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THE TREASURY

OF

AMERICAN SACRED SONG

Oxford

HORACE HAKT, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

In seeking for the beautiful, poets meet with more truths than the philosophers in their researches after the true.

JOUBERT.

PREFACE

THIS is an attempt to give a fuller presentation of the Sacred Verse of America than has previously existed.

During the progress of my researches I have again and again been reminded of the remark of Colonel Higginson — one of the most delightful of American poets— to Matthev^' Arnold : •' As I take it, Nature said some years since, "Thus far the English is my best race; but we have had Englishmen enough ; we need something with a little more buoyancy than the Englishman ; let us lighten the structure, even at some peril in the process. Put in one drop more of nervous fluid, and make the American.'"

In much of the sacred verse I have examined I have found ' one drop more of the nervous fluid,' which some- times, perhaps, has been so quick in its operation as not to produce a structure as perfect as could be desired. My aim has been to select verse with the fullest native force, and at the same time the most finished form.

Readers may perchance, here and there, light on poems which seem scarcely suited for a collection of sacred verse ; but in such cases the sacred character, which may at a first glance appear lacking, will never- theless be found in the thoughts they suggest.

I have not cared to present any of the earliest verse of America, considering that it possesses only an anti- quarian interest. Nor have I gone beyond the limits

vi PREFACE

of the United States. If I seem to have omitted certain famihar poems, it has not been from oversight, bat after a careful weighing of reasons.

The arrangement of poems is, as nearly as I could make it, chronological : the order being determined by the birth-date of writers.

If I have in any measure succeeded in my difficult task, it is largely due to the effective assistance I have received on both sides of the Atlantic. On this side, mention must first be made of the Rev. Richard Wilton, M.A., Rector of Londesborough and Canon of York -one of our best- known sacred poets* — who has spared neither time nor thought in aiding me to make the collection as choice as possible : to his fine taste I am under the deepest obligation, as well as for the Dedicatory Sonnet, ' To the Sacred Poets of America,' which at m}?- suggestion he wrote. For help of various kinds I am indebted to the late lamented James Ashcroft Noble, an accomplished literarj' critic ; Norman Gale, author of A Country Muse ; Gleeson White, editor of Ballades and Rondeaux, whose ample library of American poetry was freely put at m}' service ; the Rev. Andrew Chalmers, M.A., editor of Modern Hymns; the Rev. H. C. Beeching, M.A., editor of Lyra Christi ; Coulson Kernahan, author of A Dead Man's Diary ; the Rev. G. T. Coster, author of Gloria Christi ; Paul B. Neuman, Author of The Interpreters House ; the Rev. Valentine D. Davis, B.A., and Dr. Garnett, who afforded me every facility in consulting books at the British Museum.

On the other side of the Atlantic m}' helpers have been both numerous and distinguished. Special acknow- ledgments are due to Mrs. Tileston, the editor of Quiet Hours, who has been almost an American colleague-

* Author of Wood-Notes and Church Bells, Lyrics Sylvan and Sacred, Sttngleanis, and Bcnediciie.

PREFACE vii

editor, examining for me the works of American poets in the Boston libraries ; Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, to whom I am also indebted for three unpublished sonnets ; Richard Watson Gilder, LL.D., editor of The Century; Edmund Clarence Stedman, LL.D., author of American Poets ; Dr. Doane, Bishop of Albany, and Miss Edith Matilda Thomas, who in recent interviews gave me valuable counsel ; and Dr. J. M. Whiton, who sought out for me books that could not be obtained in England, and rendered valuable aid in revision of the proofs. To all these I tender my sincere thanks.

From every writer and publisher I have received the most ready response to my application for the use of copyright poems. The only restriction imposed was by Messrs. Houghton, Miftlin, & Co., in the case of a few poets, such as Longfellow, Whittier, and Lowell, that my extracts should not exceed a certain number ; these writers, however, are within the reach of all, so that the restriction has really proved of service by affording me space for the verse of less-known writers, whose works are more difficult of access.

My selections from the authors named below have been taken by permission of, and by special arrangement with, their publishers, to whom I render my most cordial thanks : —

Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, John Greenleaf Whittier,''' Oliver Wendell Holmes, Samuel Longfellow, Christopher P. Cranch, Alice and Phoebe Cary, Caroline Atherton Mason, James Russell Lowell, Thomas W. Parsons, Edna Dean Proctor, Lucy Larcom, Harriet Beecher Stowe,-' Henry David Thoreau, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Margaret E. Sangster, Bayard Taylor, Celia Thaxter, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Francis Bret Harte, Edgar Fawcett, Edward Rowland Sill, Emma Lazarus, Edith

viii PREFACE

Matilda Thomas, Henry Augustin Beers, Margaret Deland, Frank Dempster Sherman, James Thomas Fields, Eliza- beth Stuart Phelps, Nora Perry, John James Piatt, Sarah M. B. Piatt, John Townsend Trowbridge, Adeline D. Train Whitney, George Edward Woodberry, Harriet Prescott Spoftbrd, William Roscoe Thayer, William Henry Burleigh, John Burroughs, James Freeman Clarke, William Henry Furness, Lizette Woodworth Reese, Louise Imogen Guiney, Saxe Holm, William Dean Howells, Ellen Mackay Hutchinson, Ina Donna Coolbrith.

Roberts Brothers. — Louisa May Alcott, Charles Timothy Brooks, Sarah Chauncey Woolsey (Susan Coolidge), Emily Dickinson, Frederic Henry Hedge,"' William Channing Gannett, Thomas Wentworth Higgin- son, Frederick Lucian Hosmer; Julia Ward Howe, Helen Hunt Jackson, Louise Chandler Moulton, Theodore Parker, John White Chadwick.

The Century Company. — Richard Watson Gilder, Mary Mapes Dodge, Washington Gladden, Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

G. P. Putnam's Sons.— James Herbert Morse, Sarah Hammond Palfrey, Francis Howard Williams, Danske Dandridge, Charles Henry Crandall.

Cassell & Co. (New York}.— Minnie Gilmore, Charles Munroe Dickinson.

