summer besieged it on every side, But the churlish stone her assaults defied; She could not scale the chilly wall, Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall Stretched left and right. Over the hills and out of sight; Green and broad was every tent, And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night.

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, And through the dark arch a charger sprang, Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers long, And binding them all in one blazing sheaf, Had cast them forth; so, young and strong, And lightsome as a locust leaf, Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail, To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.

It was morning on hill and stream and tree, And morning in the young knight's heart; Only the castle moodily Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, And gloomed by itself apart; The season brimmed all other things up Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall; For this man, so foul and bent of stature, Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,— So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

The leper raised not the gold from the dust:— "Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door: That is no true alms which the hand can hold; He gives only the worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty: But he who gives but a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight,— That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite,— The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, The heart outstretches its eager palms; For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before."

PRELUDE TO PART SECOND.

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hilltop bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The little brook heard it, and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him winter-proof; All night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams; Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars; He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest crypt. Long, sparkling aisles of steel stemmed trees Mending to counterfeit a breeze; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here He had caught the nodding bulrush tops And hung them thickly with diamond drops. That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one: No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter palace of ice; 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay In his depths serene through the summer day, Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, Lest the happy model should be lost. Sad been mimicked in fairy masonry By the elfin builders of the frost.

Within the hall are song and laughter; The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With lightsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer.

But the wind without was eager and sharp; Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing in dreary monotone A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!"

The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold.

PART SECOND.

There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was dumb and could not speak, For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea.

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gale, For another heir in his earldom sate: An old, bent man, worn out and frail, He came back from seeking the Holy Grail. Little he recked of his earldom's loss, No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross; But deep in his soul the sigh he wore, The badge of the suffering and the poor.

Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, For it was just at the Christmas-time; So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, And sought for a shelter from cold and snow In the light and warmth of long ago. He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, He can count the camels in the sun, As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass, The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade. And with its own self like an infant played, And waved its signal of palms.

"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms:"— The happy camels may reach the spring, But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, That cowers beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease.

And Sir Launfal said,—"I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,— Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,—

And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side: Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through him, I give to thee!"

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie, When he girt his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust: He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink; 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread 'T was water out of a wooden bowl,— Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place; The leper no longer crouched at his side, But stood before him glorified, Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,— Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man.

His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, That mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; And the voice that was softer than silence said:— Lo, it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail: Behold, it is here,—this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, This water His blood that died on the tree; The Holy Supper is kept indeed In whatso we share with another's need. Not, what we give, but what we share,— For the gift without the giver is bare: Who gives himself with his alms feeds three.— Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me."

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:— "The Grail in my castle here is found! Hang my idle armor up on the wall, Let it be the spider's banquet-hall; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail."

The castle gate stands open now, And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hang-bird is to the elm-tree bough; No longer scowl the turrets tall. The summer's long siege at last is o'er: When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with him in disguise, And mastered the fortress by surprise; There is no spot she loves so well on ground; She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has hall and bower at his command; And there's no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

* * * * *

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

She once was a lady of honor and wealth; Bright glowed in her features the roses of health; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold: Joy revelled around her, love shone at her side, And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride; And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, That called her to live for her suffering race; And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Rose quickly, like Mary, and answered, "I come." She put from her person the trappings of pride, And passed from her home with the joy of a bride, Nor wept at the threshold as onward she moved,— For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.

Lost ever to fashion, to vanity lost, That beauty that once was the song and the toast, No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame: Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love; Those hands, that once dangled the perfume and gem, Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them; That voice, that once echoed the song of the vain. Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

Her down-bed, a pallet—her trinkets, a bead; Her lustre—one taper, that serves her to read; Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed; Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crowned head; Her cushion—the pavement that wearies her knees; Her music—the psalm, or the sigh of disease: The delicate lady lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined: Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves, mid the vapors of death; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows her Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face, With looks that are lighted with holiest grace; How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.

Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain! Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers, self-seeking men; Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen; How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?

GERALD JOSEPH GRIFFEN.

* * * * *

WHAT I LIVE FOR.

I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true, For heaven that smiles above me, And waits my spirit, too; For all the ties that bind me, For all the tasks assigned me. And bright hopes left behind me, And good that I can do.

I live to learn their story Who've suffered for my sake, To emulate their glory, And follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The noble of all ages, Whose deeds crown history's pages, And Time's great volume make.

I live to hold communion With all that is divine, To feel there is a union 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truths from fields of fiction, And, wiser from conviction, Fulfil each grand design.

I live to hail that season, By gifted minds foretold, When men shall rule by reason, And not alone by gold; When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old.

I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true, For heaven that smiles above me, And waits my spirit too; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do.

GEORGE LINNAEUS BANKS.

* * * * *

IF WE HAD BUT A DAY.

We should fill the hours with the sweetest things, If we had but a day; We should drink alone at the purest springs In our upward way; We should love with a lifetime's love in an hour, If the hours were few; We should rest, not for dreams, but for fresher power To be and to do.

We should guide our wayward or wearied wills By the clearest light; We should keep our eyes on the heavenly hills, If they lay in sight; We should trample the pride and the discontent Beneath our feet; We should take whatever a good God sent, With a trust complete.

We should waste no moments in weak regret, If the day were but one; If what we remember and what we forget Went out with the sun; We should be from our clamorous selves set free, To work or to pray, And to be what the Father would have us be. If we had but a day.

MARY LOWE DICKINSON.

* * * * *

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so." Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,— And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

LEIGH HUNT.

* * * * *

LOVE.

If suddenly upon the street My gracious Saviour I should meet, And he should say, "As I love thee, What love hast thou to offer me?" Then what could this poor heart of mine Dare offer to that heart divine?

His eye would pierce my outward show, His thought my inmost thought would know; And if I said, "I love thee, Lord," He would not heed my spoken word, Because my daily life would tell If verily I loved him well.

If on the day or in the place Wherein he met me face to face, My life could show some kindness done, Some purpose formed, some work begun For his dear sake, then it were meet Love's gift to lay at Jesus' feet.

CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON.



IV.

SABBATH: WORSHIP: CREED.

* * * * *

SUNDAY MORNING BELLS.

From the near city comes the clang of bells: Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine In one faint misty harmony, as fine As the soft note yon winter robin swells. What if to Thee in thine infinity These multiform and many-colored creeds Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds Round the one living truth them givest him—Thee? What if these varied forms that worship prove, Being heart-worship, reach thy perfect ear But as a monotone, complete and clear, Of which the music is, through Christ's name, love? Forever rising in sublime increase To "Glory in the highest,—on earth peace"?

DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK.

* * * * *

SABBATH HYMN ON THE MOUNTAINS.

Praise ye the Lord! Not in the temple of shapeliest mould, Polished with marble and gleaming with gold, Piled upon pillars of slenderest grace, But here in the blue sky's luminous face, Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord! Not where the organ's melodious wave Dies 'neath the rafters that narrow the nave, But here with the free wind's wandering sweep, Here with the billow that booms from the deep, Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord! Not where the pale-faced multitude meet In the sweltering lane and the dun-visaged street, But here where bright ocean, thick sown with green isles, Feeds the glad eye with a harvest of smiles, Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord! Here where the strength of the old granite Ben Towers o'er the greenswarded grace of the glen, Where the birch flings its fragrance abroad on the hill, And the bee of the heather-bloom wanders at will, Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord! Here where the loch, the dark mountain's fair daughter, Down the red scaur flings the white-streaming water, Leaping and tossing and swirling forever, Down to the bed of the smooth-rolling river, Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord! Not where the voice of a preacher instructs you, Not where the hand of a mortal conducts you, But where the bright welkin in scripture of glory Blazons creation's miraculous story. Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord! The wind and the welkin, the sun and the river, Weaving a tissue of wonders forever; The mead and the mountain, the flower and the tree, What is their pomp, but a vision of thee, Wonderful Lord?

Praise ye the Lord! Not in the square-hewn, many-tiered pile, Not in the long-drawn, dim-shadowed aisle, But where the bright world, with age never hoary, Flashes her brightness and thunders his glory, Praise ye the Lord!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

* * * * *

THE SABBATH MORNING.

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, That slowly wakes while all the fields are still! A soothing calm on every breeze is borne; A graver murmur gurgles from the rill; And echo answers softer from the hill; And sweeter sings the linnet from the thorn: The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn! The rooks float silent by in airy drove; The sun a placid yellow lustre throws; The gales that lately sighed along the grove Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move,— So smiled that day when the first morn arose!

JOHN LEYDEN.

* * * * *

THE POOR MAN'S DAY.

FROM "THE SABBATH."

How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers, That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze; Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dovelike wings Peace o'er yon village broods; The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree; But on this day, imbosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God—not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke; While, wandering slowly up the river-side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

JAMES GRAHAME.

* * * * *

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born; Ye shall not dim the light that streams From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough To feel your harsh control; Ye shall not violate, this day, The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts; Let fires of vengeance die; And, purged from sin, may I behold A God of purity!

ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD.

* * * * *

VESPER HYMN.

Now, on sea and land descending, Brings the night its peace profound: Let our vesper hymn be blending With the holy calm around. Soon as dies the sunset glory, Stars of heaven shine out above, Telling still the ancient story— Their Creator's changeless love.

Now, our wants and burdens leaving To his care who cares for all, Cease we fearing, cease we grieving; At his touch our burdens fall. As the darkness deepens o'er us, Lo! eternal stars arise; Hope and Faith and Love rise glorious, Shining in the Spirit's skies.

SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

VESPER HYMN.

The day is done; the weary day of thought and toil is past, Soft falls the twilight cool and gray on the tired earth at last: By wisest teachers wearied, by gentlest friends oppressed, In thee alone, the soul, outworn, refreshment finds, and rest.

Bend, Gracious Spirit, from above, like these o'erarching skies, And to thy firmament of love lift up these longing eyes; And, folded by thy sheltering hand, in refuge still and deep, Let blessed thoughts from thee descend, as drop the dews of sleep.

And when refreshed the soul once more puts on new life and power; Oh, let thine image. Lord, alone, gild the first waking hour! Let that dear Presence dawn and glow, fairer than morn's first ray, And thy pure radiance overflow the splendor of the day.

So in the hastening even, so in the coming morn, When deeper slumber shall be given, and fresher life be born. Shine out, true Light! to guide my way amid that deepening gloom, And rise, O Morning Star, the first that dayspring to illume!

I cannot dread the darkness where thou wilt watch o'er me, Nor smile to greet the sunrise unless thy smile I see; Creator, Saviour, Comforter! on thee my soul is cast; At morn, at night, in earth, in heaven, be thou my First and Last!

ELIZA SCUDDER.

* * * * *

AMAZING, BEAUTEOUS CHANGE!

Amazing, beauteous change! A world created new! My thoughts with transport range, The lovely scene to view; In all I trace, Saviour divine, The word is thine,— Be thine the praise!

See crystal fountains play Amidst the burning sands; The river's winding way Shines through the thirsty lands; New grass is seen, And o'er the meads Its carpet spreads Of living green.

Where pointed brambles grew, Intwined with horrid thorn, Gay flowers, forever new, The painted fields adorn,— The blushing rose And lily there, In union fair, Their sweets disclose.

Where the bleak mountain stood All bare and disarrayed, See the wide-branching wood Diffuse its grateful shade; Tall cedars nod, And oaks and pines, And elms and vines Confess thee God.

The tyrants of the plain Their savage chase give o'er,— No more they rend the slain, And thirst for blood no more; But infant hands Fierce tigers stroke, And lions yoke In flowery bands.

O, when, Almighty Lord! Shall these glad things arise, To verify thy word, And bless our wandering eyes? That earth may raise, With all its tongues, United songs Of ardent praise.

PHILIP DODDRIDGE.

* * * * *

THE WORD.

O Word of God incarnate, O Wisdom from on high, O Truth unchanged, unchanging, O Light of our dark sky; We praise thee for the radiance That from the hallowed page, A lantern to our footsteps, Shines on from age to age.

The Church from thee, her Master, Received the gift divine; And still that light she lifteth O'er all the earth to shine. It is the golden casket Where gems of truth are stored; It is the heaven-drawn picture Of, thee, the living Word.

It floateth like a banner Before God's host unfurled; It shineth like a beacon Above the darkling world; It is the chart and compass That o'er life's surging sea, Mid mists and rocks and quicksands, Still guide, O Christ, to thee.

Oh, make thy Church, dear Saviour, A lamp of burnished gold, To bear before the nations Thy true light, as of old. Oh, teach thy wandering pilgrims By this their path to trace, Till, clouds and darkness ended, They see thee face to face.

