10630	----	[Illustration] Happy are thy men, happy are these thy servants, which stand continually before Thee and that hear Thy wisdom 1 Kings X 8 Coming to the King By Frances Ridley Havergal Coming to the King. I came from very far to see The King of Salem, for I had been told Of glory and of wisdom manyfold, And condescension infinite and free. Now could I rest, when I had heard his fame, In that dark lonely land of death, from whence I came? I came (but not like Sheba's queen), alone! No stately train, no costly gifts to bring; No friend at court, save One the King! I had requests to spread before His throne, And I had questions none could solve for me, Of import deep, and full of mystery. [Illustration] I came and communed with that mighty King And told Him all my heart, I cannot say In mortal ear what communings were they But wouldst thou know, So too, and meekly bring All that is in thine heart and thou shalt hear His voice of love and power His answers sweet and clear O happy end of every weary guest! He told me all I needed graciously:-- Enough for guidance, and for victory O'er doubts and fears enough for quiet rest, And when some veiled response I could not read It was not hid from Him, this was enough indeed [Illustration] [Illustration] His wisdom and His glories passed before My wondering eyes in gradual revelation The house that He had built its strong foundation Its living stones and, brightening more and more For glimpses of that palace far away, Where all his loyal ones Shall dwell with Him for aye. [Illustration] True the report that reached my far-off land Of all His wisdom and transcendent fame, Yet I believed not until I came Bowed to the dust till raised by royal hand The half was never told by mortal word, My King exceeded all the fame that I had heard Oh happy are His servants! happy they Who stand continually before His face, Ready to do His will of wisest grace! My King! is mine such blessedness to-day? For I too hear Thy wisdom line by line, Thy ever brightening words in holy radiance shine [Illustration] [Illustration] Oh, blessed be the Lord they God who sat Our King upon His throne Divine delight In the Beloved crowning Thee with might Honour and majesty supreme and yet The strange and Godlike secret opening thus-- The Kingship of His Christ ordained through love to us! [Illustration] What shall I render to my glorious King? I have but that which I receive from Thee And what I give, Thou givest back to me, Transmuted by Thy touch, each worthless thing Changed to the preciousness of gem or gold, And by thy blessing multiplied a thousand fold [Illustration] All my desire Thou grantest whatsoer I ask! Was ever mythic tale or dream so bold as this reality, This stream of boundless blessings flowing full and free? Yet more than I have thought or asked of Thee Out of Thy royal bounty still Thou givest me. Now--I will turn to my own land and tell, What I myself have seen and heard of Thee, And give Thine own sweet message, "Come and see" And yet in heart and mind for ever dwell With Thee, my King of Peace, in loyal rest, Within the fair pavilion of Thy presence blest. J R HAVERGAL Our King O Saviour, precious Saviour, Whom yet unseen we love, O Name of might and favour, All other names above! We worship Thee, we bless Thee To Thee alone we sing We praise Thee, and confess Thee Our holy Lord and King In Thee all fulness dwelleth, All grace and power divine, The glory that excelleth, O Son of God, is Thine! We worship Thee, we bless Thee To Thee alone we sing, We praise Thee and confess Thee, Our glorious Lord and King [Illustration] Led in Peace. "_Ye shall go out with joy and be led forth with peace._" Is. IV. 12. With joy thou shalt be girded, With peace thou shalt be led; And everlasting glory shall rest upon thy head; The hills break forth in singing; the shadows flee away: This is thy King and Saviour-- He will not say thee "Nay!" [Illustration] His Presence Oh Saviour if Thy presence here Can such bright joy impart What must it be in that sweet home Where Thou its glory art Here through faith's vision small and fine One glimpse of Thy dear face Kindles a glow in lonely hearts, No cloud can e'er efface. Cecilia Havergal [Illustration] Springs of Peace Springs of peace, when conflict heightens Thine uplifted eye shall see, Peace that strengthens calms, and brightens, Peace itself a victory. Springs of comfort strangely springing Through the bitter wells of woe, Founts of hidden gladness, bringing Joy that earth can ne'er bestow [Illustration: ] The Welcome to the King Midst the darkness, storm, and sorrow One bright gleam I see, Well I know the blessed morrow Christ will come for me Midst the light and peace and glory Of the Fathers home, Christ for me is watching, waiting-- Waiting till I come Long the blessed Guide has led me By the desert road; Now I see the golden towers-- City of my God. There amidst the love and glory, He is waiting yet; On His hands a name is graven, He can ne'er forget. There amidst the songs of heaven-- Sweeter to His ear Is the footfall through the desert, Ever drawing near. There, made ready are the mansions, Glorious, bright and fair; But the Bride the Father gave Him Still is wanting there. Who is this who comes to meet me On the desert way, As the Morning Star foretelling God's unclouded day? He it is who came to win me, On the cross of shame In His glory well I know Him, Evermore the same Oh! the blessed joy of meeting, All the desert past! Oh! the wondrous words of greeting He shall speak at last! He and I together entering Those bright courts above, He and I together sharing All the Fathers love. Where no shade nor stain can enter Nor the gold be dim, In that holiness unsullied I shall walk with Him Meet companion then for Jesus, From Him, for Him made, Glory of Gods grace for ever There in me displayed [Illustration] He who in His hour of sorrow Bore the curse alone, I who through the lonely desert Trod where He had gone He and I in that bright glory One deep joy shall share Mine to be for ever with Him His that I am there The King of Love. The King of Love my Shepherd is Whose goodness faileth never, I nothing lack if I am His And He is mine for ever. Where streams of living waters flow, My ransomed soul He leadeth, And where the verdant pastures grow With food celestial feedeth [Illustration] [Illustration: ] God is Love and God is Light God is Love, His mercy brightens All the path in which we rove, Bliss He forms, and woe He lightens, God is Light and God is Love Chance and change are busy ever, Worlds decay and ages move, But His mercy waneth never God is Light and God is Love. Thine eyes shall see the King Thine eyes shall see! Yes, thine, who, blind erewhile, Now trembling towards the new-found light dost flee, Leave doubting, and look up with trustful smile. Thine eyes shall see! Thine eyes shall see the King! The very same Whose love shone forth upon the curseful tree, Who bore thy guilt, who calleth thee by name Thine eyes shall see! Thine eyes shall see the King, the Mighty One, The many crowned, the light-enrobed, and He Shall bid thee share the kingdom He hath won Thine eyes shall see! [Illustration] [Illustration] I am Thine. Jesus Master! I am Thine, Keep me faithful keep me near, Let Thy presence in me shine All my homeward way to cheer, Jesus! at Thy feet I fall, Oh, be Thou my all in all [Illustration] Is it for Me? Is it for me, dear Saviour Thy Glory and Thy rest? For me, so weak and sinful oh, shall I thus be blessed? Is it for me to see Thee in all Thy glorious grace And gaze in endless rapture on Thy beloved face? Behold Thee in Thy beauty, behold Thee face to face, Behold Thee in Thy glory and reap Thy smile of grace And be with Thee for ever, and never grieve Thee more! Dear Saviour I must praise Thee and lovingly adore. [Illustration] Going to Christ I go to Christ my Saviour With every little need The help He always gives me Is wonderful indeed I go when I am mourning The loss of loved ones near He speaketh words of comfort sweet, He doth my spirit cheer I go when I am fearing The cruse of oil will fail He sendeth me the needful means And thus doth prayer prevent Cecilia Havergal [Illustration] My King and Master. Christ my King, my Master, let my whole life be, Spent in blessed service only until Thee Let me serve Thee gladly, That the world may know 'Tis a happy privilege, Thee to serve below. Let me serve Thee humbly, Thine be all the praise, 'Tis Thy love alone which tunes my feeble lays; Let me serve Thee quickly--Time will soon be o'er I would fain lead many to heaven's peaceful shore. Let me serve Thee ever, from morning until eve, My earliest and my latest breath, my King, Thou shall receive. And oh when service here is spent, and Heaven is won Grant that I too, dear Master, may hear Thy sweet "Well done!" Cevilia Havergal Under His Shadow "Under His shadow," with Christ alone Here, love He whispers in tenderest tone, Treasures unfolding, riches of grace Thus for life's battle my soul doth He brace. "Under His shadow," a near page of life. Opens before me, apart from the strife Oh! will Thou show me Master and King How I may glory unto Thee bring! "Under His shadow" may life be passed Daily and hourly on till the last, Then no more shadows, all shall have fled When we awake like Jesus our Head. M A Spiller [Illustration] I sat down under His shadow with great delight. Cant. II G 
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26874	----	[Illustration: Cover art] [Illustration: Inside front cover] [Frontispiece: Flowers] Rock of Ages COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK [Illustration: Title page] The Lord is my rock and my fortress. 2 Sam. XXII 2. Rock of ages cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee; [Illustration: Page 1] Let the water and blood, From thy riven side which flow'd, [Illustration: Page 2] Be of sin the double cure, Cleanse me from its guilt and power. [Illustration: Page 3] [Illustration: Ocean waves] Not the labors of my hands Can fulfil Thy laws demands; [Illustration: Page 5] [Illustration: Birds] Could my zeal no respite know, Could my tears for ever flow, [Illustration: Page 7] [Illustration: Angel] All for sin could not atone, Thou must save, and Thou alone, [Illustration: Page 9] Nothing in my hand I bring, Simply to thy cross I cling; [Illustration: Page 10] [Illustration: Flowers] Naked, come to Thee for dress; Helpless look to Thee for grace; [Illustration: Page 12] [Illustration: Angel] Foul, I to the fountain fly; Wash me, Savior, or I die. [Illustration: Page 14] [Illustration: Flowers] While I draw this fleeting breath, When my eyelids close in death, When I soar thro' tracts unknown, [Illustration: Page 16] [Illustration: Woman] [Illustration: Angel] See Thee on Thy judgment throne, Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee. A. M. Toplady [Illustration: Page 19] [Illustration: Holly] [Illustration: Inside back cover] 
27851	----	A CHRISTMAS FAGGOT [Illustration: THAT AT THE NAME OF JESUS EVERY KNEE SHOULD BOW [Cross] TO THE GLORY OF GOD THE FATHER·] A CHRISTMAS FAGGOT BY ALFRED GURNEY, M.A. VICAR OF S. BARNABAS', PIMLICO AUTHOR OF 'THE VISION OF THE EUCHARIST AND OTHER POEMS' ETC. 'The Darling of the world is come, And fit it is we finde a roome To welcome Him. The nobler part Of all the house here is the heart, Which we will give Him, and bequeath This hollie and this ivie wreath To do Him honour who's our King, The Lord of all this revelling' HERRICK, _A Christmas Carol_ LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1884 (_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved_) _TO_ _MY GODCHILDREN_ ETHEL, ALBINIA, CYRIL, BASIL, BERTRAM, WILFRID, LOUISE, HELEN, ARTHUR. When the Angel of the waters With a gold and silver wing Gently stirred the wave baptismal, Heard ye not their carolling Who of old to Eastern shepherds Heralded their King? To the shepherds of His people Still those angel-voices tell How God's river feeds the fountain Opened by Emmanuel, Yielding the baptismal waters Of salvation's well. Children, you have passed those waters, Love-begotten from the dead; Will you make a gallant promise When my verses you have read-- 'We will trace life's lovely river To the Fountain-head'? LOCH LEVEN: 1884. PREFACE. Most of the following poems have appeared in the 'S. Barnabas' Parish Magazine.' For my godchildren and my people I have made them up into a little bundle of sticks--a Christmas faggot to feed the fires in the winter palace of our King. It is the Incarnation that justifies all joy, and song is the expression of joy. The Gospel Songs all celebrate the Great Nativity. Birth and marriage are the occasions most sacred to mirth and music among men; and Christmas is at once the Birthday and the Marriage Festival of Humanity. Glad and thankful shall I be if any song of mine should help to fan the flame of rejoicing love in any Christian heart at this holy and happy season. CONTENTS. PAGE YULE TIDE 1 THE MADONNA DI SAN SISTO 6 BETHLEHEM GATE 11 SAINT JOSEPH 16 A CRADLE SONG 18 A CRADLED CHILD 23 AN EMPTY CRADLE 26 NEW YEAR'S EVE 28 THE VICTIM 30 THE DAYSMAN 33 THE PHYSICIAN 36 THE POET 40 THREE SISTERS 43 A CHRISTMAS PUZZLE 46 FOUR EPIPHANIES 48 THE CHILDREN'S EUCHARIST 56 THE GOSPEL SONGS: I. Benedictus 59 II. Magnificat 63 III. Nunc Dimittis 66 NOTES 69 _YULE TIDE._ 'They bring me sorrow touched with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule.' TENNYSON, _In Memoriam_. The Royal Birthday dawns again, A stricken world to bless; And sufferers forget their pain, And mourners their distress. Love sings to-day; her eyes so fair With happy tears are wet; She is too humble to despair, Too faithful to forget. Her voice is very soft and sweet, Her heart is brave and strong; Her vassal, I would fain repeat Some fragments of her song. A Birthday-song my heart would sing Its rapture to express; My Father's son must be a king, And share His consciousness. Of God's Self-knowledge comes the Word That utters all His Thought; That Word made Flesh by all is heard Who seek as they are sought. His seeking and His finding make Our search an easy thing; He sows good seed, and bids us take The joys of harvesting. Yet must His children do their part, And what He gives accept; No heart can understand His Heart That has not bled and wept. All seasons, bring they bale or bliss, His priceless treasures hold; The Winter's silver all is His, And His the Summer's gold. Life's harvest is not reaped until The Christ within has grown To perfect manhood, and self-will By love is overthrown. Such manhood gained concludes the strife That makes the babe a boy; 'T is thus the seed becomes a life, The life becomes a joy. The eyes that weep are eyes that see, And swift are pilgrim-feet; Ah! hope at length may come to be Than memory more sweet. So keeping festival to-day, With children's laughter near, It is not hard to sing and pray, 'T is hard to doubt or fear. Father, my heart to Thee I bring, To Thee my song address; From Winter pain and toil of Spring Grows Summer happiness. _THE MADONNA DI SAN SISTO._[1] 'The Lord Himself shall give you a sign; behold, a Virgin shall conceive and bear a Son.' Behold, by Raphael shown, Love's sacrament! Earth's curtains part, God's veil is lifted up; There comes a Child, forth from His Bosom sent To rule the feast of life, His Bread and Cup, His purpose making plain with man to sup. Out-streams the light, accomplished is the Sign, A Virgin-Mother clasps a Babe Divine. Her lovely feet descend the cloudy stair, Great succour bringing to a world forlorn; On either side a man and woman share A common rapture, welcoming the dawn Of God's new day, the everlasting morn-- Of such a day as shall from East to West Dispel the darkness, doing Love's behest. He turns a face all radiant to the Sun, Enamoured of the sight he looks upon; She to the end of what is now begun Downgazes, stooping, shadowed by the throne Made by a Maiden's arms, maternal grown; Than ivory most fair, than purest gold, More pure, more fair, and stronger to uphold. On cherubs twain, whom watching has made wise, A spell has fallen--a prophetic dream; Their upward-gazing and far-seeing eyes, Like stars reflected in a tranquil stream, To look beyond the Child and Mother seem; A twisted thorn-branch and a cross to them Are manifest--His throne and diadem. High heaven open stands, and there a crowd Of worshippers with love-lit eyes appear, Like stars down-gazing through a fleecy cloud, Dimly discerned as morning draweth near Spreading a radiant pall upon night's bier. The blessed thing the Sign doth signify They partly know, and are made glad thereby. But more the Mother knows, and more she sees Than soaring angel or than climbing saint; Her heart familiar grown with mysteries Of God's own working under love's constraint, The remedy she knows for man's complaint. The clouds are all beneath her, and above The light of life, the radiancy of love. And He, Whom Lord of love and life we hail, Is on her bosom borne, a blossom fair; The pentecostal breath that lifts her veil Has fanned His royal brow, and stirred His hair, And kissed His lips just parted for a prayer. That spirit-wind shall blow, that Face shall shine, Till all His brothers know their Father's Sign. DRESDEN: 1883. FOOTNOTES: [1] _See_ Note A, page 69. _BETHLEHEM GATE._ A PICTURE BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.[2] Of old through gates that closed on them Two exiles went with eyes downcast; The Present now retrieves the Past, God's Eden is in Bethlehem. An Eden that no walls enclose By Mary's arms encompassèd, A living shrine, a 'house of bread,' A very haven of repose. Behold the Prince of Peace! around His cradle angry tempests rage; He needs must go on pilgrimage, An exile, homeless and discrowned. And yet, His Rank to designate, The unquenched Star of Bethlehem Shines forth, a radiant diadem; While Angels on His footsteps wait. E'en now the Father's Face they see, A triumph-song e'en now they sing, And, wondering and worshipping, Attend His Pilgrim-Family. Two guard the frowning gateway: one Is of a solemn countenance; To him a rapid backward glance Reveals a massacre begun. The other, forward gazing, sees The glory of the age to come, The fruitfulness of martyrdom, Of deaths that are nativities. O weeping mothers, dry your tears! The Mother whom this canvass shows Nor fears, nor weeps, although she knows An anguish deeper than your fears. She knows a comfort deeper still For all who fare on pilgrimage; By suffering from age to age God seals the vassals of His Will. Her Burden is upholding her; And, guided by the Holy Dove, She sees the victory of Love Beyond the Cross and Sepulchre. To shield her, Joseph stands: his care The shadow of God's Providence. How fragrant is the frankincense Of their uninterrupted prayer! Through ever-open gates they press, A new and living way they tread, So gain they the true 'House of Bread,' A garden for a wilderness. A flight it seems to us; to them It is a going forth to win The world from Satan and from sin, And build the New Jerusalem. Lord Christ! for every seeking soul Thou art Thyself the Door, the Way; All, all shall find one coming day Thy Heart their everlasting goal! LOCH LEVEN: 1884. FOOTNOTES: [2] _See_ Note B, page 71. _S. JOSEPH._ A cloistered garden was the place Where Mary grew, God's perfect flower; One, only one, discerned her grace, And visited her bower. God's choice was his; by love made strong To guard the Mother of the King; No heart, save hers, had e'er a song So sweet as his to sing. Yet lives there on the sacred page No record of a word from him; God's Ark he guards, a silent sage, Pure as the Cherubim. But sweeter than the sweetest word Recorded of the wise and good, His silence is a music heard On high, and understood. Blessed are all who take their part Amid the carol-singing throng; Thrice blest the meditative heart Whose silence is a song. BALLACHULISH: 1884. A CRADLE SONG. Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters, May the music of your song Silence all the dark forebodings That have plagued the world too long; He who made your voices tuneful Comes to right the wrong. Warble on, ye feathered songsters, Lift your praises loud and high, Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird, In the grove and in the sky Make your music, shame our dumbness, Till we make reply. Children's laughter is a music Flowing from a hidden spring, Which, though men misdoubt its virtue, Well is worth discovering; Slowly dies the heart that knows not How to laugh and sing. Hark, a cradle-song! the Singer Is the Heart of God Most High; All sweet voices are the echoes That in varied tones reply To that Voice which through the ages Sings earth's lullaby. Oftentimes a sleepless infant For a season frets and cries: All at once an unseen finger Curtains up the little eyes. So the cradled child He nurses God will tranquillise. His the all-enfolding Presence; Oh, what tutelage it brings To the little lives that ripen 'Neath the shelter of its wings; God's delays are no denials, As He waits He sings! They alone are seers and singers Who invalidate despair By the lofty hopes they cherish, By the gallant deeds they dare, By the ceaseless aspirations Of a life of prayer. Brothers, sisters, lift your voices, May the rapture of your song Put to flight the sad misgivings That have vexed the world too long; God would have us share the triumph That shall right the wrong. LOCH LAGGAN: 1884. _A CRADLED CHILD._ (To E. A. G.) Behold! the world's inheritance, The treasure-trove of happy homes; Whereby the poorest hut becomes A fairy-palace of romance. A cradle is the mother's shrine: Two lamps o'erhang it--her sweet eyes, Whose love-light falls, Madonna-wise, On sleeping infancy divine. The presence of a 'holy thing,' Madonna-wise, her heart discerns, And like a fragrant censer burns, O'ershadowed by an angel's wing. Her brooding motherhood is strong; A trembling joy her bosom stirs, Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers, 'Magnificat' is all her song. 'Mid angels whispering 'all-hails' The waking moment she awaits, The opening of two pearly gates, The lifting of two silken veils. Ah! then, what words can tell the bliss, The rapture of the fond embrace, When mother's lips on baby's face, Feast and are feasted with a kiss? And who can tell of hands and feet The dimpled wonders, hidden charms, The dainty curves of legs and arms, So sweet and soft, so soft and sweet? This is the world's possession still, The treasure-trove of wedded hearts, Whereby a Father's love imparts His joy, their gladness to fulfil. TYNTESFIELD: 1884. _AN EMPTY CRADLE._ All empty stands a little cradle-bed, A mother's falling tears the only sound; But not of earth her thoughts, nor underground; Up-gazing she discerns the Fountain-head Of life; the living Voice she hears that said 'Fear not' to weeping women who had found An empty tomb, and angels watching round, Who asked 'Why seek the living with the dead?' So weeps our Mother Church--her tears outshine Sun-smitten dewdrops on a summer's morn; God's rainbow girdles her, Hope's lovely sign, Whereby she knows that smiles of tears are born; Fulfilled of life herself, she would assure Her children all of death's discomfiture. CARLISLE: 1884. _NEW YEAR'S EVE._ God grant through coming years and days Our beating hearts may be The harps that celebrate His praise Who loves eternally! No ache can be without relief When Love Himself draws near; No cup can empty stand, no grief Embitter God's New Year. Time's footsteps quickly die away, Soon emptied is his glass; We wait for an oncoming Day Which nevermore shall pass. Old hopes revive, new hopes are born, The coming months to cheer; And phantom-fears and griefs outworn Die with the dying year. Oh, all the years and all the days Our waiting hearts shall be Harps tremulous with His dear praise Whose is Eternity! S. BARNABAS': _December 31, 1883_. _THE VICTIM._ FOR THE FEAST OF THE CIRCUMCISION: NEW YEAR'S DAY. The sun methinks rose rosy-red On that great New Year's Day, When Blood was in the cradle shed Where Mary's Darling lay. The lark, uprising with the sun, Was silent on the wing; The nightingale, when day was done, Forgot her song to sing. A holy silence reigned around, And hushed was every voice, When in the crib the Cross was found, The Infant-Victim's choice. As moonbeam on a mountain-mere The Mother's face was white; Her eyes were stars, and every tear Gave lustre to their light. Methinks a blushing moon looked down Upon that manger-bed, And wove a mystic glory-crown Around the Sleeper's head. The silence issues in a song, It rises and it swells; E'en than the lark's more blithe and strong, Sweeter than Philomel's, His Church's anthem loud and long The Victim's triumph tells. _THE DAYSMAN._ In boyhood's sorrow-shadowed days, Which memory recalls to-day, In many moods and many ways, My yearning heart would pray. 'T was holy ground where'er I set My feet, God's shrine was everywhere; But this I scarcely knew as yet-- _Christ is His Father's Prayer_.[3] God ever seeks His children's bliss, Appeals to them; and, rightly heard, The music of creation is The echo of His Word. But when the child has learnt his part, The echo is an answer strong; A prayer up-springing from the heart That blossoms in a song. Christ is the Living Word of God, His Poem and His Prophecy; The homeward way His Feet have trod Mankind must travel by. And every man, God's child and priest, Is pledged to ministry divine, Who sees the Ruler of life's feast Turn water into wine; Who hears the Father's voice above, The Spirit's whispering within; Who knows the Messenger of love The Conqueror of sin. Responsive to God's call, our Prayer Art Thou, dear Lord, whene'er we pray; So always now, and everywhere, My heart keeps holiday. ON THE DANUBE: _Feast of the Holy Name_, 1883. FOOTNOTES: [3] _See_ Note C, page 72. _THE PHYSICIAN._ Is life sad for lost love's sake, Falls a blight upon thy bliss, Smiles no more their sunshine make, Lips estranged withhold their kiss? For thy consolation take Some such song as this:-- Shine on us, O Morning Star! Help our weeping eyes to see; Never may we deem things are What to us they seem to be; Rise, Thou Dayspring, and afar Bid the shadows flee! Jesu, Thou art swift to bless, Strong to comfort, skilled to heal; Failure is with Thee success, Woe the forerunner of weal; Every stroke is a caress, Every crust a meal. Master, Thou canst raise the dead From the grave, the bed, the bier,[4] Souls astray, forlorn, misled, Buffeted by doubt and fear, Cannot but be comforted When Thou drawest near. Sweeter than the Sunday-bells Banishing all week-day cares, Thine the gracious voice that tells What a Father's love prepares, Leading to salvation's wells Up God's altar-stairs. Lord, Thou art the Master-singer, And Thy song is a recall; Many on life's pathway linger, Many by life's wayside fall, But Thy Heart, the comfort-bringer, Is a Home for all! TYROL: 1882. FOOTNOTES: [4] S. John xi. 43; S. Matt. ix. 25; S. Luke vii. 14. _THE POET._ The poet is the child of God, Who with anointed eye Discerns a sacrament of love In earth and sea and sky, And finds himself at love's behest Constrained to prophesy. Love is of loveliness the root, Love is of life the spring, Love is the sole interpreter Of every lovely thing: This is the burden of his song, Well may the poet sing! A joy-inspirèd song he sings Because far off he hears A whisper silencing the storm, A laughter through the tears, The music of eternity Beyond the dying years. His song is rapture, for he sees God's loveliness, and we, When with his insight we are blest, Shall share his ecstasy; Oh, come the day when all shall sing As blithe a song as he! Lord Christ, Thou art the King of Love, Thou art the Poet true; The men who would Thy vision share Must learn Thy works to do, All, all shall have the singing heart Whose feet Thy steps pursue! PITZ ORTLER: 1882. _THREE SISTERS._[5] Three fountains clear as crystal spring In one secluded garden-plot; In shade and shelter of one cot Three sister-doves are harbouring. Adown one pathway hand in hand Three Sister-Graces wend their way; I shall not soon forget the day I met with them in fairy land. They _dawned_, I know not how or whence: A halo circling round the head Of each, whereby transfigurèd They clomb the hill of frankincense. I know not whence or how, they _bloomed_: Each sweeter than the sweetest rose That in the haunted garden grows Where burns the bush still unconsumed. And one is like a rising sun When dewy Morn unveils her eyes; And one is as Minerva wise; And very lily-like is one. And all are dear. I seem to see The weaving of a threefold cord-- To hear a softly whispered word, 'Love makes a unity of three.' FOOTNOTES: [5] _See_ Note D, page 74. _A CHRISTMAS PUZZLE._ (FOR GROWN-UP CHILDREN.) Children know the things I know not, Though they know not that they know; I should know not, should love grow not, That I know not it is so. Flowers feebly rooted blow not, Shallow waters overflow not, Love is doomed unless it grow. Fools who think to reap and sow not Growing love will overthrow; Churls who say 'We go' and go not Love's rebuke must undergo; All who love's insignia show not, Who on love themselves bestow not, Love, full grown, shall lay them low. _FOUR EPIPHANIES._[6] I. The Pilgrim-Kings their King have found, The Wise Men kneel at Wisdom's shrine, Their royal gifts His Crib surround, He gives them bread and wine. One Star has pointed to the Sun, That men may see and understand The witness borne by all to One, Who holds in His Right Hand, Like lamps that round an altar burn, All lights that shine, all worlds that be Crowned are the men whose hearts discern Their King's Epiphany. II. The Child obedient sets His face To seek His Father's House of Prayer, With other children takes His place, And is a learner there. Two worlds there are; the child to each Belongs, God's prophet, born to bless; But not by action, nor by speech, Simply by winsomeness. For, like the Child of Bethlehem, Babes bring their blessing from afar, Enriching all who wait on them By being what they are. III. A voice from heaven spake aloud, Heard clearly by the Bridegroom's friend When, shadowed by the glory-cloud, He saw the Dove descend. One Voice has heralded the Word, That listening men may truly know What mean all voices they have heard Above, around, below-- Soft whisperings and laughters loud, The song of birds, the insects' hum, Storm-music of the thunder-cloud-- And be no longer dumb. IV. That jubilance of bridal mirth, First felt at Cana, has not ceased; Christ's Presence still regales the earth, Still glorifies the feast. The Ruler of the feast of life Still with a sacramental sign Confirms the love of man and wife, And makes the water wine. And His the glory still revealed When lovers plight and keep their vows; Himself the Bridegroom Who has sealed The Church to be His Spouse. FOOTNOTES: [6] _See_ Note E, page 77. _THE CHILDREN'S EUCHARIST._ The children's star-crowned Bethlehem, The children's 'house of bread,' Where Jesus' arms encircle them, With milk and honey fed:-- Such is the Church, whose altar-gates Stand ever open, when The board is furnished where He waits To feast the hearts of men. A Babe He came one heart to bless (It is His cradle still), And evermore her blessedness Is theirs who do His will; A Child He trod the Temple-floor, By Mary Mother led; By children's voices evermore His praise is perfected. 'Forbid them not,' He said of old: The words so stern and sweet Still make believing mothers bold To gather at His Feet, And bring their babes; their hearts discern (And oh, that others would!) How mother-like His Heart must yearn Who made their motherhood. A happy Home where children pray, With milk and honey fed, Whose altar-hearth burns bright alway, Whose board is richly spread:-- Such is the Church; and sweet the song Her little children sing, Of all who round His Altar throng The dearest to our King. BALLACHULISH: 1884. _THE GOSPEL SONGS._[7] I. BENEDICTUS. Can priestly lips, long silenced, raise A strain so lofty and so strong, Making our matin hymn of praise As jubilant as evensong? Yes: not the lips alone, the eyes Of Zacharias were unsealed, To see and sing the mysteries To love and penitence revealed. With keen prevision of the seer He sings of a redemption wrought, Whereby, released from slavish fear, Men are to filial freedom brought. Three things immutable and sure, His promise, covenant, and oath, Reveal God's purpose, and secure Whate'er man needs for life and growth. The promise to the fathers made Was seen and known--th' Incarnate Word; The Cross His covenant displayed, His oath at Pentecost was heard. Well may this father's heart rejoice, And with prophetic rapture sing; His song a prelude to that 'Voice'[8] Predestined to proclaim the King. His joy a foretaste of that mirth Which shall the hearts of all possess, When o'er a recreated earth Christ's sceptre reigns in righteousness. Of light he sings for darkened eyes, For wandering feet the way of peace, Tells how the Dayspring shall arise, And shadows flee and sorrows cease. And still the Church's children raise That strain so lofty and so strong, Which makes their matin hymn of praise As jubilant as evensong. LOCH LAGGAN: 1884. II. MAGNIFICAT. Earth's noise God's music supersedes, Sin's discord it excludes, It tells us of a Lamb that bleeds, And of a Dove that broods. It tells us of a Child Who brings The help that sets us free; The song His Maiden-Mother sings Of saved Humanity. The Mother's and the Sister's part She plays; she leads the choir Of those whose purity of heart Is passionate desire. Above the blood-encrimsoned sea, Dispelling doubt and fear With her celestial minstrelsy, Our Miriam doth cheer The men whose homeward-going hearts Are loyal to their King; When all from her have learnt their parts, Then shall creation sing! The sweetest of the Gospel songs, To all the Saints so dear, To every eventide belongs Throughout the changeful year. It sanctifies the vesper hour When summer smiles serene; It is a joy-constraining power When winter blasts are keen. 'My soul doth magnify the Lord'-- Ecstatic is the voice That sings of Paradise restored-- 'My spirit doth rejoice!' PINZOLO: 1882. III. NUNC DIMITTIS. To cradle Mary's Child his heart An old man opens wide: Behold him in God's peace depart, And in God's peace abide. He sings the very Song of Peace, Responsive to the Word; His lullaby shall never cease To make its music heard. For all the children of the Bride, The subjects of the King, With each returning eventide Have learnt his song to sing. He sings of 'peace,' 'salvation,' 'light:' His lovely words we take For consolation night by night, Until God's morning break. Then, when our dazzled eyes grow dim, Breathed with our parting breath The old man's sweet, heart-soothing hymn Glad welcome gives to death. We too what Simeon saw may see-- The Mother undefiled, Our hearts enfold as blissfully The Everlasting Child! TYROL: 1882. FOOTNOTES: [7] _See_ Note F, page 78. [8] S. John i. 23. NOTES. NOTE A. _The Madonna di San Sisto._ Raffaelle's world-famous picture of the Mother and her Divine Child in the Gallery at Dresden is in a measure known to almost all from prints and photographs. As to the _colour_ of the picture, the significant beauty of which none who have not seen the original can conceive, it should be remembered that the parted curtains are green (the earth-colour), and the Virgin Mother comes forth, as it were, from the white bosom of a stooping heaven, whose far distances, dimly seen, fade into a blue firmament peopled with angelic faces. Many have felt this picture--at once so serene and so impassioned--to be a _revelation_. As we yield ourselves to its fascination and search further and further into its depths, we feel that Faber's words justify themselves: 'Christian Art, rightly considered, is at once a theology and a worship; a theology which has its own method of teaching, its own ways of representation, its own devout discoveries, its own varying opinions, all of which are beautiful so long as they are in subordination to the mind of the Church.... Art is a revelation from heaven, and a mighty power for God. It is a merciful disclosure to men of His more hidden beauty. It brings out things in God which lie too deep for words.' (_Bethlehem_, p. 240.) It was a satisfaction to find my reading of this incomparable picture powerfully endorsed by one who, more perhaps than any living writer, has made good his claim to be regarded with the reverence that belongs to a scribe instructed in the things of the spiritual kingdom, bringing forth from his treasure things new and old. I quote the following passage from Canon Westcott's weighty contribution to the discussion of a subject second to none in interest and importance--'The Relation of Christianity to Art:' 'In the _Madonna di San Sisto_ Raffaelle has rendered the idea of Divine motherhood and Divine Sonship in intelligible forms. No one can rest in the individual figures. The tremulous fulness of emotion in the face of the Mother, the intense, far-reaching gaze of the Child, constrain the beholder to look beyond. For him too the curtain is drawn aside; he feels that there is a fellowship of earth with heaven and of heaven with earth, and understands the meaning of the attendant Saints who express the different aspects of this double communion.' (_Epistles of S. John_, p. 358.) I will only add some beautiful words of Mrs. Jameson, which also I had not seen when my verses were written: 'I have seen my own ideal once, and only once, attained: there, where Raffaelle--inspired if ever painter was inspired--projected on the space before him that wonderful creation which we style the _Madonna di San Sisto_; for there she stands--the transfigured woman--at once completely human and completely divine, an abstraction of power, purity, and love, poised on the empurpled air, and requiring no other support; looking out with her melancholy, loving mouth, her slightly dilated, sibylline eyes, quite through the universe, to the end and consummation of all things; sad, as if she beheld afar off the visionary sword that was to reach her heart through Him, now resting as enthroned on that heart; yet already exalted through the homage of the redeemed generations who were to salute her as Blessed.' (_Legends of the Madonna_: Introduction, p. 44.) NOTE B. _Bethlehem Gate._ I extract the following from some unpublished notes on the pictures by Rossetti exhibited at Burlington House two years ago: '"Bethlehem Gate" is the name of a lovely little pictured parable. On the left we see the massacre of innocents, representing the world, in whose cruel habitations the same outrage is ever being enacted, since all sin is in truth the sin of blood-guiltiness, bringing life into jeopardy. On the right the Heavenly Dove is seen leading forth God's elect children, the Holy Family, the infant Church, to the land of righteousness. The Maiden-Mother, with the Divine Innocent enthroned on her bosom, attended and protected by a backward-looking and a forward-looking angel, and escorted by S. Joseph, passes the gate of the City of David. Egypt beneath her feet becomes the holy land.[9] Thus with all fitting ceremonial is the Church's pilgrimage through the world, through the ages, inaugurated.' NOTE C. _The Daysman._ 'The Word became Flesh and tabernacled among us'--that is the supreme and august Verity which dominates all the thoughts of the children of the Kingdom. Their eyes are fixed on the Life that the Scripture-record contains rather than on the record itself. To them the oracles of God are indeed _living_, because they discern therein not certain words about Christ, but Christ the Word Himself; reading them by the light of the great Tradition which lives and grows with the life and growth of the Spirit-bearing Church--the consciousness of the real Presence of Christ in her and in her Scriptures alike. It is in truth no unwritten Tradition, for it is inscribed in spiritual characters upon the fleshy tables of the heart by the Holy Ghost Himself, the Finger of God. To His pupils all things are Divine _words_ variously embodied, and the Word made Flesh is the one all-comprehending Mystery, the eternal, all-revealing, and all-sufficing Sacrament. That Word is a Divine Person, Whose Manhood is a living, abiding, ever-energising Mediatorial Agency. That Word, eternally uttered by the Mouth of God, was in the Incarnation uttered (so to speak) in another language, and made audible and intelligible to man. By this language, common to God and man, the thought of God became man's thought, and the thought of man God's thought. In Him, the Mediating Word, they are _at one_; He _is_ the Atonement. And being the Word, He is the _Prayer_ both of God and man, whose expression is the enduring evidence of that Atonement, the ceaseless occupation and satisfaction of those who in Him are atoned and united. 'A mediator is not a mediator of one, but God is one,' is S. Paul's statement of the mystery; and of this characteristic doctrine of Christianity the Psalmist had already caught a glimpse when, in the exercise of a prophetical gift, he speaks of Christ as _Prayer_.[10] It is needless to add that the sanctuary of the Eucharist is the school in which this truth is most eloquently taught and effectually learnt. NOTE D. _Three Sisters._ The following interpretation, which accompanied the poem on its first appearance, is retained for the sake of those who then welcomed it:-- Those who sing songs to children no less than they who tell them stories must be prepared for many questions, some of them difficult to answer. The two questions which recur most frequently are (1) 'Is it true?' and (2) 'What does it mean?' Questioned as to my little poem, I reply to the first question without hesitation,--'Yes, it is all true.' But the second question is more difficult to deal with. If, however, an answer is insisted on, something like this is what I must say:-- God's story has no end; it is more wonderful than anything wonderland can show; lovelier than the loveliest thing said or sung of fairyland. The Gospel and the Creed are a part of that story; and with this our little poem is concerned. It speaks of God's garden--paradise regained--a renewed earth, wherein a trinity in unity, observable in all things, testifies of Him, a shadow cast from above. Shall we take the verses in order? Verse 1. Three fountains (which issue forth from beneath one altar-throne) feed one river (which, strange to say, seen from below, is four-fold), and by this river the whole earth, God's garden, is encircled and fertilised. That garden contains the tree of life, wherein three doves have one nest. Verse 2. But the fuller revelation comes out of human nature itself, when taken into fellowship with God. The elect lady, representative of humanity, is from one point of view, looking at fundamental relations, daughter, spouse, mother; from another, looking at essential characteristics, faith, hope, and love. The place of meeting, that is dawning consciousness, is the fairyland of phenomenal existence. Verse 3. Out of this fairyland humanity is led forward and upward by the path of sacrifice, until the summit of the cross-crowned mountain of life is gained; and all heads are aureoled by a light which, like that of the Transfiguration, dawns and deepens from within. This cannot be till we have ceased to be self-centred, and have become Christ-centred. Verse 4. All growth is very secret and mysterious, part of the mystery of life. The development of humanity follows the order indicated in the narrative of creation; light must come before vegetation, sunshine before flowers. In the garden of the Incarnation all is recovered; the wilderness blossoms as a rose, and the poor bush of the desert becomes a garden-tree, a plant of renown, unconsumed because permanently enkindled with the fire of a divine life. Verse 5. Every flower is a little sun, and shines forth, owing its beauty to an effort after conformity to the likeness of its cherisher, not without the succour of gracious dews. Its sunshine ministers to hope. And by faith the old-world homage rendered to wisdom (with which it is really one) is justified and transfigured. And love, being one with purity, looks at us out of the sweet white face of the lily. Verse 6. All men, like these sister-graces, must join hands and hearts. Thus shall be woven a threefold cord, divinely strong and unbreakable; and the testimony, reiterated by the still small voice of a Divine Whisperer, shall be accepted by all, because realised in all: 'Love makes a unity of three;' and '_God is love_.' 'Is that what the poem means?' I think I hear my questioner ask. 'Yes, that is a little of what it means--only a little.' NOTE E. _Four Epiphanies._ Nothing perhaps more clearly demonstrates the Divine instinct that resides in the Church than the construction of her Calendar and the arrangement of her year. Like the Creed, whose truths it teaches and enforces, it grew up gradually as the outcome and embodiment of her devotional life. The Epiphany, or Feast of Manifestation, was one of the first observed of her days of solemn commemoration; and the day came to be prolonged into a season embracing six Sundays. She would have her children understand that in all that He did and said our Lord was manifesting forth His glory, and justifying His great announcement--'I am the Light of the world.' The Four Epiphanies to which the poem refers belong to the Scriptures appointed for the Day itself and the two following Sundays. The first was made to the Wise Men of the East, representing the inspired wisdom of the Gentile world; the second to the Doctors of the Temple, representing the Bible-taught wisdom of the Jews; the third to the Forerunner, the last and greatest of the Prophet-heralds of the Incarnation; the fourth to the Bridegroom and Bride and the wedding guests at Cana of Galilee, representing Humanity, of which the family is the appointed and abiding type. The Catholic Church by her methods, no less than by her Sacraments, her Scriptures, and her Creeds, is ever maintaining her protest against the limitations by which all merely human systems are disfigured. She is ever bearing her impassioned witness to Him Who is 'the Light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world.' This is the real significance of the solemnities that accompany her Epiphany observance. NOTE F. _The Gospel Songs._ The Tree of Life is the real Christmas Tree. Its underwoven roots support the cradle; its branches, overarching with many a blossom and many a cluster, form the canopy of the Heavenly Babe, the Darling of God and of man. 'The fruit thereof is for meat, the leaf thereof for medicine;' mindful of which the holy Evangelists speak of the crib as a '_manger_,' that is the _feeding place_. 'Lo! we heard of the same at (Bethlehem) Ephrata, and found it in the Wood.' The Gospel songs express the joy with which by the humble and simple and pure-hearted this Plant of Renown is discovered; this House of Bread visited. They come from the lips of a maiden who is a mother, of an ancient who is a child, of a priest who is a prophet. When such fountains of song are unsealed, the music belongs rather to heaven than to earth. FOOTNOTES: [9] _See_ Isaiah xix. 19-25. [10] Psalm cix. 4: 'I am prayer' is the literal translation.--KAY. LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