D. Appleton & Co.— William Cullen Bryant.

Harper Brothers.— Amelie Rives (the Princess Trou- betzkoy), Horatio Nelson Powers.

Charles Scribner's Sons.— Anne Reeve Aldrich, Julia C. R. Dorr, Eugene Field, Josiah Gilbert Holland, Sidney Lanier, Richard Henry Stoddard, Charles Henry Luders.

Armstrong &. Sons.— Edgar Allan Poe.

Bowen Merrill Company. — James Whitcomb Rile}-.

PREFACE ix

CoPELAND & Day.— John Banister Tabb, Hannah Parker Kimball, Alice Brown.

T. Y. Crowell & Co.— Sarah Knowles Bolton, Nathan Haskell Dole, Charlotte Fiske Bates.

G. H. Ellis. — Minot Judson Savage.

David McKay.— Walt Whitman.

Lee & Shepard.— David Atwood Wasson.

A. D. F. Randolph & Co. — Harriet McEwen Kimball, Willis Boyd Allen, May Riley Smith.

The Lothrop Publishing Company. — Paul Hamilton Hayne, Lydia Maria Child, Katharine Lee Bates, Oscar Fay Adams.

F. A. Stokes & Co.— Frank Dempster Sherman. J. Pott & Co.— Arthur Cleveland Coxe.

Thomas Whittaker.— Augustus William Muhlenberg.-" E. P. DuTTON & Co. — PhiUips Brookslf Edmund Hamil- ton Sears, William Croswell, George Washington Doane. Morrell Higginson & Co. — Joaquin Miller. The Outlook Company. — Tudor Jenks. The Independent (New York).— Rose Terry Cooke. J. B. Lippincott & Co.— Charles F. Richardson. George H. Carr.— W. Hunter Birckhead. A. S. Barnes & Co.— Ray Palmer.

G. GoTTSBERGER Peck. — Rose Terry Cooke.

To the following I am indebted for permission to use poems of which they hold the British copyright :—

Longmans, Green & Co. — John James Piatt, Sarah M. B. Piatt, J. Whitcomb Riley, Margaret Deland, Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

Osgood, Macilvaine & Co.— Emily Dickinson, Eugene Field, Margaret Deland.

To the following authors I am indebted for permission to use their poems : —

Louise Chandler Moulton, Amelie Rives (the Princess

X PREFACE

Troubetzko}'), to both of whom I am indebted for un- pubHshed poems, Anna Jane Granniss, Martha Perry Lowe, Maurice Francis Egan, Langdon Elwyn Mitchell (John Philip Varley), Tudor Jenks, Charles Gordon Ames, George McKnight, Arlo Bates, W. Ordway Partridge, Richard Hovey, John Vance Cheney ; also to Bishop Doane for a hymn by his father, Charles Ray Palmer for poems by his father, Lydia A. Very for poems by her brother, and Charles T. Weitzel for poems by his wife.

I have taken the greatest pains to reach holders of copyright of the poems included ; but if in any case I have unwittingly failed, I trust that the permission I would gladly have sought will be as generously ac- corded as it has been, without exception, by all others.

I now offer this collection — the result of careful research extending over several years — to lovers of sacred verse in all English-speaking lands.

May it tend to strengthen the bond, already so strong, which unites the kindred nations of Great Britain and America !

V^. G. H.

Ealing, London, W. August, 1896.

PROLOGUE

rO THE SACRED POETS OF AMERICA

AS from the East luito the utmost West

God bids the banner of His lightning shine,

The flashing signal of the Face Divine With whose fair radiance earth may soon be blest So speeds the Heavenly Muse, at His behest.

Across the waters ; so the spreading vine

Of sacred poesy, ivith clusters fine, By Western airs is ivelcomed and caressed. O ye whose sires our English fields have trod,

By holy Herbert* s feet made hallowed ground.

His dower of truth and beauty ye have found: With you still buds and blossoms Aaron's rod, Proclaiming you the poet -priests of God,

To wave the incense of His praise around.

Richard Wilton.

LONDESBOROUGH ReCTORY,

East Yorkshire, June, 1896.

THE AMERICAN TREASURY OF SACRED SONG

UNIVERSAL WORSHIP

OTHOU, to whom in ancient time Ttie lyre of Hebrew bards was strung : Whom kings adored in songs sublime,

And prophets praised with glowing tongue

Not now on Zion's height alone

Thy favoured worshippers may dwell,

Nor where at sultry noon Thy Son Sat weary, by the patriarch's well :

From every place below- the skies, The grateful song, the fervent prayer,

The incense of the heart, may rise To heaven, and find acceptance there.

To Thee shall age with snowy hair.

And strength and beauty, bend the knee ;

And childhood lisp, with reverent air. Its praises and its prayers to Thee.

O Thou, to whom, in ancient time

The lyre of prophet-bards was strung, —

To Thee, at last, in every clime,

Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.

B

JOHN PIERPONT

HYMN OF THE LAST SUPPER

THE winds are hushed; the peaceful moon Looks down on Zion's hill ; The city sleeps ; 'tis night's calm noon, And all the streets are still.

Save when, along the shaded walks,

We hear the watchman's call, Or the guard's footsteps, as he stalks

In moonhght on the wall.

How soft, how holy is this light !

And hark ! a mournful song, As gentle as these dews of night,

Floats on the air along.

Affection's wish, devotion's pra^^er.

Are in that holy strain ; 'Tis resignation, not despair,

'Tis triumph, though 'tis pain.

'Tis Jesus and His faithful few

That pour that hymn of love ; O God ! may we the song renew,

Around Thy board above !

MORNING HYMN FOR A CHILD

OGOD, I thank Thee that the night In peace and rest hath passed away And that I see, in this fair light,

My Father's smile, that makes it da}-.

Be Thou my Guide, and let me live As under Thine all-seeing eye ;

Supply my wants, my sins forgive, And make me happy when 1 die.

JOHN PIERPONT

EVENING HYMN FOR A CHILD

ANOTHER day its course hath run, And still, O God, Thy child is blest ; For Thou hast been by day my sun, And Thou wilt be by night my rest.