WILLIAM WALSHAM HOW.

* * * * *

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, Of England green and old. That out from fane and ivied tower A thousand years have tolled; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallowed day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time; And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime! At bridal and at burial, For cottager and king, Those chimes, those glorious Christian chimes, How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Upon a Christmas morn. Outbreaking as the angels did, For a Redeemer born! How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly decked and mistletoe, To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal From tower and Gothic pile, Where hymn and swelling anthem fill The dim cathedral aisle; Where windows bathe the holy light On priestly heads that falls, And stains the florid tracery Of banner-dighted walls!

And then, those Easter bells, in spring, Those glorious Easter chimes! How loyally they hail thee round, Old Queen of holy times! From hill to hill like sentinels, Responsively they cry, And sing the rising of the Lord, From vale to mountain high.

I love ye, chimes of Motherland, With all this soul of mine, And bless the Lord that I am sprung Of good old English line: And like a son I sing the lay That England's glory tells; For she is lovely to the Lord, For you, ye Christian bells!

And heir of her historic fame, Though far away my birth, Thee, too, I love, my Forest-land, The joy of all the earth; For thine thy mother's voice shall be, And here, where God is king, With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring.

ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.

* * * * *

THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR.

I have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam, That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream, Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest, From the pillar of stone to the blue of the blest. And the angels descending to dwell with us here, "Old Hundred," and "Corinth," and "China," and "Mear."

"Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said. All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York"; Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, And politely picked up the key-note with a fork; And the vicious old viol went growling along At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song.

All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod, That those breaths can blow open to heaven and God! Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining road,— Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed,— But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned choir, To the girl that sang alto—the girl that sang air!

Oh, I need not a wing—bid no genii come With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the river of Time, When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme— Where the streams of the years flowed so noiseless and narrow, That across it there floated the song of the sparrow—

For a sprig of green caraway carries me there. To the old village church, and the old village choir, Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung, And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they sung, Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun!

You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, Who followed by scent, till he ran the tune down; And dear Sister Green, with more goodness than grace, Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place, And where "Coronation" exultingly flows, Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes!

To the land of the leal they have gone with their song, Where the choir and the chorus together belong, Oh be lifted, ye gates! Let me hear them again— Blessed song, blessed singers! forever, Amen!

BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

* * * * *

A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY.

"Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people, who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally sang the Doxology over them."—Spectator of May 14, 1803.

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow," Praise him who sendeth joy and woe. The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, O, praise him, all that dies, and lives.

He opens and he shuts his hand, But why we cannot understand: Pours and dries up his mercies' flood, And yet is still All-perfect Good.

We fathom not the mighty plan, The mystery of God and man; We women, when afflictions come, We only suffer and are dumb.

And when, the tempest passing by, He gleams out, sunlike through our sky, We look up, and through black clouds riven We recognize the smile of Heaven.

Ours is no wisdom of the wise, We have no deep philosophies; Childlike we take both kiss and rod, For he who loveth knoweth God.

DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK.

* * * * *

REBECCA'S HYMN.

FROM "IVANHOE."

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide, in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow: By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen, And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone: Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And O, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. But Thou hast said, "The blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice."

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

THE BOOK OF GOD.

Thy thoughts are here, my God, Expressed in words divine, The utterance of heavenly lips In every sacred line.

Across the ages they Have reached us from afar, Than the bright gold more golden they, Purer than purest star.

More durable they stand Than the eternal hills; Far sweeter and more musical Than music of earth's rills.

Fairer in their fair hues Than the fresh flowers of earth, More fragrant than the fragrant climes Where odors have their birth.

Each word of thine a gem From the celestial mines, A sunbeam from that holy heaven Where holy sunlight shines.

Thine, thine, this book, though given In man's poor human speech, Telling of things unseen, unheard, Beyond all human reach.

No strength it craves or needs From this world's wisdom vain; No filling up from human wells, Or sublunary rain.

No light from sons of time, Nor brilliance from its gold; It sparkles with its own glad light, As in the ages old.

A thousand hammers keen, With fiery force and strain, Brought down on it in rage and hate, Have struck this gem in vain.

Against this sea-swept rock Ten thousand storms their will Of foam and rage have wildly spent; It lifts its calm face still.

It standeth and will stand, Without or change or age, The word of majesty and light, The church's heritage.

HORATIUS BONAR.

* * * * *

THE MEETING.

The elder folk shook hands at last, Down seat by seat the signal passed. To simple ways like ours unused, Half solemnized and half amused, With long-drawn breath and shrug, my guest His sense of glad relief expressed. Outside, the hills lay warm in sun; The cattle in the meadow-run Stood half-leg deep; a single bird The green repose above us stirred. "What part or lot have you," he said, "In these dull rites of drowsy-head? Is silence worship? Seek it where It soothes with dreams the summer air; Not in this close and rude-benched hall, But where soft lights and shadows fall, And all the slow, sleep-walking hours Glide soundless over grass and flowers! From time and place and form apart, Its holy ground the human heart, Nor ritual-bound nor templeward Walks the free spirit of the Lord! Our common Master did not pen His followers up from other men; His service liberty indeed, He built no church, he framed no creed; But while the saintly Pharisee Made broader his phylactery, As from the synagogue was seen The dusty-sandalled Nazarene Through ripening cornfields lead the way Upon the awful Sabbath day, His sermons were the healthful talk That shorter made the mountain-walk, His wayside texts were flowers and birds, Where mingled with his gracious words The rustle of the tamarisk-tree And ripple-wash of Galilee."

"Thy words are well, O friend," I said; "Unmeasured and unlimited, With noiseless slide of stone to stone, The mystic Church of God has grown. Invisible and silent stands The temple never made with hands, Unheard the voices still and small Of its unseen confessional. He needs no special place of prayer Whose hearing ear is everywhere; He brings not back the childish days That ringed the earth with stones of praise, Roofed Karnak's hall of gods, and laid The plinths of Philae's colonnade. Still less he owns the selfish good And sickly growth of solitude,— The worthless grace that, out of sight, Flowers in the desert anchorite; Dissevered from the suffering whole, Love hath no power to save a soul. Not out of Self, the origin And native air and soil of sin, The living waters spring and flow, The trees with leaves of healing grow.