1719	----	THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE By G.K. Chesterton Prefatory Note: This ballad needs no historical notes, for the simple reason that it does not profess to be historical. All of it that is not frankly fictitious, as in any prose romance about the past, is meant to emphasize tradition rather than history. King Alfred is not a legend in the sense that King Arthur may be a legend; that is, in the sense that he may possibly be a lie. But King Alfred is a legend in this broader and more human sense, that the legends are the most important things about him. The cult of Alfred was a popular cult, from the darkness of the ninth century to the deepening twilight of the twentieth. It is wholly as a popular legend that I deal with him here. I write as one ignorant of everything, except that I have found the legend of a King of Wessex still alive in the land. I will give three curt cases of what I mean. A tradition connects the ultimate victory of Alfred with the valley in Berkshire called the Vale of the White Horse. I have seen doubts of the tradition, which may be valid doubts. I do not know when or where the story started; it is enough that it started somewhere and ended with me; for I only seek to write upon a hearsay, as the old balladists did. For the second case, there is a popular tale that Alfred played the harp and sang in the Danish camp; I select it because it is a popular tale, at whatever time it arose. For the third case, there is a popular tale that Alfred came in contact with a woman and cakes; I select it because it is a popular tale, because it is a vulgar one. It has been disputed by grave historians, who were, I think, a little too grave to be good judges of it. The two chief charges against the story are that it was first recorded long after Alfred's death, and that (as Mr. Oman urges) Alfred never really wandered all alone without any thanes or soldiers. Both these objections might possibly be met. It has taken us nearly as long to learn the whole truth about Byron, and perhaps longer to learn the whole truth about Pepys, than elapsed between Alfred and the first writing of such tales. And as for the other objection, do the historians really think that Alfred after Wilton, or Napoleon after Leipsic, never walked about in a wood by himself for the matter of an hour or two? Ten minutes might be made sufficient for the essence of the story. But I am not concerned to prove the truth of these popular traditions. It is enough for me to maintain two things: that they are popular traditions; and that without these popular traditions we should have bothered about Alfred about as much as we bother about Eadwig. One other consideration needs a note. Alfred has come down to us in the best way (that is, by national legends) solely for the same reason as Arthur and Roland and the other giants of that darkness, because he fought for the Christian civilization against the heathen nihilism. But since this work was really done by generation after generation, by the Romans before they withdrew, and by the Britons while they remained, I have summarised this first crusade in a triple symbol, and given to a fictitious Roman, Celt, and Saxon, a part in the glory of Ethandune. I fancy that in fact Alfred's Wessex was of very mixed bloods; but in any case, it is the chief value of legend to mix up the centuries while preserving the sentiment; to see all ages in a sort of splendid foreshortening. That is the use of tradition: it telescopes history. G.K.C. DEDICATION Of great limbs gone to chaos, A great face turned to night-- Why bend above a shapeless shroud Seeking in such archaic cloud Sight of strong lords and light? Where seven sunken Englands Lie buried one by one, Why should one idle spade, I wonder, Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder To smoke and choke the sun? In cloud of clay so cast to heaven What shape shall man discern? These lords may light the mystery Of mastery or victory, And these ride high in history, But these shall not return. Gored on the Norman gonfalon The Golden Dragon died: We shall not wake with ballad strings The good time of the smaller things, We shall not see the holy kings Ride down by Severn side. Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured As the broidery of Bayeux The England of that dawn remains, And this of Alfred and the Danes Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns Too English to be true. Of a good king on an island That ruled once on a time; And as he walked by an apple tree There came green devils out of the sea With sea-plants trailing heavily And tracks of opal slime. Yet Alfred is no fairy tale; His days as our days ran, He also looked forth for an hour On peopled plains and skies that lower, From those few windows in the tower That is the head of a man. But who shall look from Alfred's hood Or breathe his breath alive? His century like a small dark cloud Drifts far; it is an eyeless crowd, Where the tortured trumpets scream aloud And the dense arrows drive. Lady, by one light only We look from Alfred's eyes, We know he saw athwart the wreck The sign that hangs about your neck, Where One more than Melchizedek Is dead and never dies. Therefore I bring these rhymes to you Who brought the cross to me, Since on you flaming without flaw I saw the sign that Guthrum saw When he let break his ships of awe, And laid peace on the sea. Do you remember when we went Under a dragon moon, And 'mid volcanic tints of night Walked where they fought the unknown fight And saw black trees on the battle-height, Black thorn on Ethandune? And I thought, "I will go with you, As man with God has gone, And wander with a wandering star, The wandering heart of things that are, The fiery cross of love and war That like yourself, goes on." O go you onward; where you are Shall honour and laughter be, Past purpled forest and pearled foam, God's winged pavilion free to roam, Your face, that is a wandering home, A flying home for me. Ride through the silent earthquake lands, Wide as a waste is wide, Across these days like deserts, when Pride and a little scratching pen Have dried and split the hearts of men, Heart of the heroes, ride. Up through an empty house of stars, Being what heart you are, Up the inhuman steeps of space As on a staircase go in grace, Carrying the firelight on your face Beyond the loneliest star. Take these; in memory of the hour We strayed a space from home And saw the smoke-hued hamlets, quaint With Westland king and Westland saint, And watched the western glory faint Along the road to Frome. BOOK I. THE VISION OF THE KING Before the gods that made the gods Had seen their sunrise pass, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale Was cut out of the grass. Before the gods that made the gods Had drunk at dawn their fill, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale Was hoary on the hill. Age beyond age on British land, Aeons on aeons gone, Was peace and war in western hills, And the White Horse looked on. For the White Horse knew England When there was none to know; He saw the first oar break or bend, He saw heaven fall and the world end, O God, how long ago. For the end of the world was long ago, And all we dwell to-day As children of some second birth, Like a strange people left on earth After a judgment day. For the end of the world was long ago, When the ends of the world waxed free, When Rome was sunk in a waste of slaves, And the sun drowned in the sea. When Caesar's sun fell out of the sky And whoso hearkened right Could only hear the plunging Of the nations in the night. When the ends of the earth came marching in To torch and cresset gleam. And the roads of the world that lead to Rome Were filled with faces that moved like foam, Like faces in a dream. And men rode out of the eastern lands, Broad river and burning plain; Trees that are Titan flowers to see, And tiger skies, striped horribly, With tints of tropic rain. Where Ind's enamelled peaks arise Around that inmost one, Where ancient eagles on its brink, Vast as archangels, gather and drink The sacrament of the sun. And men brake out of the northern lands, Enormous lands alone, Where a spell is laid upon life and lust And the rain is changed to a silver dust And the sea to a great green stone. And a Shape that moveth murkily In mirrors of ice and night, Hath blanched with fear all beasts and birds, As death and a shock of evil words Blast a man's hair with white. And the cry of the palms and the purple moons, Or the cry of the frost and foam, Swept ever around an inmost place, And the din of distant race on race Cried and replied round Rome. And there was death on the Emperor And night upon the Pope: And Alfred, hiding in deep grass, Hardened his heart with hope. A sea-folk blinder than the sea Broke all about his land, But Alfred up against them bare And gripped the ground and grasped the air, Staggered, and strove to stand. He bent them back with spear and spade, With desperate dyke and wall, With foemen leaning on his shield And roaring on him when he reeled; And no help came at all. He broke them with a broken sword A little towards the sea, And for one hour of panting peace, Ringed with a roar that would not cease, With golden crown and girded fleece Made laws under a tree. The Northmen came about our land A Christless chivalry: Who knew not of the arch or pen, Great, beautiful half-witted men From the sunrise and the sea. Misshapen ships stood on the deep Full of strange gold and fire, And hairy men, as huge as sin With horned heads, came wading in Through the long, low sea-mire. Our towns were shaken of tall kings With scarlet beards like blood: The world turned empty where they trod, They took the kindly cross of God And cut it up for wood. Their souls were drifting as the sea, And all good towns and lands They only saw with heavy eyes, And broke with heavy hands, Their gods were sadder than the sea, Gods of a wandering will, Who cried for blood like beasts at night, Sadly, from hill to hill. They seemed as trees walking the earth, As witless and as tall, Yet they took hold upon the heavens And no help came at all. They bred like birds in English woods, They rooted like the rose, When Alfred came to Athelney To hide him from their bows There was not English armour left, Nor any English thing, When Alfred came to Athelney To be an English king. For earthquake swallowing earthquake Uprent the Wessex tree; The whirlpool of the pagan sway Had swirled his sires as sticks away When a flood smites the sea. And the great kings of Wessex Wearied and sank in gore, And even their ghosts in that great stress Grew greyer and greyer, less and less, With the lords that died in Lyonesse And the king that comes no more. And the God of the Golden Dragon Was dumb upon his throne, And the lord of the Golden Dragon Ran in the woods alone. And if ever he climbed the crest of luck And set the flag before, Returning as a wheel returns, Came ruin and the rain that burns, And all began once more. And naught was left King Alfred But shameful tears of rage, In the island in the river In the end of all his age. In the island in the river He was broken to his knee: And he read, writ with an iron pen, That God had wearied of Wessex men And given their country, field and fen, To the devils of the sea. And he saw in a little picture, Tiny and far away, His mother sitting in Egbert's hall, And a book she showed him, very small, Where a sapphire Mary sat in stall With a golden Christ at play. It was wrought in the monk's slow manner, From silver and sanguine shell, Where the scenes are little and terrible, Keyholes of heaven and hell. In the river island of Athelney, With the river running past, In colours of such simple creed All things sprang at him, sun and weed, Till the grass grew to be grass indeed And the tree was a tree at last. Fearfully plain the flowers grew, Like the child's book to read, Or like a friend's face seen in a glass; He looked; and there Our Lady was, She stood and stroked the tall live grass As a man strokes his steed. Her face was like an open word When brave men speak and choose, The very colours of her coat Were better than good news. She spoke not, nor turned not, Nor any sign she cast, Only she stood up straight and free, Between the flowers in Athelney, And the river running past. One dim ancestral jewel hung On his ruined armour grey, He rent and cast it at her feet: Where, after centuries, with slow feet, Men came from hall and school and street And found it where it lay. "Mother of God," the wanderer said, "I am but a common king, Nor will I ask what saints may ask, To see a secret thing. "The gates of heaven are fearful gates Worse than the gates of hell; Not I would break the splendours barred Or seek to know the thing they guard, Which is too good to tell. "But for this earth most pitiful, This little land I know, If that which is for ever is, Or if our hearts shall break with bliss, Seeing the stranger go? "When our last bow is broken, Queen, And our last javelin cast, Under some sad, green evening sky, Holding a ruined cross on high, Under warm westland grass to lie, Shall we come home at last?" And a voice came human but high up, Like a cottage climbed among The clouds; or a serf of hut and croft That sits by his hovel fire as oft, But hears on his old bare roof aloft A belfry burst in song. "The gates of heaven are lightly locked, We do not guard our gain, The heaviest hind may easily Come silently and suddenly Upon me in a lane. "And any little maid that walks In good thoughts apart, May break the guard of the Three Kings And see the dear and dreadful things I hid within my heart. "The meanest man in grey fields gone Behind the set of sun, Heareth between star and other star, Through the door of the darkness fallen ajar, The council, eldest of things that are, The talk of the Three in One. "The gates of heaven are lightly locked, We do not guard our gold, Men may uproot where worlds begin, Or read the name of the nameless sin; But if he fail or if he win To no good man is told. "The men of the East may spell the stars, And times and triumphs mark, But the men signed of the cross of Christ Go gaily in the dark. "The men of the East may search the scrolls For sure fates and fame, But the men that drink the blood of God Go singing to their shame. "The wise men know what wicked things Are written on the sky, They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings, Hearing the heavy purple wings, Where the forgotten seraph kings Still plot how God shall die. "The wise men know all evil things Under the twisted trees, Where the perverse in pleasure pine And men are weary of green wine And sick of crimson seas. "But you and all the kind of Christ Are ignorant and brave, And you have wars you hardly win And souls you hardly save. "I tell you naught for your comfort, Yea, naught for your desire, Save that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher. "Night shall be thrice night over you, And heaven an iron cope. Do you have joy without a cause, Yea, faith without a hope?" Even as she spoke she was not, Nor any word said he, He only heard, still as he stood Under the old night's nodding hood, The sea-folk breaking down the wood Like a high tide from sea. He only heard the heathen men, Whose eyes are blue and bleak, Singing about some cruel thing Done by a great and smiling king In daylight on a deck. He only heard the heathen men, Whose eyes are blue and blind, Singing what shameful things are done Between the sunlit sea and the sun When the land is left behind. BOOK II. THE GATHERING OF THE CHIEFS Up across windy wastes and up Went Alfred over the shaws, Shaken of the joy of giants, The joy without a cause. In the slopes away to the western bays, Where blows not ever a tree, He washed his soul in the west wind And his body in the sea. And he set to rhyme his ale-measures, And he sang aloud his laws, Because of the joy of the giants, The joy without a cause. The King went gathering Wessex men, As grain out of the chaff The few that were alive to die, Laughing, as littered skulls that lie After lost battles turn to the sky An everlasting laugh. The King went gathering Christian men, As wheat out of the husk; Eldred, the Franklin by the sea, And Mark, the man from Italy, And Colan of the Sacred Tree, From the old tribe on Usk. The rook croaked homeward heavily, The west was clear and warm, The smoke of evening food and ease Rose like a blue tree in the trees When he came to Eldred's farm. But Eldred's farm was fallen awry, Like an old cripple's bones, And Eldred's tools were red with rust, And on his well was a green crust, And purple thistles upward thrust, Between the kitchen stones. But smoke of some good feasting Went upwards evermore, And Eldred's doors stood wide apart For loitering foot or labouring cart, And Eldred's great and foolish heart Stood open like his door. A mighty man was Eldred, A bulk for casks to fill, His face a dreaming furnace, His body a walking hill. In the old wars of Wessex His sword had sunken deep, But all his friends, he signed and said, Were broken about Ethelred; And between the deep drink and the dead He had fallen upon sleep. "Come not to me, King Alfred, Save always for the ale: Why should my harmless hinds be slain Because the chiefs cry once again, As in all fights, that we shall gain, And in all fights we fail? "Your scalds still thunder and prophesy That crown that never comes; Friend, I will watch the certain things, Swine, and slow moons like silver rings, And the ripening of the plums." And Alfred answered, drinking, And gravely, without blame, "Nor bear I boast of scald or king, The thing I bear is a lesser thing, But comes in a better name. "Out of the mouth of the Mother of God, More than the doors of doom, I call the muster of Wessex men From grassy hamlet or ditch or den, To break and be broken, God knows when, But I have seen for whom. "Out of the mouth of the Mother of God Like a little word come I; For I go gathering Christian men From sunken paving and ford and fen, To die in a battle, God knows when, By God, but I know why. "And this is the word of Mary, The word of the world's desire 'No more of comfort shall ye get, Save that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher.'" Then silence sank. And slowly Arose the sea-land lord, Like some vast beast for mystery, He filled the room and porch and sky, And from a cobwebbed nail on high Unhooked his heavy sword. Up on the shrill sea-downs and up Went Alfred all alone, Turning but once e'er the door was shut, Shouting to Eldred over his butt, That he bring all spears to the woodman's hut Hewn under Egbert's Stone. And he turned his back and broke the fern, And fought the moths of dusk, And went on his way for other friends Friends fallen of all the wide world's ends, From Rome that wrath and pardon sends And the grey tribes on Usk. He saw gigantic tracks of death And many a shape of doom, Good steadings to grey ashes gone And a monk's house white like a skeleton In the green crypt of the combe. And in many a Roman villa Earth and her ivies eat, Saw coloured pavements sink and fade In flowers, and the windy colonnade Like the spectre of a street. But the cold stars clustered Among the cold pines Ere he was half on his pilgrimage Over the western lines. And the white dawn widened Ere he came to the last pine, Where Mark, the man from Italy, Still made the Christian sign. The long farm lay on the large hill-side, Flat like a painted plan, And by the side the low white house, Where dwelt the southland man. A bronzed man, with a bird's bright eye, And a strong bird's beak and brow, His skin was brown like buried gold, And of certain of his sires was told That they came in the shining ship of old, With Caesar in the prow. His fruit trees stood like soldiers Drilled in a straight line, His strange, stiff olives did not fail, And all the kings of the earth drank ale, But he drank wine. Wide over wasted British plains Stood never an arch or dome, Only the trees to toss and reel, The tribes to bicker, the beasts to squeal; But the eyes in his head were strong like steel, And his soul remembered Rome. Then Alfred of the lonely spear Lifted his lion head; And fronted with the Italian's eye, Asking him of his whence and why, King Alfred stood and said: "I am that oft-defeated King Whose failure fills the land, Who fled before the Danes of old, Who chaffered with the Danes with gold, Who now upon the Wessex wold Hardly has feet to stand. "But out of the mouth of the Mother of God I have seen the truth like fire, This--that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher." Long looked the Roman on the land; The trees as golden crowns Blazed, drenched with dawn and dew-empearled While faintlier coloured, freshlier curled, The clouds from underneath the world Stood up over the downs. "These vines be ropes that drag me hard," He said. "I go not far; Where would you meet? For you must hold Half Wiltshire and the White Horse wold, And the Thames bank to Owsenfold, If Wessex goes to war. "Guthrum sits strong on either bank And you must press his lines Inwards, and eastward drive him down; I doubt if you shall take the crown Till you have taken London town. For me, I have the vines." "If each man on the Judgment Day Meet God on a plain alone," Said Alfred, "I will speak for you As for myself, and call it true That you brought all fighting folk you knew Lined under Egbert's Stone. "Though I be in the dust ere then, I know where you will be." And shouldering suddenly his spear He faded like some elfin fear, Where the tall pines ran up, tier on tier Tree overtoppling tree. He shouldered his spear at morning And laughed to lay it on, But he leaned on his spear as on a staff, With might and little mood to laugh, Or ever he sighted chick or calf Of Colan of Caerleon. For the man dwelt in a lost land Of boulders and broken men, In a great grey cave far off to the south Where a thick green forest stopped the mouth, Giving darkness in his den. And the man was come like a shadow, From the shadow of Druid trees, Where Usk, with mighty murmurings, Past Caerleon of the fallen kings, Goes out to ghostly seas. Last of a race in ruin-- He spoke the speech of the Gaels; His kin were in holy Ireland, Or up in the crags of Wales. But his soul stood with his mother's folk, That were of the rain-wrapped isle, Where Patrick and Brandan westerly Looked out at last on a landless sea And the sun's last smile. His harp was carved and cunning, As the Celtic craftsman makes, Graven all over with twisting shapes Like many headless snakes. His harp was carved and cunning, His sword prompt and sharp, And he was gay when he held the sword, Sad when he held the harp. For the great Gaels of Ireland Are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, And all their songs are sad. He kept the Roman order, He made the Christian sign; But his eyes grew often blind and bright, And the sea that rose in the rocks at night Rose to his head like wine. He made the sign of the cross of God, He knew the Roman prayer, But he had unreason in his heart Because of the gods that were. Even they that walked on the high cliffs, High as the clouds were then, Gods of unbearable beauty, That broke the hearts of men. And whether in seat or saddle, Whether with frown or smile, Whether at feast or fight was he, He heard the noise of a nameless sea On an undiscovered isle. Lifting the great green ivy And the great spear lowering, One said, "I am Alfred of Wessex, And I am a conquered king." And the man of the cave made answer, And his eyes were stars of scorn, "And better kings were conquered Or ever your sires were born. "What goddess was your mother, What fay your breed begot, That you should not die with Uther And Arthur and Lancelot? "But when you win you brag and blow, And when you lose you rail, Army of eastland yokels Not strong enough to fail." "I bring not boast or railing," Spake Alfred not in ire, "I bring of Our Lady a lesson set, This--that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher." Then Colan of the Sacred Tree Tossed his black mane on high, And cried, as rigidly he rose, "And if the sea and sky be foes, We will tame the sea and sky." Smiled Alfred, "Seek ye a fable More dizzy and more dread Than all your mad barbarian tales Where the sky stands on its head? "A tale where a man looks down on the sky That has long looked down on him; A tale where a man can swallow a sea That might swallow the seraphim. "Bring to the hut by Egbert's Stone All bills and bows ye have." And Alfred strode off rapidly, And Colan of the Sacred Tree Went slowly to his cave. BOOK III. THE HARP OF ALFRED In a tree that yawned and twisted The King's few goods were flung, A mass-book mildewed, line by line, And weapons and a skin of wine, And an old harp unstrung. By the yawning tree in the twilight The King unbound his sword, Severed the harp of all his goods, And there in the cool and soundless woods Sounded a single chord. Then laughed; and watched the finches flash, The sullen flies in swarm, And went unarmed over the hills, With the harp upon his arm, Until he came to the White Horse Vale And saw across the plains, In the twilight high and far and fell, Like the fiery terraces of hell, The camp fires of the Danes-- The fires of the Great Army That was made of iron men, Whose lights of sacrilege and scorn Ran around England red as morn, Fires over Glastonbury Thorn-- Fires out on Ely Fen. And as he went by White Horse Vale He saw lie wan and wide The old horse graven, God knows when, By gods or beasts or what things then Walked a new world instead of men And scrawled on the hill-side. And when he came to White Horse Down The great White Horse was grey, For it was ill scoured of the weed, And lichen and thorn could crawl and feed, Since the foes of settled house and creed Had swept old works away. King Alfred gazed all sorrowful At thistle and mosses grey, Till a rally of Danes with shield and bill Rolled drunk over the dome of the hill, And, hearing of his harp and skill, They dragged him to their play. And as they went through the high green grass They roared like the great green sea; But when they came to the red camp fire They were silent suddenly. And as they went up the wastes away They went reeling to and fro; But when they came to the red camp fire They stood all in a row. For golden in the firelight, With a smile carved on his lips, And a beard curled right cunningly, Was Guthrum of the Northern Sea, The emperor of the ships-- With three great earls King Guthrum Went the rounds from fire to fire, With Harold, nephew of the King, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling, And Elf, whose gold lute had a string That sighed like all desire. The Earls of the Great Army That no men born could tire, Whose flames anear him or aloof Took hold of towers or walls of proof, Fire over Glastonbury roof And out on Ely, fire. And Guthrum heard the soldiers' tale And bade the stranger play; Not harshly, but as one on high, On a marble pillar in the sky, Who sees all folk that live and die-- Pigmy and far away. And Alfred, King of Wessex, Looked on his conqueror-- And his hands hardened; but he played, And leaving all later hates unsaid, He sang of some old British raid On the wild west march of yore. He sang of war in the warm wet shires, Where rain nor fruitage fails, Where England of the motley states Deepens like a garden to the gates In the purple walls of Wales. He sang of the seas of savage heads And the seas and seas of spears, Boiling all over Offa's Dyke, What time a Wessex club could strike The kings of the mountaineers. Till Harold laughed and snatched the harp, The kinsman of the King, A big youth, beardless like a child, Whom the new wine of war sent wild, Smote, and began to sing-- And he cried of the ships as eagles That circle fiercely and fly, And sweep the seas and strike the towns From Cyprus round to Skye. How swiftly and with peril They gather all good things, The high horns of the forest beasts, Or the secret stones of kings. "For Rome was given to rule the world, And gat of it little joy-- But we, but we shall enjoy the world, The whole huge world a toy. "Great wine like blood from Burgundy, Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre, And marble like solid moonlight, And gold like frozen fire. "Smells that a man might swill in a cup, Stones that a man might eat, And the great smooth women like ivory That the Turks sell in the street." He sang the song of the thief of the world, And the gods that love the thief; And he yelled aloud at the cloister-yards, Where men go gathering grief. "Well have you sung, O stranger, Of death on the dyke in Wales, Your chief was a bracelet-giver; But the red unbroken river Of a race runs not for ever, But suddenly it fails. "Doubtless your sires were sword-swingers When they waded fresh from foam, Before they were turned to women By the god of the nails from Rome; "But since you bent to the shaven men, Who neither lust nor smite, Thunder of Thor, we hunt you A hare on the mountain height." King Guthrum smiled a little, And said, "It is enough, Nephew, let Elf retune the string; A boy must needs like bellowing, But the old ears of a careful king Are glad of songs less rough." Blue-eyed was Elf the minstrel, With womanish hair and ring, Yet heavy was his hand on sword, Though light upon the string. And as he stirred the strings of the harp To notes but four or five, The heart of each man moved in him Like a babe buried alive. And they felt the land of the folk-songs Spread southward of the Dane, And they heard the good Rhine flowing In the heart of all Allemagne. They felt the land of the folk-songs, Where the gifts hang on the tree, Where the girls give ale at morning And the tears come easily. The mighty people, womanlike, That have pleasure in their pain As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens loved in vain. As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens could not save, Till the world was like a sea of tears And every soul a wave. "There is always a thing forgotten When all the world goes well; A thing forgotten, as long ago, When the gods forgot the mistletoe, And soundless as an arrow of snow The arrow of anguish fell. "The thing on the blind side of the heart, On the wrong side of the door, The green plant groweth, menacing Almighty lovers in the spring; There is always a forgotten thing, And love is not secure." And all that sat by the fire were sad, Save Ogier, who was stern, And his eyes hardened, even to stones, As he took the harp in turn; Earl Ogier of the Stone and Sling Was odd to ear and sight, Old he was, but his locks were red, And jests were all the words he said Yet he was sad at board and bed And savage in the fight. "You sing of the young gods easily In the days when you are young; But I go smelling yew and sods, And I know there are gods behind the gods, Gods that are best unsung. "And a man grows ugly for women, And a man grows dull with ale, Well if he find in his soul at last Fury, that does not fail. "The wrath of the gods behind the gods Who would rend all gods and men, Well if the old man's heart hath still Wheels sped of rage and roaring will, Like cataracts to break down and kill, Well for the old man then-- "While there is one tall shrine to shake, Or one live man to rend; For the wrath of the gods behind the gods Who are weary to make an end. "There lives one moment for a man When the door at his shoulder shakes, When the taut rope parts under the pull, And the barest branch is beautiful One moment, while it breaks. "So rides my soul upon the sea That drinks the howling ships, Though in black jest it bows and nods Under the moons with silver rods, I know it is roaring at the gods, Waiting the last eclipse. "And in the last eclipse the sea Shall stand up like a tower, Above all moons made dark and riven, Hold up its foaming head in heaven, And laugh, knowing its hour. "And the high ones in the happy town Propped of the planets seven, Shall know a new light in the mind, A noise about them and behind, Shall hear an awful voice, and find Foam in the courts of heaven. "And you that sit by the fire are young, And true love waits for you; But the king and I grow old, grow old, And hate alone is true." And Guthrum shook his head but smiled, For he was a mighty clerk, And had read lines in the Latin books When all the north was dark. He said, "I am older than you, Ogier; Not all things would I rend, For whether life be bad or good It is best to abide the end." He took the great harp wearily, Even Guthrum of the Danes, With wide eyes bright as the one long day On the long polar plains. For he sang of a wheel returning, And the mire trod back to mire, And how red hells and golden heavens Are castles in the fire. "It is good to sit where the good tales go, To sit as our fathers sat; But the hour shall come after his youth, When a man shall know not tales but truth, And his heart fail thereat. "When he shall read what is written So plain in clouds and clods, When he shall hunger without hope Even for evil gods. "For this is a heavy matter, And the truth is cold to tell; Do we not know, have we not heard, The soul is like a lost bird, The body a broken shell. "And a man hopes, being ignorant, Till in white woods apart He finds at last the lost bird dead: And a man may still lift up his head But never more his heart. "There comes no noise but weeping Out of the ancient sky, And a tear is in the tiniest flower Because the gods must die. "The little brooks are very sweet, Like a girl's ribbons curled, But the great sea is bitter That washes all the world. "Strong are the Roman roses, Or the free flowers of the heath, But every flower, like a flower of the sea, Smelleth with the salt of death. "And the heart of the locked battle Is the happiest place for men; When shrieking souls as shafts go by And many have died and all may die; Though this word be a mystery, Death is most distant then. "Death blazes bright above the cup, And clear above the crown; But in that dream of battle We seem to tread it down. "Wherefore I am a great king, And waste the world in vain, Because man hath not other power, Save that in dealing death for dower, He may forget it for an hour To remember it again." And slowly his hands and thoughtfully Fell from the lifted lyre, And the owls moaned from the mighty trees Till Alfred caught it to his knees And smote it as in ire. He heaved the head of the harp on high And swept the framework barred, And his stroke had all the rattle and spark Of horses flying hard. "When God put man in a garden He girt him with a sword, And sent him forth a free knight That might betray his lord; "He brake Him and betrayed Him, And fast and far he fell, Till you and I may stretch our necks And burn our beards in hell. "But though I lie on the floor of the world, With the seven sins for rods, I would rather fall with Adam Than rise with all your gods. "What have the strong gods given? Where have the glad gods led? When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne And asks if he is dead? "Sirs, I am but a nameless man, A rhymester without home, Yet since I come of the Wessex clay And carry the cross of Rome, "I will even answer the mighty earl That asked of Wessex men Why they be meek and monkish folk, And bow to the White Lord's broken yoke; What sign have we save blood and smoke? Here is my answer then. "That on you is fallen the shadow, And not upon the Name; That though we scatter and though we fly, And you hang over us like the sky, You are more tired of victory, Than we are tired of shame. "That though you hunt the Christian man Like a hare on the hill-side, The hare has still more heart to run Than you have heart to ride. "That though all lances split on you, All swords be heaved in vain, We have more lust again to lose Than you to win again. "Your lord sits high in the saddle, A broken-hearted king, But our king Alfred, lost from fame, Fallen among foes or bonds of shame, In I know not what mean trade or name, Has still some song to sing; "Our monks go robed in rain and snow, But the heart of flame therein, But you go clothed in feasts and flames, When all is ice within; "Nor shall all iron dooms make dumb Men wondering ceaselessly, If it be not better to fast for joy Than feast for misery. "Nor monkish order only Slides down, as field to fen, All things achieved and chosen pass, As the White Horse fades in the grass, No work of Christian men. "Ere the sad gods that made your gods Saw their sad sunrise pass, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale, That you have left to darken and fail, Was cut out of the grass. "Therefore your end is on you, Is on you and your kings, Not for a fire in Ely fen, Not that your gods are nine or ten, But because it is only Christian men Guard even heathen things. "For our God hath blessed creation, Calling it good. I know What spirit with whom you blindly band Hath blessed destruction with his hand; Yet by God's death the stars shall stand And the small apples grow." And the King, with harp on shoulder, Stood up and ceased his song; And the owls moaned from the mighty trees, And the Danes laughed loud and long. BOOK IV. THE WOMAN IN THE FOREST Thick thunder of the snorting swine, Enormous in the gloam, Rending among all roots that cling, And the wild horses whinnying, Were the night's noises when the King Shouldering his harp, went home. With eyes of owl and feet of fox, Full of all thoughts he went; He marked the tilt of the pagan camp, The paling of pine, the sentries' tramp, And the one great stolen altar-lamp Over Guthrum in his tent. By scrub and thorn in Ethandune That night the foe had lain; Whence ran across the heather grey The old stones of a Roman way; And in a wood not far away The pale road split in twain. He marked the wood and the cloven ways With an old captain's eyes, And he thought how many a time had he Sought to see Doom he could not see; How ruin had come and victory, And both were a surprise. Even so he had watched and wondered Under Ashdown from the plains; With Ethelred praying in his tent, Till the white hawthorn swung and bent, As Alfred rushed his spears and rent The shield-wall of the Danes. Even so he had watched and wondered, Knowing neither less nor more, Till all his lords lay dying, And axes on axes plying, Flung him, and drove him flying Like a pirate to the shore. Wise he had been before defeat, And wise before success; Wise in both hours and ignorant, Knowing neither more nor less. As he went down to the river-hut He knew a night-shade scent, Owls did as evil cherubs rise, With little wings and lantern eyes, As though he sank through the under-skies; But down and down he went. As he went down to the river-hut He went as one that fell; Seeing the high forest domes and spars. Dim green or torn with golden scars, As the proud look up at the evil stars, In the red heavens of hell. For he must meet by the river-hut Them he had bidden to arm, Mark from the towers of Italy, And Colan of the Sacred Tree, And Eldred who beside the sea Held heavily his farm. The roof leaned gaping to the grass, As a monstrous mushroom lies; Echoing and empty seemed the place; But opened in a little space A great grey woman with scarred face And strong and humbled eyes. King Alfred was but a meagre man, Bright eyed, but lean and pale: And swordless, with his harp and rags, He seemed a beggar, such as lags Looking for crusts and ale. And the woman, with a woman's eyes Of pity at once and ire, Said, when that she had glared a span, "There is a cake for any man If he will watch the fire." And Alfred, bowing heavily, Sat down the fire to stir, And even as the woman pitied him So did he pity her. Saying, "O great heart in the night, O best cast forth for worst, Twilight shall melt and morning stir, And no kind thing shall come to her, Till God shall turn the world over And all the last are first. "And well may God with the serving-folk Cast in His dreadful lot; Is not He too a servant, And is not He forgot? "For was not God my gardener And silent like a slave; That opened oaks on the uplands Or thicket in graveyard gave? "And was not God my armourer, All patient and unpaid, That sealed my skull as a helmet, And ribs for hauberk made? "Did not a great grey servant Of all my sires and me, Build this pavilion of the pines, And herd the fowls and fill the vines, And labour and pass and leave no signs Save mercy and mystery? "For God is a great servant, And rose before the day, From some primordial slumber torn; But all we living later born Sleep on, and rise after the morn, And the Lord has gone away. "On things half sprung from sleeping, All sleepy suns have shone, They stretch stiff arms, the yawning trees, The beasts blink upon hands and knees, Man is awake and does and sees-- But Heaven has done and gone. "For who shall guess the good riddle Or speak of the Holiest, Save in faint figures and failing words, Who loves, yet laughs among the swords, Labours, and is at rest? "But some see God like Guthrum, Crowned, with a great beard curled, But I see God like a good giant, That, labouring, lifts the world. "Wherefore was God in Golgotha, Slain as a serf is slain; And hate He had of prince and peer, And love He had and made good cheer, Of them that, like this woman here, Go powerfully in pain. "But in this grey morn of man's life, Cometh sometime to the mind A little light that leaps and flies, Like a star blown on the wind. "A star of nowhere, a nameless star, A light that spins and swirls, And cries that even in hedge and hill, Even on earth, it may go ill At last with the evil earls. "A dancing sparkle, a doubtful star, On the waste wind whirled and driven; But it seems to sing of a wilder worth, A time discrowned of doom and birth, And the kingdom of the poor on earth Come, as it is in heaven. "But even though such days endure, How shall it profit her? Who shall go groaning to the grave, With many a meek and mighty slave, Field-breaker and fisher on the wave, And woodman and waggoner. "Bake ye the big world all again A cake with kinder leaven; Yet these are sorry evermore-- Unless there be a little door, A little door in heaven." And as he wept for the woman He let her business be, And like his royal oath and rash The good food fell upon the ash And blackened instantly. Screaming, the woman caught a cake Yet burning from the bar, And struck him suddenly on the face, Leaving a scarlet scar. King Alfred stood up wordless, A man dead with surprise, And torture stood and the evil things That are in the childish hearts of kings An instant in his eyes. And even as he stood and stared Drew round him in the dusk Those friends creeping from far-off farms, Marcus with all his slaves in arms, And the strange spears hung with ancient charms