Sweet sleep descends, my eyes to close ;

And now, when all the world is still, I give my body to repose.

My spirit to my Father's will.

dElniren»0 Qtorfon

THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH

WHERE ancient forests round us spread, Where bends the cataract's ocean-fall, On the lone mountain's silent head, There are Thy temples, God of all !

Beneath the dark-blue midnight arch, Whence myriad suns pour down their ra3's,

Where planets trace their ceaseless march. Father! we worship as we gaze.

The tombs Thy altars are ; for there.

When earthly loves and hopes have fled,

To Thee ascends the spirit's prayer, Thou God of the immortal dead !

All space is holy; for all space

Is tilled by Thee ; but human thought

Burns clearer in some chosen place, Where Thy own words of love are taught.

Mere be they taught ; and may we know That faith Thy servants knew of old.

Which onward bears through weal and woe, Till Death the gates of heaven unfold.

B 2

ANDREWS NORTON

Nor we alone : may those whose brow Shows yet no trace of human cares,

Hereafter stand where we do now, And raise to Thee still holier prayers.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS

(to two swallows in a church)

G

AY, guiltless pair ! What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

&'

Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend ?

Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ?

Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep,

Penance is not for you, Bless'd wanderers of the upper deep !

To you 'tis given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays ;

Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands;

Or, if ye stay, To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way. And let me try your envied power !

CHARLES SPRAGUE

Above the crowd On upward wings could I but fly,

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'Twere heaven indeed, Through fields of trackless light to soar,

On Nature's charms to feed, And Nature's own great God adore.

QXat^antef B<xno^'i>on ^tot^in^^am

COMMUNION HYMN

REMEMBER ME,' the Saviour said On that forsaken night, When from His side the nearest fled. And death was close in sight.

Through all the following ages' track

The world remembers yet ; With love and worship gazes back,

And never can forget.

But who of us has seen His face.

Or heard the words He said ? And none can now His look retrace

In breaking of the bread.

Oh, blest are they who have not seen,

And yet believe Him still ! They know Him, when His praise they mean,

And when they do His will.

We hear His word along our way ;

We see His light above ; Remember when we strive and pray.

Remember when we love.

NATHANIEL LANGDON FROTHINGHAM

THE CHURCH

OLORD of life, and truth, and grace, Ere Nature was begun ! Make welcome to our erring race Th}'' Spirit and Thy Son.

We hail the Church, built high o'er all The heathen's rage and scoff;

Th}- Providence its fenced wall, ' The Lamb the light thereof

Thy Christ hath reached His heavenly seat Through sorrows and through scars ;

The golden lamps are at His feet. And in His hand the stars.

Oh, may He walk among us here, With His rebuke and love, —

A brightness o'er this lower sphere, A ray from worlds above !

A

A LAMENT ""

WAIL from beyond the desert ! A wail from across the sea ! The home he left, Bereft, bereft, For evermore must be.

As spread the heavy tidings, How many a heart grows sore That the eloquent grace Of that pensive face And that mellow voice is o'er.

Alas for thee, O our brother !

And for this we sorrow most, That a spirit so fair Must be breathed out there.

On that stern Arabian coast : —

* See Note.

NATHANIEL LANGDON FROTHINGHAM

That a life so all unforeign,

To faith and his country bound, Turned dying eyes Upon Asian skies, And dropped on Moslem ground.

Away for the Holy City With pilgrim soul he trod ; But nearer at hand Must the pearl gates expand Of the city new of God.

The judgment-peak of Sinai

Rose now in the homeward West, Its shadows grim Had no terror for him. As he sank to his Christian rest.

But, oh, that the thoughtful scholar, — His mind at its fullest noon,---

That the preacher's tongue

And the poet's song Should pass away so soon !

THANATOPSIS

TO him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; —

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Go forth, under the open sky, and hst

To Nature's teachings, while from all around —

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air —

Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again.

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce th}'' mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth— the wise, the good. Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods— rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all. Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death. Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.— Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose th3'self in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound. Save his own dashings— yet the dead are there:

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 9

And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — Shall one by one be gathered to thy side. By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave. Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

TO A WATERFOWL

WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day. Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean-side ?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — The desert and illimitable air —

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned. At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend.

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the ab3^ss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given.

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sk}^ thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

N'

HYMN OF THE CITY

OT in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see, Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity;

Or only hear His voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty !— here, amidst the crowd

Through the great city rolled. With everlasting murmur deep and loud —

Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT ii

Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies

And lights their inner homes ; For them Thou fiU'st with air the unbounded skies,

And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy Spirit is around,

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; And this eternal sound —

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng- Like the resounding sea.

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee.

And w^hen the hour of rest Comes, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,

Hushing its billowy breast — The quiet of that moment too is thine;

It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

THE TIDES

THE moon is at her full, and, riding high, Floods the calm fields with light : The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.

There comes no voice from the great woodlands round

That murmured all the day ; Beneath the shadow of their boughs the ground

Is not more still than they.

But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep;

His rising tides I hear, Afar I see the gHmmering billows leap ;

I see them breaking near.

Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fair

Pure light that sits on high — Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where

The mother-waters lie.

T2 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Upward again it swells ; the moonbeams show

Again its glimmering crest ; Again it feels the fatal weight below,

And sinks, but not to rest.

Again and yet again ; until the Deep

Recalls his brood of waves ; And, with a sudden moan, abashed, they creep

Back to his inner caves.

Brief respite ! they shall rush from that recess

With noise and tumult soon, And fling themselves, with unavailing stress,

Up toward the placid moon.

O restless Sea, that, in thy prison here,

Dost struggle and complain ; Through the slow centuries yearning to be -near

To that fair orb in vain ;

The glorious source of light and heat must warm

Thy billows from on high, And change them to the cloudy trains that form

The curtains of the sky.

Then only may they leave the waste of brine

In which they welter here, And rise above the hills of earth, and shine

In a serener sphere.

THE MOTHER'S HYMN

LORD, who ordainest for mankind Benignant toils and tender cares ! We thank Thee for the ties that bind The mother to the child she bears.