"Dream not, O friend, because I seek This quiet shelter twice a week, I better deem its pine-laid floor Than breezy hill or sea-sung shore; But nature is not solitude; She crowds us with her thronging wood; Her many hands reach out to us, Her many tongues are garrulous; Perpetual riddles of surprise She offers to our ears and eyes; She will not leave our senses still, But drags them captive at her will; And, making earth too great for heaven, She hides the Giver in the given.

"And so I find it well to come For deeper rest to this still room, For here the habit of the soul Feels less the outer world's control; The strength of mutual purpose pleads More earnestly our common needs; And from the silence multiplied By these still forms on either side, The world that time and sense have known Falls off and leaves us God alone.

"Yet rarely through the charmed repose Unmixed the stream of motive flows, A flavor of its many springs, The tints of earth and sky it brings; In the still waters needs must be Some shade of human sympathy; And here, in its accustomed place, I look on memory's dearest face; The blind by-sitter guesseth not What shadow haunts that vacant spot; No eyes save mine alone can see The love wherewith it welcomes me! And still, with those alone my kin, In doubt and weakness, want and sin, I bow my head, my heart I bare As when that face was living there, And strive (too oft, alas! in vain) The peace of simple trust to gain, Fold fancy's restless wings, and lay The idols of my heart away.

"Welcome the silence all unbroken, Nor less the words of fitness spoken,— Such golden words as hers for whom Our autumn flowers have just made room; Whose hopeful utterance through and through The freshness of the morning blew; Who loved not less the earth that light Fell on it from the heavens in sight, But saw in all fair forms more fair The Eternal beauty mirrored there. Whose eighty years but added grace And saintlier meaning to her face,— The look of one who bore away Glad tidings from the hills of day, While all our hearts went forth to meet The coming of her beautiful feet! Or haply hers whose pilgrim tread Is in the paths where Jesus led; Who dreams her childhood's Sabbath dream By Jordan's willow-shaded stream, And, of the hymns of hope and faith, Sang by the monks of Nazareth, Hears pious echoes, in the call To prayer, from Moslem minarets fall, Repeating where His works were wrought The lesson that her Master taught, Of whom an elder Sibyl gave, The prophecies of Cumae's cave!

"I ask no organ's soulless breath To drone the themes of life and death, No altar candle-lit by day, No ornate wordsman's rhetoric-play, No cool philosophy to teach Its bland audacities of speech To double-tasked idolaters, Themselves their gods and worshippers, No pulpit hammered by the fist Of loud-asserting dogmatist, Who borrows for the hand of love The smoking thunderbolts of Jove. I know how well the fathers taught, What work the later schoolmen wrought; I reverence old-time faith and men, But God is near us now as then; His force of love is still unspent, His hate of sin as imminent; And still the measure of our needs Outgrows the cramping bounds of creeds; The manna gathered yesterday Already savors of decay; Doubts to the world's child-heart unknown Question us now from star and stone; Too little or too much we know, And sight is swift and faith is slow; The power is lost to self-deceive With shallow forms of make-believe. We walk at high noon, and the bells Call to a thousand oracles, But the sound deafens, and the light Is stronger than our dazzled sight; The letters of the sacred Book Glimmer and swim beneath our look; Still struggles in the Age's breast With deepening agony of quest The old entreaty: 'Art thou He, Or look we for the Christ to be?'

"God should be most where man is least; So, where is neither church nor priest, And never rag of form or creed To clothe the nakedness of need,— Where farmer-folk in silence meet,— I turn my bell-unsummoned feet; I lay the critic's glass aside, I tread upon my lettered pride, And, lowest-seated, testify To the oneness of humanity; Confess the universal want, And share whatever Heaven may grant. He findeth not who seeks his own, The soul is lost that's saved alone. Not on one favored forehead fell Of old the fire-tongued miracle, But flamed o'er all the thronging host The baptism of the Holy Ghost; Heart answers heart: in one desire The blending lines of prayer aspire; 'Where, in my name, meet two or three,' Our Lord hath said, 'I there will be!'

"So sometimes comes to soul and sense The feeling which is evidence That very near about us lies The realm of spiritual mysteries. The sphere of the supernal powers Impinges on this world of ours. The low and dark horizon lifts, To light the scenic terror shifts; The breath of a diviner air Blows down the answer of a prayer:— That all our sorrow, pain, and doubt A great compassion clasps about, And law and goodness, love and force, Are wedded fast beyond divorce. Then duty leaves to love its task, The beggar Self forgets to ask; With smile of trust and folded hands, The passive soul in waiting stands To feel, as flowers the sun and dew, The One true Life its own renew.

"So, to the calmly gathered thought The innermost of truth is taught, The mystery dimly understood, That love of God is love of good, And, chiefly, its divinest trace In Him of Nazareth's holy face; That to be saved is only this,— Salvation from our selfishness, From more than elemental fire, The soul's unsanctified desire, From sin itself, and not the pain That warns us of its chafing chain; That worship's deeper meaning lies In mercy, and not sacrifice, Not proud humilities of sense And posturing of penitence, But love's unforced obedience; That Book and Church and Day are given For man, not God,—for earth, not heaven,— The blessed means to holiest ends, Not masters, but benignant friends; That the dear Christ dwells not afar, The king of some remoter star, Listening, at times, with flattered ear, To homage wrung from selfish fear, But here, amidst the poor and blind, The bound and suffering of our kind, In works we do, in prayers we pray, Life of our life, He lives to-day."

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

* * * * *

THE LIVING TEMPLE.

Nor in the world of light alone, Where God has built his blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below, With belted seas that come and go, And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen: Look in upon thy wondrous frame,— Eternal wisdom still the same!

The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves Flows murmuring through its hidden caves, Whose streams of brightening purple rush, Fired with a new and livelier blush, While all their burden of decay The ebbing current steals away, And red with Nature's flame they start From the warm fountains of the heart.

No rest that throbbing slave may ask, Forever quivering o'er his task, While far and wide a crimson jet Leaps forth to fill the woven net Which in unnumbered crossing tides The flood of burning life divides, Then, kindling each decaying part, Creeps back to find the throbbing heart.

But warmed with that unchanging flame Behold the outward moving frame, Its living marbles jointed strong With glistening band and silvery thong, And linked to reason's guiding reins By myriad rings in trembling chains, Each graven with the threaded zone Which claims it as the Master's own.

See how yon beam of seeming white Is braided out of seven-hued light, Yet in those lucid globes no ray By any chance shall break astray. Hark, how the rolling surge of sound, Arches and spirals circling round, Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear With music it is heaven to hear.