Of Colan of the Usk. With one whole farm marching afoot The trampled road resounds, Farm-hands and farm-beasts blundering by And jars of mead and stores of rye, Where Eldred strode above his high And thunder-throated hounds. And grey cattle and silver lowed Against the unlifted morn, And straw clung to the spear-shafts tall. And a boy went before them all Blowing a ram's horn. As mocking such rude revelry, The dim clan of the Gael Came like a bad king's burial-end, With dismal robes that drop and rend And demon pipes that wail-- In long, outlandish garments, Torn, though of antique worth, With Druid beards and Druid spears, As a resurrected race appears Out of an elder earth. And though the King had called them forth And knew them for his own, So still each eye stood like a gem, So spectral hung each broidered hem, Grey carven men he fancied them, Hewn in an age of stone. And the two wild peoples of the north Stood fronting in the gloam, And heard and knew each in its mind The third great thunder on the wind, The living walls that hedge mankind, The walking walls of Rome. Mark's were the mixed tribes of the west, Of many a hue and strain, Gurth, with rank hair like yellow grass, And the Cornish fisher, Gorlias, And Halmer, come from his first mass, Lately baptized, a Dane. But like one man in armour Those hundreds trod the field, From red Arabia to the Tyne The earth had heard that marching-line, Since the cry on the hill Capitoline, And the fall of the golden shield. And the earth shook and the King stood still Under the greenwood bough, And the smoking cake lay at his feet And the blow was on his brow. Then Alfred laughed out suddenly, Like thunder in the spring, Till shook aloud the lintel-beams, And the squirrels stirred in dusty dreams, And the startled birds went up in streams, For the laughter of the King. And the beasts of the earth and the birds looked down, In a wild solemnity, On a stranger sight than a sylph or elf, On one man laughing at himself Under the greenwood tree-- The giant laughter of Christian men That roars through a thousand tales, Where greed is an ape and pride is an ass, And Jack's away with his master's lass, And the miser is banged with all his brass, The farmer with all his flails; Tales that tumble and tales that trick, Yet end not all in scorning-- Of kings and clowns in a merry plight, And the clock gone wrong and the world gone right, That the mummers sing upon Christmas night And Christmas Day in the morning. "Now here is a good warrant," Cried Alfred, "by my sword; For he that is struck for an ill servant Should be a kind lord. "He that has been a servant Knows more than priests and kings, But he that has been an ill servant, He knows all earthly things. "Pride flings frail palaces at the sky, As a man flings up sand, But the firm feet of humility Take hold of heavy land. "Pride juggles with her toppling towers, They strike the sun and cease, But the firm feet of humility They grip the ground like trees. "He that hath failed in a little thing Hath a sign upon the brow; And the Earls of the Great Army Have no such seal to show. "The red print on my forehead, Small flame for a red star, In the van of the violent marching, then When the sky is torn of the trumpets ten, And the hands of the happy howling men Fling wide the gates of war. "This blow that I return not Ten times will I return On kings and earls of all degree, And armies wide as empires be Shall slide like landslips to the sea If the red star burn. "One man shall drive a hundred, As the dead kings drave; Before me rocking hosts be riven, And battering cohorts backwards driven, For I am the first king known of Heaven That has been struck like a slave. "Up on the old white road, brothers, Up on the Roman walls! For this is the night of the drawing of swords, And the tainted tower of the heathen hordes Leans to our hammers, fires and cords, Leans a little and falls. "Follow the star that lives and leaps, Follow the sword that sings, For we go gathering heathen men, A terrible harvest, ten by ten, As the wrath of the last red autumn--then When Christ reaps down the kings. "Follow a light that leaps and spins, Follow the fire unfurled! For riseth up against realm and rod, A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod, The last lost giant, even God, Is risen against the world." Roaring they went o'er the Roman wall, And roaring up the lane, Their torches tossed a ladder of fire, Higher their hymn was heard and higher, More sweet for hate and for heart's desire, And up in the northern scrub and brier, They fell upon the Dane. BOOK V. ETHANDUNE: THE FIRST STROKE King Guthrum was a dread king, Like death out of the north; Shrines without name or number He rent and rolled as lumber, From Chester to the Humber He drove his foemen forth. The Roman villas heard him In the valley of the Thames, Come over the hills roaring Above their roofs, and pouring On spire and stair and flooring Brimstone and pitch and flames. Sheer o'er the great chalk uplands And the hill of the Horse went he, Till high on Hampshire beacons He saw the southern sea. High on the heights of Wessex He saw the southern brine, And turned him to a conquered land, And where the northern thornwoods stand, And the road parts on either hand, There came to him a sign. King Guthrum was a war-chief, A wise man in the field, And though he prospered well, and knew How Alfred's folk were sad and few, Not less with weighty care he drew Long lines for pike and shield. King Guthrum lay on the upper land, On a single road at gaze, And his foe must come with lean array, Up the left arm of the cloven way, To the meeting of the ways. And long ere the noise of armour, An hour ere the break of light, The woods awoke with crash and cry, And the birds sprang clamouring harsh and high, And the rabbits ran like an elves' army Ere Alfred came in sight. The live wood came at Guthrum, On foot and claw and wing, The nests were noisy overhead, For Alfred and the star of red, All life went forth, and the forest fled Before the face of the King. But halted in the woodways Christ's few were grim and grey, And each with a small, far, bird-like sight Saw the high folly of the fight; And though strange joys had grown in the night, Despair grew with the day. And when white dawn crawled through the wood, Like cold foam of a flood, Then weakened every warrior's mood, In hope, though not in hardihood; And each man sorrowed as he stood In the fashion of his blood. For the Saxon Franklin sorrowed For the things that had been fair; For the dear dead woman, crimson-clad, And the great feasts and the friends he had; But the Celtic prince's soul was sad For the things that never were. In the eyes Italian all things But a black laughter died; And Alfred flung his shield to earth And smote his breast and cried-- "I wronged a man to his slaying, And a woman to her shame, And once I looked on a sworn maid That was wed to the Holy Name. "And once I took my neighbour's wife, That was bound to an eastland man, In the starkness of my evil youth, Before my griefs began. "People, if you have any prayers, Say prayers for me: And lay me under a Christian stone In that lost land I thought my own, To wait till the holy horn is blown, And all poor men are free." Then Eldred of the idle farm Leaned on his ancient sword, As fell his heavy words and few; And his eyes were of such alien blue As gleams where the Northman saileth new Into an unknown fiord. "I was a fool and wasted ale-- My slaves found it sweet; I was a fool and wasted bread, And the birds had bread to eat. "The kings go up and the kings go down, And who knows who shall rule; Next night a king may starve or sleep, But men and birds and beasts shall weep At the burial of a fool. "O, drunkards in my cellar, Boys in my apple tree, The world grows stern and strange and new, And wise men shall govern you, And you shall weep for me. "But yoke me my own oxen, Down to my own farm; My own dog will whine for me, My own friends will bend the knee, And the foes I slew openly Have never wished me harm." And all were moved a little, But Colan stood apart, Having first pity, and after Hearing, like rat in rafter, That little worm of laughter That eats the Irish heart. And his grey-green eyes were cruel, And the smile of his mouth waxed hard, And he said, "And when did Britain Become your burying-yard? "Before the Romans lit the land, When schools and monks were none, We reared such stones to the sun-god As might put out the sun. "The tall trees of Britain We worshipped and were wise, But you shall raid the whole land through And never a tree shall talk to you, Though every leaf is a tongue taught true And the forest is full of eyes. "On one round hill to the seaward The trees grow tall and grey And the trees talk together When all men are away. "O'er a few round hills forgotten The trees grow tall in rings, And the trees talk together Of many pagan things. "Yet I could lie and listen With a cross upon my clay, And hear unhurt for ever What the trees of Britain say." A proud man was the Roman, His speech a single one, But his eyes were like an eagle's eyes That is staring at the sun. "Dig for me where I die," he said, "If first or last I fall-- Dead on the fell at the first charge, Or dead by Wantage wall; "Lift not my head from bloody ground, Bear not my body home, For all the earth is Roman earth And I shall die in Rome." Then Alfred, King of England, Bade blow the horns of war, And fling the Golden Dragon out, With crackle and acclaim and shout, Scrolled and aflame and far. And under the Golden Dragon Went Wessex all along, Past the sharp point of the cloven ways, Out from the black wood into the blaze Of sun and steel and song. And when they came to the open land They wheeled, deployed and stood; Midmost were Marcus and the King, And Eldred on the right-hand wing, And leftwards Colan darkling, In the last shade of the wood. But the Earls of the Great Army Lay like a long half moon, Ten poles before their palisades, With wide-winged helms and runic blades Red giants of an age of raids, In the thornland of Ethandune. Midmost the saddles rose and swayed, And a stir of horses' manes, Where Guthrum and a few rode high On horses seized in victory; But Ogier went on foot to die, In the old way of the Danes. Far to the King's left Elf the bard Led on the eastern wing With songs and spells that change the blood; And on the King's right Harold stood, The kinsman of the King. Young Harold, coarse, with colours gay, Smoking with oil and musk, And the pleasant violence of the young, Pushed through his people, giving tongue Foewards, where, grey as cobwebs hung, The banners of the Usk. But as he came before his line A little space along, His beardless face broke into mirth, And he cried: "What broken bits of earth Are here? For what their clothes are worth I would sell them for a song." For Colan was hung with raiment Tattered like autumn leaves, And his men were all as thin as saints, And all as poor as thieves. No bows nor slings nor bolts they bore, But bills and pikes ill-made; And none but Colan bore a sword, And rusty was its blade. And Colan's eyes with mystery And iron laughter stirred, And he spoke aloud, but lightly Not labouring to be heard. "Oh, truly we be broken hearts, For that cause, it is said, We light our candles to that Lord That broke Himself for bread. "But though we hold but bitterly What land the Saxon leaves, Though Ireland be but a land of saints, And Wales a land of thieves, "I say you yet shall weary Of the working of your word, That stricken spirits never strike Nor lean hands hold a sword. "And if ever ye ride in Ireland, The jest may yet be said, There is the land of broken hearts, And the land of broken heads." Not less barbarian laughter Choked Harold like a flood, "And shall I fight with scarecrows That am of Guthrum's blood? "Meeting may be of war-men, Where the best war-man wins; But all this carrion a man shoots Before the fight begins." And stopping in his onward strides, He snatched a bow in scorn From some mean slave, and bent it on Colan, whose doom grew dark; and shone Stars evil over Caerleon, In the place where he was born. For Colan had not bow nor sling, On a lonely sword leaned he, Like Arthur on Excalibur In the battle by the sea. To his great gold ear-ring Harold Tugged back the feathered tail, And swift had sprung the arrow, But swifter sprang the Gael. Whirling the one sword round his head, A great wheel in the sun, He sent it splendid through the sky, Flying before the shaft could fly-- It smote Earl Harold over the eye, And blood began to run. Colan stood bare and weaponless, Earl Harold, as in pain, Strove for a smile, put hand to head, Stumbled and suddenly fell dead; And the small white daisies all waxed red With blood out of his brain. And all at that marvel of the sword, Cast like a stone to slay, Cried out. Said Alfred: "Who would see Signs, must give all things. Verily Man shall not taste of victory Till he throws his sword away." Then Alfred, prince of England, And all the Christian earls, Unhooked their swords and held them up, Each offered to Colan, like a cup Of chrysolite and pearls. And the King said, "Do thou take my sword Who have done this deed of fire, For this is the manner of Christian men, Whether of steel or priestly pen, That they cast their hearts out of their ken To get their heart's desire. "And whether ye swear a hive of monks, Or one fair wife to friend, This is the manner of Christian men, That their oath endures the end. "For love, our Lord, at the end of the world, Sits a red horse like a throne, With a brazen helm and an iron bow, But one arrow alone. "Love with the shield of the Broken Heart Ever his bow doth bend, With a single shaft for a single prize, And the ultimate bolt that parts and flies Comes with a thunder of split skies, And a sound of souls that rend. "So shall you earn a king's sword, Who cast your sword away." And the King took, with a random eye, A rude axe from a hind hard by And turned him to the fray. For the swords of the Earls of Daneland Flamed round the fallen lord. The first blood woke the trumpet-tune, As in monk's rhyme or wizard's rune, Beginneth the battle of Ethandune With the throwing of the sword. BOOK VI. ETHANDUNE: THE SLAYING OF THE CHIEFS As the sea flooding the flat sands Flew on the sea-born horde, The two hosts shocked with dust and din, Left of the Latian paladin, Clanged all Prince Harold's howling kin On Colan and the sword. Crashed in the midst on Marcus, Ogier with Guthrum by, And eastward of such central stir, Far to the right and faintlier, The house of Elf the harp-player, Struck Eldred's with a cry. The centre swat for weariness, Stemming the screaming horde, And wearily went Colan's hands That swung King Alfred's sword. But like a cloud of morning To eastward easily, Tall Eldred broke the sea of spears As a tall ship breaks the sea. His face like a sanguine sunset, His shoulder a Wessex down, His hand like a windy hammer-stroke; Men could not count the crests he broke, So fast the crests went down. As the tall white devil of the Plague Moves out of Asian skies, With his foot on a waste of cities And his head in a cloud of flies; Or purple and peacock skies grow dark With a moving locust-tower; Or tawny sand-winds tall and dry, Like hell's red banners beat and fly, When death comes out of Araby, Was Eldred in his hour. But while he moved like a massacre He murmured as in sleep, And his words were all of low hedges And little fields and sheep. Even as he strode like a pestilence, That strides from Rhine to Rome, He thought how tall his beans might be If ever he went home. Spoke some stiff piece of childish prayer, Dull as the distant chimes, That thanked our God for good eating And corn and quiet times-- Till on the helm of a high chief Fell shatteringly his brand, And the helm broke and the bone broke And the sword broke in his hand. Then from the yelling Northmen Driven splintering on him ran Full seven spears, and the seventh Was never made by man. Seven spears, and the seventh Was wrought as the faerie blades, And given to Elf the minstrel By the monstrous water-maids; By them that dwell where luridly Lost waters of the Rhine Move among roots of nations, Being sunken for a sign. Under all graves they murmur, They murmur and rebel, Down to the buried kingdoms creep, And like a lost rain roar and weep O'er the red heavens of hell. Thrice drowned was Elf the minstrel, And washed as dead on sand; And the third time men found him The spear was in his hand. Seven spears went about Eldred, Like stays about a mast; But there was sorrow by the sea For the driving of the last. Six spears thrust upon Eldred Were splintered while he laughed; One spear thrust into Eldred, Three feet of blade and shaft. And from the great heart grievously Came forth the shaft and blade, And he stood with the face of a dead man, Stood a little, and swayed-- Then fell, as falls a battle-tower, On smashed and struggling spears. Cast down from some unconquered town That, rushing earthward, carries down Loads of live men of all renown-- Archers and engineers. And a great clamour of Christian men Went up in agony, Crying, "Fallen is the tower of Wessex That stood beside the sea." Centre and right the Wessex guard Grew pale for doubt and fear, And the flank failed at the advance, For the death-light on the wizard lance-- The star of the evil spear. "Stand like an oak," cried Marcus, "Stand like a Roman wall! Eldred the Good is fallen-- Are you too good to fall? "When we were wan and bloodless He gave you ale enow; The pirates deal with him as dung, God! are you bloodless now?" "Grip, Wulf and Gorlias, grip the ash! Slaves, and I make you free! Stamp, Hildred hard in English land, Stand Gurth, stand Gorlias, Gawen stand! Hold, Halfgar, with the other hand, Halmer, hold up on knee! "The lamps are dying in your homes, The fruits upon your bough; Even now your old thatch smoulders, Gurth, Now is the judgment of the earth, Now is the death-grip, now!" For thunder of the captain, Not less the Wessex line, Leaned back and reeled a space to rear As Elf charged with the Rhine maids' spear, And roaring like the Rhine. For the men were borne by the waving walls Of woods and clouds that pass, By dizzy plains and drifting sea, And they mixed God with glamoury, God with the gods of the burning tree And the wizard's tower and glass. But Mark was come of the glittering towns Where hot white details show, Where men can number and expound, And his faith grew in a hard ground Of doubt and reason and falsehood found, Where no faith else could grow. Belief that grew of all beliefs One moment back was blown And belief that stood on unbelief Stood up iron and alone. The Wessex crescent backwards Crushed, as with bloody spear Went Elf roaring and routing, And Mark against Elf yet shouting, Shocked, in his mid-career. Right on the Roman shield and sword Did spear of the Rhine maids run; But the shield shifted never, The sword rang down to sever, The great Rhine sang for ever, And the songs of Elf were done. And a great thunder of Christian men Went up against the sky, Saying, "God hath broken the evil spear Ere the good man's blood was dry." "Spears at the charge!" yelled Mark amain. "Death on the gods of death! Over the thrones of doom and blood Goeth God that is a craftsman good, And gold and iron, earth and wood, Loveth and laboureth. "The fruits leap up in all your farms, The lamps in each abode; God of all good things done on earth, All wheels or webs of any worth, The God that makes the roof, Gurth, The God that makes the road. "The God that heweth kings in oak Writeth songs on vellum, God of gold and flaming glass, Confregit potentias Acrcuum, scutum, Gorlias, Gladium et bellum." Steel and lightning broke about him, Battle-bays and palm, All the sea-kings swayed among Woods of the Wessex arms upflung, The trumpet of the Roman tongue, The thunder of the psalm. And midmost of that rolling field Ran Ogier ragingly, Lashing at Mark, who turned his blow, And brake the helm about his brow, And broke him to his knee. Then Ogier heaved over his head His huge round shield of proof; But Mark set one foot on the shield, One on some sundered rock upheeled, And towered above the tossing field, A statue on a roof. Dealing far blows about the fight, Like thunder-bolts a-roam, Like birds about the battle-field, While Ogier writhed under his shield Like a tortoise in his dome. But hate in the buried Ogier Was strong as pain in hell, With bare brute hand from the inside He burst the shield of brass and hide, And a death-stroke to the Roman's side Sent suddenly and well. Then the great statue on the shield Looked his last look around With level and imperial eye; And Mark, the man from Italy, Fell in the sea of agony, And died without a sound. And Ogier, leaping up alive, Hurled his huge shield away Flying, as when a juggler flings A whizzing plate in play. And held two arms up rigidly, And roared to all the Danes: "Fallen is Rome, yea, fallen The city of the plains! "Shall no man born remember, That breaketh wood or weald, How long she stood on the roof of the world As he stood on my shield. "The new wild world forgetteth her As foam fades on the sea, How long she stood with her foot on Man As he with his foot on me. "No more shall the brown men of the south Move like the ants in lines, To quiet men with olives Or madden men with vines. "No more shall the white towns of the south, Where Tiber and Nilus run, Sitting around a secret sea Worship a secret sun. "The blind gods roar for Rome fallen, And forum and garland gone, For the ice of the north is broken, And the sea of the north comes on. "The blind gods roar and rave and dream Of all cities under the sea, For the heart of the north is broken, And the blood of the north is free. "Down from the dome of the world we come, Rivers on rivers down, Under us swirl the sects and hordes And the high dooms we drown. "Down from the dome of the world and down, Struck flying as a skiff On a river in spate is spun and swirled Until we come to the end of the world That breaks short, like a cliff. "And when we come to the end of the world For me, I count it fit To take the leap like a good river, Shot shrieking over it. "But whatso hap at the end of the world, Where Nothing is struck and sounds, It is not, by Thor, these monkish men These humbled Wessex hounds-- "Not this pale line of Christian hinds, This one white string of men, Shall keep us back from the end of the world, And the things that happen then. "It is not Alfred's dwarfish sword, Nor Egbert's pigmy crown, Shall stay us now that descend in thunder, Rending the realms and the realms thereunder, Down through the world and down." There was that in the wild men back of him, There was that in his own wild song, A dizzy throbbing, a drunkard smoke, That dazed to death all Wessex folk, And swept their spears along. Vainly the sword of Colan And the axe of Alfred plied-- The Danes poured in like a brainless plague, And knew not when they died. Prince Colan slew a score of them, And was stricken to his knee; King Alfred slew a score and seven And was borne back on a tree. Back to the black gate of the woods, Back up the single way, Back by the place of the parting ways Christ's knights were whirled away. And when they came to the parting ways Doom's heaviest hammer fell, For the King was beaten, blind, at bay, Down the right lane with his array, But Colan swept the other way, Where he smote great strokes and fell. The thorn-woods over Ethandune Stand sharp and thick as spears, By night and furze and forest-harms Far sundered were the friends in arms; The loud lost blows, the last alarms, Came not to Alfred's ears. The thorn-woods over Ethandune Stand stiff as spikes in mail; As to the Haut King came at morn Dead Roland on a doubtful horn, Seemed unto Alfred lightly borne The last cry of the Gael. BOOK VII. ETHANDUNE: THE LAST CHARGE Away in the waste of White Horse Down An idle child alone Played some small game through hours that pass, And patiently would pluck the grass, Patiently push the stone. On the lean, green edge for ever, Where the blank chalk touched the turf, The child played on, alone, divine, As a child plays on the last line That sunders sand and surf. For he dwelleth in high divisions Too simple to understand, Seeing on what morn of mystery The Uncreated rent the sea With roarings, from the land. Through the long infant hours like days He built one tower in vain-- Piled up small stones to make a town, And evermore the stones fell down, And he piled them up again. And crimson kings on battle-towers, And saints on Gothic spires, And hermits on their peaks of snow, And heroes on their pyres, And patriots riding royally, That rush the rocking town, Stretch hands, and hunger and aspire, Seeking to mount where high and higher, The child whom Time can never tire, Sings over White Horse Down. And this was the might of Alfred, At the ending of the way; That of such smiters, wise or wild, He was least distant from the child, Piling the stones all day. For Eldred fought like a frank hunter That killeth and goeth home; And Mark had fought because all arms Rang like the name of Rome. And Colan fought with a double mind, Moody and madly gay; But Alfred fought as gravely As a good child at play. He saw wheels break and work run back And all things as they were; And his heart was orbed like victory And simple like despair. Therefore is Mark forgotten, That was wise with his tongue and brave; And the cairn over Colan crumbled, And the cross on Eldred's grave. Their great souls went on a wind away, And they have not tale or tomb; And Alfred born in Wantage Rules England till the doom. Because in the forest of all fears Like a strange fresh gust from sea, Struck him that ancient innocence That is more than mastery. And as a child whose bricks fall down Re-piles them o'er and o'er, Came ruin and the rain that burns, Returning as a wheel returns, And crouching in the furze and ferns He began his life once more. He took his ivory horn unslung And smiled, but not in scorn: "Endeth the Battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn." On a dark horse at the double way He saw great Guthrum ride, Heard roar of brass and ring of steel, The laughter and the trumpet peal, The pagan in his pride. And Ogier's red and hated head Moved in some talk or task; But the men seemed scattered in the brier, And some of them had lit a fire, And one had broached a cask. And waggons one or two stood up, Like tall ships in sight, As if an outpost were encamped At the cloven ways for night. And joyous of the sudden stay Of Alfred's routed few, Sat one upon a stone to sigh, And some slipped up the road to fly, Till Alfred in the fern hard by Set horn to mouth and blew. And they all abode like statues-- One sitting on the stone, One half-way through the thorn hedge tall, One with a leg across a wall, And one looked backwards, very small, Far up the road, alone. Grey twilight and a yellow star Hung over thorn and hill; Two spears and a cloven war-shield lay Loose on the road as cast away, The horn died faint in the forest grey, And the fleeing men stood still. "Brothers at arms," said Alfred, "On this side lies the foe; Are slavery and starvation flowers, That you should pluck them so? "For whether is it better To be prodded with Danish poles, Having hewn a chamber in a ditch, And hounded like a howling witch, Or smoked to death in holes? "Or that before the red cock crow All we, a thousand strong, Go down the dark road to God's house, Singing a Wessex song? "To sweat a slave to a race of slaves, To drink up infamy? No, brothers, by your leave, I think Death is a better ale to drink, And by all the stars of Christ that sink, The Danes shall drink with me. "To grow old cowed in a conquered land, With the sun itself discrowned, To see trees crouch and cattle slink-- Death is a better ale to drink, And by high Death on the fell brink That flagon shall go round. "Though dead are all the paladins Whom glory had in ken, Though all your thunder-sworded thanes With proud hearts died among the Danes, While a man remains, great war remains: Now is a war of men. "The men that tear the furrows, The men that fell the trees, When all their lords be lost and dead The bondsmen of the earth shall tread The tyrants of the seas. "The wheel of the roaring stillness Of all labours under the sun, Speed the wild work as well at least As the whole world's work is done. "Let Hildred hack the shield-wall Clean as he hacks the hedge; Let Gurth the fowler stand as cool As he stands on the chasm's edge; "Let Gorlias ride the sea-kings As Gorlias rides the sea, Then let all hell and Denmark drive, Yelling to all its fiends alive, And not a rag care we." When Alfred's word was ended Stood firm that feeble line, Each in his place with club or spear, And fury deeper than deep fear, And smiles as sour as brine. And the King held up the horn and said, "See ye my father's horn, That Egbert blew in his empery, Once, when he rode out commonly, Twice when he rode for venery, And thrice on the battle-morn. "But heavier fates have fallen The horn of the Wessex kings, And I blew once, the riding sign, To call you to the fighting line And glory and all good things. "And now two blasts, the hunting sign, Because we turn to bay; But I will not blow the three blasts, Till we be lost or they. "And now I blow the hunting sign, Charge some by rule and rod; But when I blow the battle sign, Charge all and go to God." Wild stared the Danes at the double ways Where they loitered, all at large, As that dark line for the last time Doubled the knee to charge-- And caught their weapons clumsily, And marvelled how and why-- In such degree, by rule and rod, The people of the peace of God Went roaring down to die. And when the last arrow Was fitted and was flown, When the broken shield hung on the breast, And the hopeless lance was laid in rest, And the hopeless horn blown, The King looked up, and what he saw Was a great light like death, For Our Lady stood on the standards rent, As lonely and as innocent As when between white walls she went And the lilies of Nazareth. One instant in a still light He saw Our Lady then, Her dress was soft as western sky, And she was a queen most womanly-- But she was a queen of men. Over the iron forest He saw Our Lady stand, Her eyes were sad withouten art, And seven swords were in her heart-- But one was in her hand. Then the last charge went blindly, And all too lost for fear: The Danes closed round, a roaring ring, And twenty clubs rose o'er the King, Four Danes hewed at him, halloing, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling Drove at him with a spear. But the Danes were wild with laughter, And the great spear swung wide, The point stuck to a straggling tree, And either host cried suddenly, As Alfred leapt aside. Short time had shaggy Ogier To pull his lance in line-- He knew King Alfred's axe on high, He heard it rushing through the sky, He cowered beneath it with a cry-- It split him to the spine: And Alfred sprang over him dead, And blew the battle sign. Then bursting all and blasting Came Christendom like death, Kicked of such catapults of will, The staves shiver, the barrels spill, The waggons waver and crash and kill The waggoners beneath. Barriers go backwards, banners rend, Great shields groan like a gong-- Horses like horns of nightmare Neigh horribly and long. Horses ramp high and rock and boil And break their golden reins, And slide on carnage clamorously, Down where the bitter blood doth lie, Where Ogier went on foot to die, In the old way of the Danes. "The high tide!" King Alfred cried. "The high tide and the turn! As a tide turns on the tall grey seas, See how they waver in the trees, How stray their spears, how knock their knees, How wild their watchfires burn! "The Mother of God goes over them, Walking on wind and flame, And the storm-cloud drifts from city and dale, And the White Horse stamps in the White Horse Vale, And we all shall yet drink Christian ale In the village of our name. "The Mother of God goes over them, On dreadful cherubs borne; And the psalm is roaring above the rune, And the Cross goes over the sun and moon, Endeth the battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn." For back indeed disorderly The Danes went clamouring, Too worn to take anew the tale, Or dazed with insolence and ale, Or stunned of heaven, or stricken pale Before the face of the King. For dire was Alfred in his hour The pale scribe witnesseth, More mighty in defeat was he Than all men else in victory, And behind, his men came murderously, Dry-throated, drinking death. And Edgar of the Golden Ship He slew with his own hand, Took Ludwig from his lady's bower, And smote down Harmar in his hour, And vain and lonely stood the tower-- The tower in Guelderland. And Torr out of his tiny boat, Whose eyes beheld the Nile, Wulf with his war-cry on his lips, And Harco born in the eclipse, Who blocked the Seine with battleships Round Paris on the Isle. And Hacon of the Harvest-Song, And Dirck from the Elbe he slew, And Cnut that melted Durham bell And Fulk and fiery Oscar fell, And Goderic and Sigael, And Uriel of the Yew. And highest sang the slaughter, And fastest fell the slain, When from the wood-road's blackening throat A crowning and crashing wonder smote The rear-guard of the Dane. For the dregs of Colan's company-- Lost down the other road-- Had gathered and grown and heard the din, And with wild yells came pouring in, Naked as their old British kin, And bright with blood for woad. And bare and bloody and aloft They bore before their band The body of the mighty lord, Colan of Caerleon and its horde, That bore King Alfred's battle-sword Broken in his left hand. And a strange music went with him, Loud and yet strangely far; The wild pipes of the western land, Too keen for the ear to understand, Sang high and deathly on each hand When the dead man went to war. Blocked between ghost and buccaneer, Brave men have dropped and died; And the wild sea-lords well might quail As the ghastly war-pipes of the Gael Called to the horns of White Horse Vale, And all the horns replied. And Hildred the poor hedger Cut down four captains dead, And Halmar laid three others low, And the great earls wavered to and fro For the living and the dead. And Gorlias grasped the great flag, The Raven of Odin, torn; And the eyes of Guthrum altered, For the first time since morn. As a turn of the wheel of tempest Tilts up the whole sky tall, And cliffs of wan cloud luminous Lean out like great walls over us, As if the heavens might fall. As such a tall and tilted sky Sends certain snow or light, So did the eyes of Guthrum change, And the turn was more certain and more strange Than a thousand men in flight. For not till the floor of the skies is split, And hell-fire shines through the sea, Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees, Cometh such rending of certainties, As when one wise man truly sees What is more wise than he. He set his horse in the battle-breech Even Guthrum of the Dane, And as ever had fallen fell his brand, A falling tower o'er many a land, But Gurth the fowler laid one hand Upon this bridle rein. King Guthrum was a great lord, And higher than his gods-- He put the popes to laughter, He chid the saints with rods, He took this hollow world of ours For a cup to hold his wine; In the parting of the woodways There came to him a sign. In Wessex in the forest, In the breaking of the spears, We set a sign on Guthrum To blaze a thousand years. Where the high saddles jostle And the horse-tails toss, There rose to the birds flying A roar of dead and dying; In deafness and strong crying We signed him with the cross. Far out to the winding river The blood ran down for days, When we put the cross on Guthrum In the parting of the ways. BOOK VIII. THE SCOURING OF THE HORSE In the years of the peace of Wessex, When the good King sat at home; Years following on that bloody boon When she that stands above the moon Stood above death at Ethandune And saw his kingdom come-- When the pagan people of the sea Fled to their palisades, Nailed there with javelins to cling And wonder smote the pirate king, And brought him to his christening And the end of all his raids. (For not till the night's blue slate is wiped Of its last star utterly, And fierce new signs writ there to read, Shall eyes with such amazement heed, As when a great man knows indeed A greater thing than he.) And there came to his chrism-loosing Lords of all lands afar, And a line was drawn north-westerly That set King Egbert's empire free, Giving all lands by the northern sea To the sons of the northern star. In the days of the rest of Alfred, When all these things were done, And Wessex lay in a patch of peace, Like a dog in a patch of sun-- The King sat in his orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom And the sunshine on his head. And he gathered the songs of simple men That swing with helm and hod, And the alms he gave as a Christian Like a river alive with fishes ran; And he made gifts to a beggar man As to a wandering god. And he gat good laws of the ancient kings, Like treasure out of the tombs; And many a thief in thorny nook, Or noble in sea-stained turret shook, For the opening of his iron book, And the gathering of the dooms. Then men would come from the ends of the earth, Whom the King sat welcoming, And men would go to the ends of the earth Because of the word of the King. For folk came in to Alfred's face Whose javelins had been hurled On monsters that make boil the sea, Crakens and coils of mystery. Or thrust in ancient snows that be The white hair of the world. And some had knocked at the northern gates Of the ultimate icy floor, Where the fish freeze and the foam turns black, And the wide world narrows to a track, And the other sea at the world's back Cries through a closed door. And men went forth from Alfred's face, Even great gift-bearing lords, Not to Rome only, but more bold, Out to the high hot courts of old, Of negroes clad in cloth of gold, Silence, and crooked swords, Scrawled screens and secret gardens And insect-laden skies-- Where fiery plains stretch on and on To the purple country of Prester John And the walls of Paradise. And he knew the might of the Terre Majeure, Where kings began to reign; Where in a night-rout, without name, Of gloomy Goths and Gauls there came White, above candles all aflame, Like a vision, Charlemagne. And men, seeing such embassies, Spake with the King and said: "The steel that sang so sweet a tune On Ashdown and on Ethandune, Why hangs it scabbarded so soon, All heavily like lead? "Why dwell the Danes in North England, And up to the river ride? Three more such marches like thine own Would end them; and the Pict should own Our sway; and our feet climb the throne In the mountains of Strathclyde." And Alfred in the orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom, Looked at green leaves and said: "When all philosophies shall fail, This word alone shall fit; That a sage feels too small for life, And a fool too large for it. "Asia and all imperial plains Are too little for a fool; But for one man whose eyes can see The little island of Athelney Is too large a land to rule. "Haply it had been better When I built my fortress there, Out in the reedy waters wide, I had stood on my mud wall and cried: 'Take England all, from tide to tide-- Be Athelney my share.' "Those madmen of the throne-scramble-- Oppressors and oppressed-- Had lined the banks by Athelney, And waved and wailed unceasingly, Where the river turned to the broad sea, By an island of the blest. "An island like a little book Full of a hundred tales, Like the gilt page the good monks pen, That is all smaller than a wren, Yet hath high towns, meteors, and men, And suns and spouting whales; "A land having a light on it In the river dark and fast, An isle with utter clearness lit, Because a saint had stood in it; Where flowers are flowers indeed and fit, And trees are trees at last. "So were the island of a saint; But I am a common king, And I will make my fences tough From Wantage Town to Plymouth Bluff, Because I am not wise enough To rule so small a thing." And it fell in the days of Alfred, In the days of his repose, That as old customs in his sight Were a straight road and a steady light, He bade them keep the White Horse white As the first plume of the snows. And right to the red torchlight, From the trouble of morning grey, They stripped the White Horse of the grass As they strip it to this day. And under the red torchlight He went dreaming as though dull, Of his old companions slain like kings, And the rich irrevocable things Of a heart that hath not openings, But is shut fast, being full. And the torchlight touched the pale hair Where silver clouded gold, And the frame of his face was made of cords, And a young lord turned among the lords And said: "The King is old." And even as he said it A post ran in amain, Crying: "Arm, Lord King, the hamlets arm, In the horror and the shade of harm, They have burnt Brand of Aynger's farm-- The Danes are come again! "Danes drive the white East Angles In six fights on the plains, Danes waste the world about the Thames, Danes to the eastward--Danes!" And as he stumbled on one knee, The thanes broke out in ire, Crying: "Ill the watchmen watch, and ill The sheriffs keep the shire." But the young earl said: "Ill the saints, The saints of England, guard The land wherein we pledge them gold; The dykes decay, the King grows old, And surely this is hard, "That we be never quit of them; That when his head is hoar He cannot say to them he smote, And spared with a hand hard at the throat, 'Go, and return no more.'" Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power. But he only pointed: bade them heed Those peasants of the Berkshire breed, Who plucked the old Horse of the weed As they pluck it to this hour. "Will ye part with the weeds for ever? Or show daisies to the door? Or will you bid the bold grass Go, and return no more? "So ceaseless and so secret Thrive terror and theft set free; Treason and shame shall come to pass While one weed flowers in a morass; And like the stillness of stiff grass The stillness of tyranny. "Over our white souls also Wild heresies and high Wave prouder than the plumes of grass, And sadder than their sigh. "And I go riding against the raid, And ye know not where I am; But ye shall know in a day or year, When one green star of grass grows here; Chaos has charged you, charger and spear, Battle-axe and battering-ram. "And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true: If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew. "One time I followed a dancing star That seemed to sing and nod, And ring upon earth all evil's knell; But now I wot if ye scour not well Red rust shall grow on God's great bell And grass in the streets of God." Ceased Alfred; and above his head The grand green domes, the Downs, Showed the first legions of the press, Marching in haste and bitterness For Christ's sake and the crown's. Beyond the cavern of Colan, Past Eldred's by the sea, Rose men that owned King Alfred's rod, From the windy wastes of Exe untrod, Or where the thorn of the grave of God Burns over Glastonbury. Far northward and far westward The distant tribes drew nigh, Plains beyond plains, fell beyond fell, That a man at sunset sees so well, And the tiny coloured towns that dwell In the corners of the sky. But dark and thick as thronged the host, With drum and torch and blade, The still-eyed King sat pondering, As one that watches a live thing, The scoured chalk; and he said, "Though I give this land to Our Lady, That helped me in Athelney, Though lordlier trees and lustier sod And happier hills hath no flesh trod Than the garden of the Mother of God Between Thames side and the sea, "I know that weeds shall grow in it Faster than men can burn; And though they scatter now and go, In some far century, sad and slow, I have a vision, and I know The heathen shall return. "They shall not come with warships, They shall not waste with brands, But books be all their eating, And ink be on their hands. "Not with the humour of hunters Or savage skill in war, But ordering all things with dead words, Strings shall they make of beasts and birds, And wheels of wind and star. "They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men. "The dear sun dwarfed of dreadful suns, Like fiercer flowers on stalk, Earth lost and little like a pea In high heaven's towering forestry, --These be the small weeds ye shall see Crawl, covering the chalk. "But though they bridge St. Mary's sea, Or steal St. Michael's wing-- Though they rear marvels over us, Greater than great Vergilius Wrought for the Roman king; "By this sign you shall know them, The breaking of the sword, And man no more a free knight, That loves or hates his lord. "Yea, this shall be the sign of them, The sign of the dying fire; And Man made like a half-wit, That knows not of his sire. "What though they come with scroll and pen, And grave as a shaven clerk, By this sign you shall know them, That they ruin and make dark; "By all men bond to Nothing, Being slaves without a lord, By one blind idiot world obeyed, Too blind to be abhorred; "By terror and the cruel tales Of curse in bone and kin, By weird and weakness winning, Accursed from the beginning, By detail of the sinning, And denial of the sin; "By thought a crawling ruin, By life a leaping mire, By a broken heart in the breast of the world, And the end of the world's desire; "By God and man dishonoured, By death and life made vain, Know ye the old barbarian, The barbarian come again-- "When is great talk of trend and tide, And wisdom and destiny, Hail that undying heathen That is sadder than the sea. "In what wise men shall smite him, Or the Cross stand up again, Or charity or chivalry, My vision saith not; and I see No more; but now ride doubtfully To the battle of the plain." And the grass-edge of the great down Was cut clean as a lawn, While the levies thronged from near and far, From the warm woods of the western star, And the King went out to his last war On a tall grey horse at dawn. And news of his far-off fighting Came slowly and brokenly From the land of the East Saxons, From the sunrise and the sea. From the plains of the white sunrise, And sad St. Edmund's crown, Where the pools of Essex pale and gleam Out beyond London Town-- In mighty and doubtful fragments, Like faint or fabled wars, Climbed the old hills of his renown, Where the bald brow of White Horse Down Is close to the cold stars. But away in the eastern places The wind of death walked high, And a raid was driven athwart the raid, The sky reddened and the smoke swayed, And the tall grey horse went by. The gates of the great river Were breached as with a barge, The walls sank crowded, say the scribes, And high towers populous with tribes Seemed leaning from the charge. Smoke like rebellious heavens rolled Curled over coloured flames, Mirrored in monstrous purple dreams In the mighty pools of Thames. Loud was the war on London wall, And loud in London gates, And loud the sea-kings in the cloud Broke through their dreaming gods, and loud Cried on their dreadful Fates. And all the while on White Horse Hill The horse lay long and wan, The turf crawled and the fungus crept, And the little sorrel, while all men slept, Unwrought the work of man. With velvet finger, velvet foot, The fierce soft mosses then Crept on the large white commonweal All folk had striven to strip and peel, And the grass, like a great green witch's wheel, Unwound the toils of men. And clover and silent thistle throve, And buds burst silently, With little care for the Thames Valley Or what things there might be-- That away on the widening river, In the eastern plains for crown Stood up in the pale purple sky One turret of smoke like ivory; And the smoke changed and the wind went by, And the King took London Town. 