We thank Thee for the hopes that rise Within her heart, as, day by day.

The dawning soul, from those young eyes. Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 13

And grateful for the blessing given With that dear infant on her knee,

She trains the eye to look to heaven, The voice to lisp a pra3^er to Thee.

Such thanks the blessed Mary gave, When, from her lap, the Holy Child,

Sent from on high to seek and save

The lost of earth, looked up and smiled.

All-Gracious ! grant, to those w^ho bear A mother's charge, the strength and light

To lead the steps that own their care In ways of Love, and Truth, and Right.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM

AS shadows, cast by cloud and sun, 1\ Flit o'er the summer grass, So, in Thy sight. Almighty One ! Earth's generations pass.

And while the years, an endless host,

Come pressing swiftly on. The brightest names that earth can boast

Just glisten, and are gone.

Yet doth the Star of Bethlehem shed

A lustre pure and sweet ; And still it leads, as once it led.

To the Messiah's feet.

O Father, may that holy Star Grow every year more bright,

And send its glorious beams afar To fill the world with light.

OUR CHHDREN

STANDING forth on life's rough way, Father, guide them ; Oh ! we know not what of harm May betide them ;

J 4 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

"Neath the shadow of Thy wing,

Father, hide them ; Waking, sleeping, Lord, we praj^,

Go beside them.

When in prayer they cry to Tliee,

Thou wilt hear them : From the stains of sin and shame

Thou wilt clear them ; 'Mid the quicksands and the rocks,

Thou wilt steer them ; In temptation, trial, grief,

Be Thou near them.

Unto Thee we give them up,

Lord, receive them ; In the world we know must be

Much to grieve them — Many striving oft and strong

To deceive them : Trustful, in Thy hands of love

We must leave them.

^entr^ (H)are, jnn.

RESURRECTION OF CHRIST

LIFT your glad voices in triumph on high, For Jesus hath risen, and man cannot die ; Vain were the terrors that gathered around Him,

And short the dominion of death and the grave ; He burst from the fetters of darkness that bound Him,

Resplendent in glory to live and to save ; Loud was the chorus of angels on high, The Saviour hath risen, and man shall not die.

Glory to God, in full anthems of joy ;

The being He gave us death cannot destroy;

Sad were the life we must part with to-morrow.

If tears were our birthright and death were our end ; But Jesus hath cheered the dark valley of sorrow,

And bade us, immortal, to heaven ascend. Lift, then, your voices in triumph on high, For Jesus hath risen, and man shall not die !

HENRY WARE, JUN. 15

CHRISTMAS GATHERING

IN this glad hour, when children meet, And home with them their children bring, Our hearts with one affection beat, One song of praise our voices sing.

For all the faithful, loved and dear, Whom Thou so kindly, Lord, hast given,

For those who still are with us here. And those who wait for us in heaven ; —

For every past and present joy.

For honour, competence, and health,

For hopes which time may not destroy, Our soul's imperishable wealth ; —

For all, accept our humble praise ;

Still bless us, Father, by Thy love ; And when are closed our mortal days,

Unite us in one home above.

(PDiffmnt iluguetue QUugfenfier^

THE SOWS HOME

LIKE Noah's weary dove, That soared the earth around, But not a resting-place above The cheerless waters found ;

Oh cease, my wandering soul,

On restless wing to roam ; All the wide world, to either pole,

Has not for thee a home.

Behold the Ark of God,

Behold the open door ; Hasten to gain that dear abode,

And rove, my soul, no more.

There, safe thou shalt abide. There, sweet shall be thy rest,

And every longing satisfied, With full salvation blest.

i6

THE AUTUMN EVENING

BEHOLD the western evening light ! It melts in deepening gloom ; So calmly Christians sink away, Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low ; the withering leaf Scarce whispers from the tree :

So gently flows the parting breath When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed ! 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives

To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud

The sunset beam is cast ! 'Tis like the memory left behind

When loved ones breathe their last.

And now above the dews of night

The yellow star appears ! So faith springs in the hearts of those

Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light

Its glories shall restore ; And eyelids that are sealed in death

Shall wake to close no more.

THE BANNER OF THE CROSS

FLING out the banner ! let it float Skyward and seaward, high and wide The sun shall light its shining folds, The Cross on which the Saviour died.

GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE 17

Fling out the banner ! angels bend

In anxious silence o'er the sign ; And vainly seek to comprehend

The wonder of the Love Divine.

Fling out the banner ! heathen lands Shall see from far the glorious sight,

And nations, crowding to be born, Baptize their spirits in its light.

Pling out the banner ! sin-sick souls

That sink and perish in the strife, Shall touch in faith its radiant hem,

And spring immortal into life.

Fling out the banner ! let it float Skyward and seaward, high and wide :

Our glory, only in the Cross ; Our only hope, the Crucified !

Fling out the banner ! wide and high, Seaward and skyward, let it shine :

Nor skill, nor might, nor merit ours ; We conquer only in that Sign.

B^tia QUavia W^

THE CLOISTER

THOUGHT never knew material bound or place, Nor footsteps may the roving fancy trace : Peace cannot learn beneath a roof to house. Nor cloister hold us safe within our vows.

The cloistered heart may brave the common air. And the world's children breathe the hohest prayer Build for us, Lord, and in Thy temple reign! Watch with us, Lord, our watchman wakes in vain !

i8

jgottiea 3ane ^aff

GROWING OLD

NEVER, my heart, wilt thou grow old ! My hair is white, my blood runs cold, And one by one my powers depart, But youth sits smiling in my heart.

Downhill the path of age ! oh, no ; Up, up with patient steps I go ; I watch the skies fast brightening there, I breathe a sweeter, purer air.

Beside my road small tasks spring up. Though but to hand the cooling cup, Speak the true word of hearty cheer, Tell the lone soul that God is near.

Beat on, my heart, and grow not old ! And when thy pulses all are told, Let me, though working, loving still. Kneel as I meet my Father's will.

THE LORD'S PRAYER

WHEN Jesus trod by thy blue sea, How blest wert thou, O GaHleel While there He walked His gracious way, And taught us how to live and pray.