Then mark the cloven sphere that holds All thought in its mysterious folds, That feels sensation's faintest thrill, And flashes forth the sovereign will; Think on the stormy world that dwells Locked in its dim and clustering cells! The lightning gleams of power it sheds Along its hollow glassy threads!

O Father! grant thy love divine To make these mystic temples thine! When wasting age and wearying strife Have sapped the leaning walls of life, When darkness gathers over all, And the last tottering pillars-fall, Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, And mould it into heavenly forms!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

* * * * *

OF HYM THAT TOGYDER WYLL SERVE TWO MAYSTERS.

A Fole he is and voyde of reason Whiche with one hounde tendyth to take Two harys in one instant and season; Rightso is he that wolde undertake Hym to two lordes a servaunt to make; For whether that he be lefe or lothe, The one he shall displease, or els bothe.

A fole also he is withouten doute, And in his porpose sothly blyndyd sore, Which doth entende labour or go aboute To serve god, and also his wretchyd store Of worldly ryches: for as I sayde before, He that togyder will two maysters serve Shall one displease and nat his love deserve.

For be that with one hounde wol take also Two harys togyther in one instant For the moste parte doth the both two forgo, And if he one have: harde it is and skant And that blynd fole mad and ignorant That draweth thre boltis atons[A] in one bowe At one marke shall shote to[o] high or to[o] lowe. He that his mynde settyth god truly to serve And his sayntes: this worlde settynge at nought Shall for rewarde everlastynge joy deserve, But in this worlde he that settyth his thought All men to please, and in favour to be brought, Must lout and lurke, flater, laude, and lye: And cloke in knavys counseyll, though it fals be.

Wherfore I may prove by these examples playne That it is better more godly and plesant To leve this mondayne casualte and payne And to thy maker one god to be servaunt. Which whyle thou lyvest shall nat let the want That thou desyrest justly, for thy syrvyce, And than after gyve the, the joyes of Paradyse.

From the German of SEBASTIAN BRANDT.

Translation of ALEXANDER BARCLAY.

[Footnote A: At once.]

* * * * *

RELIGION AND DOCTRINE.

He stood before the Sanhedrim; The scowling rabbis gazed at him; He recked not of their praise or blame; There was no fear, there was no shame For one upon whose dazzled eyes The whole world poured its vast surprise. The open heaven was far too near, His first day's light too sweet and clear, To let him waste his new-gained ken On the hate-clouded face of men.

But still they questioned, Who art thou? What hast thou been? What art thou now? Thou art not he who yesterday Sat here and begged beside the way, For he was blind. And I am he; For I was blind, but now I see.

He told the story o'er and o'er; It was his full heart's only lore; A prophet on the Sabbath day Had touched his sightless eyes with clay, And made him see, who had been blind. Their words passed by him like the wind Which raves and howls, but cannot shock The hundred-fathom-rooted rock.

Their threats and fury all went wide; They could not touch his Hebrew pride; Their sneers at Jesus and his band, Nameless and homeless in the land, Their boasts of Moses and his Lord, All could not change him by one word.

I know not that this man may be, Sinner or saint; but as for me, One thing I know, that I am he Who once was blind, and now I see.

They were all doctors of renown, The great men of a famous town, With deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise, Beneath their wide phylacteries; The wisdom of the East was theirs, And honor crowned their silver hairs; The man they jeered and laughed to scorn Was unlearned, poor, and humbly born; But he knew better far than they What came to him that Sabbath day; And what the Christ had done for him, He knew, and not the Sanhedrim.

JOHN HAY.

* * * * *

RABBI BEN EZRA.

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first I was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith "A whole I planned Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears, Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate—folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied To That which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence—a paradox Which comforts while it mocks— Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute Whose flesh hath soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test— Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once, "How good to live and learn?"

Not once beat "Praise be Thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw Power, shall see Love perfect too: Perfect I call Thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete—I trust what Thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute—gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day. I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings, Let us cry, "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"

Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Be the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same. Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots—"Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."

So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."

For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made; So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age; wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive: Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast; why passive lies our clay,— Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"

Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops; Potter and clay endure.

He fixed thee 'mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Scull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down, but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash, and trumpet's peal, The new wine's foaming flow, The Master's lips aglow! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men; And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I—to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:

So, take and use Thy work! Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in Thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS.

FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART I.

He was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery, And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation A godly, thorough Reformation, Which always must be carried on And still be doing, never done; As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended. A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick; That with more care keep holiday The wrong than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclined to, By damning those they have no mind to; Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped God for spite; The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

* * * * *

THE PROBLEM.

I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?

Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle: Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,— The canticles of love and woe. The hand that rounded Peters dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew;— The conscious stone to beauty grew.

Knowest thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone; And Morning opes with haste her lids, To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For, out of Thought's interior sphere, These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.

These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast Soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise,— The Book itself before me lies,— Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

* * * * *

ON AN INFANT

WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM.

"Be, rather than be called, a child of God," Death whispered!—with assenting nod, Its head upon its mother's breast, The baby bowed, without demur— Of the kingdom of the Blest Possessor, not inheritor.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

* * * * *

WHAT WAS HIS CREED?

"Religion relates to life, and the life of religion is to do good."—SWEDENBORG.

He left a load of anthracite In front of a poor woman's door. When the deep snow, frozen and white, Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor. That was his deed. He did it well. "What was his creed?" I cannot tell.

Blessed "in his basket and his store," In sitting down and rising up; When more he got, he gave the more, Withholding not the crust and cup. He took the lead In each good task. "What was his creed?" I did not ask.

His charity was like the snow, Soft, white, and silent in its fall; Not like the noisy winds that blow From shivering trees the leaves,—a pall For flowers and weed, Drooping below. "What was his creed?" The poor may know.

He had great faith in loaves of bread For hungry people, young and old, Hope he inspired; kind words he said To those he sheltered from the cold. For we should feed As well as pray. "What was his creed?" I cannot say.

In words he did not put his trust; His faith in words he never writ; He loved to share his cup and crust With all mankind who needed it. In time of need A friend was he. "What was his creed?" He told not me.

He put his trust in heaven, and he Worked well with hand and head; And what he gave in charity Sweetened his sleep and daily bread. Let us take heed, For life is brief. What was his creed—What his belief?