42656	----	THE CROSS AND CROWN BY T. D. CURTIS. Evil is wrought From want of thought As well as want of heart.--[HOOD. SYRACUSE, N. Y. FARMER AND DAIRYMAN PRINT. 1886. COPYRIGHTED BY THE AUTHOR. 1886. PROLOGUE. I. He who offends the public will And thus excites the populace With a vindictive wish to kill And sink his name in deep disgrace, Is hung or burned in effigy; But none would think of worshiping The instrument of cruelty That should a friend's sad exit bring; Yet when the Christ was crucified, By order of the crazy throng, The bloody cross on which he died-- The tool of deep and ghastly wrong-- Derisively was raised on high, By the decree of hell's dark prince, And human souls, not thinking why, Hell's sign have worshiped ever since! Could more complete subversion be Of reason, taste and decency? II. Through all the past historic days, Tyrants have gloried in the crown; And base and bloody are the ways By which men have been trampled down. That royalty may thrive and tax The toilers for its vain support; Cities and towns it often sacks, And of men's birthrights makes a sport; Yet men submit to the command Of him who wears a crown, and join Oppression's hosts, on sea and land, As loyal subjects, or for coin; And so delusive is the glare Of crowns to the deluded slave That he lifts up an earnest prayer To wear a crown beyond the grave, And in imagination reigns O'er souls submissive to his chains! [Illustration] _The Cross and Crown._ THE CROSS. Emblem of Ignorance and Cruelty, Ensign of Superstition's brutal reign, Banner of Despotism's foul career, Signal of Reason laid upon its bier, Image of dark and gross Idolatry, Object of worship since the Christ was slain! The sign of the impostor and the fool, By which they conquer and command the throng, The cross is lifted upward everywhere Man will submissive bow and mutter prayer, The minion meek, or church's thoughtless tool, Or worse, the cunning priest who knows the wrong. When Satan tempted Christ upon the Mount, He said: "But worship me, the world is thine!" But Christ refused the service and reward, And said: "Get thee behind; worship thy Lord!" And thus called Satan to a quick account, For his attempt to humble the divine. Christ taught no worship and believed in none; His teaching was of equal Brotherhood; But, if there must be worship, it was meet That he who claimed it should bow at the feet Of him of whom 'twas claimed; the evil one So claiming should bow down before the good. Christ did not ask for worship, nor it seek; This he abhorred in every form and phase; He was resolved to ever upright stand; 'Twas to rebuke he gave that stern command; And he who claims the homage of the weak His low condition to the wise betrays. Satan still tempts all greedy human kind With his rewards of selfishness and lust; He would their minds in superstition steep, And mercilessly every soul would keep Forever to the lower realms confined, Where all is turned to ashes and to dust. Oh! what a world of malice Christ awoke In Satan when he bade him "get behind!" Then all the fury of the fiends of hell Around his earthly way exhaled their spell; Beset by every snare hell could evoke, He suffered hellish tortures of the mind. He lived alone; he was not understood By those with whom he most communed and taught; His sole support was love and faith in truth And principles he'd pondered from his youth; He saw right living and the doing good Must bring a future life with gladness fraught. But hell would not consent to tolerate The presence here on earth of one who chose To be so independent of its sway; It would not do to longer let him stay, And so the vicious tools of hell and hate Were set to work his teachings here to close. He long had seen or guessed how it would end; But faith in principle in him was strong, And he would not consent to change his course Nor to retract, nor turn to such resource As would the purpose of his foes unbend, And thus his labors on the earth prolong. But he resolved to carry on the fight Beyond the grave, and to contend for power And freedom to reject the homage base Which Satan claimed, and meet him face to face In his own realms of cruelty and night, And try his title there to freedom's dower. It was a faith sublime that thus could nerve The Nazarene to face the death they chose; But patiently he met his fate alone, Without complaint, and scarcely gave a groan, So sure was he that Freedom he could serve And in the end could conquer all his foes. It was not long before the end was reached, So far as earth could end his grand career; His body lifeless hung upon the cross; Yet still his deadly foes were at a loss How to annul the doctrines he had preached Lest they forever should torment them here. So they resolved upon a double course-- They would pervert what they could not destroy; Their earthly agents were induced to choose The bloody cross as symbol of their views, Which they proclaimed were Christ's, and were the source Of all their power--His name made a decoy. The banner of the cross they raised aloft, To conquer by this sign of all that's vile; "Christians" they called themselves, and fiends in glee Must have rejoiced their bloody course to see, As with brute force, or threats, or pleadings soft, They coupled hell's dark doings with its guile. To blind belief they added blinder faith, And relegated reason to the shades; Dark superstition ruled the bloody hour, The world bowed down before religion's pow'r, And truthfully the page of history saith Mankind gave up to riots and to raids. It was a very pandemonium here, A hell on earth, a night without a star; Good manners and good morals passed away, Corruption and pollution ruled the day, And Pity left the earth without a tear, While pallid Justice trembling stood afar. Contending sects and creeds each other tore; A word or syllable gave cause for war, And e'en a single letter made men tear Each other and profane the decent air With angry words, and drench their hands in gore, Performing all that Heaven must abhor. Men lost all reason, women lost all shame, And gross indecency ruled day and night; Fortunes were given to the rotten priests, Who rated virtue lower than the beasts; Pollution of the maiden or the dame Alike was holy in the priestly sight. At first, it was a struggle mild between The pagan doctrines and the newer creeds, Whose crazy devotees quite often sought The crown of martyrdom, and therefore wrought Insultingly to taunt and rouse the spleen That oft in furious wrath its victim bleeds. But paganism was a placid rill Beside the roaring torrent of the new And wild religion that its ruin sought; And most of all its cruelty was taught Unto it by the men of bloody will Who did the work of the infernal crew. When Satan's agents found no pagan foe, They tore each other with tenfold delight; There was no epithet too harsh to use, There was no instrument of brute abuse Severe enough to add unto the woe Of brothers now grown hateful in their sight. Such scenes the world had never known before, So fierce did angry passion's billows toss; Hell seemed let loose, and scarce a Heavenly ray Shone in the hearts of men to light the way; All virtue gone, or rotten to the core, O'er all there rose the dark and bloody cross. But brutal passion cannot always rule; Reaction comes with renovating sway; The violence that may at first succeed Quite soon returns to make its victims bleed; Coercion is a sharp and treacherous tool-- A two-edged sword that cutteth either way. For centuries the nations struggled on, While reason scarcely gave a glimmering ray; The rack, the faggot, and anon the sword, Each played its part to teach the "Holy Word;" While hated Science, pallid, weary, wan, Amid the hosts of darkness skulked away. Not idle was the Nazarene the while; He marshaled on the other side of life The hosts of gentle truth and reason mild, Swaying with love the heart of man and child To long for freedom and the rights that guile Had trampled down amid intolerant strife. The work was one of love, the progress slow, For hell contended every inch of ground, And, through the church, assaulted every thing That wrought for good, and cat-like watched to spring Upon whoever rose to strike a blow To break the chains with which men's souls were bound. Bearing the cross before them, hell's dark crowd Rushed wildly on to crush each rising thought That in the freedom-loving soul sought vent In deed of daring, or, in speech intent On firing other minds, was heard aloud; In fear and hate the hosts of fury wrought. Christ poured his consolation in the ear Of every suffering soul, and fired the heart To meet with resignation calm the fate Imposed upon it by the powers of hate; And every body slain let loose, to cheer, A spirit nerved to play a noble part. Thus, one by one, upon the spirit side, An army gathered that defied defeat; It filled with love of freedom every mind Of willing mould on earth that it could find, Till right of private judgment, long denied, Walked boldly forth from its enforced retreat. Then history and science both combined To shed their light and make the error plain; And one by one the church was forced to yield The subjugated ground which it had sealed With blood of martyrs, till it was confined To work by subtle means its ends to gain. Now Knowledge roams at large, and he who will May sup from the eternal founts of truth; As hell recedes, the church enfeebled grows, And fast approach the last expiring throes; It now may curse and rave, but dare not kill, And views with anguish Freedom's lusty youth. The present church is a continuance Of the abomination that held sway When Christ was on the earth; the change it made Was but in form, not spirit; it essayed To make the world believe that no advance Could e'er be made for which it did not pray. It fought all progress of the human race, And sought to limit human thought and speech; Dead books or living bodies, each in turn It ready stood to torture or to burn; It squid-like tried its slimy arms to place On every thing of worth within its reach. Its claims were boundless, and its vicious aim Would subjugate all things from pole to pole; Whate'er of good might triumph in despite Of all its wiles to crush, this fiend of night Set up the claim that the advancement came Through its kind care and fostering control! And to this day it makes the bold pretense That all of human progress has been made Beneath its banner; yet it ever warred On science as a thing to be abhorred, And still would banish thought and reason hence, And of them seeks to make mankind afraid! It points to the advancement of the world As evidence of its benignant power; Yet it has sought, with all its will and might, To keep the children of the earth in night! And this same course it will pursue till hurled From power, and Truth and Justice rule the hour. Let men no longer be deceived, for hell Brought forth the church and fosters it to-day; Let them cast off the shackles of the mind, Which this same church continues still to bind Upon them with Satanic art and spell, And keep, oh! keep the children from its sway! Thro' Mammon and the Church hell rules to-day, And flaunts the cruel cross before our eyes; Losing its hold on State, the church demands All privileges which our thoughtless hands Will grant unto its agents, who would slay The Nazarene again as sacrifice. Hell still is tempting men with wealth and power, And finds of Judases a fearful host; Free thought and speech it everywhere assails, Religion's sure decay loudly bewails, But while it reads the tokens of the hour, It still persists in threat and empty boast. It mumbles prayers in legislative halls, And in our courts of justice utters oaths; It clutches every thing within its reach, And hangs tenacious as the sucking leech; Where'er we go its mocking presence palls, And every thinking mind its workings loathes. Its ministers assume superior airs, And claim to compensate all earthly loss; They help to rob the unsuspecting mass, And for their sorrows, with a cheek of brass, They give them rich rewards of empty prayers, And impudently point unto the cross! As if an instrument of torture could Be grateful to the sight of suffering man! Or he should willingly be crucified Because good men upon the cross have died! But hell adopts this horrid thing of wood And bears the bloody symbol in the van. It is a cruel mockery of all That Christ has taught to an unthinking world-- A gross perversion of the living light With which he sought to open human sight; 'Tis Satan's beacon, leading to enthrall-- Banner of night, by Satan's hosts unfurled. All progress made has been despite the power That marshaled all its forces 'neath the cross; The hosts of light, led on by Christ, have fought And slowly won the field in spite of aught The foe beneath the symbol of the hour Could treacherously do to bring them loss. And Christ will overwhelmingly, at last, Defeat the hosts of darkness and of death; For Truth and Justice surely will bear sway, To usher in the bright millennial day, And Satan's hosts from power on earth to cast And fill each longing soul with vital breath. But just so long as men will give support And countenance unto the wily church, They may expect the fiends of wrong and wrath To scatter want and woe along their path, For by such act they gross injustice court And will that on its banner victory perch. Let all men, then, ignore the church and strive For Justice, Truth, and true Fraternal Love; Let them resolve to be forever free, And walk in reason's light, so all may see They tread the straight and narrow path, alive To good and peace, as symboled by the dove. Thus may a bloodless victory be won, And Satan's hosts cast out forevermore; The cross of hell from earth will disappear Before the symbol of a higher sphere; Thus may the reign of reason be begun, And earth become to Heaven an open door. Oh! let the scales fall from the eyes of men, And all the horrors of the cross appear; Then Satan's reign on earth will have an end, And men no more the craven knee will bend; But Justice, Freedom, Love, and Truth, will then Bring in the prophesied millennial year. [Illustration] THE CROWN. Symbol of all that's mean and base in man-- Of pompous pride and cringing cowardice, Of titled folly and of plodding slaves, Of groaning labor robbed by cunning knaves, Of priests and lordlings, an infernal clan, Who live by force, and fraud, and artifice. The crown, associated with the cross, Is held up by the church as the reward Of souls that blindly follow in the lead Of priests who advocate a stupid creed! "A crown of gold," and nothing else, for loss Of common sense, full payment can accord! "No cross, no crown"--self-evidently true, But not in the delusive sense implied; If men beneath the cross would not bow down, No devil, pope, or king, could wear a crown; But they will wear it all the ages through That men are willing to be crucified. A crown denotes that some usurper rules, And subjects, weak and ignorant, submit; But in a realm where all are equal, free, No one can rule, none can submissive be; But hell and tyrants love to torture fools, And only fools will long consent to it. The weak in mind, abused and plundered here, Have silly hopes that they will all be kings, Because the sons of Mammon tell them so; While to the yoke they bow their necks below, They praise a tyrant in another sphere Who is to crown them over underlings! When hell's dark agents nailed the Nazarene Upon the cross they, mocking, hailed him king; Since then the mockery they have kept up, And all his friends have drank the bitter cup, And worn the crown of thorns, and felt the keen Thrust of the spear, and heard the taunting fling. All seekers after truth, and right, and fact, The men of science and the thinkers bold, Are friends of Christ, and seek to do his work, By letting in the light mid darkness murk, That shrouds the cross and crown; but every act Is met by hell's dark minions, as of old. With faggot and the prison's loathsome cell, They've done their worst to stifle human thought And stop research amid the fields of lore, Their plea that it is impious to explore The realms of Nature's secrets, or to tell Aught to the mass of men by priests not taught. Hell to the world holds up a God of wrath-- Omniscient tyrant, sitting on a throne, Wearing a royal diadem of gold, While fawn around and praise him throngs untold In numbers, who by adoration hath Secured his special favors as their own! All who refuse this homage are cast out From Heaven and happiness forevermore, Their souls to burn in torments without end Or hope that they can ever make amend For harboring on earth an honest doubt, And failing their "creator" to adore! And the offense is in the disbelief, For no good thoughts or deeds can help the soul; Nor good intentions, or most honest aims Can save it from the everlasting flames; But blind consent alone can banish grief From one submissive to the priest's control! This God is arbitrary, full of freaks, Damns without reason, without worth rewards; An upright life with him no favor finds; He fettered sinners with delight unbinds, And sets them free, but on the upright wreaks His vengeance--them his special hate accords! To those who ask for bread he giveth stone, Or empty promises he may fulfill In realms of future life--sometime, somewhere, And thus the soul feeds on deceit and air As long as flesh hangs to the aching bone-- Till all is sacrificed that earth can kill. This is no teaching of the Nazarene; It is a scheme of hell to chain the mind And keep mankind subjected to its sway, And to its priests and tools an easy prey-- A plot the souls of men to make unclean And toward perdition willingly inclined. Who cannot see that hell set up this God For purpose foul, and crowned him King of All?-- A model of the human lord and king Who rule below and make their subjects bring Homage and pelf to buy approving nod, While in their train the meaner creatures crawl. His favorites, the meanest of mankind, Are quite content the people should believe That they will win a crown beyond the grave, If they will only be content to slave And bow to robber rule, nor seek to find The light which might their faith here undeceive. To make the picture more like earth and real, As kings on earth have rivals to the throne, So God must have a rival dark and proud Who, like himself, can never fill a shroud; But, fiercely overthrown in the ideal, This rival has no mercy to him shown. 'Tis all infernal--a delusive spell Thrown o'er the minds of men to keep them down; In fear the Nazarene, with teachings pure, The mental blindness of the world should cure, And break the hoary reign of brutal hell, It mockingly presented him a crown. True, 'twas a crown of thorns; but, mocking still, It gave a spirit crown, and made him Son And equal of the tyrant it had made, And in fantastic glory had arrayed, To rule the saints submissive to the will Of those who church and state in secret run. Priests granted to him supernatural powers, And then assumed to wield those powers themselves; By treachery, and trick, and sophistry, They made the multitude believe that he Claimed worship for himself in gilded towers Or churches; so the mass submits and delves. The world is told that men should bear the cross Of robbery, oppression, want and woe, On earth, that they a crown above may wear, And ease their souls in everlasting prayer Unto a God who shall repay all loss By special gifts to those who bow most low! The church has always taught submission here, Not to the laws of being, but of state; Hell calls for "stronger governments" to rob And hold in terror the uprising mob Which it provokes and seeks to rule thro' fear-- A horrid rule of wrong, and force, and hate. As Christ's pure teachings were so true and plain That reason must accept them, to obscure Their meaning hell and earth conspired And made confusion, while their minions fired With mad ambition and the love of gain All hearts that Mammon's bribes could buy or lure. And with success they carried out their scheme, And made the world do homage unto hell; With God to threaten vengeance unto all, And Devil to affright them at their call, With blood of God's own Son--a horrid stream-- To wash men's souls, they have succeeded well! To further aid their scheme, the "Holy Ghost" Came down to work with its mysterious spell, And fill with frenzy every heart and brain That thoughtlessly would join Delusion's train, Until the fire of zeal was hot to roast The sinner here and endlessly in hell! Christ taught utmost fulfillment of the law, Which special favors could not set aside; His was no kingdom of this world, no scheme Of courtiers or of crown; no idle dream Of weak and wicked selfishness, to awe The mass and rear a structure based on pride. He founded on the rock of truth and fact, And everlasting principles of good; He bade men love each other and be just In all their dealings, to avoid all lust, And be sincere and true in every act, Rememb'ring all are of one Brotherhood. No lead or following of the blind he taught, Nor a self-immolating flag unfurled; His enemies, with subtlety most keen, By torturing his language make it mean The very opposite of what he sought To teach unto a blind, unthinking world. He wanted men to use their reason here, In all things of this world and world to come-- To seek for truth, for truth would make them free, Nor bend to any power known the knee; And he abhorred the rule of coward fear, That's born of hell, and strikes the reason dumb. Quickly the Nazarene refused the bribe Proffered by Satan's hand upon the Mount; He turned indignantly from world and crown, Rebuking with a stern and honest frown The tempter and his cunning; but the tribe Of Mammon since has grown beyond all count. If all men saw, like Christ, through Satan's wiles, And promptly gave rebuke to his demand, The crown would crumble and the cross decay, And Mammon's bribes be counted worthless clay; A world redeemed would roll in Heaven's smiles, With plenty, peace and joy on every hand. What shall it profit man the world to gain And yield his soul thereby to hell's control? To give is far more blest than to receive-- For giving to the needy doth relieve The giver of a surplus that would pain, If not bestowed, by clogging of the soul. We channels of transmission are; the flow Of life is measured by what we transmit; If we doth freely give, in reason's bound, What we receive, and pass the blessings We gather strength and joy as on we go, Receiving more, the more the benefit. When men shall rise above the plane of clowns, And look upon this life with vision clear, With reason seeking for the better way That leads to Justice and to Freedom's sway, Then dupes and priests, then kings, and gods, and crowns, At last, will from this planet disappear. To worship an imaginary king, Makes subjects for the monarchs here on earth; The mind accustomed to submissive moods Is ready to receive the mental foods Which priests and parasites may choose to bring-- Messes of potage for its rights of birth. Our God is light, intelligence, and love-- Is reason, freedom, justice, and the truth; He does not rule through blind belief in creeds, But fact and judgment--good expressed in deeds Of brotherly assistance, and above All aims to subjugate the minds of youth. The God of orthodoxy doth delight In ways of darkness, superstition, fear; He bids all men their reason set aside And take, like birds with mouths spread open wide, Whatever priests, those messengers of night, See fit to drop into the gaping ear. He bids us bow to creeds and servile forms, And walk submissive under Mammon's reign; Before him all must bend the cringing knee, And shout his praise in fulsome minstrelsy; His followers no love of freedom warms; He rules them, all through penalty and pain. With ceremonies, rites, and cunning tricks, He seeks to captivate the human will; Thus far his agents have, alas! too well Succeeded in their wicked work of hell, Which at no subterfuge or falsehood sticks; They fill their mission with Satanic skill. They claim to represent the Nazarene And teach his doctrines, while they grossly lie In word and deed, and all his views pervert; He aimed to help the world; they aim to hurt; His yoke is easy and his path serene, While wearing theirs the soul must surely die. While he would have the world live out the law Of being as engraved in each true heart, And seen with vision clear by every mind That is to justice, truth and good inclined, They would subdue it, by a sense of awe, To arbitrary rule and selfish art. When men shall cease to worship wealth and might, And turn their backs on superstition's door; When reason lights her lamp, and equity Becomes the portion of the truly free; When Christ shall reign on earth through love and light, The rule of man and Mammon will be o'er. Then all machinery of Church and state Will drop aside as rubbish of the past; Then social harmony will take the place That human governments so much disgrace; The cruel reign of discord, born of hate, Will be reversed, and order reign at last. Then each will work for all instead of self, As faithful parents for their children toil; All will be educated in the right, All will by birth inherit living light; None will from duty turn for sordid pelf, And none will seek his neighbor to despoil. And there will be abundance everywhere, With want and fear of want forever gone; No more will men indulge in worldly lust; The aims of life will be above the dust; Then men the spirit life will seek and share, Their souls aglow with rays of Heaven's dawn. Oh! why has Christ been so misunderstood? Why will not men receive the light and live? The path is straight and plain unto the view, And by the light within each can pursue And reap its fruits of everlasting good, Which loving hands along the way will give. The growth is slow but sure, in strict accord With laws of our condition and our deeds; No miracles will help us in our task; If we would gain advancement, we must ask Through honest work, and upright thought and word, And not through cross or crown, beliefs or creeds. Dethrone all gods and send them down to hell, Banish all worship to the realms of night, Give freedom unto human thought and speech, Let every soul be its own church and teach The truths that from its inmost depths may well To aid in lifting up all souls to light. In that bright realm where all is fair and free The law is written in each beating heart; There each one does as seems good in his sight, And every one aspires to do the right; But no one there in worship bends the knee, Or acts through fear a superstitious part. Supreme desire for concord fills each breast, And every word and act with love is blest; No thought of wrong or self can enter there, But each with each and all desires to share; And he that shares his blessing with the rest Is richer made in joy and sweet content. There are no rulers there--no king to frown; No sacrifices are required or made; A sense of right and justice rules the realm, With love to prompt and reason at the helm; Harmonious thoughts and acts all discord drown With none to dictate, none to make afraid. No royal God there sits in pomp and state; No jeweled throne of gold can there be seen; No priest nor trembling devotee can raise An everlasting song of flatt'ring praise; No cross no crown; no courtier vain, elate; No slave with bending knee and cringing mien. No streets all paved with gold doth there appear; No harps of gold cloth twang an endless air; No trumpet-blast, by saint or angel blown, Doth split the ear with its commanding tone; No worshiping of God, or saint, or seer, No church, no priest, no pope, no king, no prayer. But all is love and harmony divine, With peace and happiness, and joy supreme; With endless progress and increasing light, And ever-widening freedom, while the right And truth, and good, and justice burn and shine In every brain and heart--a sacred gleam. Oh! blest abode, where each himself must rule And none e'er think of ruling others, while The light from higher sources ever beams, In gentle, life-invigorating streams, Upon the soul which, never out of school, Must ever bask in Wisdom's winning smile. Oh! let it come, this concord of the blest, And speedily, upon this earth of ours-- That Mammon's throne may be at once o'erthrown, And all his idols broken--every one; That every soul upon the law may rest, Defying all the arts of wicked powers. And it will come, must come, or soon or late, And every heart will feel the quickening thrill; The hosts of night around the earth must fly To lower depths, the righteous mount on high; And then will end this reign of selfish will, Amid the blaze of the Harmonial Day. [Illustration] _Idolatry._ Idolatry is born of Ignorance; Its sire is Fear, and cruel are its bands; Cunning and Greed come forward to advance Its many claims; the tyrant understands It gives him consequence when he commands, And helps to keep his subjects dull and weak; The priest upholds it with his crafty hands, And by it keeps himself both fat and sleek, With conscience tenfold harder than his brassy cheek. Idolatry has human thought defiled, And filled the heart of man with groundless fear; It likens God unto the chieftain wild, Whose will is absolute and rule austere-- Who scatters curses with a hand severe On all who do not choose to bow and praise, Bestowing gifts on those who may appear By word or deed, or both, his power to raise, Regardless of their merits or their wicked ways. The poor idolator expects to gain In special favors from the god he owns; He mouths his prayers expecting to obtain Some kind of blessing through his pleading tones, While bowing low upon his marrow-bones, And has no thought of principle or law; He thinks his very abjectness atones For all offenses, and he stands in awe Lest he offend the priest who smites him with his jaw. Idolatry but feeds the soul on stones, And makes it fear the living and the dead; It worships arbitrary power in bones From which all power to harm or bless has fled; It puts a halo round some dead man's head And worships him as one whose blood atones For all the sins the human race hath bred; It fills the air with hideous wails and groans, With genuflexions that the most abjectness owns. The gods are many which the world adores; They may be stocks and stones, or creeds and books, Or saints or heroes; there are many scores Of idols, both of good and evil looks, To which the idol-serving worldling crooks The favor-seeking hinges of the knee; And then audaciously he freely brooks Disfavor of the many gods, that he May serve at Mammon's shrine and roll in luxury! The known and unknown gods are set aside When Mammon's glitt'ring chariot rolls along; The churches all adore the pomp and pride Of Mammon's blazing cortege; weak and strong Join in his train, unconscious of a wrong, And all the gods are chained unto his car; The "Unknown God" may get their Sunday song-- On other days he's worshiped from afar! But, next to Mammon, men adore the god of war. Or saints, or books, or images, or cross, No matter what the object worshiped be, 'Tis all the same--idolatrous and gross; It may be done in all sincerity, Or only done in base hypocrisy, As is the fancy of the worshiper; Both classes bend the superstitious knee, Hoping their god his favors will confer, Howe'er the supplicant in life and tho't may err! There is no efficacy in what's done By way of worship; all is empty show, External form; in not a single one Does it inspire a strong desire to go The straight and narrow path of duty. No, Not e'en the most benighted devotee-- The most sincere idolater we know-- Conforms his daily conduct so that he Shall realize the prayer of his idolatry. All worship is an inconsistent sham-- An echo from the thrones of earthly kings, Who have the power to either bless or damn Their subjects of this world in worldly things; It will be fostered in the church, which brings A living fat for wily ministers, As long as folks will wear their leading-strings; But when the blood of independence stirs Men's hearts, they'll cease to bow as idol-worshipers. So long as thoughtless men deceive their souls With vague conjectures that a wordy prayer Their destiny beyond the graveyard moulds, When breathed aloud into the empty air, To some unknown mysterious being there, Their conduct will be inconsistent, mad; Reason and common sense will have no share In guiding them to action, and the sad Results will only to the world's confusion add. How very low and groveling is this, And reeking with the very fumes of hell! As if mankind could win immortal bliss By idle words and forms, in which can dwell No kind of virtue, no exalting spell! Let men but reason and they must behold That righteous living here alone can tell In raising human destiny. The bold In thought and action the most rapidly unfold. But some day men will learn that law supreme, Unchanging and unerring, rules us all; That there is neither low nor high extreme Where special favors unto men may fall, Or privilege be granted at the call Of homage-giving beings who desire To gain advantage, be it great or small; That selfishness can never raise men higher. And only deeds of good can aid those who aspire. Throw creeds and books and churches to the winds, Save as they furnish food for human thought; Shun every subtle manacle that binds The human reason--'tis with evil fraught; Bow not to books, nor saviors, nor aught But Truth and Justice and the love of Good; With these alone can be salvation bought; It was for these the Nazarene once stood-- In these must every soul find its redemption food. Let men have faith in principle, and strive To live in strict accord with equity; When at the door of truth they always knock, And deal no more in foolish mystery, But trim the lamp of reason so they see The right from wrong, and act the nobler part. Then will the human race be truly free; Then the millennium will surely start With the millennial conditions in the heart. 'Tis not by exaltation of one's self The prize of real happiness is won; 'Tis not by hoarding piles of worldly pelf That we can win the plaudit of "well done;" 'Tis not by self abasement we can shun The painful consequence of evil ways; 'Tis not by wordy prayer to God or Son We can prolong the measure of our days; But living right, with duty done, forever pays. Then break your idols, oh! ye men of might, If ye would number with the truly strong; Strike ye for Justice, Freedom and the Right, If ye would join the ever-happy throng That sing in unison redemption's song; Fling out the banner of the Brotherhood, Bear it before you as ye march along; Plant it where every idol erst has stood, Proclaim to all mankind the Universal Good. If you would follow Christ, or be like God, You must, like them, be ever doing good; You must arise above the brutal clod; You must stand out, as Jesus Christ once stood, The sturdy friend of God's great multitude-- That helpless mass of wronged and suffering poor, Who now are trampled on by Mammon's brood; You must hold up to scorn the evil-doer, Put down the foul and raise aloft the good and pure. In no belief or unbelief, nor prayer, Can men redemption from their errors find; No worship of the things of earth of air, Or heaven or hell, or of the human mind, Can from a single fetter e'er unbind One sinning brother. Only deeds alone Done in the love of what is good and kind, Can for the smallest human wrong atone; Then worship not at all, but see that good is done. Worship is mockery, but only cheats The worshiper, who fancies he can guide The forces of the universe, and beats The air with empty words; and, worse beside, It dulls man's intellect and leads him wide Astray from the true path of duty here; It seeks for ends through setting laws aside, When all must be fulfilled. Hence it is clear The worshiper, through prayer seeketh to rule this sphere. No jot nor tittle will the law abate Till all shall be fulfilled; nor can man make One hair or black or white, howe'er he prate; Nor add unto his stature, though he take No end of thought and prayer, nor can he shake The purpose of any higher power; But if he could, there would be cause to quake-- For all would come to chaos in an hour And death and darkness quickly all things would devour. Then be ye not idolatrous, nor bow In worship unto things unseen or seen, But bide your lot with clear, unclouded brow, And child-like trust the powers that e'er have been; They're watching o'er us all with vision keen And love unquenchable forevermore; In turn, they ask our love, our faith serene, And wait to welcome us, when earth is o'er, To homes of peace and bliss on Heaven's eternal shore. [Illustration: FINIS] Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected. The following discrepancies have not been changed: Page 6: "So claiming should bow down before the good." was not indented as were the other last-lines in this section of the book. Page 10, last line: "Quite soon returns to make its victims bleed;" included a hand-written change that replaced "victims" with "authors". Page 36: "Bow not to books, nor saviors, nor aught" included a hand-written change that inserted "to" before "aught." All of the illustrations are simple tailpieces. 