In sweet and solemn tones His prayer Still lingers on the waving air ; Where suns may rise, or suns may set. All wants in that one prayer are met.

From lips of childish innocence.

From weary age with failing sense,

Still mounts to heaven that wondrous prayer,

To find a loving 'Father' there.

The listening stars more brightly shine, The morning glows with love divine, When human hearts, in pain or ease, Use these dear words on bended knees.

^9

REMEMBRANCE OF GOD

THOU who dost all things give, Be not Thyself forgot ! No longer may Thy children live As if their God were not !

But every day and hour, Since Thou dost bless us thus. In still increasing light and power Reveal Thyself to us ;

Until our faith shall be Stronger than words can tell, And we shall live beholding Thee, O Thou Invisible !

NIGHTFALL

SLOWLY, by Thy hand unfurled, Down around the weary world Falls the darkness ; oh, how still Is the working of Thy will !

Mighty Maker, here am I, Work in me as silently ; Veil the day's distracting sights ; Show me heaven's eternal lights.

From the darkened sky come forth Countless stars,— a wondrous birth! So may gleams of glory start From this dim abyss, my heart.

Living worlds to view be brought In the boundless realms of thought ; High and infinite desires. Flaming like those upper fires !

Holy Truth, eternal Right- Let them break upon my sight ; Let them shine serenely still, And with light my being fill.

C 2

WILLIAM HENRY FURNESS

Thou who dwellest there, I know, Dwellest here within me too ; Maj' the perfect love of God Here, as there, be shed abroad.

Let my soul attuned be To the heavenly harmony Which, beyond the power of sound, Fills the universe around.

(Rafj?6 (S^af^o 6met:0on

DIRGE

KNOWS he who tills this lonely field To reap its scanty corn, What mystic fruit his acres yield At midnight and at morn ?

In the long sunny afternoon The plain was full of ghosts ;

I wandered up, I wandered down. Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below.

Pouring as wide a flood As when my brothers, long ago,

Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,— the holy ones Who trod with me this lovely vale ;

The strong, star-bright companions Are silent, low and pale.

My good, my noble, in their prime, Who made this world the feast it was.

Who learned with me the lore of time, Who loved this dwelling-place !

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

They took this valley for their toy, They played with it in every mood ;

A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,— They treated nature as they would.

They colored the horizon round ;

Stars flamed and faded as they bade, All echoes hearkened for their sound, --

They made the woodlands glad or mad.

I touch this flower of silken leaf. Which once our childhood knew ;

Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew.

Hearken to yon pine-warbler

Singing aloft in the tree ! Hearest thou, O traveller,

What he singeth to me?

Not unless God made sharp thine ear

With sorrow such as mine, Out of that delicate lay could'st thou

Its heavy tale divine.

' Go, lonely man,' it saith ;

' They loved thee from their birth ; Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,

There are no such hearts on earth.

' Ye drew one mother's milk,

One chamber held ye all; A very tender history

Did in your childhood fall.

' You cannot unlock your heart.

The key is gone with them ; The silent organ loudest chants

The masters requiem.'

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

THRENODY

THE South wind brings Life, sunshine and desire, And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire; But over the dead he has no power, The lost, the lost, he cannot restore, And, looking over the hills, I mourn The darling who shall not return.

I see my empty house,

I see my trees repair their boughs;

And he, the wondrous child,

Whose silver warble wild

Outvalued every pulsing sound

Within the air's cerulean round, —

The hyacinthine boy, for whom

Morn well might break and April bloom, —

The gracious boy, who did adorn

The world whereinto he was born,

And b}^ his countenance repay

The favor of the loving Day, —

Has disappeared from the Day's eye ;

Far and wide she cannot find him ;

M}^ hopes pursue, they cannot bind him.

Returned this day, the south wind searches,

And finds young pines and budding birches ;

But finds not the budding man ;

Nature, who lost, cannot remake him ;

Fate let him fall. Fate can't retake him ;

Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain.

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet,

O, whither tend thy feet.?

I had the right, few days ago.

Thy steps to watch, thy place to know :

How have I forfeited the right.?

Hast thou forgot me in a new delight 1

I hearken for thy household cheer,

O eloquent child !

Whose voice, an equal messenger.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 23

Conveyed thy meaning mild. What though the pains and joys Whereof it spoke were toys Fitting his age and ken, Yet fairest dames and bearded men, Who heard the sweet request, So gentle, wise and grave, Bended with joy to his behest And let the world's affairs go by. Awhile to share his cordial game, Or mend his wicker wagon-frame, Still plotting how their hungry ear That winsome voice again might hear.

■x- ***** *

O child of paradise,

Boy who made dear his father's home,

In whose deep eyes

Men read the welfare of the times to come,

T am too much bereft.

The world dishonored thou hast left.

O truth's and nature's costly lie !

O trusted broken prophecy !

O richest fortune sourly crossed !

Born for the future, to the future lost !

The deep Heart answered, ' Weepest thou ?

Worthier cause for passion wild

If I had not taken the child.

And deemest thou as those who pore,

With aged eyes, short way before, —

Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast

Of matter, and thy darling lost ?

Taught he not thee— the man of eld,

Whose eyes within his eyes beheld

Heaven's numerous hierarchy span

The mystic gulf from God to man ?

To be alone wilt thou begin

When worlds of lovers hem thee in ?

To-morrow, when the masks shall fall

That dizen Nature's carnival.

The pure shall see by their own will,

Which overflowing Love shall fill,

24 RALPH WALDO EMERSON

'Tis not within the force of fate

The fate-conjoined to separate.

But thou, my votary, weepest thou?

I gave thee sight — where is it now?

I taught thy heart beyond the reach

Of ritual, bible, or of speech ;

Wrote in thy mind's transparent table,

As far as the incommunicable ;

Taught thee each private sign to raise

Lit by the supersolar blaze.

Past utterance, and past belief,

And past the blasphemy of grief,

The mysteries of Nature's heart ;

And though no Muse can these impart.

Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast.

And all is clear from east to west.