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD.

Down deep in the hollow, so damp and so cold, Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown, The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould, Lying loose on a ponderous stone. Now within this huge stone, like a king on his throne, A toad has been sitting more years than is known; And, strange as it seems, yet he constantly deems The world standing still while he's dreaming his dreams,— Does this wonderful toad in his cheerful abode In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.

Down deep in the hollow, from morning till night, Dun shadows glide over the ground, Where a watercourse once, as it sparkled with light, Turned a ruined old mill-wheel around: Long years have passed by since its bed became dry, And the trees grow so close, scarce a glimpse of the sky Is seen in the hollow, so dark and so damp, Where the glow-worm at noonday is trimming his lamp, And hardly a sound from the thicket around, Where the rabbit and squirrel leap over the ground, Is heard by the toad in his spacious abode In the innermost heart of that ponderous stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.

Down deep in that hollow the bees never come, The shade is too black for a flower; And jewel-winged birds with their musical hum, Never flash in the night of that bower; But the cold-blooded snake, in the edge of the brake, Lies amid the rank grass, half asleep, half awake; And the ashen-white snail, with the slime in, its trail, Moves wearily on like a life's tedious tale, Yet disturbs not the toad in his spacious abode, In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.

Down deep in a hollow some wiseacres sit, Like a toad in his cell in the stone; Around them in daylight the blind owlets flit, And their creeds are with ivy o'ergrown;— Their stream may go dry, and the wheels cease to ply, And their glimpses be few of the sun and the sky, Still they hug to their breast every time-honored guest. And slumber and doze in inglorious rest; For no progress they find in the wide sphere of mind, And the world's standing still with all of their kind; Contented to dwell deep down in the well, Or move like a snail in the crust of his shell, Or live like the toad in his narrow abode, With their souls closely wedged in a thick wall of stone, By the gray weeds of prejudice rankly o'ergrown.

REBECCA S. NICHOLS.

* * * * *

HER CREED.

She stood before a chosen few, With modest air and eyes of blue; A gentle creature, in whose face Were mingled tenderness and grace.

"You wish to join our fold," they said: "Do you believe in all that's read From ritual and written creed, Essential to our human need?"

A troubled look was in her eyes; She answered, as in vague surprise. As though the sense to her were dim, "I only strive to follow Him."

They knew her life; how, oft she stood, Sweet in her guileless maidenhood, By dying bed, in hovel lone, Whose sorrow she had made her own.

Oft had her voice in prayer been heard, Sweet as the voice of singing bird; Her hand been open in distress; Her joy to brighten and to bless.

Yet still she answered, when they sought To know her inmost earnest thought, With look as of the seraphim, "I only strive to follow Him."

Creeds change as ages come and go; We see by faith, but little know: Perchance the sense was not so dim To her who "strove to follow Him."

SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON.

* * * * *

MY CREED.

I hold that Christian grace abounds Where charity is seen; that when We climb to heaven, 't is on the rounds Of love to men.

I hold all else, named piety, A selfish scheme, a vain pretence; Where centre is not—can there be Circumference?

This I moreover hold, and dare Affirm where'er my rhyme may go,— Whatever things be sweet or fair, Love makes them so.

Whether it be the lullabies That charm to rest the nursling bird, Or the sweet confidence of sighs And blushes, made without a word.

Whether the dazzling and the flush Of softly sumptuous garden bowers, Or by some cabin door, a bush Of ragged flowers.

'Tis not the wide phylactery, Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers, That make us saints: we judge the tree By what it bears.

And when a man can live apart From works, on theologic trust, I know the blood about his heart Is dry as dust.

ALICE CAREY.

* * * * *

GIVE ME THY HEART.

With echoing steps the worshippers Departed one by one; The organ's pealing voice was stilled, The vesper hymn was done; The shadow fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air, One lamp alone, with trembling ray, Told of the Presence there!

In the dark church she knelt alone; Her tears were falling fast; "Help, Lord," she cried, "the shades of death Upon my soul are cast! Have I not shunned the path of sin, And chose the better part? "— What voice came through the sacred air?— "My child, give me thy heart!"

"Have not I laid before thy shrine My wealth, O Lord?" she cried; "Have I kept aught of gems or gold, To minister to pride? Have I not bade youth's joys retire, And vain delights depart?"— But sad and tender was the voice,— "My child, give me thy heart!"

"Have I not, Lord, gone day by day Where thy poor children dwell; And carried help, and gold, and food? O Lord, thou know'st it well! From many a house, from many a soul, My hand bids care depart":— More sad, more tender was the voice,— "My child, give me thy heart!"

"Have I not worn my strength away With fast and penance sore? Have I not watched and wept?" she cried; "Did thy dear saints do more? Have I not gained thy grace, O Lord, And won in heaven my part?"— It echoed louder in her soul,— "My child, give me thy heart!

"For I have loved thee with a love No mortal heart can show; A love so deep my saints in heaven Its depths can never know: When pierced and wounded on the cross, Man's sin and doom were mine, I loved thee with undying love, Immortal and divine!

"I loved thee ere the skies were spread; My soul bears all thy pains; To gain thy love my sacred heart In earthly shrines remains: Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs, Without one gift divine; Give it, my child, thy heart to me, And it shall rest in mine!"

In awe she listened, as the shade Passed from her soul away; In low and trembling voice she cried,— "Lord, help me to obey! Break thou the chains of earth, O Lord, That bind and hold my heart; Let it be thine and thine alone, Let none with thee have part.

"Send down, O Lord, thy sacred fire! Consume and cleanse the sin That lingers still within its depths: Let heavenly love begin. That sacred flame thy saints have known, Kindle, O Lord, in me, Thou above all the rest forever, And all the rest in thee."

The blessing fell upon her soul; Her angel by her side Knew that the hour of peace was come; Her soul was purified; The shadows fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air,— But peace went with her as she left The sacred Presence there!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR.

* * * * *

O, MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE!

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

MARIAN EVANS LEWES CROSS (George Eliot).

* * * * *

O YET WE TRUST THAT SOMEHOW GOOD.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM," LIII.

O yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last—far off—at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

DAY BREAKS.

What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower. Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour? Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand, If the bright morning dawns upon the land.

"The stars are clear above me; scarcely one Has dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun; But I yet see on the horizon's verge Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge."

Look forth again, O watcher on the tower,— The people wake and languish for the hour; Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine For the full daylight that they know must shine.