54526	----	Transcriber's Note. The compiler of this collection is not identified. Apparent typographical errors have been corrected. "Zavier" has been replaced by "Xavier". Inconsistencies in the use of hyphens and of accents have been retained. Italic font is indicated by _underscores_ and transliterated Greek by =equal signs=. Small capitals have been replaced by full capitals, and "oe" ligatures have been removed. Where individual poems lack titles they are identified, in the Table of Contents, by their first line or an appropriate phrase. [Illustration: THE ANGEL'S INTERCESSION.] RELIGIOUS POEMS SELECTED. PHILADELPHIA: THE RODGERS COMPANY. CONTENTS. PAGE Our King _Frances R. Havergal._ 9 The Sleep _E. B. Browning._ 10 God's Commands _Doddridge._ 13 Be Strong _Adelaide Procter._ 14 The Sleep of the Beloved _Horatius Bonar._ 15 Self-Dependence _Matthew Arnold._ 16 What is Prayer? _James Montgomery._ 18 The Virgin Mary to the Child Jesus _E. B. Browning._ 19 The Voice from Galilee _Horatius Bonar._ 28 Lead, Kindly Light _Cardinal Newman._ 29 Weary of Life _Unidentified._ 30 Come unto Me _Unidentified._ 31 Earth's Beauty _Horatius Bonar._ 33 Servant of God _James Montgomery._ 34 The Angel's Story _Adelaide Procter._ 35 Jesus _Bernard._ 44 Morality _Matthew Arnold._ 45 Morning _John Keble._ 47 Divine Order _Horatius Bonar._ 50 The Issues of Life and Death _James Montgomery._ 51 Gracious Spirit _Stocker._ 52 St. Agnes' Eve _Alfred Tennyson._ 53 Life and Death _Adelaide Procter._ 54 The Angel's Call _Mrs. Hemans._ 56 I would not Live alway _Muhlenberg._ 57 Jerusalem the Golden _Bernard._ 58 When our Heads are Bowed _Heber._ 60 O Soul, Soul _Henry C. Graves._ 61 The Look _E. B. Browning._ 62 The Meaning of the Look _E. B. Browning._ 62 Comfort _E. B. Browning._ 63 Substitution _E. B. Browning._ 64 Tears _E. B. Browning._ 65 Cheerfulness taught by Reason _E. B. Browning._ 65 The Prospect _E. B. Browning._ 66 Consolation _E. B. Browning._ 67 A Thought over a Cradle _N. P. Willis._ 68 Everlasting Blessings _Frances R. Havergal._ 69 The Mother to her Child _N. P. Willis._ 70 Give me thy Heart _Adelaide Procter._ 72 One Sweetly Solemn Thought _Phoebe Carey._ 75 Left Behind _Horatius Bonar._ 76 Lord, what a Change _Richard C. Trench._ 78 Our Father _Frances R. Havergal._ 78 Thou art the Way _Doane._ 85 The Night and the Morning _Horatius Bonar._ 86 In Affliction _James Montgomery._ 87 Give to the Winds _Gerhard._ 87 Where wilt Thou _Mrs. Sigourney._ 88 One there is above _Newton._ 89 God moves in a mysterious way _Cowper._ 90 Onward, Christian _Johnson._ 91 Thankfulness _Adelaide Procter._ 92 Does the Gospel word proclaim _Newton._ 94 My God, my Father _C. Elliott._ 95 The Seen and the Unseen _Horatius Bonar._ 96 I am far frae my Hame _Unidentified._ 101 The Sinner's Friend _Charlotte Elliott._ 103 Evening Prayer at a Girls' School _Mrs. Hemans._ 105 I Worship Thee _F. W. Faber._ 107 The Peace of God _Adelaide Procter._ 110 Listening in Darkness--Speaking in Light _Frances R. Havergal._ 112 The Morning Star _Horatius Bonar._ 113 God of the World _S. S. Cutting._ 114 There is a God _Steele._ 115 Lord, how Mysterious _Steele._ 116 The Shadow of the Rock _F. W. Faber._ 116 Elegy _Henry King._ 120 Rest Yonder _Horatius Bonar._ 122 Soldiers of Christ _C. Wesley._ 123 Thy Will be done _J. Roscoe._ 124 It is not Dying _Malan._ 125 Watchman! tell us of the Night _Bowring._ 126 The Spirit accompanying the Word of God _James Montgomery._ 127 The Cloudless _Horatius Bonar._ 128 Comfort _Adelaide Procter._ 130 "Master, Say On!" _Frances R. Havergal._ 132 The Leper _N. P. Willis._ 134 Things hoped for _Horatius Bonar._ 141 The Sure Refuge _Unidentified._ 144 Unfruitfulness _F. W. Faber._ 145 Murmuring _Richard C. Trench._ 148 If thou couldst Know _Adelaide Procter._ 149 Compensation _Frances R. Havergal._ 150 Valiant for the Truth _James Montgomery._ 156 Advent _Horatius Bonar._ 158 A Bethlehem Hymn _Horatius Bonar._ 160 A Desire _Adelaide Procter._ 161 That Glorious Song of Old _Sears._ 164 Hail to the Lord's _Montgomery._ 165 The Old, Old Story _Jemima Luke._ 167 My Jesus _Unidentified._ 168 How Beauteous were the marks divine _A. C. Coxe._ 169 O Sacred Head _Bernard._ 171 Heart of Stone _C. Wesley._ 172 "By Thy Cross and Passion" _Frances R. Havergal._ 173 Abide in Him _Horatius Bonar._ 175 Rejoice, all ye Believers _Laurenti._ 176 Joined to Christ _Frances R. Havergal._ 177 "Till He Come!" _E. W. Bickersteth._ 178 "Forever with the Lord!" _James Montgomery._ 180 The Meeting-Place _Horatius Bonar._ 181 A Little While _Horatius Bonar._ 183 Ascension Day _John Keble._ 185 The Sacrifice of Abraham _N. P. Willis._ 188 A Solitary Way _Unidentified._ 192 The Child's Welcome into Heaven _Unidentified._ 194 "Now" _Frances R. Havergal._ 196 Ocean Teachings _Horatius Bonar._ 201 Incompleteness _Adelaide Procter._ 203 Nothing to Do _Unidentified._ 205 Death _From "Sintram."_ 206 It is not Death to Die _Bethune._ 207 Rugby Chapel _Matthew Arnold._ 208 The Right must Win _F. W. Faber._ 217 The Substitute _Horatius Bonar._ 221 Jephthah's Daughter _N. P. Willis._ 222 Lord, many Times _Richard C. Trench._ 228 Cleansing Fires _Adelaide Procter._ 228 Gone Before _Horatius Bonar._ 229 The Lent Jewels _Richard C. Trench._ 231 On the Death of a Missionary _N. P. Willis._ 233 Set Apart _Frances R. Havergal._ 236 The Useful Life _Horatius Bonar._ 238 Hymn _Charlotte Elliott._ 240 "Behold, the Bridegroom Cometh!" _Unidentified._ 242 It may be in the Evening _Unidentified._ 246 The Joy of Assurance _Frances R. Havergal._ 251 "How Wonderful!" _Frances R. Havergal._ 252 Thy Way, not Mine _Horatius Bonar._ 253 A Child's First Impression of a Star _N. P. Willis._ 255 "Come unto Me!" _St. Stephen the Sabaite._ 256 "Looking unto Jesus" _From the German._ 257 Evening Hymn _Adelaide Procter._ 259 Are all the Children in? _Unidentified._ 261 He Leads us On _Unidentified._ 263 Nothing but Leaves _Unidentified._ 264 Because He first Loved us _Francis Xavier._ 265 Sonnet _Richard C. Trench._ 266 Rest at Evening _Adelaide Procter._ 267 Now the Day is over _Unidentified._ 268 The Land of Light _Horatius Bonar._ 270 Abide with Me _Lyte._ 271 Farewell of the Soul to the Body _Mrs. Sigourney._ 272 RELIGIOUS POEMS. OUR KING. "Worship thou Him." Ps. xlv. 11. O Saviour, precious Saviour, Whom yet unseen we love, O Name of might and favor, All other names above: We worship Thee, we bless Thee, To Thee alone we sing; We praise Thee, and confess Thee Our holy Lord and King! O Bringer of salvation, Who wondrously hast wrought, Thyself the revelation Of love beyond our thought: We worship Thee, we bless Thee, To Thee alone we sing; We praise Thee, and confess Thee Our gracious Lord and King! In Thee all fullness dwelleth, All grace and power divine; The glory that excelleth, O, Son of God, is Thine: We worship Thee, we bless Thee, To Thee alone we sing; We praise Thee, and confess Thee Our glorious Lord and King! Oh, grant the consummation Of this our song above, In endless adoration, And everlasting love: Then shall we praise and bless Thee, Where perfect praises ring, And evermore confess Thee Our Saviour and our King! --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ THE SLEEP. He giveth His beloved sleep. Ps. cxxvii. 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this-- 'He giveth His beloved, sleep?' What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart, to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows?-- 'He giveth _His_ beloved, sleep.' What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. 'He giveth _His_ beloved, sleep.' 'Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when 'He giveth _His_ beloved, sleep.' O earth, so full of dreary noises! O men, with wailing in your voices! O delvèd gold, the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And 'giveth His beloved, sleep.' His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap, More softly than the dew is shed, Or clouds is floated overhead, 'He giveth His beloved, sleep.' Aye, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man, Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the word I think their happy smile is _heard_-- 'He giveth His beloved, sleep!' For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would child-like on _His_ love repose, Who 'giveth His beloved, sleep!' And friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all, Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall-- He giveth His beloved, sleep.' --_E. B. Browning._ How gentle God's commands! How kind his precepts are! Come, cast your burdens on the Lord, And trust his constant care. Beneath his watchful eye His saints securely dwell; That hand which bears all nature up Shall guard his children well. Why should this anxious load Press down your weary mind? Haste to your heavenly Father's throne And sweet refreshment find. His goodness stands approved, Unchanged from day to day: I'll drop my burden at his feet, And bear a song away. --_Doddridge._ BE STRONG. Be strong to _hope_, O Heart! Though day is bright, The stars can only shine In the dark night. Be strong, O Heart of mine, Look towards the light! Be strong to _bear_, O Heart! Nothing is vain: Strive not, for life is care, And God sends pain; Heaven is above, and there Rest will remain! Be strong to _love_, O Heart! Love knows not wrong; Didst thou love--creatures even, Life were not long; Didst thou love God in heaven, Thou wouldst be strong! --_Adelaide Procter._ THE SLEEP OF THE BELOVED. "So He giveth his beloved sleep." Ps. cxxvii. 2. Sunlight has vanished, and the weary earth Lies resting from a long day's toil and pain, And, looking for a new dawn's early birth, Seeks strength in slumber for its toil again. We too would rest; but ere we close the eye Upon the consciousness of waking thought, Would calmly turn it to yon star-bright sky, And lift the soul to Him who slumbers not. Above us is thy hand with tender care, Distilling over us the dew of sleep: Darkness seems loaded with oblivious air, In deep forgetfulness each sense to steep. Thou hast provided midnight's hour of peace, Thou stretchest over us the wing of rest; With more than all a parent's tenderness, Foldest us sleeping to thy gentle breast. Grief flies away; care quits our easy couch, Till wakened by thy hand, when breaks the day-- Like the lone prophet by the angel's touch,-- We rise to tread again our pilgrim-way. God of our life! God of each day and night, Oh, keep us still till life's short race is run! Until there dawns the long, long day of light. That knows no night, yet needs no star nor sun. --_Horatius Bonar._ SELF-DEPENDENCE. Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send: "Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! "Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!" From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer,-- "Wouldst thou _be_ as these are? _Live_ as they. "Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. "And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon-silvered roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul. "Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see." O air-born voice! long since severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear,-- "Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he Who finds himself loses his misery!" --_Matthew Arnold._ WHAT IS PRAYER? Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Unuttered or expressed; The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near. Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The majesty on high. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways; While angels in their songs rejoice, And cry--"Behold he prays!" Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air: His watchword at the gates of death-- He enters heaven with prayer. The saints in prayer appear as one In word, and deed, and mind, While with the Father and the Son Sweet fellowship they find. Nor prayer is made by man alone The Holy Spirit pleads And Jesus, on the eternal throne For sinners intercedes. O Thou, by whom we come to God-- The Life, the Truth, the Way; The path of prayer Thyself hast trod; Lord! teach us how to pray. --_James Montgomery._ THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her babe to rest. MILTON'S _Hymn on the Nativity_. Sleep, sleep, mine Holy One! My flesh, my Lord!--what name? I do not know A name that seemeth not too high or low, Too far from me or Heaven. My Jesus, _that_ is best! that word being given By the majestic angel whose command Was softly as a man's beseeching said, When I and all the earth appeared to stand In the great overflow Of light celestial from his wings and head. Sleep, sleep, my saving One! And art Thou come for saving, baby-browed And speechless Being--art Thou come for saving? The palm that grows beside our door is bowed By treadings of the low wind from the south, A restless shadow through the chamber waving: Upon its bough a bird sings in the sun; But Thou, with that close slumber on Thy mouth, Dost seem of wind and sun already weary. Art come for saving, O my weary One? Perchance this sleep that shutteth out the dreary Earth-sounds and motions, opens on Thy soul High dreams on fire with God; High songs that make the pathways where they roll More bright than stars do theirs; and visions new Of Thine eternal Nature's old abode. Suffer this mother's kiss, Best thing that earthly is, To guide the music and the glory through, Nor narrow in Thy dream the broad upliftings Of any seraph wing! Thus, noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep, my dreaming One! The slumber of His lips meseems to run Through _my_ lips to mine heart; to all its shiftings Of sensual life, bringing contrariousness In a great calm. I feel, I could lie down As Moses did, and die,[1]--and then live most. I am 'ware of you, heavenly Presences, That stand with your peculiar light unlost, Each forehead with a high thought for a crown, Unsunned i' the sunshine! I am 'ware. Yet throw No shade against the wall! How motionless Ye round me with your living statuary, While through your whiteness, in and outwardly, Continual thoughts of God appear to go, Like light's soul in itself! I bear, I bear, To look upon the dropped lids of your eyes, Though their external shining testifies To that beatitude within, which were Enough to blast an eagle at his sun. I fall not on my sad clay face before ye; I look on His. I know My spirit which dilateth with the woe Of His mortality, May well contain your glory. Yea, drop your lids more low. Ye are but fellow-worshipers with me! Sleep, sleep, my worshiped One! We sat among the stalls at Bethlehem, The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Towards the newly Born. The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonished hearing rung The strange, sweet angel-tongue. The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh and gold, These baby hands were impotent to hold. So, let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state! Sleep, sleep, my kingly One! I am not proud--meek angels, ye invest New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest On mortal lips,--'I am not proud'--_not proud_! Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son, Albeit over Him my head is bowed As others bow before Him, still mine heart Bows lower than their knees. O centuries That roll, in vision, your futurities My future grave athwart,-- Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I keep Watch o'er this sleep,-- Say of me as the Heavenly said,--'Thou art The blessedest of women!'--blessedest, Not holiest, not noblest--no high name, Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame, When I sit meek in heaven! For me--for me-- God knows that I am feeble like the rest!-- I often wandered forth, more child than maiden, Among the midnight hills of Galilee, Whose summits looked heaven-laden; Listening to silence as it seemed to be God's voice, so soft yet strong--so fain to press Upon my heart as Heaven did on the height, And waken up its shadows by a light, And show its vileness by a holiness. Then I knelt down most silent like the night, Too self-renounced for fears, Raising my small face to the countless blue Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears. God heard _them_ falling after--with His dew. So, seeing my corruption, can I see This Incorruptible now born of me-- This fair new Innocence no sun did chance To shine on (for even Adam was no child), Created from my nature, all defiled, This mystery from out mine ignorance-- Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, more Than others do, or _I_ did heretofore?-- Can hands wherein such burden pure has been, Not open with the cry 'unclean, unclean!' More oft than any else beneath the skies? Ah King, ah Christ, ah Son! The kine, the shepherds, the abased wise, Must all less lowly wait Than I, upon thy state!-- Sleep, sleep, my kingly One! Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe, Come, crown me Him a king! Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling Their light where fell a curse. And make a crowning for this kingly brow!-- What is my word?--Each empyreal star Sits in a sphere afar In shining ambuscade: The child-brow, crowned by none, Keeps its unchildlike shade. Sleep, sleep, my crownless One! Unchildlike shade!--no other babe doth wear An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.-- No small babe-smiles, my watching heart has seen, To float like speech the speechless lips between; No dovelike cooing in the golden air, No quick short joys of leaping babyhood. Alas, our earthly good In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee: Yet, sleep, my weary One! And then the drear sharp tongue of prophecy, With the dread sense of things which shall be done, Doth smite me inly, like a sword--a sword? (_That_ 'smites the Shepherd!') then, I think aloud The words 'despised,'--'rejected,'--every word Recoiling into darkness as I view The DARLING on my knee. Bright angels,--move not!--lest ye stir the cloud Betwixt my soul and his futurity! I must not die, with mother's work to do, And could not live--and see. It is enough to bear This image still and fair-- This holier in sleep, Than a saint at prayer: This aspect of a child Who never sinned or smiled-- This presence in an infant's face: This sadness most like love This love than love more deep, This weakness like omnipotence, It is so strong to move! Awful is this watching place, Awful what I see from hence-- A king, without regalia, A God, without the thunder, A child, without the heart for play; Aye, a Creator rent asunder From His first glory and cast away On His own world, for me alone To hold in hands created, crying--SON! That tear fell not on THEE, Beloved, yet Thou stirrest in thy slumber! THOU, stirring not for glad sounds out of number Which through the vibratory palm trees run From summer wind and bird, So quickly hast Thou heard A tear fall silently?-- Wak'st Thou, O loving One?-- --_E. B. Browning._ [1] It is a Jewish tradition that Moses died of the kisses of God's lips. THE VOICE FROM GALILEE. I heard the voice of Jesus say, "Come unto me and rest; Lay down, thou weary one, lay down Thy head upon my breast." I came to Jesus as I was-- Weary, and worn, and sad; I found in Him a resting-place, And He has made me glad. I heard the voice of Jesus say, "Behold I freely give The living water--thirsty one, Stoop down, and drink, and live." I came to Jesus, and I drank Of that life-giving stream. My thirst was quench'd, my soul revived, And now I live in Him. I heard the voice of Jesus say, "I am this dark world's light; Look unto me, thy morn shall rise, And all thy day be bright." I looked to Jesus, and I found In Him my Star, my Sun; And in that Light of Life I'll walk Till trav'ling days are done. --_Horatius Bonar._ LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on; The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on; Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on. I loved the garish day, and spite of fears, Pride ruled my will; remember not past years. So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone, And with the morn those angel faces smile, Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. --_Cardinal Newman._ Weary of earth and laden with my sin, I look at heaven and long to enter in; But there no evil thing may find a home, And yet I hear a voice that bids me, "Come." So vile I am, how dare I hope to stand In the pure glory of that holy land? Before the whiteness of that Throne appear? Yet there are Hands stretched out to draw me near. The while I fain would tread the heavenly way, Evil is ever with me day by day; Yet on mine ears the gracious tidings fall, "Repent, confess, thou shalt be loosed from all." It is the voice of JESUS that I hear, His are the Hands stretched out to draw me near, And His the Blood that can for all atone, And set me faultless there before the Throne. 'Twas He who found me on the deathly wild, And made me heir of heaven, the FATHER'S child, And day by day, whereby my soul may live, Gives me His Grace of pardon, and will give. O great Absolver, grant my soul may wear The lowliest garb of penitence and prayer, That in the FATHER'S courts my glorious dress May be the garment of Thy righteousness. Yea, Thou wilt answer for me, Righteous LORD; Thine all the merits, mine the great reward; Thine the sharp thorns, and mine the golden crown; Mine the life won, and Thine the life laid down. Nought can I bring, dear LORD, for all I owe, Yet let my full heart what it can bestow; Like Mary's gift let my devotion prove, Forgiven greatly, how I greatly love. --_Unidentified._ "Come unto Me, ye weary, And I will give you rest." O blessed voice of JESUS, Which comes to hearts oppressed; It tells of benediction, Of pardon, grace, and peace, Of joy that hath no ending, Of love which cannot cease. "Come unto Me, ye wanderers, And I will give you light." O loving voice of JESUS, Which comes to cheer the night; Our hearts were filled with sadness, And we had lost our way; But He has brought us gladness And songs at break of day. "Come unto Me, ye fainting, And I will give you life; O cheering voice of JESUS, Which comes to aid our strife; The foe is stern and eager, The fight is fierce and long; But He has made us mighty, And stronger than the strong. "And whosoever cometh, I will not cast him out." O welcome voice of JESUS, Which drives away our doubt; Which calls us very sinners, Unworthy though we be, Of love so free and boundless, To come, dear LORD, to Thee. --_Unidentified._ EARTH'S BEAUTY. Where the wave murmurs not, Where the gust eddies not, Where the stream rushes not, Where the cliff shadows not, Where the wood darkens not, I would not be! Bright tho' the heavens were, Rich tho' the flowers there, Sweet tho' the fragrant air, And all as Eden fair, Yet as a dweller there, I would not be! O wave, and breeze, and rill, and rock, and wood, Was it not God Himself that called you GOOD? --_Horatius Bonar._ "Servant of God, well done, Rest from thy loved employ; The battle fought, the vict'ry won, Enter thy Master's joy." The voice at midnight came, He started up to hear; A mortal arrow pierced his frame, He fell--but felt no fear. Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him on the field, A veteran slumbering on his arms, Beneath his red-cross shield. The pains of death are past, Labor and sorrow cease; And, life's long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ, well done! Praise be thy new employ; And while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour's joy. --_James Montgomery._ THE ANGEL'S STORY. Through the blue and frosty heavens Christmas stars were shining bright; Glistening lamps throughout the City Almost matched their gleaming light; While the winter snow was lying, And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one Christmas night. While, from every tower and steeple, Pealing bells were sounding clear, (Never with such tones of gladness, Save when Christmas time is near,) Many a one that night was merry Who had toiled through all the year. That night saw old wrongs forgiven, Friends, long parted, reconciled; Voices all unused to laughter, Mournful eyes that rarely smiled, Trembling hearts that feared the morrow, From their anxious thoughts beguiled. Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall; Joy and plenty in the cottage, Peace and feasting in the hall; And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all! Yet one house was dim and darkened; Gloom, and sickness, and despair, Dwelling in the gilded chambers, Creeping up the marble stair, Even stilled the voice of mourning,-- For a child lay dying there. Silken curtains fell around him, Velvet carpets hushed the tread, Many costly toys were lying, All unheeded, by his bed; And his tangled golden ringlets Were on downy pillows spread. The skill of that mighty City To save one little life was vain,-- One little thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken; Nay, his very mother's pain, And the mighty love within her, Could not give him health again. So she knelt there still beside him, She alone with strength to smile, Promising that he should suffer No more in a little while, Murmuring tender song and story Weary hours to beguile. Suddenly an unseen Presence Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes, Fixed on some mysterious vision, With a startled sweet surprise. For a radiant angel hovered, Smiling, o'er the little bed; White his raiment, from his shoulders Snowy dove-like pinions spread, And a starlike light was shining, In a Glory round his head. While, with tender love, the angel, Leaning o'er the little nest, In his arms the sick child folding, Laid him gently on his breast, Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest. So the angel, slowly rising, Spread his wings, and through the air Bore the child, and, while he held him To his heart with loving care, Placed a branch of crimson roses Tenderly beside him there. While the child, thus clinging, floated Towards the mansions of the Blest, Gazing from his shining guardian To the flowers upon his breast, Thus the angel spake, still smiling On the little heavenly guest: "Know, dear little one, that Heaven Does no earthly thing disdain, Man's poor joys find there an echo Just as surely as his pain; Love, on earth so feebly striving, Lives divine in Heaven again! "Once in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street, Dwelt a little sickly orphan; Gentle aid, or pity sweet, Never in life's rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet. "All the striving anxious fore-thought That should only come with age Weighed upon his baby spirit, Showed him soon life's sternest page; Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage. "All too weak for childish pastimes, Drearily the hours sped; On his hand so small and trembling Leaning his poor aching head, Or, through dark and painful hours, Lying sleepless on his bed. "Dreaming strange and longing fancies Of cool forests far away; And of rosy, happy children, Laughing merrily at play, Coming home through green lanes, bearing Trailing boughs of blooming May. "Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven Gleamed above that narrow street, And the sultry air of summer (That you call so warm and sweet) Fevered the poor orphan, dwelling In the crowded alley's heat. "One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl, Through the crowded city's pathways, Till he reached a garden-wall, Where 'mid princely halls and mansions Stood the lordliest of all. "There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide; There were sparkling fountains glancing Flowers, which in luxuriant pride Even wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside. "He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and wistful face, Gazing with an awe struck pleasure At the glories of the place; Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace. "You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated Downwards on your golden hair; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendor spread before you, Told a House's Hope was there. "When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged orphan, Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted Bitter tears began to flow. "But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well, Passed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him 'Farewell!' "Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard, In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred; In his hand he took the flowers, In his heart the loving word. "So he crept to his poor garret; Poor no more, but rich and bright, For the holy dreams of childhood-- Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light-- Floated round the orphan's pillow Through the starry summer night. "Day dawned, yet the visions lasted; All too weak to rise he lay; Did he dream that none spake harshly, All were strangely kind that day? Surely then his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away. "And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed; 'Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead. "Know, dear little one! our Father Will no gentle deed disdain; Love on the cold earth beginning Lives divine in Heaven again, While the angel hearts that beat there Still all tender thoughts retain." So the angel ceased, and gently O'er his little burden leant; While the child gazing from the shining, Loving eyes that o'er him bent, To the blooming roses by him, Wondering what that mystery meant. Thus the radiant angel answered, And with tender meaning smiled: "Ere your childlike, loving spirit, Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek you,-- I was once that little child!" * * * * * In the churchyard of that city Rose a tomb of marble rare Decked, as soon as Spring awakened, With her buds and blossoms fair,-- And a humble grave beside it,-- No one knew who rested there. --_Adelaide Procter._ Jesus, the very thought of thee With sweetness fills my breast: But sweeter far thy face to see, And in thy presence rest. Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame, Nor can the memory find A sweeter sound than thy blest name, O Saviour of mankind! O Hope of every contrite heart! O Joy of all the meek! To those who fall, how kind thou art! How good to those who seek! But what to those who find? Ah! this, Nor tongue nor pen can show; The love of Jesus, what it is, None but his loved ones know. Jesus, our only joy be thou, As thou our prize wilt be; Jesus, be thou our glory now, And through eternity. --_Bernard._ MORALITY. We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides; The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides. But tasks in hours of insight willed Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled. With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern. Then, when the clouds are off the soul, When thou dost bask in nature's eye, Ask how _she_ viewed thy self-control, Thy struggling, tasked morality.-- Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek! "Ah, child!" she cries, "that strife divine, Whence was it, for it is not mine?" There is no effort on _my_ brow; I do not strive, I do not weep: I rush with the swift spheres, and glow In joy, and when I will, I sleep. Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once--but where? I knew not yet the gauge of time, No more the manacles of space; I felt it in some other clime, I saw it in some other place. 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, And lay upon the breast of God. --_Matthew Arnold._ MORNING. Hues of the rich unfolding morn, That, ere the glorious sun be born, By some soft touch invisible, Around his path are taught to swell;-- Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay, That dancest forth at opening day, And brushing by with joyous wing, Wakenest each little leaf to sing;-- Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, By which deep grove and tangled stream Pay, for soft rains in season given, Their tribute to the genial heaven;-- Why waste your treasures of delight Upon our thankless, joyless sight, Who, day by day, to sin awake, Seldom of heaven and you partake? Oh! timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise! Eyes that the beam celestial view, Which evermore makes all things new! New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove: Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life, and power, and thought. New mercies, each returning day, Hover around us while we pray; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. If on our daily course our mind Be set, to hallow all we find, New treasures still, of countless price, God will provide for sacrifice. Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, As more of heaven in each we see: Some softening gleam of love and prayer Shall dawn on every cross and care. As for some dear familiar strain Untired we ask, and ask again. Ever, in its melodious store, Finding a spell unheard before. Such is the bliss of souls serene, When they have sworn and steadfast mean, Counting the cost, in all to espy Their God, in all themselves deny. O could we learn that sacrifice, What lights would all around us rise! How would our hearts with wisdom talk Along life's dullest, dreariest walk! We need not bid, for cloister'd cell, Our neighbor and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky: The trivial round, the common task, Would furnish all we ought to ask; Room to deny ourselves; a road To bring us, daily, nearer God. Seek we no more; content with these, Let present rapture, comfort, ease, As heaven shall bid them, come and go:-- The secret this of rest below. Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love Fit us for perfect rest above; And help us, this and every day, To live more nearly as we pray. --_John Keble._ DIVINE ORDER. 'Tis first the true and then the beautiful,-- Not first the beautiful and then the true; First the wild moor, with rock and reed and pool, Then the gay garden, rich in scent and hue. 'Tis first the good and then the beautiful,-- Not first the beautiful and then the good; First the rough seed, sown in the rougher soil, Then the flower-blossom, or the branching wood. Not first the glad and then the sorrowful,-- But first the sorrowful, and then the glad; Tears for a day,--for earth of tears is full, Then we forget that we were ever sad. Not first the bright, and after that the dark,-- But first the dark, and after that the bright; First the thick cloud, and then the rainbow's arc, First the dark grave, then resurrection-light. 'Tis first the night,--stern night of storm and war,-- Long nights of heavy clouds and veiled skies; Then the far sparkle of the Morning-star, That bids the saints awake and dawn arise. --_Horatius Bonar._ THE ISSUES OF LIFE AND DEATH. Oh, where shall rest be found-- Rest for the weary soul? 'Twere vain the ocean depths to sound, Or pierce to either pole. The world can never give The bliss for which we sigh: 'Tis not the whole of life to live, Nor all of death to die. Beyond this vale of tears There is a life above, Unmeasured by the flight of years; And all that life is love. There is a death whose pang Outlasts the fleeting breath: Oh, what eternal horrors hang Around the second death! Lord God of truth and grace, Teach us that death to shun, Lest we be banished from Thy face, And evermore undone. Here would we end our quest; Alone are found in Thee, The life of perfect love,--the rest Of immortality. --_James Montgomery._ Gracious Spirit, Love divine! Let Thy light within me shine; All my guilty fears remove, Fill me full of heaven and love. Speak Thy pardoning grace to me, Set the burdened sinner free; Lead me to the Lamb of God, Wash me in His precious blood. Life and peace to me impart, Seal salvation on my heart; Breathe Thyself into my breast,-- Earnest of immortal rest. Let me never from Thee stray, Keep me in the narrow way; Fill my soul with love divine, Keep me, Lord, forever Thine. --_Stocker._ ST. AGNES' EVE. Deep on the convent roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, Thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with His bride! --_Alfred Tennyson._ LIFE AND DEATH. "What is life, father?" "A Battle, my child, Where the strongest lance may fail, Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled, And the stoutest heart may quail. Where the foes are gathered on every hand, And rest not day or night, And the feeble little ones must stand In the thickest of the fight." "What is Death, father?" "The rest, my child, When the strife and toil are o'er; The angel of God, who, calm and mild, Says we need fight no more; Who, driving away the demon band, Bids the din of the battle cease; Takes banner and spear from our failing hand, And proclaims an eternal peace." "Let me die, father! I tremble, and fear To yield in that terrible strife!" "The crown must be won for Heaven, dear, In the battle-field of life; My child, though thy foes are strong and tried, He loveth the weak and small; The angels of heaven are on thy side, And God is over all!" --_Adelaide Procter._ THE ANGEL'S CALL. Come to the land of peace! Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The shadow passes from the soul away, The sounds of weeping cease. Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling of repose and love, Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove Through the celestial air! Come to the bright and blest And crown'd for ever!--'midst that shining band, Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land, Thy spirit shall find rest! Thou hast been long alone: Come to thy mother!--on the sabbath shore, The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more Shall take its wearied one. In silence wert thou left! Come to thy sisters!--joyously again All the home voices, blest in one sweet strain, Shall greet their long-bereft. Over thine orphan head The storm hath swept as o'er a willow's bough: Come to thy father!--it is finish'd now; _Thy tears have all been shed_. In thy divine abode Change finds no pathway, mem'ry no dark trace, And, oh! bright victory--death by love no place! Come, Spirit! to thy God! --_Mrs. Hemans._ I would not live alway: I ask not to stay, Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer. I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin, Temptation without and corruption within: E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb; Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom; There sweet be my rest, till He bid me arise To hail Him in triumph descending the skies. Who, who would live alway, away from his God! Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns. Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul. --_Muhlenberg._ Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppressed. I know not, oh, I know not What joys await us there, What radiancy of glory, What bliss beyond compare. They stand, those halls of Sion, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an Angel, And all the Martyr throng; The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the blessed Are decked in glorious sheen. There is the throne of David; And there, from care released, The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast; And they, who with their Leader Have conquered in the fight, For ever and for ever Are clad in robes of white. O sweet and blessed country, The home of GOD'S elect; O sweet and blessed country That eager hearts expect; JESU, in mercy bring us To that dear land of rest; Who art, with GOD the FATHER And SPIRIT, ever Blest. --_Bernard._ When our heads are bowed with woe, When our bitter tears o'erflow, When we mourn the lost, the dear, Gracious Son of Mary, hear! Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, Thou our mortal griefs hast borne, Thou hast shed the human tear: Gracious Son of Mary, hear! When the solemn death-bell tolls For our own departing souls, When our final doom is near, Gracious Son of Mary, hear! Thou hast bowed the dying head, Thou the blood of life hast shed, Thou hast filled a mortal bier: Gracious Son of Mary, hear! When the heart is sad within With the thought of all its sin, When the spirit shrinks with fear, Gracious Son of Mary, hear! Thou, the same, the grief hast known; Though the sins were not Thine own, Thou hast deigned their load to bear: Gracious Son of Mary, hear! --_Heber._ O soul, soul, thou art passing, Just now, the border lands: Soul, soul, thy God is calling Thee, from the border lands. Soul, soul, what wilt thou answer, When thou shalt stand alone, Before thy God and Saviour, 'Midst th' glories of the throne? How hast thou passed the border? What course pursued below? Of all I gave thee, warder, Hast conquered every foe? Soul, soul, hear Jesus calling! He waits for thee above, Oh! answer now, responding In faith, and hope, and love. --_Henry C. Graves._ THE LOOK. The Saviour looked on Peter. Aye, no word-- No gesture of reproach! The heavens serene Though heavy with armed justice, did not lean Their thunders that way. The forsaken Lord _Looked_ only, on the traitor. None record What that look was; none guess: for those who have seen Wronged lovers loving through a death-pang keen, Or pale-cheeked martyrs smiling to a sword, Have missed Jehovah at the judgment call, And Peter, from the height of blasphemy-- 'I never knew this man' did quail and fall, As knowing straight THAT GOD,--and turned free And went out speechless from the face of all, And filled the silence, weeping bitterly. --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ THE MEANING OF THE LOOK. I think that look of Christ might seem to say-- 'Thou Peter! art thou then a common stone Which I at last must break my heart upon, For all God's charge to His high angels may Guard my foot better? Did I yesterday Wash _thy_ feet, my beloved, that they should run Quick to deny me 'neath the morning sun, And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray? The cock crows coldly.--Go and manifest A late contrition, but no bootless fear! For when thy final need is dreariest, Thou shalt not be denied, as I am here, My voice, to God and angels shall attest, '_Because I_ KNOW _this man, let him be clear_.' --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ COMFORT. Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low. Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so Who art not missed by any that entreat. Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet-- And if no precious gums my hands bestow, Let my tears drop like amber, while I go In reach of Thy divinest voice complete In humanest affection--thus in sooth, To lose the sense of losing! As a child Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth; Till, sinking on her breast, love reconciled, He sleeps the faster that he wept before. --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ SUBSTITUTION. When some beloved voice that was to you Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, And silence against which you dare not cry, Aches round you like a strong disease and new-- What hope? what help? what music will undo That silence to your sense? Not friendship's sigh-- Nor reason's subtle count! Not melody Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew-- Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales, Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress trees To the clear moon: nor yet the spheric laws Self-chanted,--nor the angels' sweet All hails, Met in the smile of God. Nay, none of these. Speak THOU, availing Christ! and fill this pause. --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ TEARS. Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not More grief than ye can weep for. That is well-- That is light grieving! lighter, none befell, Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot, The mother singing; at her marriage-bell The bride weeps; and before the oracle Of high-famed hills, the poet has forgot Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace, Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place, And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun. --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REASON. I think we are too ready with complaint In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope Of yon gray bank of sky, we might be faint To muse upon eternity's constraint Round our aspirant souls. But since the scope Must widen early, is it well to droop For a few days consumed in loss and taint? O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted,-- And, like a cheerful traveler, take the road, Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread Be bitter in thy inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints?--At least it may be said, Because the way is _short_, I thank Thee, God! --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ THE PROSPECT. Methinks we do as fretful children do, Leaning their faces on the window pane To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain, And shut the sky and landscape from their view, And thus, alas! since God the maker drew A mystic separation 'twixt those twain, The life beyond us, and our souls in pain, We miss the prospect which we're called unto. By grief we're fools to use. Be still and strong, O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath, And keep thy soul's large window pure from wrong,-- That so, as life's appointment issueth, Thy vision may be clear to watch along The sunset consummation-lights of death. --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ CONSOLATION. All are not taken! there are left behind Living Beloveds, tender looks to bring, And make the daylight still a happy thing, And tender voices to make soft the wind. But if it were not so--if I could find No love in all the world for comforting, Nor any path but hollowly did ring, Where 'dust to dust' the love from life disjoined-- And if before these sepulchres unmoving I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth) Crying 'Where are ye, O my loved and loving?' I know a voice would sound, 'Daughter, I AM. Can I suffice for HEAVEN, and not for earth?' --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. I sadden when thou smilest to my smile, Child of my love! I tremble to believe That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue The shadow of my heart will always pass;-- A heart that, from its struggle with the world, Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, And, careless of the staining dust it brings, Asks for its idol! Strange, that flowers of earth Are visited by every air that stirs, And drink its sweetness only, while the child That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, May take a blemish from the breath of love, And bear the blight forever. I have wept With gladness at the gift of this fair child! My life is bound up in her. But, oh God! Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times Bears its sweet burthen; and if Thou hast given To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, To bring it unpolluted unto Thee, _Take Thou its love_, I pray thee! Give it light-- Though, following the sun, it turn from me!-- But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light Shining about her, draw me to my child! And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven! --_N. P. Willis._ EVERLASTING BLESSINGS. "I know that whatsoever God doeth it shall be forever." --ECCLES. iii. 14. O what everlasting blessings God outpoureth on His own! Ours by promise true and faithful, spoken from eternal throne; Ours by His eternal purpose ere the universe had place; Ours by everlasting covenant, ours by free and royal grace. With salvation everlasting He shall save us, He shall bless With the largess of Messiah, everlasting righteousness; Ours the everlasting mercy all His wondrous dealings prove; Ours His everlasting kindness, fruit of everlasting love. In the Lord Jehovah trusting, everlasting strength have we; He Himself, our Sun, our Glory, everlasting Light shall be; Everlasting life is ours, purchased by The Life laid down; And our heads, oft bowed and weary, everlasting joy shall crown. We shall dwell with Christ forever, when the shadows flee away, In the everlasting glory of the everlasting day. Unto Thee, belovèd Saviour, everlasting thanks belong, Everlasting adoration, everlasting land and song. --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. They tell me thou art come from a far world, Babe of my bosom! that these little arms, Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er-- That through these fringed lids we see the soul Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home; And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, Whispering to thee--and 'tis then I see Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven! And what is thy far errand, my fair child? Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, To find thy way through darkness home again? Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky? Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, The cherub and the angel thou may'st be, A life's probation in this sadder world? Art thou with memory of two things only, Music and light, left upon earth astray, And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, Look'd for with fear and trembling? God! who gavest Into my guiding hand this wanderer, To lead her through a world whose darkling paths I tread with steps so faltering--leave not me To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone! I feel my feebleness. Let _these_ stay on-- The angels who now visit her in dreams! Bid them be near her pillow till in death The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more! And let the light and music, which the world Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense Hails with sweet recognition, be to her A voice to call her upward, and a lamp To lead her steps unto Thee! --_N. P. Willis._ GIVE ME THY HEART. With echoing steps the worshipers Departed one by one; The organ's pealing voice was stilled, The vesper hymn was done; The shadows 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 chosen the better part?"