* I came to thee as to a friend ;

Dearest, to thee I did not send

Tutors, but a joyful eye,

Innocence that matched the sky,

Lovely locks, a form of wonder,

Laughter rich as woodland thunder,

That thou might'st entertain apart

The richest flowering of all art :

And, as the great all-loving Day

Through smallest chambers takes its way,

That thou might'st break thy daily bread

With prophet, savior and head;

That thou might'st cherish for thine own

The riches of sweet Mary's Son,

Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon.

And thoughtest thou such guest

Would in thy hall take up his rest?

Would rushing life forget her laws.

Fate's glowing revolution pause ?

High omens ask diviner guess ;

Not to be conned to tediousness.

And know my higher gifts unbind

The zone that girds the incarnate mind.

When the scanty shores are full

With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ;

RALPH WALDO EMERSON ^^5

When frail Nature can no more, Then the Spirit strikes the hour: My servant Death, with solving rite, Pours finite into infinite.

******* Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know What rainbows teach, and sunsets show? Verdict which accumulates From lengthening scroll of human fates, Voice of earth to earth returned, Prayers of saints that inly burned,— Saying, What is excellent, As God lives, is permanent; Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain; Heart's love will meet thee again.

Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye

Up to His style, and manners of the sky.

Not of adamant and gold

Built He heaven stark and cold;

No, but a nest of bending reeds,

Flowering grass and scented weeds ;

Or like a traveller's fleeing tent.

Or bow above the tempest bent;

Built of tears and sacred flames,

And virtue reaching to its aims ;

Built of furtherance and pursuing.

Not of spent deeds, but of doing.

Silent rushes the swift Lord

Through ruined systems still restored,

Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless,

Plants with worlds the wilderness;

Waters with tears of ancient sorrow

Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow.

House and tenant go to ground,

Lost in God, in Godhead found.'

THE PROBLEM

*******

NOT from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle;

26 RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old ; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below, — The canticles of love and woe : The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad sincerity ; Himself from God he could not free ; He builded better than he knew ; — The conscious stone to beauty grew.

■X- * -x- * * -x- *

These temples grew as grows the grass;

Art might obey, but not surpass.

The passive Master lent his hand

To the vast soul that o'er him planned ;

And the same power that reared the -shrine

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.

Ever the fiery Pentecost

Girds with one flame the countless host,

Trances the heart through chanting choirs,

And through the priest the mind inspires.

The word unto the prophet spoken

Was writ on tables yet unbroken ;

The word by seers or sibyls told,

In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,

Still floats upon the morning wind,

Still whispers to the willing mind.

One accent of the Holy Ghost

The heedless world hath never lost.

THE RHODORA

ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER ?

IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods. Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, . To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty ga}^ ;

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 27

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora ! If the sages ask thee why

7'his charm is wasted on the marsh and sky,

Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then beauty is its own excuse for being :

Wh}^ thou wert there, O rival of the rose !

I never thought to ask, I never knew ;

But. in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same power that brought me there brought 3^ou.

THE CELESTIAL LOVE

AND they serve men austerely, jlV After their own genius, clearly. Without a false humility; For this is Love's nobility, — Not to scatter bread and gold. Goods and raiment bought and sold ; But to hold fast his simple sense, And speak the speech of innocence, And with hand and body and blood, To make his bosom-counsel good. He that feeds men serveth few ; He serves all who dares be true.

THE HOUSE OF GOD

WE love the venerable house Our fathers built to God :— In heaven are kept their grateful vows. Their dust endears the sod.

Here holy thoughts a light have shed

From many a radiant face, And prayers of tender hope have spread

A perfume through the place.

And anxious hearts have pondered here

The mystery of life. And prayed the eternal Light to clear

Their doubts, and aid their strife.

28 RALPH WALDO EMERSON

From humble tenements around

Came up the pensive train, And in the Church a blessing found,

That filled their homes again ;

For faith, and peace, and mighty love.

That from the Godhead flow, Showed them the life of heaven above

Springs from the life below.

They live with God, their homes are dust ;

Yet here their children pray. And in this fleeting life-time trust

To find the narrow way.

On him who by the altar stands,

On him Thy blessing fall ! Speak through his lips Thy pure commands,

Thou Heart, that lovest all.

(^imatn tvomdi

SONG OF FAITH

THE lilied fields behold; What king in his array Of purple pall and cloth of gold

Shines gorgeously as they? Their pomp, however gay. Is brief, alas ! as bright ; It lives but for a summer's day, And withers in a night.

If God so clothe the soil,

And glorify the dust, Why should the slave of daily toil

His providence distrust? Will He, whose love has nursed

The sparrow's brood, do less For those who seek His kingdom first,

And with it righteousness?

WILLIAM CROSWELL

The birds fly forth at will ;

They neither plough nor sow : Yet theirs the sheaves that crown the hill,

Or glad the vale below. While through the realms of air

He guides their trackless way, Will man, in faithlessness, despair ?

Is he worth less than they?

5Ve^enc ^tnv^ ^e^ge

THE MORNING STAR

A

SINGLE star how bright, From earth-mists free, In heaven's deep shrine its image burns ! Star of the morn, my spirit yearns To be with thee.

Lord of the desert sky : Night's last, lone heir, Benign thou smilest from on high, Pure, calm, as if an angel's eye Were watching there.

Nor wholly vain I deem

The Magian plan. That, sphered in thee, a spirit reigns Who knows this earth, and kindly deigns

To succor man.

Gone are thy glittering peers !

Quenched each bright spark; Save where some pale sun's lingering ghost, Dull remnant of a scattered host,

Still spots the dark.

But thou, propitious star,

Night's youngest born, Wilt not withdraw thy steady light Till bursts on yonder snow-clad height

The rosy morn.

30 FREDERIC HENRY HEDGE

Fair orb ! I love to watch

Thy tranquil ray; Emblem thou art of hope that springs When joys are fled, and dreaming brings

The better day.

So, when from my life's course Its stars are riven. Dawn on my soul, prophetic light, That gilds old age's winter night With hope of heaven !