"I see not well,—the moon is cloudy still,— There is a radiance on the distant hill; Even as I watch the glory seems to grow; But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow."

And is that all, O watcher on the tower? Look forth again; it must be near the hour; Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes, And the green woods beneath them on the slopes?

"A mist envelops them; I cannot trace Their outline; but the day comes on apace: The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes, And all the stars grow dim; the morning breaks."

We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower: But look again, and tell us, hour by hour, All thou beholdest: many of us die Ere the day comes; oh, give them a reply!

"I see the hill-tops now, and chanticleer Crows his prophetic carol on mine ear; I see the distant woods and fields of corn, And ocean gleaming in the light of morn."

Again, again, O watcher on the tower! We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour, Patient, but longing. Tell us, shall it be A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free?

"I hope, but cannot tell; I hear a song, Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong, As of a lark—young prophet of the noon— Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune."

What doth he say, O watcher on the tower? Is he a prophet? does the dawning hour Inspire his music? Is his chant sublime, Filled with the glories of the future time?

"He prophesies,—his heart is full; his lay Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day; A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm, But sunny for the most, and clear and warm."

We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower, For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour When error shall decay, and truth grow strong, And light shall rule supreme and conquer wrong?

"He sings of brotherhood and joy and peace, Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease; When war shall cease, and man's progressive mind Soar as unfettered as its God designed."

Well done, thou watcher on the lonely tower! Is the day breaking? Dawns the happy hour? We pine to see it; tell us yet again If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain?

"It breaks! it comes! the misty shadows fly: A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky; The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear, The plain is yet in shade, but day is near."

CHARLES MACKAY.

* * * * *

MY HOME.

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR A HOUSE IN THE GREEN PARISH OF DEVONSHIRE.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell, A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the sparres of which I lie, Both soft and drie; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate; Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my doore Is worn by the poore, Who hither come and freely get Good words or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little butterie, and therein A little byn, Which keeps my little loafe of bread Unchipt, unflead. Some sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose loving coals I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confesse too, when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that bee There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain, and the messe Of water-cresse, Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; And my content Makes those and my beloved beet More sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltlesse mirth, And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soiles my land, And gives me for my bushel sowne, Twice ten for one. Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day, Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each yeare; The while the conduits of my kine Run creame for wine. All these and better thou dost send Me to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankfulle heart, Which, fired with incense, I resigne As wholly thine; But the acceptance, that must be, MY CHRIST, by thee.

ROBERT HERRICK.

* * * * *

PEACE.

Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave. Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave; And asked if Peace were there. A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No! Go, seek elsewhere."

I did; and, going, did a rainbow note: "Surely," thought I, "This is the lace of Peace's coat. I will search out the matter." But, while I looked, the clouds immediately Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy A gallant flower,— The crown-imperial. "Sure," said I, "Peace at the root must dwell." But, when I digged, I saw a worm devour What showed so well.

At length I met a reverend, good old man; Whom when for Peace I did demand, he thus began: "There was a prince of old At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But, after death, out of his grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat; Which many wondering at, got some of those To plant and set.

"It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth. For they that taste it do rehearse, That virtue lies therein,— A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth, By flight of sin.

"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you: Make bread of it; and that repose And peace which everywhere With so much earnestness you do pursue, Is only there."

GEORGE HERBERT.

* * * * *

PEACE.

Is this the peace of God, this strange sweet calm? The weary day is at its zenith still, Yet 't is as if beside some cool, clear rill, Through shadowy stillness rose an evening psalm. And all the noise of life were hushed away, And tranquil gladness reigned with gently soothing sway.

It was not so just now. I turned aside With aching head, and heart most sorely bowed; Around me cares and griefs in crushing crowd. While inly rose the sense, in swelling tide, Of weakness, insufficiency, and sin, And fear, and gloom, and doubt in mighty flood rolled in.

That rushing flood I had no power to meet, Nor power to flee: my present, future, past, Myself, my sorrow, and my sin I cast In utter helplessness at Jesu's feet: Then bent me to the storm, if such his will. He saw the winds and waves, and whispered. "Peace, be still!"

And there was calm! O Saviour, I have proved That thou to help and save art really near: How else this quiet rest from grief and fear And all distress? The cross is not removed, I must go forth to bear it as before, But, leaning on thine arm, I dread its weight no more.

Is it indeed thy peace? I have not tried To analyze my faith, dissect my trust, Or measure if belief be full and just, And therefore claim thy peace. But thou hast died, I know that this is true for me, And, knowing it, I come, and cast my all on thee.

It is not that I feel less weak, but thou Wilt be my strength; it is not that I see Less sin, but more of pardoning love with thee, And all-sufficient grace. Enough! and now All fluttering thought is stilled, I only rest, And feel that thou art near, and know that I am blest.

FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.

* * * * *

LIVING WATERS.

There are some hearts like wells, green-mossed and deep As ever Summer saw; And cool their water is,—yea, cool and sweet;— But you must come to draw. They hoard not, yet they rest in calm content, And not unsought will give; They can be quiet with their wealth unspent, So self-contained they live.

And there are some like springs, that bubbling burst To follow dusty ways, And run with offered cup to quench his thirst Where the tired traveller strays; That never ask the meadows if they want What is their joy to give;— Unasked, their lives to other life they grant, So self-bestowed they live!

And One is like the ocean, deep and wide, Wherein all waters fall; That girdles the broad earth, and draws the tide, Feeding and bearing all; That broods the mists, that sends the clouds abroad, That takes, again to give;— Even the great and loving heart of God. Whereby all love doth live.

CAROLINE S. SPENCER.

* * * * *

DEVOTION.

The immortal gods Accept the meanest altars, that are raised By pure devotion; and sometimes prefer An ounce of frankincense, honey, or milk, Before whole hecatombs, or Sabaean gems, Offered in ostentation.

PHILIP MASSINGER.

* * * * *

THE SEASIDE WELL.

"Waters flowed over mine head; then I said, I am cut off."—LAMENTATIONS iii. 54.

One day I wandered where the salt sea-tide Backward had drawn its wave, And found a spring as sweet as e'er hillside To wild-flowers gave. Freshly it sparkled in the sun's bright look, And mid its pebbles strayed, As if it thought to join a happy brook In some green glade.