-- What voice came through the sacred air?-- "_My child, give me thy Heart!_" "Have I not 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 knowest 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, and 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 Procter._ One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er: I'm nearer home to-day Than I have been before; Nearer my Father's house, Where many mansions be, Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea. Nearer the bound of life, Where burdens are laid down, Nearer to leave the cross, And nearer to the crown; But lying dark between, And winding through the night, The deep and unknown stream Crossed ere we reach the light. Jesus, confirm my trust; Strengthen the hand of faith To feel Thee, when I stand Upon the shore of death. Be near me when my feet Are slipping o'er the brink; For I am nearer home, Perhaps, than now I think. --_Phoebe Cary._ LEFT BEHIND. Look at this starbeam! From its place of birth, It has come down to greet us here below; Now it alights unwearied on this earth, Nor storm nor night have quenched its heavenly glow. Unbent before the winter's rugged blast, Unsoiled by this sad planet's tainted air, It sparkles out from yon unmeasured vast, Bright 'mid the brightest, 'mid the fairest fair. Undimmed it reaches me; but yet alone: The thousand gay companions that took wing Along with it have perished one by one, Scattered o'er space like blossoms of the spring. Some to yon nearer orbs have sped their course, Yon city's smoke has quenched a thousand more; Myriads in yon dark cloud have spent their force; A few stray gleams are all that reach our shore. And with us! How many, who began Life's race with us, are dropping by the way; Losing themselves in darkness one by one, From the glad goal departing wide astray; When we shall reach the kingdom of the blest, How few who started with us shall we find Arriving or arrived, for glorious rest! How many shall we mourn as left behind! --_Horatius Bonar._ Lord, what a change within us one short hour Spent in Thy presence will prevail to make-- What heavy burdens from our bosoms take, What parched grounds refresh, as with a shower! We kneel, and all around us seems to lower; We rise, and all, the distant and the near, Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear; We kneel how weak, we rise how full of power! Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong, Or others--that we are not always strong; That we are ever overborne with care; That we should ever weak or heartless be, Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer, And joy, and strength, and courage, are with Thee? --_Richard Chenevix Trench._ OUR FATHER. Oh that I loved the Father With depth of conscious love, As steadfast, bright, and burning As seraphim above! But how can I be deeming Myself a loving child, When here, and there, and everywhere, My thoughts are wandering wild? It is my chief desire To know Him more and more, To follow Him more fully Than I have done before: My eyes are dim with longing To see the Lord above; But oh! I fear from year to year, I do not truly love. 'For when I try to follow The mazes of my soul, I find no settled fire of love Illumining the whole; 'Tis all uncertain twilight, No clear and vivid glow; Would I could bring to God my King The perfect love I owe!' The gift is great and holy, 'Twill not be sought in vain; But look up for a moment From present doubt and pain, And calmly tell me _how_ you love The dearest ones below? "This love," say you, "is deep and true!" But tell me how you know? How do you love your father? "Oh in a thousand ways! I think there's no one like him, So worthy of my praise, I tell him all my troubles, And ask him what to do; I know that he will give to me His counsel kind and true. "Then every little service Of hand, or pen, or voice, Becomes, if he has asked it, The service of my choice. And from my own desires 'Tis not so hard to part, If once I know I follow so His wiser will and heart." 'I know the flush of pleasure That o'er my spirit came, When far from home with strangers, They caught my father's name; And for his sake the greeting Was mutual and sweet, For if they knew my father too, How glad we were to meet! 'And when I heard them praising His music and his skill, His words of holy teaching, Life-preaching, holier still, How eagerly I listened To every word that fell! 'Twas joy to hear that name so dear Both known and loved so well. 'Once I was ill and suffering, Upon a foreign shore, And longed to see my father, As I never longed before. He came: his arm around me; I leaned upon his breast; I did not long to feel more strong, So sweet that childlike rest. 'The thought of home is pleasant, Yet I should hardly care To leave my present fair abode, Unless I knew him there. All other love and pleasure Can never crown the place, A home to me it cannot be Without my fathers face.' This is no fancy drawing, But every line is true, And you have traced as strong a love As ever daughter knew. But though its fond expression Is rather lived than told, You do not say from day to day, 'I fear my love is cold!' You do not think about it; 'Tis never in your thought-- 'I wonder if I love him As deeply as I ought? I know his approbation Outweighs all other meed, That his employ is always joy, But do I love indeed?' Now let your own words teach you The higher, holier claim Of Him, who condescends to bear A Father's gracious name. No mystic inspiration, No throbbings forced and wild He asks, but just the loving trust Of a glad and grateful child. The rare and precious moments Of realizing thrill, Are but love's blissful blossom, To brighten, not to fill The storehouse and the garner With ripe and pleasant fruit; And not alone by these is shown The true and holy root. What if your own dear father Were summoned to his rest! One lives, by whom that bitterest grief Could well be soothed and blessed. Like balm upon your sharpest woe His still, small voice would fall; His touch would heal, you could not feel That you had lost your all. But what if He, the Lord of life, Could ever pass away! What if _His_ name were blotted out, And you could know to-day There was _no_ heavenly Father, No Saviour dear and true, No throne of grace, no resting-place, No living God for you! We need not dwell in horror On what can never be, Such endless desolation, Such undreamt misery. Our reason could not bear it, And all the love of earth, In fullest bliss, compared with this, Were nothing, _nothing_ worth. Then bring your poor affection, And try it by this test; The hidden depth is fathomed, You see you love Him _best_! 'Tis but a feeble echo Of His great love to you, Yet in His ear each note is dear, Its harmony is true. It is an uncut jewel, All earth-incrusted now, But He will make it glorious, And set it on His brow: 'Tis but a tiny glimmer, Lit from the light above, But it shall blaze through endless days, A star of perfect love. --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ Thou art the Way: to thee alone From sin and death we flee; And he who would the Father seek, Must seek Him, Lord, by Thee. Thou art the Truth; Thy word alone True wisdom can impart; Thou only canst instruct the mind, And purify the heart. Thou art the Life: the rending tomb Proclaims Thy conquering arm; And those who put their trust in Thee Nor death nor hell shall harm. Thou art the Way, the Truth, the Life: Grant us to know that Way; That Truth to keep, that Life to win, Which leads to endless day. --_Doane._ THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. To dream a troubled dream, and then awaken To the soft gladness of a summer sky; To dream ourselves alone, unloved, forsaken, And then to wake 'mid smiles, and love, and joy; To look at evening on the storm's rude motion, The cloudy tumult of the fretted deep; And then at day-burst upon that same ocean, Soothed to the stillness of its stillest sleep-- So runs our course--so tells the church her story, So to the end shall it be ever told; Brief shame on earth, but after shame the glory, That wanes not, dims not, never waxes old. Lord Jesus, come, and end this troubled dreaming. Dark shadows vanish, rosy twilight break! Morn of the true and real, burst forth, calm-beaming. Day of the beautiful, arise, awake! --_Horatius Bonar._ IN AFFLICTION. Father! Thy will, not mine, be done! So prayed on earth Thy suffering Son, So, in His name I pray: The spirit fails, the flesh is weak; Thy help in agony I seek; O! take this cup away. If such be not Thy sovereign will, Thy wiser purpose then fulfil; My wishes I resign, Into Thine hands my soul commend, On Thee for life or death depend; Thy will be done, not mine. --_James Montgomery._ Give to the winds thy fears; Hope, and be undismay'd; God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears. God shall lift up thy head. Through waves, through clouds and storms, He gently clears thy way; Wait thou His time; so shall this night Soon end in joyous day. Still heavy is thy heart? Still sink thy spirits down? Cast off the weight, let fear depart, Bid every care be gone. What though thou rulest not! Yet heaven, and earth, and hell Proclaim, God sitteth on the throne, And ruleth all things well. --_Gerhard._ Where wilt thou put thy trust? In a frail form of clay, That to its element of dust Must soon resolve away? Where will thou cast thy care? Upon an erring heart, Which hath its own sore ills to bear, And shrinks from sorrow's dart? No! place thy trust above This shadowy realm of night, In Him, whose boundless power and love Thy confidence invite. His mercies still endure When skies and stars grow dim, His changeless promise standeth sure, Go,--cast thy care on Him. --_Mrs. Sigourney._ One there is above all others, Well deserves the name of Friend; His is love beyond a brother's, Costly, free and knows no end. Which of all our friends, to save us, Could or would have shed his blood? But our Jesus died to have us Reconciled in Him to God. When He lived on earth abasèd, Friend of sinners was His name; Now, above all glory raisèd, He rejoices in the same. Could we bear from one another What He daily bears from us? Yet this glorious Friend and Brother Loves us though we treat Him thus. Oh for grace our hearts to soften! Teach us, Lord, at length to love! We, alas! forget too often What a Friend we have above. --_Newton._ God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His vast designs, And works His sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and will break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour, The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And he will make it plain. --_Cowper._ Onward, Christian, though the region Where thou art be drear and lone; God has set a guardian legion Very near thee; press thou on. Listen, Christian; their hosanna Rolleth o'er thee: "God is love," Write upon thy red-cross banner, "Upward ever; heaven's above." By the thorn-road, and none other, Is the mount of vision won; Tread it without shrinking, brother; Jesus trod it; press thou on. Be this world the wiser, stronger, For thy life of pain and peace, While it needs thee; oh! no longer Pray thou for thy quick release. Pray thou, Christian, daily rather, That thou be a faithful son; By the prayer of Jesus, "Father, Not my will, but thine, be done." --_Johnson._ THANKFULNESS. My God, I thank Thee who hast made The Earth so bright; So full of splendor and of joy, Beauty and light; So many glorious things are here, Noble and right! I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast made Joy to abound: So many gentle thoughts and deeds Circling us round, That in the darkest spot of Earth Some love is found. I thank Thee _more_ than all our joy Is touched with pain; That shadows fall on brightest hours; That thorns remain; So that Earth's bliss may be our guide, And not our chain. For Thou who knowest, Lord, how soon Our weak heart clings, Hast given us joys, tender and true, Yet all with wings, So that we see, gleaming on high, Diviner things! I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast kept The best in store; We have enough, yet, not too much To long for more: A yearning for a deeper peace, Not known before. I thank Thee, Lord, that here our souls, Though amply blest, Can never find, although they seek, A perfect rest,-- Nor ever shall, until they lean On Jesus' breast! --_Adelaide Procter._ Does the Gospel word proclaim Rest for those that weary be? Then, my soul put in thy claim-- Sure that promise speaks to thee! Marks of grace I cannot show, All polluted is my best; But I weary am, I know, And the weary long for rest. Burdened with a load of sin, Harassed with tormenting doubt, Hourly conflicts from within, Hourly crosses from without;-- All my little strength is gone, Sink I must without supply; Sure upon the earth is none Can more weary be than I. In the ark the weary dove Found a welcome resting-place; Thus my spirit longs to prove Rest in Christ, the Ark of grace. Tempest-tossed I long have been, And the flood increases fast; Open, Lord, and take me in, Till the storm be overpast! --_Newton._ My God, my Father, while I stray Far from my home on life's rough way, Oh, teach me from my heart to say, "Thy will be done, Thy will be done!" What though in love or grief I sigh For friends beloved no longer nigh; Submissive still would I reply, "Thy will be done, Thy will be done!" If thou shouldst call me to resign What most I prize,--it ne'er was mine; I only yield thee what was Thine: "Thy will be done, Thy will be done!" If but my fainting heart be blest With Thy sweet Spirit for its guest, My God, to Thee I leave the rest; "Thy will be done, Thy will be done!" --_C. Elliott._ THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. ON THE GREAT EXHIBITION, 1851. Ha! yon burst of crystal splendor, Sunlight, starlight, blent in one; Starlight set in arctic azure, Sunlight from the burning zone! Gold and silver, gems and marble, All creation's jewelry; Earth's uncovered waste of riches, Treasures of the ancient sea. Heir of glory, What is that to thee and me? Iris and Aurora braided-- How the woven colors shine! Snow-gleams from an Alpine summit. Torch-light from a spar-roofed mine. Like Arabia's matchless palace, Child of magic's strong decree, One vast globe of living sapphire, Floor, walls, columns, canopy. Heir of glory, What is that to thee and me? Forms of beauty, shapes of wonder, Trophies of triumphant toil; Never Athens, Rome, Palmyra, Gazed on such a costly spoil. Dazzling the bewildered vision, More than princely pomp we see: What the blaze of the Alhambra, Dome of emerald, to thee? Heir of glory, What is that to thee and me? Farthest cities pour their riches, Farthest empires muster here, Art her jubilee proclaiming To the nations far and near. From the crowd in wonder gazing, Science claims the prostrate knee; This her temple, diamond-blazing, Shrine of her idolatry. Heir of glory, What is that to thee and me? Listen to her tale of wonder, Of her plastic, potent spell; 'Tis a big and braggart story, Yet she tells it fair and well. She the gifted, gay magician, Mistress of earth, air, and sea; This majestic apparition, Offspring of her sorcery. Heir of glory, What is that to thee and me? What to that for which we're waiting Is this glittering earthly toy? Heavenly glory, holy splendor, Sum of grandeur, sum of joy. Not the gems that time can tarnish, Not the hues that dim and die, Not the glow that cheats the lover, Shaded with mortality. Heir of glory, That shall be for thee and me! Not the light that leaves us darker, Nor the gleams that come and go, Not the mirth whose end is madness, Not the joy whose fruit is woe; Not the notes that die at sunset, Not the fashion of a day; But the everlasting beauty, And the endless melody. Heir of glory, That shall be for thee and me! City of the pearl-bright portal; City of the jasper wall; City of the golden pavement; Seat of endless festival. City of Jehovah, Salem, City of eternity, To thy bridal-hall of gladness, From this prison would I flee. Heir of glory, That shall be for thee and me! Ah! with such strange spells around me, Fairest of what earth calls fair, How I need thy fairer image, To undo the syren snare? Lest the subtle serpent-tempter Lure me with his radiant lie; As if sin were sin no longer, Life were no more vanity. Heir of glory, What is that to thee and me? Yes, I need _thee_, heavenly city, My low spirit to upbear; Yes, I need thee--earth's enchantments So beguile me with their glare. Let me see thee, then these fetters Break asunder; I am free; Then this pomp no longer chains me; Faith has won the victory. Heir of glory, That shall be for thee and me? Soon where earthly beauty blinds not, No excess of brilliance palls, Salem, city of the holy, We shall be within thy walls! There, beside you crystal river, There, beneath life's wondrous tree, There, with naught to cloud or sever-- Ever with the Lamb to be! Heir of glory, That shall be for thee and me! --_Horatius Bonar._ I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles, For the langed-far hame-bringin', an' my Father's welcome smiles, An' I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see The gowden gates o' heav'n an' my ain countrie. The earth is fleck'd wi' flowers, mony-tinted, fresh an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Faither made them sae: But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singin' in my ain countrie. I've His gude word of promise that some gladsome day, the King To His ain royal palace His banished hame will bring; Wi' een an' wi' hert rinning ower, we shall see The King in His beauty, in oor ain countrie. My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair For His bluid has made me white, and His han' shall dry my e'e, When He brings me hame at last, to my ain countrie. Sae little noo I ken, o' yon blessed, bonnie place, I only ken it's Hame, whaur we shall see His face: It wad surely be eneuch for ever mair to be In the glory o' His presence, in oor ain countrie. Like a bairn to his mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wad fain' be gangin' noo, unto my Saviour's breast, For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me, And carries them Himsel', to His ain countrie. He is faithfu' that hath promised, an' He'll surely come again, He'll keep His tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken; But He bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to be, To gang at ony moment to my ain countrie. Sae I'm watching aye, an' singin' o' my hame as I wait For the soun'ing o' His footfa' this side the gowden gate: God gie His grace to ilka ane wha' listens noo to me, That we a' may gang in gladness to oor ain countrie. (_Unidentified._) THE SINNER'S FRIEND. O thou, the contrite sinner's Friend, Who loving, lov'st them to the end, On this alone my hopes depend, That Thou wilt plead for me! When, weary in the Christian race, Far-off appears my resting-place, And fainting, I mistrust Thy grace-- Then, Saviour, plead for me! When I have err'd and gone astray Afar from Thine own and Wisdom's way, And see no glimmering guiding ray-- Still, Saviour, plead for me! When Satan, by my sins made bold, Strives from Thy cross to loose my hold, Then with Thy pitying arms enfold, And plead, oh, plead for me! And when my dying hour draws near, Darken'd with anguish, guilt, and fear, Then to my fainting sight appear, Pleading in Heaven for me! When the full light of Heavenly day Reveals my sins in dread array, Say, Thou hast wash'd them all away; Oh, say, Thou plead'st for me! --_Charlotte Elliott._ EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL. "Now in thy youth, beseech of Him, Who giveth, upbraiding not, That His light in thy heart become not dim, And His love be unforgot; And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." --_Bernard Barton._ Hush! 'tis a holy hour--the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night--in prayer. Gaze on,--'tis lovely! childhood's lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought-- Gaze--yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity! Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest, Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-- Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes; Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness--how soon her woe! Her lot is on you--silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sunless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds--a wasted shower? And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship--therefore pray! Her lot is on you--to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain. Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things--therefore pray! And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake--oh! happy to have given Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. --_Mrs. Hemans._ I worship thee, sweet Will of God! And all thy ways adore; And every day I live, I seem To love thee more and more. Thou wert the end, the blessed rule Of our Saviour's toils and tears; Thou wert the passion of His Heart Those three-and-thirty years. And He hath breathed into my soul A special love of thee, A love to lose my will in His, And by that loss be free. I love to see thee bring to nought The plans of wily men; When simple hearts outwit the wise, Oh thou art loveliest then! The headstrong world, it presses hard Upon the church full oft, And then how easily thou turn'st The hard ways into soft. I love to kiss each print where thou Hast set thine unseen feet; I cannot fear thee, blessèd will, Thine empire is so sweet. When obstacles and trials seem Like prison-walls to be, I do the little I can do, And leave the rest to thee. I know not what it is to doubt; My heart is ever gay; I run no risk, for come what will, Thou always hast thy way. I have no cares, O blessèd will, For all my cares are thine; I live in triumph, Lord, for thou Hast made thy triumphs mine. And when it seems no chance or change From grief can set me free, Hope finds its strength in helplessness, And gayly waits on thee. Man's weakness waiting upon God Its end can never miss, For men on earth no work can do More angel-like than this. Ride on, ride on triumphantly, Thou glorious Will! ride on; Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee take The road that thou hast gone. He always wins who sides with God, To him no chance is lost; God's will is sweetest to him when It triumphs at his cost. Ill, that God blesses, is our good, And unblest good is ill; And all is right that seems most wrong, If it be his dear will! --_F. W. Faber._ THE PEACE OF GOD. We ask for Peace, O Lord! Thy children ask Thy peace; Not what the world calls rest, That toil and care should cease, That through bright sunny hours Calm Life should fleet away, And tranquil night should fade In smiling day;-- It is not for such Peace that we would pray. We ask for Peace, O Lord! Yet not to stand secure, Girt round with iron Pride, Contented to endure: Crushing the gentle strings That human hearts should know, Untouched by others' joy Or others' woe;-- Thou, O dear Lord, wilt never teach us so. We ask Thy Peace, O Lord! Through storm, and fear, and strife, To light and guide us on, Through a long, struggling life: While no success or gain Shall cheer the desperate fight, Or nerve, what the world calls, Our wasted might:-- Yet pressing through the darkness to the light. It is Thine own, O Lord, Who toil while others sleep, Who sow with loving care What other hands shall reap; They lean on Thee entranced, In calm and perfect rest: Give us that Peace, O Lord, Divine and blest, Thou keepest for those hearts who love Thee best. --_Adelaide Procter._ LISTENING IN DARKNESS--SPEAKING IN LIGHT. "What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light." MATT. x. 27. He hath spoken in the darkness In the silence of the night, Spoken sweetly of the Father. Words of life and love and light, Floating through the sombre stillness Came the loved and loving Voice, Speaking peace and solemn gladness, That His children might rejoice. What He tells thee in the darkness-- Songs He giveth in the night-- Rise and speak it in the morning, Rise and sing them in the light! He hath spoken in the darkness, In the silence of thy grief, Sympathy so deep and tender, Mighty for thy heart-relief. Speaking in thy night of sorrow Words of comfort and of calm, Gently on thy wounded spirit Pouring true and healing balm. What He tells thee in the darkness, Weary watcher for the day, Grateful lip and life should utter When the shadows flee away. He is speaking in the darkness, Though thou canst not see His face, More than angels ever needed, Mercy, pardon, love and grace. Speaking of the many mansions, Where, in safe and holy rest, Thou shalt be with Him forever, Perfectly and always blest. What He tells thee in the darkness, Whispers through Time's lonely night, Thou shalt speak in glorious praises In the everlasting light. --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ THE MORNING STAR. There is a morning star, my soul, There is a morning star; 'Twill soon be near and bright, tho' now, It seem so dim and far. And when time's stars have come and gone, And every mist of earth has flown, That better star shall rise On this world's clouded skies, To shine forever! The night is well nigh spent, my soul, The night is well nigh spent, And soon above our heads shall shine A glorious firmament; A sky all glad, and pure, and bright, The Lamb, once slain, its perfect light; A star without a cloud, Whose light no mists enshroud, Descending never. --_Horatius Bonar._ God of the world! Thy glories shine, Through earth and heaven, with rays divine: Thy smile gives beauty to the flower, Thine anger to the tempest power. God of our lives! the throbbing heart Doth at Thy beck its action start-- Throbs on, obedient to Thy will, Or ceases, at Thy fatal chill. God of eternal life! Thy love Doth every stain of sin remove; The cross, the cross--its hallowed light Shall drive from earth her cheerless night. God of all goodness! to the skies Our hearts in grateful anthems rise; And to Thy service shall be given The rest of life--the whole of heaven. --_S. S. Cutting._ There is a God!--all nature speaks, Through earth, and air, and seas, and skies; See! from the clouds His glory breaks, When the first beams of morning rise. The rising sun, serenely bright, O'er the wide world's extended frame, Inscribes, in characters of light, His mighty Maker's glorious name. Ye curious minds, who roam abroad, And trace creation's wonders o'er, Confess the footsteps of your God, And bow before Him, and adore. --_Steele._ Lord, how mysterious are Thy ways! How blind are we! how mean our praise! Thy steps, can mortal eyes explore? 'Tis ours to wonder and adore. Great God! I would not ask to see What in my coming life shall be; Enough for me if love divine, At length through every cloud shall shine. Are darkness and distress my share? Then let me trust Thy guardian care; If light and bliss attend my days Then let my future hours be praise. Yet this my soul desires to know, Be this my only wish below, That Christ be mine;--this great request Grant, bounteous God, and I am blest! --_Steele._ THE SHADOW OF THE ROCK. The Shadow of the Rock! Stay, Pilgrim, stay! Night treads upon the heels of day; There is no other resting-place this way. The Rock is near, The well is clear-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock. The Shadow of the Rock! The desert wide Lies round thee like a trackless tide, In waves of sand forlornly multiplied. The sun is gone, Thou art alone-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! All come alone; All, ever since the sun hath shone, Who traveled by this road have come alone. Be of good cheer-- A home is here-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock? The Shadow of the Rock! Night veils the land; How the palms whisper as they stand! How the well tinkles faintly through the sand! Cool water take Thy thirst to slake-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! Abide! Abide! This Rock moves ever at thy side, Pausing to welcome thee at eventide. Ages are laid Beneath its shade-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! Always at hand, Unseen it cools the noon-tide land, And quells the fire that flickers in the sand. It comes in sight Only at night-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! 'Mid skies storm-riven It gathers shadows out of heaven, And holds them o'er us all night cool and even. Through the charmed air Dew falls not there-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! To angels' eyes This Rock its shadow multiplies, And at this hour in countless places lies. One Rock, one shade, O'er thousands laid-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! To weary feet, That have been diligent and fleet, The sleep is deeper and the shade more sweet. O weary, rest! Thou art sore pressed-- Rest in the shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! Thy bed is made; Crowds of tired souls like thine are laid This night beneath the self-same placid shade. They who rest here Wake with Heaven near-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! Pilgrim! sleep sound; In night's swift hours with silent bound, The Rock will put thee over leagues of ground, Gaining more way By night than day-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! One day of pain, Thou scarce wilt hope the Rock to gain, Yet there wilt sleep thy last sleep on the plain; And only wake In Heaven's daybreak-- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock. --_F. W. Faber._ ELEGY. Sleep on my love, in thy cold bed, Never to be disquieted! My last good night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake, Till age, or grief, or sickness, must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves, and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there; I will not fail To meet thee in that narrow vale; And think not much of my delay: I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. For hark! my heart, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And howe'er long my marches be, I shall at last lie down by thee. * * * * * Each minute is a short degree, And every hour a step toward thee; At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive The crime: I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. --_Henry King._ REST YONDER. This is not my place of resting Mine's a city yet to come; Onwards to it I am hasting-- On to my eternal home. In it all is light and glory, O'er it shines a nightless day; Every trace of sin's sad story, All the curse, has passed away. There the Lamb, our Shepherd, leads us, By the streams of life along; On the freshest pastures feeds us, Turns our sighing into song. Soon we pass this desert dreary, Soon we bid farewell to pain; Never more be sad or weary, Never, never sin again. --_Horatius Bonar._ Soldiers of Christ, arise, And gird your armor on, Strong in the strength which God supplies, Through His eternal Son: Strong in the Lord of hosts, And in His mighty power, Who in the strength of Jesus trusts, Is more than conqueror. Leave no unguarded place, No weakness of the soul; Take every virtue, every grace, And fortify the whole. Stand, then, in His great might, With all His strength endued, And take, to arm you for the fight, The panoply of God: That, having all things done, And all your conflicts past, You may o'ercome thro' Christ alone, And stand complete at last. From strength to strength go on; Wrestle, and fight, and pray; Tread all the powers of darkness down, And win the well-fought day. --_C. Wesley._ Thy will be done! I will not fear The fate provided by Thy love; Though clouds and darkness shroud me here, I know that all is bright above. The stars of heaven are shining on, Though these frail eyes are dimmed with tears; The hopes of earth indeed are gone, But are not ours the immortal years? Father! forgive the heart that clings, Thus trembling, to the things of time; And bid my soul, on angel wings, Ascend into a purer clime. --_J. Roscoe._ No, no, it is not dying To go unto our God, This gloomy earth forsaking, Our journey homeward taking Along the starry road. No, no, it is not dying Heaven's citizen to be; A crown immortal wearing, And rest unbroken sharing, From care and conflict free. No, no, it is not dying To hear this gracious word, "Receive a Father's blessing, Forever more possessing The favor of thy Lord." No, no, it is not dying The Shepherd's voice to know; His sheep he ever leadeth, His peaceful flock he feedeth, Where living pastures grow. No, no, it is not dying To wear a lordly crown; Among God's people dwelling, The glorious triumph swelling Of Him whose sway we own. Oh, no, this is not dying, Thou Saviour of mankind! There, streams of love are flowing, No hindrance ever knowing; Here drops alone we find. --_Malan._ Watchman! tell us of the night, What its signs of promise are.-- Traveler! o'er yon mountain's height, See that glory-beaming star!-- Watchman! does its beauteous ray Aught of hope or joy foretell? Traveler! yes; it brings the day-- Promised day of Israel. Watchman! tell us of the night, Higher yet that stars ascends.-- Traveler! blessedness and light, Peace and truth its course portends! Watchman! will its beams alone Gild the spot that gave them birth?-- Traveler! ages are its own, See, it bursts o'er all the earth. Watchman! tell us of the night, For the morning seems to dawn.-- Traveler! darkness takes its flight, Doubt and terror are withdrawn.-- Watchman! let thy wanderings cease; Hie thee to thy quiet home.-- Traveler! lo! the Prince of Peace, Lo! the son of God is come. --_Bowring._ THE SPIRIT ACCOMPANYING THE WORD OF GOD. O spirit of the living God, In all Thy plenitude of grace, Where'er the foot of man hath trod, Descend on our apostate race. Give tongues of fire, and hearts of love, To preach the reconciling word; Give power and unction from above, Where'er the joyful sound is heard. Be darkness, at Thy coming, light; Confusion--order, in Thy path; Souls without strength inspire with might, Bid mercy triumph over wrath. O, Spirit of the Lord! prepare All the round earth her God to meet; Breathe Thou abroad like morning air, Till hearts of stone begin to beat. Baptize the nations; far and nigh, The triumphs of the cross record; The name of Jesus glorify, Till every kindred call Him Lord. God from eternity hath willed, All flesh shall His salvation see; So be the Father's love fulfilled, The Saviour's sufferings crowned through Thee. --_James Montgomery._ [Illustration: APPARITION TO THE SHEPHERDS.] THE CLOUDLESS. No shadows yonder! All light and song; Each day I wonder, And say, How long Shall time me sunder From that dear throng? No weeping yonder? All fled away; While here I wander Each weary day, And sigh as I ponder My long, long stay. No partings yonder! Time and space never Again shall sunder; Hearts cannot sever; Dearer and fonder Hands clasp for ever. None wanting yonder, Bought by the Lamb! All gathered under The evergreen palm; Loud as night's thunder Ascends the glad psalm. _--Horatius Bonar._ COMFORT. Hast thou o'er the clear heaven of thy soul Seen tempests roll? Hast thou watched all the hopes thou wouldst have won Fade, one by one? Wait till the clouds are past, then raise thine eyes To bluer skies. Hast thou gone sadly through a dreary night, And found no light, No guide, no star, to cheer thee through the plain, No friend, save pain? Wait, and thy soul shall see, when most forlorn, Rise a new morn. Hast thou beneath another's stern control Bent thy sad soul, And wasted sacred hopes and precious tears? Yet calm thy fears, For thou canst gain, even from the bitterest part, A stronger heart. Has Fate o'erwhelmed thee with some sudden blow? Let thy tears flow; But know when storms are past, the heavens appear More pure, more clear; And hope, when farthest from their shining rays, For brighter days. Hast thou found life a cheat, and worn in vain Its iron chain? Has thy soul bent beneath earth's heavy bond? Look thou beyond; If life is bitter--_there_ forever shine Hopes more divine. Art thou alone, and does thy soul complain It lives in vain? Not vainly does he live who can endure. O be thou sure, That he who hopes and suffers here, can earn A sure return. Hast thou found naught within thy troubled life Save inward strife? Hast thou found all she promised thee, Deceit, And Hope a cheat? Endure, and there shall dawn within thy breast Eternal rest! _--Adelaide Procter._ "MASTER, SAY ON!" Master, speak! Thy servant heareth, Waiting for Thy gracious word, Longing for Thy voice that cheereth; Master! let it now be heard. I am listening, Lord, for Thee; What hast Thou to say to me? Often through my heart is pealing Other voices, Lord, than Thine, Many an unwilled echo stealing From the walls of this Thy shrine: Let Thy longed-for accents fall; Master, speak! and silence all. Master, speak! I do not doubt Thee, Though so tearfully I plead; Saviour, Shepherd! Oh, without Thee Life would be a blank indeed! But I long for fuller light, Deeper love, and clearer sight. Resting on the 'faithful saying,' Trusting what Thy gospel saith, On Thy written promise staying All my hope in life and death, Yet I long for something more From Thy love's exhaustless store. Speak to me by name, O Master, Let me _know_ it is to me; Speak, that I may follow faster, With a step more firm and free, Where the Shepherd leads the flock, In the shadow of the Rock. Master, speak! I kneel before Thee, Listening, longing, waiting still; Oh, how long shall I implore Thee This petition to fulfil! Hast Thou not one word for me? Must my prayer unanswered be? Master, speak! Though least and lowest Let me not unheard depart; Master, speak! for oh! Thou knowest All the yearning of my heart, Knowest all its truest need; Speak! and make me blest indeed. Master, speak! and make me ready, When Thy voice is truly heard, With obedience glad and steady Still to follow every word. I am listening, Lord, for Thee; Master speak, oh, speak to me! _--Frances Ridley Havergal._ THE LEPER. St. Luke. Chapter xvii. Room for the leper! "Room!" And, as he came, The cry pass'd on--"Room for the leper! Room!" Sunrise was slanting on the city gates Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills The early risen poor were coming in, Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, And all that in a city murmur swells-- Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear, Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase The death-like images of the dark away. "Room for the leper!" And aside they stood-- Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood--all Who met him on his way--and let him pass. And onward through the open gate he came, A leper with the ashes on his brow, Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip A covering, stepping painfully and slow, And with a difficult utterance, like one Whose heart is like an iron nerve put down, Crying, "Unclean! Unclean!" 'Twas now the first Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, Whose shadows lay so still upon his path, Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young, And eminently beautiful, and life Mantled in eloquent fullness on his lip, And sparkled in his glance; and in his mien There was a gracious pride that every eye Follow'd with benisons--and this was he! With the soft airs of summer there had come A torpor on his frame, which not the speed Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs The spirit to its bent, might drive away. The blood beat not as wont within his veins; Dimness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien, With all its loftiness, seem'd struck with eld. Even his voice was changed--a languid moan Taking the place of the clear silver key; And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light And very air were steep'd in sluggishness. He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. Day after day, he lay as if in sleep. His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, Circled with livid purple, cover'd him. And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepen'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, --And Helon was a leper! Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb; And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom:-- Depart! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God! For He has smote thee with His chastening rod; And to the desert-wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free. Depart! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er; And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way: and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by. Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well or river's grassy brink; And pass thou not between The weary traveler and the cooling breeze; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. And now depart! and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. Depart! O leper! and forget not God! And he went forth--alone! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea--he went his way, Sick, and heart-broken, and alone--to die! For God had cursed the leper! It was noon, And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd The loathsome water to his fever'd lips, Praying that he might be so blest--to die! Footsteps approach'd, and, with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip, Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er The leper prostrate form, pronounced his name-- "Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument--most strangely sweet; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse, And rose and stood before Him. Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye As he beheld the stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear,--yet in His mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, A kingly condescension graced His lips, The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. His garb was simple, and His sandals worn; His stature modell'd with a perfect grace; His countenance the impress of a God, Touch'd with the opening innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; His hair unshorn Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He look'd on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart were moved, and stooping down He took a little water in His hand And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worship'd Him. --_N. P. Willis._ THINGS HOPED FOR. These are the crowns that we shall wear, When all thy saints are crowned; These are the palms that we shall bear On yonder holy ground. Far off as yet, reserved in heaven, Above that veiling sky, They sparkle, like the stars of even, To hope's far-piercing eye. These are the robes, unsoiled and white, Which then we shall put on, When, foremost 'mong the sons of light, We sit on yonder throne. That city with the jeweled crest, Like some new-lighted sun; A blaze of burning amethyst-- Ten thousand orbs in one; That is the city of the saints, Where we so soon shall stand, When we shall strike these desert-tents, And quit this desert-sand. These are the everlasting hills, With summits bathed in day: The slopes down which the living rills, Soft-lapsing, take their way. Fair vision! how thy distant gleam Brightens time's saddest hue; Far fairer than the fairest dream, And yet so strangely true! Fair vision! how thou liftest up The drooping brow and eye; With the calm joy of thy sure hope Fixing our souls on high. Thy light makes even the darkest page In memory's scroll grow fair; Blanching the lines which tears and age Had only deepened there. With thee in view, the rugged slope Becomes a level way, Smoothed by the magic of thy hope, And gladdened by thy ray. With thee in view, how poor appear The world's most winning smiles; Vain is the tempter's subtlest snare, And vain hell's varied wiles. Time's glory fades; its beauty now Has ceased to lure or blind; Each gay enchantment here below Has lost its power to bind. Then welcome toil, and care, and pain! And welcome sorrow too! All toil is rest, all grief is gain, With such a prize in view. Come crown and throne, come robe and palm! Burst forth glad stream of peace! Come, holy city of the Lamb! Rise, Sun of Righteousness! When shall the clouds that veil thy rays For ever be withdrawn? Why dost thou tarry, day of days? When shall thy gladness dawn? --_Horatius Bonar._ THE SURE REFUGE. Jesus, my Saviour, look on me! For I am weary and oppressed; I come to cast myself on Thee; Thou art my Rest. Look down on me, for I am weak; I feel the toilsome journey's length; Thine aid omnipotent I seek; Thou art my Strength. I am bewildered on my way; Dark and tempestuous is the night; Oh! shed thou forth some cheering ray; Thou art my Light. I hear the storms around me rise, But when I dread the impending shock, My spirit to her refuge flies; Thou art my Rock. When the accuser flings his darts, I look to Thee--my terrors cease,-- Thy cross a hiding-place imparts; Thou art my Peace. Standing alone on Jordan's brink, In that tremendous, latest strife, Thou wilt not suffer me to sink; Thou art my Life. Thou wilt my every want supply, Even to the end, whate'er befall Through life in death eternally; Thou art my All. --_Unidentified._ UNFRUITFULNESS. My soul! what hast thou done for God? Look o'er thy misspent years and see; Sum up what thou hast done for God, And then what God has done for thee. He made thee, when He might have made A soul that would have loved Him more; He rescued thee from nothingness, And set thee on life's happy shore. He placed an angel at thy side, And strewed joys round thee on thy way; He gave thee rights thou couldst not claim, And life, free life, before thee lay. Had God in heaven no work to do, But miracles of love for thee? No world to rule, no joy in self, And in his own infinity? So must it seem to our blind eyes; He gave His love no Sabbath rest, Still plotting happiness for men, And now designs to make them blest. From out His glorious bosom came His only, His eternal Son; He freed the race of Satan's slaves, And with His blood sin's captives won. The world rose up against his love: New love the vile rebellion met, As though God only looked at sin, Its guilt to pardon and forget. For His Eternal Spirit came, To raise the thankless slaves to sons, And with the sevenfold gifts of love To crown His own elected ones. Men spurned His grace, their lips blasphemed The Love who made Himself their slave; They grieved that blessed Comforter, And turned against Him what He gave. Yet still the sun is fair by day, The moon still beautiful by night; The world goes round, and joy with it, And life, free life, is men's delight. No voice God's wondrous silence breaks; No hand put forth, His anger tells; And He, the Omnipotent and Dread, On high in humblest patience dwells. The Son hath come; and maddened sin The world's Creator crucified; The Spirit comes, and stays, while men, His presence doubt, His gifts deride. And now the Father keeps Himself, In patient and forbearing love, To be His creature's heritage, In that undying life above. O wonderful, O passing thought! The love that God hath had for thee, Spending on thee no less a sum Than the undivided Trinity. Father and Son, and Holy Ghost, Exhausted for a thing like this,-- The world's whole government disposed For one ungrateful creature's bliss. What hast thou done for God, my soul? Look o'er thy misspent years and see; Cry for thy worse than nothingness; Cry for His mercy upon thee. --_F. W. Faber._ Some murmur when their sky is clear, And wholly bright to view, If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue. And some with thankful love are filled, If but one streak of light, One ray of God's good mercy, gild The darkness of their night. In palaces are hearts that ask, In discontent and pride, Why life is such a dreary task, And all good things denied: And hearts in poorest huts admire How love has in their aid (Love that not ever seems to tire) Such rich provision made. --_Richard Chenevix Trench._ IF THOU COULDST KNOW. I think if thou couldst know, O soul that will complain, What lies concealed below Our burden and our pain; How just our anguish brings Nearer those longed-for things We seek for now in vain,-- I think thou wouldst rejoice, and not complain. I think if thou couldst see, With thy dim mortal sight, How meanings, dark to thee, Are shadows hiding light; Truth's efforts crossed and vexed, Life's purpose all perplexed,-- If thou couldst see them right, I think that they would seem all clear, and wise, and bright. And yet thou canst not know, And yet thou canst not see; Wisdom and sight are slow In poor humanity. If thou couldst _trust_, poor soul, In Him who rules the whole, Thou wouldst find peace and rest: Wisdom and sight are well, but Trust is best. --_Adelaide Procter._ COMPENSATION. O the compensating springs! O the balance-wheels of life, Hidden away in the workings under the seeming strife! Slowing the fret and the friction, weighting the whirl and the force, Evolving the truest power from each unconscious source. How shall we gauge the whole, who can only guess a part? How can we read the life, when we cannot spell the heart? How shall we measure another, we who can never know From the juttings above the surface the depth of the vein below? Even our present way is known to ourselves alone, Height and abyss and torrent, flower and thorn and stone; But we gaze on another's path as a far-off mountain scene, Scanning the outlined hills, but never the vales between. How shall we judge their present, we who have never seen That which is past forever, and that which might have been? Measuring by ourselves, unwise indeed are we, Measuring what we _know_ by what we can hardly _see_. Ah! if we knew it all, we should surely understand That the balance of sorrow and joy is held with an even hand, That the scale of success or loss shall never overflow, And that compensation is twined with the lot of high and low. The easy path in the lowland hath little of grand or new, But a toilsome ascent leads on to a wide and glorious view; Peopled and warm is the valley, lonely and chill the height, But the peak that is nearer the storm-cloud is nearer the stars of light. Launch on the foaming stream that bears you along like a dart,-- There is danger of rapid and rock, there is tension of muscle and heart; Glide on the easy current, monotonous, calm, and slow, You are spared the quiver and strain in the safe and quiet flow. O the sweetness that dwells in a harp of many strings, While each, all vocal with love, in tuneful harmony rings! But O, the wail and the discord, when one and another is rent, Tensionless, broken or lost, from the cherished instrument. For rapture of love is linked with the pain or fear of loss, And the hand that takes the crown must ache with many a cross; Yet he who hath never a conflict hath never a victor's palm, And only the toilers know the sweetness of rest and calm. Only between the storms can the Alpine traveler know Transcendent glory of clearness, marvels of gleam and glow; Had he the brightness unbroken of cloudless summer days, This had been dimmed by the dust and veil of a brooding haze. Who would dare the choice, _neither_ or _both_ to know, The finest quiver of joy or the agony-thrill of woe? Never the exquisite pain, then never the exquisite bliss, For the heart that is dull to that can never be strung to this. Great is the peril or toil if the glory or gain be great; Never an earthly gift without responsible weight; Never a treasure without a following shade of care; Never a power without the lurk of a subtle snare. For the swift is not the safe, and the sweet is not the strong; The smooth is not the short, and the keen is not the long; The much is not the most, and the wide is not the deep, And the flow is never a spring, when the ebb is only neap. Then, hush! oh, hush! for the Father knows what thou knowest not, The weed and the thorn and the shadow lurked with the fairest lot; Knows the wisest exemption from many an unseen snare, Knows what will keep thee nearest, knows what thou couldst not bear. Hush! oh, hush! for the Father portioneth as He will, To all His beloved children, and shall they not be still? Is not His will the wisest, is not His choice the best? And in perfect acquiescence is there not perfect rest? Hush! oh, hush! for the Father, whose ways are true and just, Knoweth and careth and loveth, and waits for thy perfect trust; The cup He is slowly filling shall soon be full to the brim, And infinite compensations forever be found in Him. Hush! oh, hush! for the Father hath fullness of joy in store, Treasures of power and wisdom, and pleasures for evermore; Blessing and honor and glory, endless, infinite bliss;-- Child of His love and His choice, oh, canst thou not wait for this? --_Francis Ridley Havergal._ VALIANT FOR THE TRUTH. Fight the good fight; lay hold Upon eternal life; Keep but thy shield, be bold, Stand through the hottest strife; Invincible while in the field, Thou canst not fail, unless thou yield. No force of earth or hell, Though fiends with men unite, Truth's champion can compel, However pressed, to flight; Invincible upon the field, He cannot fall, unless he yield. Apollyon's arm may shower Darts thick as hail, and hide Heaven's face, as in the hour, When Christ on Calvary died; No power of darkness in the field Can tread thee down, unless thou yield. Trust in thy Saviour's might; Yea, till thy latest breath, Fight, and like Him in fight, By dying conquer death; And all-victorious in the field, Then with thy sword, thy spirit yield. Great words are these, and strong; Yet Lord, I look to thee, To whom alone belong Valor and victory. With thee, my Captain in the field, I must prevail, I cannot yield. --_James Montgomery._ ADVENT. The Church has waited long Her absent Lord to see; And still in loneliness she waits, A friendless stranger she. Age after age has gone, Sun after sun has set, And still in weeds of widowhood She weeps a mourner yet. Come, then, Lord Jesus, come! Saint after saint on earth Has lived, and loved, and died; And as they left us one by one, We laid them side by side; We laid them down to sleep, But not in hope forlorn; We laid them but to ripen there, Till the last glorious morn. Come, then, Lord Jesus, come! The serpent's brood increase, The powers of hell grow bold, The conflict thickens, faith is low, And love is waxing cold. How long, O Lord our God, Holy and true, and good, Wilt Thou not judge Thy suffering Church, Her sighs and tears and blood? Come, then, Lord Jesus, come! We long to hear Thy voice, To see Thee face to face, To share Thy crown and glory then, As now we share Thy grace. Should not the loving bride The absent bridegroom mourn? Should she not wear the weeds of grief Until her Lord return? Come, then, Lord Jesus, come! The whole creation groans, And waits to hear that voice, That shall restore her comeliness, And make her wastes rejoice. Come Lord and wipe away The curse, the sin, the stain, And make this blighted world of ours Thine own fair world again. Come, then, Lord Jesus, come! --_Horatius Bonar._ A BETHLEHEM HYMN. "Mundum implens, in præsepio jacens."--AUGUSTINE. He has come! the Christ of God;-- Left for us his glad abode Stooping from his throne of bliss, To this darksome wilderness. He has come! the Prince of Peace;-- Come to bid our sorrows cease; Come to scatter, with his light, All the shadows of our night. He the mighty King has come! Making this poor earth his home; Come to bear sin's sad load;-- Son of David, Son of God! He has come, whose name of grace Speaks deliverance to our race; Left for us his glad abode; Son of Mary, Son of God! Unto us a child is born! Ne'er has earth beheld a morn Among all the morns of time, Half so glorious in its prime. Unto us a Son is given! He has come from God's own heaven; Bringing with Him from above, Holy peace and holy love. --_Horatius Bonar._ [Illustration: CHRISTMAS CHIMES.] A DESIRE. O, to have dwelt in Bethlehem When the star of the Lord shone bright! To have sheltered the holy wanderers On that blessèd Christmas night; To have kissed the tender wayworn feet Of the mother undefiled, And, with reverent wonder and deep delight, To have tended the Holy Child! Hush! such a glory was not for thee; But that care may still be thine; For are there not little ones still to aid For the sake of the Child divine? Are there no wandering Pilgrims now, To thy heart and thy home to take? And are there no mothers whose weary hearts You can comfort for Mary's sake? O to have knelt at Jesus' feet, And to have learned his heavenly lore! To have listened the gentle lessons He taught On mountain, and sea, and shore! While the rich and the mighty knew Him not To have meekly done His will:-- Hush! for the worldly reject Him yet, You can serve and love Him still. Time cannot silence His mighty words, And though ages have fled away, His gentle accents of love divine Speak to your soul to-day. O to have solaced that weeping one Whom the righteous dare despise! To have tenderly bound up her scattered hair, And have dried her tearful eyes! Hush! there are broken hearts to soothe, And penitent tears to dry, While Magdalen prays for you and them, From her home in the starry sky. O to have followed the mournful way Of those faithful few forlorn! And grace, beyond even an angel's hope, The Cross for our Lord have borne! To have shared in his tender mother's grief, To have wept at Mary's side, To have lived as a child in her home, and then In her loving care have died! Hush! and with reverent sorrow still, Mary's great anguish share; And learn, for the sake of her son divine, Thy cross, like His, to bear. The sorrows that weigh on thy soul unite With those which thy Lord has borne, And Mary will comfort thy dying hour, Nor leave thy soul forlorn. O to have seen what we now adore, And, though veiled to faithless sight, To have known, in the form that Jesus wore, The Lord of Life and Light! Hush! for He dwells among us still, And a grace can yet be thine, Which the scoffer and doubter can never know,-- The Presence of the Divine. Jesus is with his children yet, For His word can never deceive; Go where His lowly Altars rise And worship and believe. --_Adelaide Procter._ It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: "Peace to the earth, good-will to man, From heaven's all-gracious King:" The earth in solemn stillness lay, To hear the angels sing. Still through the cloven skies they come, With peaceful wings unfurled; And still celestial music floats O'er all the weary world; Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on heavenly wing, And ever o'er its Babel sounds, The blessed angels sing. Oh ye, beneath life's crushing load, Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way, With painful steps and slow, Look up! for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing: Oh rest beside the weary road, And hear the angels sing! For lo, the days are hastening on, By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold! When peace shall over all the earth Its final splendors fling, And the whole world send back the song Which now the angels sing! --_Sears._ Hail to the Lord's Anointed, Great David's greater Son; Hail, in the time appointed, His reign on earth begun! He comes to break oppression, To set the captive free, To take away transgression, And rule in equity. He comes with succor speedy, To those who suffer wrong; To help the poor and needy, And bid the weak be strong; To give them songs for sighing, Their darkness turn to light, Whose souls, condemned and dying, Were precious in His sight. He shall descend like showers Upon the fruitful earth; And love and joy, like flowers, Spring in His path to birth; Before Him, on the mountains, Shall peace, the herald, go; And righteousness, in fountains, From hill to valley flow. Arabia's desert-ranger To Him shall bow the knee, The Ethiopian stranger His glory come to see; With offerings of devotion, Ships from the Isles shall meet, To pour the wealth of ocean In tribute at His feet. Kings shall fall down before Him, And gold and incense bring, All nations shall adore Him, His praise all people sing: For He shall have dominion O'er river, sea, and shore, Far as the eagle's pinion Or dove's light wing can soar. To Him shall prayer unceasing, And daily vows ascend; His kingdom, still increasing, A kingdom without end: The tide of time shall never His covenant remove; His name shall stand forever; That name to us is Love. --_Montgomery._ I think, when I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus was here among men, How He called little children as lambs to his fold, I should like to have been with them then. I wish that his hands had been placed on my head, That his arms had been thrown around me, And that I might have seen his kind look, when He said, "Let the little ones come unto me." Yet still to his footstool in prayer I may go, And ask for a share in his love; And if I thus earnestly seek him below, I shall see Him and hear Him above-- In that beautiful place He has gone to prepare, For all who are washed and forgiv'n; And many dear children are gathering there, "For of such is the kingdom of heav'n." I long for the joys of that glorious time, The sweetest, and brightest, and best, When the dear little children of every clime, Shall crowd to his arms and be blest. --_Jemima Luke._ My Jesus, as Thou wilt; Oh, may Thy will be mine; Into Thy hand of love I would my all resign: Thro' sorrow or thro' joy, Conduct me as Thine own, And help me still to say, My Lord, Thy will be done. My Jesus, as Thou wilt; Tho' seen thro' many a tear, Let not my star of hope Grow dim or disappear: Since Thou on earth hast wept, And sorrowed oft alone, If I must weep with Thee, My Lord, Thy will be done. My Jesus as Thou wilt; All shall be well for me; Each changing future scene I gladly trust with Thee: Straight to my home above I travel calmly on, And sing in life or death,-- My Lord, Thy will be done. --_Unidentified._ How beauteous were the marks divine, That in Thy meekness used to shine, That lit Thy lonely pathway trod In wondrous love, O Son of God! Oh, who like Thee, so calm, so bright, So pure, so made to live in light? Oh, who like Thee did ever go So patient through a world of woe? Oh, who like Thee, so humbly bore The scorn, the scoffs of men, before? So meek, forgiving, god-like, high, So glorious in humility? The bending angels stooped to see The lisping infant clasp Thy knee, And smile as in a father's eye, Upon Thy mild divinity. And death, which sets the prisoner free, Was pang and scoff, and scorn to thee; Yet love through all Thy torture glowed, And mercy with Thy life-blood flowed. Oh, in Thy light be mine to go, Illuming all my way of woe; And give me ever on the road To trace Thy footsteps, Son of God! --_A. C. Coxe._ O sacred Head, now wounded With grief and shame weigh'd down, Now scornfully surrounded With thorns, thine only crown; O sacred Head, what glory, What bliss, till now, was thine! Yet, though despis'd and gory, I joy to call thee mine. What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered Was all for sinners' gain; Mine, mine was the transgression, But thine the deadly pain: Lo, here I fall, my Saviour! 'Tis I deserve Thy place; Look on me with Thy favor, Vouchsafe to me Thy grace. What language shall I borrow To thank Thee, dearest Friend; For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end? O make me thine forever; And should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never, Outlive my love to Thee! Be near me when I'm dying, Oh show Thy cross to me! And for my succor flying, Come, Lord, and set me free! These eyes, new faith receiving, From Jesus shall not move; For he who dies believing, Dies safely, through Thy love. --_Bernard._ Heart of stone, relent, relent! Break, by Jesus' cross subdued! See His body mangled, rent, Covered with a gore of blood; Sinful soul, what hast thou done? Crucified the Incarnate Son! Yes, thy sins have done the deed, Driven the nails that fixed Him there, Crowned with thorns His sacred head, Pierced Him with the cruel spear, Made his soul a sacrifice, While for sinful man He dies! Wilt thou let Him bleed in vain? Still to death thy Lord pursue? Open all his wounds again, And the shameful cross renew? No; with all my sins I'll part; Break, oh break, my bleeding heart! --_C. Wesley._ "BY THY CROSS AND PASSION." "He hath given us rest by His sorrow, and life by His death."--JOHN BUNYAN. What hast Thou done for me, O mighty Friend, Who lovest to the end! Reveal Thyself, that I may now behold Thy love unknown, untold, Bearing the curse, and made a curse for me, That blessed and made a blessing I might be. Oh, Thou wast crowned with thorns, that I might wear A crown of glory fair; "Exceeding sorrowful," that I might be Exceeding glad in Thee; "Rejected and despised," that I might stand Accepted and complete on Thy right hand. Wounded for my transgressions, stricken sore, That I might "sin no more:" Weak, that I might be always strong in Thee; Bound, that I might be free; Acquaint with grief, that I might only know Fulness of joy in everlasting flow. Thine was the chastisement, with no release, That mine might be the peace; The bruising and the cruel stripes were thine, That healing might be mine; Thine was the sentence and the condemnation, Mine the acquittal and the full salvation. For Thee revilings, and a mocking throng, For me the angel-song; For Thee the frown, the hiding of God's face, For me His smile of grace; Sorrows of hell and bitterest death for Thee, And heaven and everlasting life for me. Thy cross and passion, and Thy precious death, While I have mortal breath, Shall be my spring of love and work and praise, The life of all my days; Till all this mystery of love supreme Be solved in glory--glory's endless theme! --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ ABIDE IN HIM. "Tecum volo vulnerari Te libenter amplexari In cruce desidero." OLD HYMN. Cling to the Crucified! His death is life to thee,-- Life for eternity. His pains thy pardon seal; His stripes thy bruises heal; His cross proclaims thy peace, Bids every sorrow cease. His blood is all to thee, It purges thee from sin; It sets thy spirit free, It keeps thy conscience clean. Cling to the Crucified! Cling to the Crucified! His is a heart of love, Full as the hearts above; Its depths of sympathy Are all awake for thee: His countenance is light, Even to the darkest night. That love shall never change-- That light shall ne'er grow dim; Charge thou thy faithless heart To find its all in him. Cling to the Crucified! --_Horatius Bonar._ [Illustration: THE MAGI ON THE WAY TO BETHLEHEM.] Rejoice, all ye believers, And let your lights appear; The evening is advancing, And darker night is near; The Bridegroom is arising, And soon He draweth nigh: Up! pray, and watch, and wrestle! At midnight comes the cry. The watchers on the mountain Proclaim the Bridegroom near; Go meet Him as He cometh, With hallelujahs clear: The marriage feast is waiting, The gates wide-open stand; Up, up, ye heirs of glory! The Bridegroom is at hand. Our hope and expectation, O Jesus, now appear; Arise, thou Sun so longed for O'er this benighted sphere! With heart and hands uplifted, We plead, O Lord, to see The day of earth's redemption, That brings us unto Thee. --_Laurenti._ JOINED TO CHRIST. Joined to Christ in mystic union, We Thy members, Thou our Head, Sealed by deep and true communion, Risen with Thee, who once were dead-- Saviour, we would humbly claim All the power of this Thy name. Instant sympathy to brighten All their weakness and their woe, Guiding grace their way to lighten, Shall Thy loving members know; All their sorrows Thou dost bear, All Thy gladness they shall share. Make Thy members every hour For Thy blessed service meet; Earnest tongues, and arms of power, Skilful hands, and hastening feet, Ever ready to fulfil All Thy word and all Thy will. Everlasting life Thou givest Everlasting love to see; They shall live because Thou livest, And their life is hid with Thee. Safe Thy members shall be found, When their glorious Head is crowned! --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ "_Till He come!_"--Oh, let the words Linger on the trembling chords, Let the "little while" between In their golden light be seen: Let us think how heaven and home Lie beyond that, "_Till He come!_" When the weary ones we love Enter on that rest above, When their words of love and cheer Fall no longer on our ear, Hush! be ev'ry murmur dumb, It is only "_Till He come!_" Clouds and darkness round us press; Would we have one sorrow less? All the sharpness of the cross, All that tells the world is loss, Death, and darkness, and the tomb, Pain us only "_Till He come!_" See, the feast of love is spread, Drink the wine and eat the bread; Sweet memorials, till the Lord Call us round His heavenly board, Some from earth, from glory some, Severed only "_Till He come!_" --_E. W. Bickersteth._ "Forever with the Lord!" So, Jesus, let it be; Life from the dead is in that word; 'Tis immortality. Here, in the body pent, Absent from thee I roam: Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home. My father's house on high, Home of my soul! how near, At times, to faith's aspiring eye, Thy golden gates appear! "Forever with the Lord!" Father, if 'tis thy will, The promise of thy gracious word Ev'n here to me fulfill. --_James Montgomery._ THE MEETING-PLACE. Where the faded flower shall freshen,-- Freshen never more to fade; Where the shaded sky shall brighten,-- Brighten never more to shade: Where the sun-blaze never scorches; Where the star-beams cease to chill; Where no tempest stirs the echoes Of the wood, or wave, or hill: Where the morn shall wake in gladness, And the moon the joy prolong, Where the daylight dies in fragrance, 'Mid the burst of holy song: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest! Where no shadow shall bewilder, Where life's vain parade is o'er, Where the sleep of sin is broken And the dreamer dreams no more: Where the bond is never severed;-- Partings, claspings, sob and moan, Midnight waking, twilight weeping, Heavy noontide,--all are done: Where the child has found its mother, Where the mother finds the child, Where dear families are gathered, That were scattered on the wild; Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest! Where the hidden wound is healed, Where the blighted light re-blooms, Where the smitten heart the freshness Of its buoyant youth resumes: Where the love that here we lavish On the withering leaves of time, Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on In an ever spring-bright clime: Where we find the joy of loving, As we never loved before,-- Loving on, unchilled, unhindered, Loving once and evermore: Brother, we shall meet and rest, 'Mid the holy and the blest! Where a blasted world shall brighten Underneath a bluer sphere, And a softer, gentler sunshine Sheds its healing splendor here: Where earth's barren vales shall blossom, Putting on their robe of green, And a purer, fairer Eden Be where only wastes have been: Where a King in kingly glory, Such as earth has never known, Shall assume the righteous sceptre, Claim and wear the holy crown: Brother, we shall meet and rest, 'Mid the holy and the blest. --_Horatius Bonar._ A LITTLE WHILE. Beyond the smiling and the weeping I shall be soon; Beyond the waking and the sleeping, Beyond the sowing and the reaping, I shall be soon. Love, rest and home! Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come. Beyond the blooming and the fading, I shall be soon; Beyond the shining and the shading, Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come. Beyond the rising and the setting I shall be soon; Beyond the calming and the fretting, Beyond remembering and forgetting, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come. Beyond the gathering and the strowing I shall be soon; Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, Beyond the coming and the going, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come. Beyond the parting and the meeting I shall be soon. Beyond the farewell and the greeting, Beyond this pulse's fever beating, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come. Beyond the frost-chain and the fever I shall be soon; Beyond the rock-waste and the river, Beyond the ever and the never, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come. --_Horatius Bonar._ ASCENSION DAY. Soft cloud, that while the breeze of May Chants her glad matins in the leafy arch, Draw'st thy bright veil across the heavenly way, Meet pavement for an angel's glorious march. My soul is envious of mine eye, That it should soar and glide with thee so fast The while my groveling thoughts half buried lie, Or lawless roam around this earthly waste. Chains of my heart, avaunt I say-- I will arise, and in the strength of love Pursue the bright track ere it fade away, My Savior's pathway to His home above. Sure, when I reach the point where earth Melts into nothing from the uncumber'd sight, Heaven will o'ercome th' attraction of my birth, And I shall sink in yonder sea of light: Till resting by th' incarnate Lord Once bleeding, now triumphant for my sake, I mark Him, how by seraph hosts ador'd, He to earth's lowest cares is still awake. The sun and every vassal star, All space beyond the soar of angel wings, Wait on His word: and yet He stays His car For every sigh a contrite suppliant brings. He listens to the silent tear For all the anthems of the boundless sky-- And shall our dreams of music bar our ear To His soul-piercing voice forever nigh? Nay, gracious Saviour--but as now Our thoughts have trac'd Thee to Thy glory-throne, To help us evermore with Thee to bow Where human sorrow breathes her lowly moan. We must not stand to gaze too long, Though on unfolding Heaven our gaze we bend, Where lost behind the bright angelic throng We see Christ's entering triumph slow ascend. No fear but we shall soon behold, Faster than now it fades, that gleam revive, When issuing from His cloud of fiery gold Our wasted frames feel the true sun, and live. Then shall we see Thee as Thou art, Forever fix'd in no unfruitful gaze, But such as lifts the new-created heart, Age after age, in worthier love and praise. --_John Keble._ THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. Genesis, Chapter xxii. Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds Are putting on their gold and violet, To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. Sleep is upon the waters and the wind; And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms Of crimson roses in a holy rest. How hallow'd is the hour of morning! meet-- Aye, beautifully meet--for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient; And at that hour the awful majesty Of man who talketh often with his God, Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, And boweth to his staff as at the hour Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun-- He looketh at its pencill'd messengers, Coming in golden raiment, as if all Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. Ah, he is waiting till it herald in The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son! Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watch'd their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, E'en in his fair-hair'd beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child-- The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade In straight and fair proportions, as of one Whose years were freshly number'd. He stood up Tall in his vigorous strength; and, like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncover'd; and his face, Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief Nerv'd to a solemn duty, now stood forth Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. But the young boy--he of the laughing eye And ruby lip--the pride of life was on him. He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the aroma of the spicy trees, And all that giveth the delicious East Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts With love and beauty. Every thing he met, Buoyant, or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine, To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding place; And he would crouch till the old man came by, Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully, To see if he had made his father smile. The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, Firm and unfaltering; turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow, And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early morning; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then to steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence. It was noon-- And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself, And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. He could not look upon his son, and pray; But, with his hand upon the clustering curls Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made For the stern conflict. In a mother's love There is more tenderness; the thousand chords, Woven with every fibre of her heart, Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; But love in man is one deep principle, Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stood a moment--and a deep, quick flush Pass'd o'er his countenance; and then he nerv'd His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke-- "Isaac! my only son!"--The boy look'd up And Abraham turn'd his face away, and wept. "Where is the lamb, my father?"--Oh the tones, The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!-- How it doth agonize at such an hour!-- It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son, And lifted up his arm, and called on God-- And lo! God's angel stayed him--and he fell Upon his face and wept. --_N. P. Willis._ A SOLITARY WAY. There is a mystery in human hearts, And though we be encircled by a host Of those who love us well, and are beloved, To every one of us, from time to time, There comes a sense of utter loneliness. Our dearest friend is "stranger" to our joy, And cannot realize our bitterness. "There is not one who really understands, Not one to enter into _all_ I feel;" Such is the cry of each of us in turn, We wander in a "solitary way," No matter what or where our lot may be; Each heart, mysterious even to itself, Must live its inner life in solitude. And would you know the reason why this is? It is because the Lord desires our love. In every heart he wishes to be _first_. He therefore keeps the secret key Himself, To open _all_ its chambers, and to bless With _perfect_ sympathy and holy peace, Each solitary soul which comes to _Him_. So when we feel this loneliness it is The voice of Jesus saying, "Come to Me;" And every time we are "not understood," It is a call to us to come _again_: For Christ alone can satisfy the soul, And those who walk with him from day to day Can never have a "solitary way." And when beneath some heavy cross you faint, And say, "I cannot bear this load alone," You say the truth. Christ made it purposely So heavy that you must return to Him. The bitter grief, which "no one understands," Conveys a secret message from the King, Entreating you to come to Him _again_. The Man of Sorrows understands it well. In _all_ points tempted He can feel with you. You cannot come too often, or too near; The Son of God is infinite in grace. His presence satisfies the longing soul, And those who walk with Him from day to day Can never have a "solitary way." --_Unidentified._ THE CHILD'S WELCOME INTO HEAVEN. The golden gates were open And heavenly seraphs smiled And with their tuneful harpstrings Welcomed the little child. They shouted "high and holy, A child hath entered in, And safe from all temptation A soul is sealed from sin." They led him through the golden street On to the King of kings, And a glory fell upon him From the rustling of their wings. The Saviour smiled upon him As none on earth had smiled, And Heaven's great glory shone around The little earth-born child. On earth they missed the little one, They sighed and wept and sighed, And wondered if another such As theirs, had ever died. Oh! had they seen through those high gates, The welcome to him given, They never would have wished their child Back from his home in Heaven. --_Unidentified._ "NOW." A night of danger on the sea, Of sleeplessness and fear! Wave after wave comes thundering Against the strong stone pier; Each with a terrible recoil, And a grim and gathering might, As blast on blast comes howling past, Each wild gust wilder than the last, All through that awful night. Well for the ships in harbor now, Which caught the morning tide; With cable out and anchor sure, How peacefully they ride! Well for the barque that came at eve, Though watched with breathless fear; 'Twas sheltered first ere the tempest burst, 'Tis safe inside the pier! But see a faint and fitful light Out in the howling sea! A vessel seeks the harbor mouth, As in death agony. Though strong stone arms are open wide, She misses the only way; Alas! too late, the storm drives fast, The mighty waves they sweep her past, And against that sheltering pier they cast Their wrecked and shattered prey. The billows drive the barque along, Over the deck they dash, Where sailors five are clinging fast To broken stump of sail-less mast, Waiting the final crash. Is it too late? Can succor yet Those drowning men now reach! Life is so near--the firm-built pier Must be the death of each. The daring hearts--the sturdy arms, The swift and steady feet, They rush into a yawning grave, In strong recoil of mightiest wave, Treading most awful path to save, As they tread a homeward street. Over the boulders 'mid foam they rush Into the ghastly hollow; They fling the rope to the breaking wreck; The aim is sure, and it strikes the deck, The shouts of quick hope follow. Reached--not saved! there is more to do, A trumpet note is heard; Over the rage,--over the roar Of thundering billows on the shore, Rings out the guiding word. There is one chance, and only one. All can be saved, but how? "The rope hold fast, but quit the mast," The trumpet signals "Now!" There is a moment when the sea Allays its furious strength; A shuddering pause with sudden whirl, Gathering force again to hurl Billow on billow, whirl on whirl; That moment comes at length: With single shout the "Now" peals out. The answering leap is made. Well for the simple hearts that just Loosing the mast with fearless trust, The strange command obeyed! The rope is good, the stout arms pull Ere the storm-lull is o'er; 'Tis but a swift and blinding sweep Through waters wild and dark and deep-- The men are safe on shore-- Safe! though the fiend-like blast pursue; Safe! though the waves dash high; But the ringing cheer that rises clear Is checked with a sudden cry:-- "There are but four upon the shore, And five were on the deck!" And strained eyes that pierce the gloom Still trace, swift drifting on to doom, One man upon the wreck. Again they chase in sternest race The far re-coiling wave; The rope is cast, the tossing mark It reaches not, the windy dark Hides him they strive to save. They rush again, again they fail, Again, and yet again: The storm yells back defiance loud, The breakers rear a rampart proud, And roar, "In vain, in vain!" Then a giant wave takes up the wreck And bears it on its crest;-- One moment it hung quivering there In horrible arrest. The lonely man on vengeful sea A lightning flash uplit, Still clinging fast to broken mast He had not dared to quit. Then horror of great darkness fell, While eyes flashed inward fire; And over all the roar and dash, Through that great blackness came a crash, A token sure and dire. The wave had burst upon the pier, The wreck was scattered wide; Another "Now" would never reach The corpse that lay upon the beach With the receding tide. God's "Now" is sounding in your ears, Oh, let it reach your heart! Not only from your sinfulness He bids you part; Your righteousness as filthy rags Must all relinquished be, And only Jesus' precious death Must be your plea. _Now_ trust the one provided rope, Now quit the broken mast, Before the hope of safety be Forever past. Fear not to trust His simple word, So sweet, so tried, so true, And you are safe for evermore, Yes,--even you! --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ OCEAN TEACHINGS. "This great and wide sea."--PSALM civ. 25. That rising storm! It has awakened me; My slumbering spirit starts to life anew; That blinding spray-drift, how it falls upon me, As on the weary flower the freshening dew. That rugged rock-fringe that girds in the ocean, And calls the foam from its translucent blue, It seems to pour strange strength into my spirit,-- Strength for endurance, strength for conflict too. And these bright ocean-birds, these billow-rangers, The snowy-breasted,--each a winged wave-- They tell me how to joy in storm and dangers, When surges whiten, or when whirlwinds rave. And these green-stretching fields, these peaceful hollows, That hear the tempest, but take no alarm, Has not their placid verdue sweetly taught me The peace within when all without is storm? And thou keen sun-flash, through the cloud-wreath bursting, Silvering the sea, the sward, the rock, the foam, What light within me has thy pure gleam kindled? 'Tis from the land of light that thou art come. And of the time how blithely art thou telling, When cloud and change and tempest shall take wing; Each beam of thine prophetic of the glory, Creation's daybreak, earth's long-promised spring. Even thus it is, my God me daily teacheth Sweet knowledge out of all I hear and see; Each object has a heavenly voice within it, Each scene, however troubled, speaks to me. For all upon this earth is broken beauty, Yet out of all what strange, deep lessons rise? Each hour is giving out its heaven-sent wisdom, A message from the sea, the shore, the skies. --_Horatius Bonar._ INCOMPLETENESS. Nothing resting in its own completeness Can have worth or beauty: but alone Because it leads and tends to further sweetness, Fuller, higher, deeper than its own. Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning, Gracious though it be, of her blue hours; But is hidden in her tender leaning To the Summer's richer wealth of flowers. Dawn is fair, because the mists fade slowly Into day, which floods the world with light; Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy Just because it ends in starry Night. Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow From Strife, that in a far-off future lies; And angel glances (veiled now by Life's sorrow) Draw our hearts to some belovèd eyes. Life is only bright when it proceedeth Towards a truer, deeper Life above; Human Love is sweetest when it leadeth To a more divine and perfect Love. Learn the mystery of Progression duly: Do not call each glorious change, Decay; But know we only hold our treasures truly, When it seems as if they passed away. Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness; In that want their beauty lies: they roll Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness, Bearing onward man's reluctant soul. --_Adelaide Procter._ NOTHING TO DO. "Nothing to do" in this world of ours, Where weeds spring up with the fairest flowers, Where smiles have only a fitful play, Where hearts are breaking every day? "Nothing to do?" thou Christian soul, Wrapping thee round in thy selfish stole, Off with the garments of sloth and sin; Christ thy Lord hath a kingdom to win. "Nothing to do?" there are prayers to lay On the altar of incense day by day; There are foes to meet within and without; There is error to conquer, strong and stout. "Nothing to do?" there are minds to teach The simplest forms of Christian speech; There are hearts to lure with loving wile From the grimmest haunts of sin's defile. "Nothing to do?" there are lambs to feed, The precious hope of the Church's need; Strength to be borne to the weak and faint, Vigils to keep with the doubting saint. "Nothing to do?" there are heights to attain, Where Christ is transfigured yet again, Where earth will fade in the vision sweet, And the soul press on with wingèd feet. "Nothing to do?" and thy Saviour said, "Follow thou me in the path I tread." Lord, lend thy help the journey through, Lest, faint, we cry, "So much to do!" --_Unidentified._ When death is drawing near, And thy heart shrinks in fear, And thy limbs fail, Then raise thy hands and pray To Him who smooths the way Through the dark vale. Seest thou the eastern dawn? Hear'st thou, in the red morn, The angels' song? Oh! lift thy drooping head Thou, who in gloom and dread Hast lain so long. Death comes to set thee free, Oh! meet him cheerily, As thy true friend; And all thy fears shall cease, And in eternal peace, Thy penance end. --_From_ "_Sintram._" IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. It is not death to die-- To leave this weary road, And, 'mid the brotherhood on high, To be at home with God. It is not death to close The eye long dimmed by tears, And wake, in glorious repose To spend eternal years. It is not death to bear The wrench that sets us free From dungeon chain,--to breathe the air Of boundless liberty. It is not death to fling Aside this sinful dust, And rise, on strong exulting wing, To live among the just. Jesus, thou Prince of life! Thy chosen cannot die; Like thee, they conquer in the strife, To reign with thee on high. --_Bethune._ RUGBY CHAPEL. NOVEMBER, 1857. Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The field Strewn with its dark yellow drifts Of withered leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent; hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play! The lights come out in the street, In the schoolroom windows; but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid. There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening. But ah! That word _gloom_ to my mind Brings thee back in the light Of thy radiant vigor again. In the gloom of November we passed Days not dark at thy side; Seasons impaired not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. Such thou wast! and I stand In the autumn evening, and think Of bygone autumns with thee. Fifteen years have gone round Since thou arosest to tread, In the summer-morning, the road Of death, at a call unforeseen, Sudden. For fifteen years, We who till then in thy shade Rested as under the boughs Of a mighty oak, have endured Sunshine and rain as we might, Bare, unshaded, alone, Lacking the shelter of thee. O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain! Somewhere, surely, afar, In the sounding labor-house vast Of being, is practiced that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm! Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, Still thou performest the word Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, Prompt, unwearied, as here. Still thou upraisest with zeal The humble good from the ground, Sternly repressest the bad; Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse Those who with half-opened eyes Tread the border-land dim 'Twixt vice and virtue reviv'st, Succorest. This was thy work, This was the life upon earth. What is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth? Most men eddy about Here and there, eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurled in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they die,-- Perish; and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves, In the moonlit solitudes mild Of the midmost ocean, have swelled, Foamed for a moment, and gone. And there are some whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent, Not without aim to go round In an eddy of purposeless dust, Effort unmeaning and vain. Ah yes! some of us strive Not without action to die Fruitless, but something to snatch From dull oblivion, nor all Glut the devouring grave. We, we have chosen our path,-- Path to a clear-purposed goal, Path of advance; but it leads A long, steep journey, through sunk Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. Cheerful, with friends, we set forth; Then, on the height, comes the storm, Thunder crashes from rock To rock; the cataracts reply; Lightnings dazzle our eyes; Roaring torrents have breached The track; the stream-bed descends In the place where the wayfarer once Planted his footsteps; the spray Boils o'er its borders; aloft, The unseen snow-beds dislodge Their hanging ruin. Alas! Havoc is made in our train! Friends who set forth at our side Falter, are lost in the storm. We, we only are left! With frowning foreheads, with lips Sternly compressed, we strain on, On; and at nightfall at last Come to the end of our way, To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks; Where the gaunt and taciturn host Stands on the threshold, the wind Shaking his thin white hairs, Holds his lantern to scan Our storm-beat figures, and asks,-- Whom in our party we bring? Whom we have left in the snow? Sadly we answer, We bring Only ourselves! we lost Sight of the rest in the storm. Hardly ourselves we fought through, Stripped, without friends, as we are. Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side. But thou wouldst not _alone_ Be saved, my father! _alone_ Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing: to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honored and blest By former ages, who else-- Such, so soulless, so poor, Is the race of men whom I see-- Seemed but a dream of the heart, Seemed but a cry of desire. Yes! I believed that there lived Others like thee in the past, Not like the men of the crowd Who all round me to-day Bluster or cringe, and make life Hideous and arid and vile; But souls tempered with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good, Helpers and friends of mankind. Servants of God!--or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost,-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted and fallen and died. See! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line, Where are they tending? A God Marshalled them, gave them their goal. Ah, but the way is so long! Years they have been in the wild: Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks, Rising all around, overawe; Factions divide them; their host Threatens to break, to dissolve. Ah! keep them combined! Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive; Sole they shall stray; on the rocks Batter forever in vain, Die one by one in the waste. Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye like angels appear, Radiant with ardor divine. Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave. Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as you go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, 'Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God. --_Matthew Arnold._ THE RIGHT MUST WIN. Oh, it is hard to work for God, To rise and take his part Upon this battle-field of earth, And not sometimes lose heart! He hides himself so wondrously, As though there were no God; He is least seen when all the powers Of ill are most abroad; Or he deserts us in the hour The fight is all but lost; And seems to leave us to ourselves Just when we need him most. Yes, there is less to try our faith, In our mysterious creed, Than in the godless look of earth, In these our hours of need. Ill masters good; good seems to change To ill with greatest ease; And, worst of all, the good with good Is at cross purposes. It is not so, but so it looks; And we lose courage then; And doubts will come if God hath kept His promises to men. Ah! God is other than we think; His ways are far above, Far beyond reason's height, and reached Only by childlike love. The look, the fashion of God's ways Love's life long study are; She can be bold, and guess, and act, When reason would not dare, She has a prudence of her own; Her step is firm and free; Yet there is cautious science, too, In her simplicity. Workmen of God! Oh lose not heart, But learn what God is like; And in the darkest battle field Thou shalt know where to strike. Thrice blest is he to whom is given The instinct that can tell That God is on the field when He Is most invisible. Blest too is he who can divine Where real right doth lie, And dares to take the side that seems Wrong to man's blindfold eye. Then learn to scorn the praise of men, And learn to lose with God; For Jesus won the world through shame, And beckons thee His road. God's glory is a wondrous thing, Most strange in all its ways, And, of all things on earth, least like What men agree to praise. As he can endless glory weave From what men reckon shame, In His own world He is content To play a losing game. Muse on His justice, downcast some! Muse and take better heart; Back with thine angel to the field, And bravely do thy part. God's justice is a bed, where we Our anxious hearts may lay, And, weary with ourselves, may sleep Our discontent away. But right is right, since God is God; And right the day must win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin! --_F. W. Faber._ THE SUBSTITUTE. "Jesu, plena caritate Manus tuæ perfortæ Laxent mea crimina; Latus tuum lanceatum, Caput spinis coronatum, Hæc sint medicamina"--OLD HYMN. I lay my sins on Jesus, The spotless Lamb of God; He bears them all and free us From the accursed load. I bring my guilt to Jesus, To wash my crimson stains White in his blood most precious, Till not a stain remains. I lay my wants on Jesus; All fullness dwells in Him. He heals all my diseases, He doth my soul redeem. I lay my griefs on Jesus, My burdens and my cares; He from them all releases, He all my sorrows shares. I rest my soul on Jesus, This weary soul of mine; His right hand me embraces, I on his breast recline. I love the name of Jesus, Immanuel, Christ, the Lord; Like fragrance on the breezes, His name abroad is poured. I long to be like Jesus, Meek, loving, lowly, mild, I long to be like Jesus, The Father's holy child. I long to be with Jesus Amid the heavenly throng, To sing with saints his praises, To learn the angel's song. --_Horatius Bonar._ JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. Judges. Chapter xi. She stood before her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statue, and the wind, Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck, Just where the cheek was melting to its curve With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, Was shaded, as if light had fallen off, Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, To meet the arching of her queenly neck. Her countenance was radiant with love. She look'd like one to die for it--a being Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of rich and deep affections. I have thought A brother's and a sister's love were much; I know a brother's is--for I have been A sister's idol--and I know how full The heart may be of tenderness to her! But the affection of a delicate child For a fond father, gushing, as it does, With the sweet springs of life, and pouring on Through all earth's changes, like a river's course-- Chasten'd with reverence, and made more pure By the world's discipline of light and shade-- 'Tis deeper--holier. The wind bore on The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the ear at intervals; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come, With blood and splendor, revelry and woe. The stately horse treads proudly--he hath trod The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels Of warriors roll magnificently on-- Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. _Man_ is there-- Majestic, lordly man--with his sublime And elevated brow, and godlike frame; Lifting his crest in triumph--for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set, And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, But free as India's leopard; and his mail, Whose _shekels_ none in Israel might bear, Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, Might quell the lion. He led on, but thoughts Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. He trod less firmly; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near; And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs Before his tent were motionless. The leaves Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye, Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one, The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things, stole up, Like the recover'd passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Of light to meet him. Oh how beautiful!-- Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem-- And her luxuriant hair!--'twas like the sweep Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still, As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw Her arms about her neck--he heeded not. She call'd him "Father"--but he answer'd not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands. And spoke the name of God, in agony. She knew that he was stricken, then, and rush'd Again into his arms; and, with a flood Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer That he would breathe his agony in words. He told her--and a momentary flush Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well-- And she would die. * * * * * The sun had well nigh set. The fire was on the altar; and the priest Of the High God was there. A pallid man Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven, As if he would have pray'd, but had no words-- And she who was to die, the calmest one In Israel at that hour, stood up alone, And waited for the sun to set. Her face Was pale, but very beautiful--her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Was deeper; but her countenance was like The majesty of angels. The sun set-- And she was dead--but not by violence. --_N. P. Willis._ Lord, many times I am aweary quite Of mine own self, my sin, my vanity-- Yet be not Thou, or I am lost outright, Weary of me. And hate against myself I often bear, And enter with myself in fierce debate: Take Thou my part against myself, nor share In that just hate! Best friends might loathe us, if what things perverse We know of our own selves, they also knew: Lord, Holy One! if Thou who knowest worse Shouldst loathe us too! --_Richard Chenevix Trench._ CLEANSING FIRES. Let thy gold be cast in the furnace, Thy red gold, precious and bright; Do not fear the hungry fire, With its caverns of burning light; And thy gold shall return more precious, Free from every spot and stain; For gold must be tried by fire, As a heart must be tried by pain. In the cruel fire of sorrow Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail; Let thy hand be firm and steady, Do not let thy spirit quail: But wait till the trial is over, And take thy heart again; For as gold is tried by fire, So a heart must be tried by pain! I shall know by the gleam and glitter Of the golden chain you wear, By your heart's calm strength in loving, Of the fire they have had to bear. Beat on, true heart, forever; Shine bright strong golden chain; And bless the cleansing fire, And the furnace of living pain! --_Adelaide Procter._ GONE BEFORE. Thou art in heaven, and I am still on earth; 'Tis years, long years, since we were parted here, I still a wanderer amid grief and fear, And thou the tenant of a brighter sphere. Yet still thou seemest near; But yesterday it seems, Since the last clasp was given, Since our lips met, And our eyes looked into each other's depths. Thou art amid the deathless, I still here, Amid things mortal, in a land of graves, A land o'er which the heavy-beating waves Of changing time move on, a land where raves The storm, which whoso braves Must have his anchor fixed Firmly within the vail--; So let my anchor be; Such be my consolation and my hope! Thou art amid the sorrowless, I here Amid the sorrowing: and yet not long Shall I remain 'mid sin, and fear, and wrong: Soon shall I join you in your sinless song. Thy day has come, not gone, Thy sun has risen, not set, Thy life is now beyond The reach of death or change; Not ended, but begun, Such shall our life be soon. And then,--the meeting-day, How full of light and joy! All fear of change cast out, All shadows passed away, The union sealed forever Between us and our Lord. --_Horatius Bonar._ THE LENT JEWELS. In schools of wisdom all the day was spent: His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward bent, With homeward thoughts, which dwelt upon the wife And two fair children, who consoled his life. She meeting at the threshold led him in, And with these words preventing, did begin:-- "Ever rejoicing at your wished return, Yet am I most so now: for since this morn I have been much perplexed and sorely tried Upon one point which you shall now decide. Some years ago, a friend into my care Some jewels gave--rich, precious gems they were; But having given them in my charge, this friend Did afterward nor come for them, nor send, But left them in my keeping for so long, That now it almost seems to me, a wrong That he should suddenly arrive to-day, To take those jewels, which he left, away. What think you? Shall I freely yield them back, And with no murmuring?--so henceforth to lack Those gems myself, which I had learned to see Almost as mine forever, mine in fee." "What question can be here? Your own true heart Must needs advise you of the only part: That may be claimed again which was but lent, And should be yielded with no discontent. Nor surely can we find herein a wrong That it was left us to enjoy it long." "Good is the word," she answered; "may we now And evermore that it is good allow!" And, rising, to an inner chamber led, And there she showed him, stretched upon one bed, Two children pale: and he the jewels knew, Which God had lent him, and resumed anew. --_Richard Chenevix Trench._ ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. How beautiful it is for man to die Upon the walls of Zion! to be call'd, Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel, To put his armor off, and rest--in heaven! The sun was setting on Jerusalem, The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque, Like molten silver. Every thing was fair; And beauty hung upon the painted fanes; Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd Like woe, or suffering, save one small train Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by, And left no trace upon the busy throng. The sun was just as beautiful; the shout Of joyous revelry, and the low hum Of stirring thousands rose as constantly! Life look'd as winning; and the earth and sky, And every thing seem'd strangely bent to make A contrast to that comment upon life. How wonderful it is that human pride Can pass that touching moral as it does-- Pass it so frequently, in all the force Of mournful and most simple eloquence-- And learn no lesson! They bore on the dead, With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not By the rude multitude, save, here and there, A look of vague inquiry, or a curse Half-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose sleeve Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall And Israel too pass'd on--the trampled Jew! Israel!--who made Jerusalem a throne For the wide world--pass'd on as carelessly; Giving no look of interest to tell The shrouded dead was any thing to her. Oh that they would be gather'd as a brood Is gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings!-- They laid him down with strangers, for his home Was with the setting sun, and they who stood And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave, Were not his kindred; but they found him there, And loved him for his ministry of Christ. He had died young. But there are silver'd heads, Whose race of duty is less nobly run. His heart was with Jerusalem; and strong As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties Religion makes so beautiful at home, He flung them from him in his eager race, And sought the broken people of his God, To preach to them of JESUS. There was one, Who was his friend and helper. One who went And knelt beside him at the sepulchre Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel. They had one spirit, and their hearts were knit With more than human love. God call'd him home. And he of whom I speak stood up alone, And in his broken-heartedness wrought on Until his Master call'd him. Oh, is it not a noble thing to die. As dies the Christian, with his armor on!-- What is the hero's clarion, though its blast Ring with the mastery of a world, to this?-- What are the searching victories of the mind-- The lore of vanish'd ages?--What are all The trumpetings of proud humanity, To the short history of Him who made His sepulchre beside the King of kings? --_N. P. Willis._ SET APART. "Know that the Lord hath set apart him that is godly for Himself."--Ps. iv. 3. Set apart for Jesus! Is not this enough, Though the desert prospect, Open wild and rough? Set apart for His delight, Chosen for His holy pleasure, Sealed to be His special treasure! Could we choose a nobler joy?--and would we if we might? Set apart to serve Him, Ministers of light, Standing in His presence, Ready day or night! Chosen for His service blest He would have us always willing Like the angel-hosts fulfilling Swiftly and rejoicingly each recognized behest. Set apart to praise Him, Set apart for this! Have the blessed angels Any truer bliss? Soft the prelude, though so clear; Isolated tones are trembling, But the chosen choir, assembling, Soon shall sing together, while the universe shall hear. Set apart to love Him, And His love to know! Not to waste affection On a passing show. Called to give Him life and heart, Called to pour the hidden treasure, That none other claims to measure, Into His beloved hand! thrice-blessèd 'set apart!' Set apart for ever For Himself alone! Now we see our calling Gloriously shown! Owning, with no secret dread, This our holy separation, Now the crown of consecration Of the Lord our God shall rest upon our willing head! --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ THE USEFUL LIFE. =Psychê mou, psychê mou, Anasta, ti katheudeis.= OLD GREEK HYMN. Go labor on; spend, and be spent,-- Thy joy to do the Father's will; It is the way the Master went, Should not the servant tread it still? Go labor on; 'tis not for nought; Thy earthly loss is heavenly gain; Men heed thee, love thee, praise thee not; The Master praises, what are men? Go labor on; enough, while here, If He shall praise thee, if he deign Thy willing heart to mark and cheer; No toil for Him shall be in vain. Go labor on; your hands are weak, Your knees are faint, your soul cast down; Yet falter not; the prize you seek, Is near,--a kingdom and a crown! Go labor on, while it is day, The world's dark night is hastening on; Speed, speed thy work, cast sloth away: It is not thus that souls are won. Men die in darkness at your side, Without a hope to cheer the tomb; Take up the torch and wave it wide, The torch that lights time's thickest gloom. Toil on, faint not, keep watch and pray; Be wise, the erring soul to win; Go forth into the world's highway, Compel the wanderer to come in. Toil on, and in thy toil rejoice; For toil comes rest, for exile home; Soon shalt thou hear the Bridegroom's voice, The midnight peal, behold I come! --_Horatius Bonar._ HYMN. O holy Saviour, Friend unseen, The faint, the weak, on Thee may lean, Help me, throughout life's varying scene, By faith to cling to Thee! Blest with communion so Divine, Take what Thou wilt, shall I repine, When, as the branches to the vine, My soul may cling to Thee? Far from her home, fatigued, oppressed, Here she has found a place of rest, An exile still, yet not unblest, While she can cling to Thee! Without a murmur I dismiss My former dreams of earthly bliss, My joy, my recompense be this, Each hour to cling to Thee! What though the world deceitful prove, And earthly friends and joys remove, With patient, uncomplaining love, Still would I cling to Thee! Oft when I seem to tread alone Some barren waste with thorns o'ergrown, A voice of love, in gentlest tone, Whispers, "Still cling to Me!" Though faith and hope awhile be tried, I ask not, need not, aught beside; How safe, how calm, how satisfied, The souls that cling to Thee! They fear not Life's rough storms to brave, Since Thou art near, and strong to save; Nor shudder e'en at Death's dark wave, Because they cling to Thee! Blest is my lot, whate'er befall; What can disturb me, who appal; While, as my strength, my rock, my all, Saviour, I cling to Thee! --_Charlotte Elliot._ "BEHOLD, THE BRIDEGROOM COMETH!" I. Behold, a Royal Bridegroom Hath called me for His bride! I joyfully make ready And hasten to His side. He is a Royal Bridegroom, But I am very poor! Of low estate He chose me To show His love the more: For He hath purchased for me Such goodly, rich array,-- Oh, surely never Bridegroom Gave gifts like His away. II. When first upon the mountains, I, in the vale below, Beheld Him waiting for me, Heard His command to go, I, poorest in the valley, Oh, how could I prepare To meet His royal presence? How could I make me fair? Ah! in His love He sent me A garment clean and white: And promised broidered raiment All glorious in His sight. And then He gave me glimpses Of the jewels for my hair, And the ornament most precious For His chosen bride to wear. III. First in my tears I washed me,-- They could not make me clean: A fountain then He showed me, Strange until then unseen! So close I'd lived beside it For many weary years, Yet passing by the fountain Had bathed me in my tears. Oh, love, oh, grace, that showed it! Revealed its cleansing power! How could I choose but hasten To meet Him from that hour. IV. I said, delay no longer; He surely will provide All for the toilsome journey, Up the steep mountain side. He sought me in the valley-- He knows my utmost need; But He's a Royal Bridegroom, I shall be rich indeed. Rich in His pardoning mercies,-- Bounties that never cease: Rich in His loving kindness, Rich in His joy and peace, So then I took the Raiment. And the jewels that He sent; And, gazing on His beauty, I up the hillside went. V. And still with feeble footsteps, And turning oft astray, I go to meet the Bridegroom, Though stumbling by the way I soil my royal garments With earth whene'er I fall; I break and mar my ornaments, But He will know them all. For it was He who gave them; Will He forget His own? Ah! for the love He bore me, He called! will He disown? VI. He sent His Guide to guide me: He knew how blind, how frail The children of the valley:-- He knew my love would fail. He knew the mists above me Would hide Him from my sight. And I, in darkness groping, Would wander from the right. I know that I must follow Slow when I fain would soar: That step by step thus upward, My Guide must go before. VII. Cleave close, dear Guide, and lead me! I cannot go aright! Through all that doth beset me, Keep, keep me close in sight! 'Tis but a little longer; Methinks the end I see: Oh! matchless love and mercy, The Bridegroom waits for me; Waits, to present me faultless, Before His Father's throne; His comeliness my beauty, His righteousness my own. --_Unidentified._ "It may be in the evening, When the work of the day is done, And you have time to sit in the twilight And watch the sinking sun, While the long bright day dies slowly Over the sea, And the hour grows quiet and holy With thoughts of Me, While you hear the village children Passing along the street Among those thronging footsteps May come the sound of My Feet: Therefore I tell you, Watch! By the light of the evening star, When the room is growing dusky As the clouds afar; Let the door be on the latch In your home, For it may be through the gloaming I will come. "It may be when the midnight Is heavy upon the land, And the black waves lying humbly Along the sand; When the moonless night draws close, And the lights are out in the house; When the fires burn low and red, And the watch is ticking loudly Beside the bed: Though you sleep, tired out on your couch, Still your heart must wake and watch In the dark room, For it may be that at midnight I will come. "It may be at the cock-crow, When the night is dying slowly In the sky, And the sea looks calm and holy, Waiting for the dawn of the golden sun Which draweth nigh; When the mists are on the valleys, shading The rivers chill, And my morning star is fading, fading Over the hill: Behold, I say unto you, Watch! Let the door be on the latch: In your home: In the chill before the dawning, Between the night and morning I may come. "It may be in the morning, When the sun is bright and strong, And the dew is glittering sharply Over the little lawn; When the waves are laughing loudly Along the shore, And the little birds are singing sweetly About the door. With the long day's work before you, You rise up with the sun, And the neighbors come in to talk a little, Of all that must be done; But remember that I may be the next To come in at the door, To call you from all your busy work For evermore: As you work your heart must watch, For the door is on the latch In your room, And it may be in the morning I will come." So He passed down my cottage garden, By the path that leads to the sea, Till he came to the turn of the little road, Where the birch and laburnum tree Lean over and arch the way. There I saw him a moment stay, And turn once more to me, As I wept at the cottage door, And lift up His hands in blessing-- Then I saw His face no more. And I stood still in the door-way Leaning against the wall, Not heeding the fair white roses, Though I crushed them, and let them fall, Only looking down the pathway, And looking towards the sea, And wondering, and wondering When He would come back for me, Till I was aware of an angel Who was going swiftly by, With the gladness of one who goeth In the light of God most high He passed the end of the cottage Towards the garden gate,-- (I suppose He was come down At the setting of the sun, To comfort some one in the village Whose dwelling was desolate,) And He passed before the door Beside my place, And the likeness of a smile Was on His face:-- "Weep not," He said, "for unto you is given, To watch for the coming of His feet, Who is the glory of our blessed Heaven: The work and watching will be very sweet Even in an earthly home, And in such an hour as ye think not He will come." So I am watching quietly Every day; Whenever the sun shines brightly I rise and say,-- Surely it is the shining of His face! And look unto the gates of His high place, Beyond the sea, For I know He is coming shortly To summon me. And when a shadow falls across the window Of my room, Where I am working my appointed task, I lift my head to watch the door, and ask If He is come; And the angel answers sweetly In my home,-- "Only a few more shadows, And He will come." --_Unidentified_. THE JOY OF ASSURANCE. It is too calm to be a dream, Too gravely sweet, too full of power, Prayer changed to praise this very hour! Yes, heard and answered! though it seem Beyond the hope of yesterday, Beyond the faith that dared to pray, Yet not beyond the love that heard, And not beyond the faithful word On which each trembling prayer may rest, And win the answer truly best. Yes, heard and answered! sought and found! I breathe a golden atmosphere Of solemn joy, and seem to hear Within, above, and all around, The chime of deep cathedral bells, An early herald peal that tells A glorious Easter tide begun; While yet are sparkling in the sun Large rain drops of the night storm passed, And days of Lent are gone at last. --_Frances Ridley Havergal_. "HOW WONDERFUL!" He answered all my prayer abundantly, And crowned the work that to _His_ feet I brought, With blessing more than I had asked or thought-- A blessing undisguised, and fair, and free. I stood amazed, and whispered, "Can it be That He hath granted all the boon I sought? How wonderful that He for me hath wrought! How wonderful that He hath answered me!" O faithless heart! He _said_ that He would hear And answer thy poor prayer, and He _hath_ heard And proved His promise. Wherefore didst thou fear? Why marvel that thy Lord hath kept His word? More wonderful if He should fail to bless Expectant faith and prayer with good success! --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ THY WAY, NOT MINE. Thy way, not mine, O Lord, However dark it be! Lead me by Thine own hand, Choose out the path for me. Smooth let it be or rough, It will be still the best, Winding or straight, it matters not, It leads me to Thy rest. I dare not choose my lot: I would not, if I might; Choose Thou for me, my God, So shall I walk aright. The kingdom that I seek Is Thine: so let the way That leads to it be Thine, Else I must surely stray. Take Thou my cup, and it With joy or sorrow fill, As best to Thee may seem; Choose Thou my good and ill. Choose Thou for me my friends, My sickness or my health, Choose Thou my cares for me, My poverty or wealth. Not mine, not mine the choice, In things or great or small; Be Thou my guide, my strength, My wisdom, and my all. --_Horatius Bonar_. A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. She had been told that God made all the stars, That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. She stood alone By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the faint golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively-- "Father! dear father! God has made a star!" --_N. P. Willis._ "COME UNTO ME!" Art thou weary? Art thou languid? Art thou sore distrest? "Come to Me," saith One, "and coming, Be at rest!" Hath He marks to lead me to Him, If He be my Guide? "In His feet and hands are wound-prints, And His side." Is there diadem as monarch That His brow adorns? "Yea, a crown in very surety, But of thorns!" If I find Him, if I follow, What his guerdon here? "Many a sorrow, many a labor, Many a tear." If I still hold closely to Him, What hath He at last? "Sorrow vanquished, labor ended, Jordan past!" If I ask Him to receive me, Will He say me nay? "Not till earth and not till Heaven Pass away!" Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is He sure to bless? "Angels, martyrs, prophets, pilgrims, Answer--Yes!" --_From St. Stephen the Sabaite._ "LOOKING UNTO JESUS." Thou, Lord, my path shalt choose, And my Guide be! What shall I fear to lose While I have Thee? This be my portion blest, On my Redeemer's breast, In peaceful trust to rest: He cares for me! Shall I then, choose my way? Never, oh, no! I, a creature of a day, What can I know? What dread perplexity, Then would encompass me; Now I can look to Thee, Thou orderest so! This lightens every cross, Cheers every ill; Suffer I grief or loss, It is Thy will! Who can make no mistake, Chooseth the way I take, He who can ne'er forsake, Holds my hand still! Sweet words of peace and love Christ whispers me! Bearing my soul above Life's troubled sea! This be my portion blest, On my Redeemer's breast, In peaceful trust to rest: He cares for me! Christ died my love to win, Christ is my tower! He will be with me in Each trying hour! He makes the wounded whole, He will my heart console, He will uphold my soul By His own power! To Thee, the only, Wise, Whatever be, I will lift up mine eyes Joyful in Thee! This be my portion blest, On my Redeemer's breast In peaceful trust to rest: He cares for me! --_From the German._ EVENING HYMN. The shadows of the evening hours Fall from the darkening sky; Upon the fragrance of the flowers The dews of evening lie; Before Thy throne, O Lord of Heaven, We kneel at close of day; Look on Thy children from on high, And hear us while we pray. The sorrows of Thy servants, Lord, O do not Thou despise; But let the incense of our prayers Before Thy mercy rise; The brightness of the coming night Upon the darkness rolls: With hopes of future glory chase The shadows on our souls. Slowly the rays of daylight fade; So fade within our heart The hopes in earthly love and joy, That one by one depart: Slowly the bright stars, one by one, Within the heavens shine;-- Give us, O Lord, fresh hopes in Heaven, And trust in things divine. Let peace, O Lord, Thy peace, O God, Upon our souls descend From midnight fears and perils, thou Our trembling hearts defend; Give us a respite from our toil, Calm and subdue our woes; Through the long day we suffer, Lord, O give us now repose! --_Adelaide Procter._ ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN? The darkness falls; the wind is high; Dense, black clouds fill the western sky; The storm will soon begin; The thunders roar, the lightnings flash, I hear the great round rain-drops dash, Are all the children in? They're coming softly to my side, Their forms within my arms I hide, No other arms are sure: The storm may rage with fury wild, With trusting faith each little child With mother feels secure. But future days are drawing near; They'll go from this warm shelter here Out in the world's wild din. The rains will fall, the cold winds blow, I'll sit alone and long to know Are all the children in. Will they have shelter then secure, Where hearts are waiting strong and sure, And love is true when tried? Or will they find a broken reed, When strength of heart they so much need To help them brave the tide? God knows it all; His will is best; I'll shield them now and yield the rest To His most righteous hand: Sometimes the souls He loves are riven By tempests wild, and thus are driven Nearer the better land. If He should call me home before The children go, on that bless'd shore Afar from care and sin, I know that I shall watch and wait Till He, the keeper of the gate, Lets all the children in. --_Unidentified._ HE LEADS US ON. He leads us on, By paths we did not know Upward He leads us, though our steps be slow, Though oft we faint and falter on the way, Though storms and darkness oft obscure the day, Yet when the clouds are gone We know He leads us on. He leads us on Through all the unquiet years; Past all our dreamland hopes, and doubts, and fears He guides our steps. Through all the tangled maze Of sin, of sorrow, and o'erclouded days We know His will is done; And still He leads us on. And He, at last, After the weary strife-- After the restless fever we call life-- After the dreariness, the aching pain, The wayward struggles which have proved in vain, After our toils are past-- Will give us rest at last. --_Unidentified._ NOTHING BUT LEAVES. Nothing but leaves: the spirit grieves Over a wasted life. Sins committed while conscience slept; Promises made, but never kept; Hatred, battle, and strife-- Nothing but leaves. Nothing but leaves: no garnered sheaves Of life's fair ripened grain; Words, idle words, for earnest deeds. We sow our seed--lo! tares and weeds: Go reap with toil and pain Nothing but leaves. Nothing but leaves: memory weaves No veil to sever the past; As we return our weary way, Counting each lost and misspent day, We find sadly, at last, Nothing but leaves. And shall we meet the Master so, Bearing our withered leaves? The Saviour looks for perfect fruit: We stand before Him, humbled, mute, Waiting the word He breathes-- Nothing but leaves. --_Unidentified._ BECAUSE HE FIRST LOVED US. I love Thee, O my God! but not For what I hope thereby, Nor yet because who love Thee not Must die eternally. I love Thee, O my God! and still I ever will love Thee, Solely because, my God, Thou art Who first has lovèd me! For me, to lowest depths of woe Thou didst Thyself abase; For me didst bear the cross, the shame, And manifold disgrace; For me didst suffer pains unknown, Blood-sweat and agony. Yea, death itself--all, all for me! For me, Thine enemy! Then shall I not, O Saviour, mine! Shall I not love Thee well? Not with the hope of winning heaven, Nor of escaping hell; Not with the hope of earning aught, Nor seeking a reward; But freely, fully, as Thyself Hast lovèd me, O Lord! --_Francis Xavier._ SONNET. Our course is onward, onward into light: What though the darkness gathereth amain, Yet to return or tarry, both are vain. How tarry, when around us is thick night? Whither return? what flower yet ever might, In days of gloom, and cold, and stormy rain, Enclose itself in its green bud again, Hiding from wrath of tempest out of sight? Courage!--we travel through a darksome cave; But still, as nearer to the light we draw, Fresh gales will reach us from the upper air, And wholesome dews of heaven our foreheads lave, The darkness lighten more, till full of awe We stand in the open sunshine--unaware. --_Richard Chenevix Trench._ REST AT EVENING. When the weariness of Life is ended, And the task of our long day is done, And the props, on which our hearts depended, All have failed or broken, one by one: Evening and our Sorrow's shadow blended, Telling us that peace is now begun. How far back will seem the sun's first dawning And those early mists so cold and gray! Half forgotten even the toil of morning, And the heat and burden of the day. Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning, All alike are withered and cast away. Vain will seem the impatient heart which waited, Toils that gathered but too quickly round; And the childish joy, so soon elated At the path we thought none else had found; And the foolish ardor soon abated By the storm which cast us to the ground. Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming As our final home and resting-place; And the leaving them, while tears were streaming Of eternal sorrow down our face; And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming That no future could their touch efface. All will then be faded:--night will borrow Stars of light to crown our perfect rest; And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow Just remain to show us all was best, Then melt into a divine to-morrow:-- O how poor a day to be so blest! --_Adelaide Procter._ Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh, Shadows of the evening Steal across the sky. Now the darkness gathers, Stars begin to peep, Birds, and beasts, and flowers, Soon will be asleep. JESU, give the weary Calm and sweet repose; With Thy tenderest blessing May mine eyelids close. Grant to little children Visions bright of Thee; Guard the sailors tossing On the deep blue sea. Comfort every sufferer Watching late in pain; Those who plan some evil From their sin restrain. Through the long night watches May Thine Angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed. When the morning wakens, Then may I arise Pure, and fresh, and sinless In Thy Holy Eyes. Glory to the FATHER, Glory to the SON, And to Thee, Blest SPIRIT, Whilst all ages run. --_Unidentified._ THE LAND OF LIGHT. That clime is not this dull clime of ours; All, is brightness there; A sweeter influence breathes around its flowers, And a far milder air. No calm below is like that calm above. No region here is like that realm of love; Earth's softest spring ne'er shed so soft a light, Earth's brightest summer never shone so bright. That sky is not like this sad sky of ours, Tinged with earth's change and care; No shadow dims it, and no rain-cloud lowers,-- No broken sunshine there! One everlasting stretch of azure pours Its stainless splendor o'er these sinless shores; For there Jehovah shines with heavenly ray, There Jesus reigns dispensing endless day. Those dwellers there are not like these of earth, No mortal stain they bear; And yet they seem of kindred blood and birth, Whence, and how came they there? Earth was their native soil, from sin and shame, Through tribulation they to glory came; Bond-slaves delivered from sin's crushing load, Brands plucked from burning by the hand of God. Those robes of theirs are not for these below; No angel's half so bright! Whence came that beauty, whence that living glow? Whence came that radiant white? Washed in the blood of the atoning Lamb, Fair as the light those robes of theirs became, And now, all tears wiped off from every eye, They wander where the freshest pastures lie, Through all the nightless day of that unfading sky! --_Horatius Bonar._ Abide with me! fast falls the evening tide, The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me. Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay on all around I see; O Thou who changest not, abide with me. I need Thy presence every passing hour, What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power? Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me. I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless; Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death's sting? where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies; Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee; In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me. --_Lyte._ FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. Companion dear! the hour draws nigh, The sentence speeds--_to die, to die_. So long in mystic union held, So close with strong embrace compell'd, How canst thou bear the dread decree, That strikes thy clasping nerves from me? --To Him who on this mortal shore, The same encircling vestment wore, To Him I look, to Him I bend, To Him thy shuddering frame commend. --If I have ever caus'd thee pain, The throbbing breast, the burning brain, With cares and vigils turn'd thee pale, And scorn'd thee when thy strength did fail Forgive!--Forgive!--Thy task doth cease, Friend! Lover!--let us part in peace. If thou didst sometimes check my force, Or, trifling, stay mine upward course, Or lure from Heaven my wavering trust, Or bow my drooping wing to dust-- I blame thee not, the strife is done, I knew thou wert the weaker one, The vase of earth, the trembling clod, Constrained to hold the breath of God. --Well hast thou in my service wrought, Thy brow hath mirror'd forth my thought, To wear my smile thy lip hath glow'd, Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed, Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies Of sweetly varied melodies, Thy hands my prompted deeds have done, Thy feet upon mine errands run-- Yes, thou hast mark'd my bidding well, Faithful and true! Farewell, farewell! Go to thy rest. A quiet bed Meek mother, earth with flowers shall spread, Where I no more thy sleep may break With fever'd dream, nor rudely wake Thy wearied eye. Oh, quit thy hold, For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, And long thy gasp and groan of pain Have bound me pitying in thy chain, Though angels urge me hence to soar, Where I shall share thine ills no more. --Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy pain, Remember--we shall meet again. Quell with this hope the victor's sting, And keep it as a signet ring, When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast, And nought but ashes mark thy rest, When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark, And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark, Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom, Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. --Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair, Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear, And, I with hovering wing elate, The bursting of thy bonds shall wait, And breathe the welcome of the sky-- "No more to part, no more to die, Co-heir of immortality." --_Mrs. Sigourney._ THE END.