THE CRUCIFIXION

IT is finished ! Man of Sorrows ! From Thy cross our nature borrows Strength to bear and conquer thus.

While exalted there we view Thee, Mighty Sufferer ! draw us to Thee, Suft'erer victorious !

Not in vain for us uplifted, Man of Sorrows, wonder-gifted ! May that sacred symbol be.

Eminent amid the ages, Guide of heroes and of sages, May it guide us still to Thee !

Still to Thee ! whose love unbounded, Sorrow's deep for us hath sounded, Perfected by conflicts sore.

Glory to Thy cross for ever ! Star that points our high endeavor Whither Thou hast gone before.

31

35ent^ (^ab0wor(6 Bon^fdiow

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS

THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

' Shall I have nought that is fair ? ' saith he ;

' Have nought but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again.'

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

' My Lord has need of these flowerets gay/

The Reaper said, and smiled ; ' Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where He was once a child.

* They shall all bloom in fields of light,

Transplanted by my care. And saints, upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear.'

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,

The flowers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again

In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day ; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth,

And took the flowers away.

32 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS

WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight ;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlor wall ;

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door ; The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more ;

He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife, By the road-side fell and perished.

Weary with the march of life !

They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suftering bore,

Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given,

More than all things else to love me. And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep

Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits ana gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 33

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended.

Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died I

RESIGNATION

THERE is no flock, however w^atched and tended. But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended. But has one vacant chair !

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying.

Will not be comforted !

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors,

Amid these earthly damps; What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers,

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ;

This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,— the child of our affection, —

But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself doth rule.

34 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air ; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which Nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her ;

For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her,.

She will not be a child ;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion.

Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,

That cannot be at rest, —

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have wa3\

HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION

CHRIST to the young man said; 'Yet one thing more : If thou wouldst perfect be, Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, And come and follow Me ! '

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 35

Within this temple Christ again, unseen,

Those sacred words hath said, And His invisible hands to-day have been

Laid on a young man's head.

And evermore beside him on his v^ay

The unseen Christ shall move, That he may lean upon His arm and say,

' Dost Thou, dear Lord, approve ? '

Beside him at the marriage-feast shall be.

To make the scene more fair; Beside him in the dark Gethsemane

Of pain and midnight prayer.

O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest !

Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,

And thus to journey on !

NATURE

AS a fond mother, v^hen the day is o'er, Jl\ Leads by the hand her little child to bed,

Half willing, half reluctant to be led,

And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door.

Nor wholly reassured and comforted

By promises of others in their stead.

Which, though more splendid, may not please him more ; So Nature deals with us, and takes away

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand

Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay,

Being too full of sleep to understand

How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE

IS it so far from thee Thou canst no longer see, In the Chamber over the Gate, That old man desolate, D 2

36 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Weeping and wailing sore For his son, who is no more? O Absalom, my son !

Is it so long ago That cry of human woe From the walled city came, Calling on his dear name, That it has died away In the distance of to-day ? O Absalom, my son !

There is no far nor near. There is neither there nor here. There is neither soon nor late, In that Chamber over the Gate, Nor any long ago To that cry of human woe, O Absalom, my son !

From the ages that are past The voice sounds like a blast. Over seas that wreck and drown, Over tumult of traffic and town ; And from ages yet to be Come the echoes back to me, O Absalom, my son !

Somewhere at every hour The watchman on the tower Looks forth, and sees the fleet Approach of the hurrying feet Of messengers, that bear The tidings of despair. O Absalom, my son !

He goes forth from the door, Who shall return no more. With him our joy departs ; The light goes out in our hearts ; In the Chamber over the Gate We sit disconsolate. O Absalom, my son !

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 37

That 'tis a common grief Bringeth but slight reUef; Ours is the bitterest loss, Ours is the heaviest cross ; And for ever the cry will be, ' Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son!'

T

LOOKING UNTO JESUS

'HOU who didst stoop below _ To drain the cup of woe. Wearing the form of frail mortality ; Thy blessed labors done. Thy crown of victory won, Hast passed from earth, passed to Thy home on high.

Our eyes behold Thee not,

Yet hast Thou not forgot ,

Those who have placed their hope, their trust in 1 hee ;

Before Thy Father's face

Thou hast prepared a place. That where Thou art, there they may also be.

It was no path of flowers,

Which, through this world of ours. Beloved of the Father, Thou didst tread ;

And shall we in dismay

Shrink from the narrow way. When clouds and darkness are around it spread?

O Thou, who art our life,

Be with us through the strife ; Thy holy head by earth's fierce storms was bowed :

Raise Thou our eyes above,

To see a Father's love Beam, like the bow of promise, thro' the cloud.

38 SARAH ELIZABETH MILES

And O, if thoughts of gloom

Should hover o'er the tomb, That light of love our guiding star shall be :

Our spirits shall not dread

The shadowy path to tread, Friend, Guardian, Saviour, which doth lead to Thee.

DEDICATION HYMN

THE perfect world by Adam trod Was the first temple — built by God ; His fiat laid the corner-stone. And heaved its pillars one by one.

He hung its starry roof on high —

The broad illimitable sky ;

He spread its pavement green and bright,

And curtain'd it with morning light.

The mountains in their places stood — The sea — the sky— and 'all was good'; And when its first pure praises rang, The ' morning stars together sang.'

Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea And earth and sky a house for Thee ; But in Thy sight our offering stands — A humbler temple, 'made with hands.'

(Ka^ (Paftner

FAITH

Behold the Lamb of God.'' — John i. 29.

M

Y faith looks up to Thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary : Saviour divine :

RAY PALMER 39

Now hear me while I pray, Take all my guilt away, O let me from this day Be wholly Thine.

May Thy rich grace impart Strength to my fainting heart,

My zeal inspire : As Thou hast died for me, O may my love to Thee, Pure, warm, and changeless be,

A Uving fire.

While life's dark maze I tread, And griefs around me spread,

Be Thou my guide ; Bid darkness turn to day. Wipe sorrow's tears away. Nor let me ever stray

From Thee aside.

When ends life's transient dream. When death's cold, sullen stream

Shall o'er me roll ; Blest Saviour, then, in love. Fear and distrust remove, O bear me safe above —

A ransomed soul.