But soon the heavy sea's resistless swell Came rolling in once more, Spreading its bitter o'er the clear sweet well And pebbled shore. Like a fair star thick buried in a cloud, Or life in the grave's gloom, The well, enwrapped in a deep watery shroud, Sunk to its tomb.

As one who by the beach roams far and wide, Remnant of wreck to save, Again I wandered when the salt sea-tide Withdrew its wave; And there, unchanged, no taint in all its sweet, No anger in its tone, Still as it thought some happy brook to meet, The spring flowed on.

While waves of bitterness rolled o'er its head, Its heart had folded deep Within itself, and quiet fancies led, As in a sleep; Till, when the ocean loosed his heavy chain, And gave it back to day, Calmly it turned to its own life again And gentle way.

Happy, I thought, that which can draw its life Deep from the nether springs, Safe 'neath the pressure, tranquil mid the strife, Of surface things. Safe—for the sources of the nether springs Up in the far hills lie; Calm—for the life its power and freshness brings Down from the sky.

So, should temptations threaten, and should sin Roll in its whelming flood, Make strong the fountain of thy grace within My soul, O God! If bitter scorn, and looks, once kind, grown strange, With crushing chillness fall, From secret wells let sweetness rise, nor change My heart to gall!

When sore thy hand doth press, and waves of thine Afflict me like a sea,— Deep calling deep,—infuse from source divine Thy peace in me! And when death's tide, as with a brimful cup, Over my soul doth pour, Let hope survive,—a well that springeth up Forevermore!

Above my head the waves may come and go, Long brood the deluge dire, But life lies hidden in the depths below Till waves retire,— Till death, that reigns with overflowing flood, At length withdraw its sway, And life rise sparkling in the sight of God An endless day.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

ULTIMA VERITAS.

In the bitter waves of woe, Beaten and tossed about By the sullen winds that blow From the desolate shores of doubt,—

When the anchors that faith had cast Are dragging in the gale, I am quietly holding fast To the things that cannot fail:

I know that right is right; That it is not good to lie; That love is better than spite, And a neighbor than a spy;

I know that passion needs The leash of a sober mind; I know that generous deeds Some sure reward will find;

That the rulers must obey; That the givers shall increase; That Duty lights the way For the beautiful feet of Peace;—

In the darkest night of the year, When the stars have all gone out, That courage is better than fear, That faith is truer than doubt;

And fierce though the fiends may fight, And long though the angels hide, I know that Truth and Eight Have the universe on their side;

And that somewhere, beyond the stars, Is a Love that is better than fate; When the night unlocks her bars I shall see Him, and I will wait.

WASHINGTON GLADDEN.

* * * * *

THE END OF THE PLAY.

The play is done,—the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell; A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends,— Let's close it with a parting rhyme; And pledge a hand to all young friends, As flits the merry Christmas time; On life's wide scene you, too, have parts That fate erelong shall bid you play; Good night!—with honest, gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!

Good night!—I'd say the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age; I'd say your woes were not less-keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men,— Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than boys,— With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys; And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away.

And in the world, as in the school, I'd say how fate may change and shift,— The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift: The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be Be who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give or to recall.

This crowns his feast with wine and wit,— Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen!—whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow.

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the awful will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize,— Go, lose or conquer as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays;) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days; The shepherds heard it overhead,— The joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men!

My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health and love and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still,— Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

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THE NEW YEAR.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM," CV.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night— Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new—, Ring happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land— Ring in the Christ that is to be.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

* * * * *

LIFE.

It is not life upon thy gifts to live, But to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee; And when the sun and showers their bounties give, To send out thick-leaved limbs; a fruitful tree Whose green head meets the eye for many a mile, Whose spreading boughs a friendly shelter rear, And full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile As to its goodly shade our feet draw near. Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more, For 't is the Father spreads the pure repast, Who, while we eat, renews the ready store, Which at his bounteous board must ever last; And, as the more we to his children lend, The more to us doth of his bounty send.

JONES VERY.

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SELECTIONS FROM PARADISE LOST.

BOOK I.

THE POET'S THEME.

Of man's first disobedience and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us and regain the blissful seat, Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed, In the beginning how the heavens and earth Rose out of Chaos; or if Sion hill Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed Fast by the oracle of God; I thence Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song. That with no middle flight intends to soar Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer Before all temples the upright heart and pure, Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou from the first Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss, And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support; That to the height of this great argument I may assert eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to men.

BOOK IX.

THE TEMPTATION.

The Sun was sunk, and after him the star Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring Twilight upon the Earth, short arbiter 'Twixt day and night, and now from end to end Night's hemisphere had veiled the horizon round: When Satan, who late fled before the threats Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improved In meditated fraud and malice, bent On Man's destruction, maugre what might hap Of heavier on himself, fearless returned. By night he fled, and at midnight returned From compassing the Earth;

* * * * *

The orb he roamed With narrow search; and with inspection deep Considered every creature, which of all Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found The serpent subtlest beast of all the field. Him, after long debate, irresolute Of thoughts revolved, his final sentence chose Fit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whom To enter, and his dark suggestions hide From sharpest sight: for, in the wily snake Whatever sleights, none would suspicious mark, As from his wit and native subtlety Proceeding; which, in other beasts observed. Doubt might beget of diabolic power Active within, beyond the sense of brute.

* * * * *

For now, and since first break of dawn, the fiend. Mere serpent in appearance, forth was come; And on his quest, where likeliest he might find The only two of mankind, but in them The whole included race, his purposed prey. In bower and field he sought where any tuft Of grove or garden-plot more pleasant lay, Their tendance, or plantation for delight; By fountain or by shady rivulet He sought them both, but wished his hap might find Eve separate; he wished, but not with hope Of what so seldom chanced; when to his wish, Beyond his hope, Eve separate he spies, Veiled in a cloud of fragrance, where she stood, Half spied, so thick the roses blushing round About her glowed.

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"She fair, divinely fair, fit love for gods. Not terrible, though terror be in love And beauty, not approached by stronger hate. Hate stronger, under show of love well feigned; The way which to her ruin now I tend." So spake the enemy of mankind, inclosed In serpent, inmate bad! and toward Eve Addressed his way: not with indented wave, Prone on the ground, as since; but on his rear, Circular base of rising folds, that towered Fold above fold, a surging maze! his head Crested aloft, and carbuncle his eyes; With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect. Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass Floated redundant: pleasing was his shape And lovely; never since of serpent-kind Lovelier.