UNSEEN, NOT UNKNOWN

■ Whom not having seen, ye love.'—i Pet. i. 8.

ESUS, these eyes have never seen ^ That radiant form of Thine ; The veil of sense hangs dark between

Thy blessed face and mine.

I see Thee not, I hear Thee not,

Yet art Thou oft with me ; And earth has ne'er so dear a spot,

As where I meet with Thee.

J

40 RAY PALMER

Like some bright dream, that comes unsought,

When slumbers o'er me roll, Thine image ever fills my thought,

And charms my ravished soul.

Yea, though I have not seen, and still

Must rest in faith alone, I love Thee, dearest Lord, and will,

Unseen but not unknown.

When death these mortal eyes shall seal,

And still this throbbing heart; The rending veil shall Thee reveal,

All-glorious as Thou art.

UNFALTERING TRUST

How unsearchable are His judgments.'' — Rom. xi. 33.

LORD, my weak thought in vain would climb To search the starry vault profound ; In vain would wing her flight sublime, To find creation's utmost bound.

But weaker yet that thought must prove To search Thy great eternal plan, —

Thy sovereign counsels, born of love Long ages ere the world began.

When my dim reason would demand Why that, or this, Thou dost ordain,

By some vast deep I seem to stand. Whose secrets I must ask in vain.

When doubts disturb my troubled breast.

And all is dark as night to me. Here, as on solid rock, I rest.

That so it seemeth good to Thee.

Be this my joy, that evermore

Thou rulest all things at Thy will ;

Thy sovereign wisdom I adore,

And calmly, sweetly, trust Thee still.

3o5n (Bnenfeaf (^^ittkv

MY PSALM

I MOURN no more my vanished years; Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and, singing low,

I hear the glad streams run ; The windows of my soul I throw

Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind

I look in hope or fear; But, grateful, take the good I find,

The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,

To harvest weed and tare ; The manna dropping from God's hand

Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay

Aside the toihng oar; The angel sought so far away

I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play

Among the ripenmg corn. Nor freshness of the flowers of May

Blow through the autumn morn ;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven,

And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given ; —

The woods shall wear their robes of praise.

The south wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze

Melt down the amber sky.

42 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Not less shall manly deed and word

Rebuke an age of wrong ; The graven flowers that wreathe the sword

Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal, — •

To build as to destroy ; Nor less my heart for others feel

That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds

To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs

Than all my prayers have told !

Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track ;

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved. His chastening turned me back ;—

That more and more a Providence

Of love is understood. Making the springs of time and sense

Sweet with eternal good ; —

That death seems but a covered way

Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray

Beyond the Father's sight ; —

That care and trial seem at last. Through Memory's sunset air.

Like mountain-ranges overpast, In purple distance fair;

That all the jarring notes of life

Seem blending in a psalm. And all the angles of its strife

Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west winds play ;

And all the windows of my heart I open to the day.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 43

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS

O FRIENDS ! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer, Glad witness to your zeal for God And love of man I bear.

I trace your lines of argument ;

Your logic linked and strong I weigh as one who dreads dissent,

And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak

To hold your iron creeds : Against the words ye bid me speak

My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought ?

Who talks of scheme and plan ? The Lord is God ! He needeth not

The poor device of man.

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground

Ye tread with boldness shod ; I dare not fix with mete and bound

The love and power of God.

Ye praise His justice ; even such

His pitying love I deem : Ye seek a king ; I fain would touch

The robe that hath no seam.

Ye see the curse which overbroods

A world of pain and loss ; I hear our Lord's beatitudes

And prayer upon the cross.

More than your schoolmen teach, within

Myself, alas ! I know : Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,

Too small the merit show.

44 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

I bow my forehead to the dust, I veil mine eyes for shame,

And urge, in trembhng self-distrust, A prayer without a claim.

I see the wrong that round me lies,

I feel the guilt within ; I hear, with groan and travail-cries,

The world confess its sin.

Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood,

To one fixed trust my spirit clings ; I know that God is good!

Not mine to look where cherubim And seraphs may not see,

But nothing can be good in Him Which evil is in me.

The wrong that pains my soul below

I dare not throne above, I know not of His hate — I know

His goodness and His love.

I dimly guess from blessings known

Of greater out of sight, And, with the chastened Psalmist, own

His judgments too are right.

I long for household voices gone. For vanished smiles I long.

But God hath led my dear ones on, And He can do no wrong.

I know not what the future hath

Of marvel or surprise. Assured alone that life and death

His mercy underlies.

And if my heart and flesh are v/eak

To bear an untried pain. The bruised reed He will not break.

But strengthen and sustain.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 45?

No offering of my own I have,

Nor works my faith to prove ; I can but give the gifts He gave,

And plead His love for love.

And so beside the Silent Sea

I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me

On ocean or on shore.

I know not where His islands lift

Their fronded palms in air ; I only know I cannot drift

Beyond His love and care.

O brothers ! if my faith is vain,

If hopes like these betray. Pray for me that my feet may gain

The sure and safer way.

And Thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen

Thy creatures as they be, Forgive rne if too close I lean

My human heart on Thee !

OUR MASTER

IMMORTAL Love, for ever full, 1 For ever flowing free, For ever shared, for ever whole, A never-ebbing sea !

Our outward lips confess the name

All other names above ; Love only knoweth whence it came,

And comprehendeth love.

Blow, winds of God, awake and blow

The mists of earth away ! Shine out, O Light Divine, and show

How wide and far we stray !

46 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Hush every lip, close every book, The strife of tongues forbear ;

Why forward reach, or backward look. For love that clasps like air ?

We may not climb the heavenly steeps To bring the Lord Christ down :

In vain we search the lowest deeps. For Him no depths can drown.

Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape,

The lineaments restore Of Him we know in outward shape

And in the flesh no more.

He Cometh not a king to reign ;

The world's long hope is dim ; The weary centuries watch in vain

The clouds of heaven for Him.

Death comes, Hfe goes ; the asking eye

And ear are answerless ; The grave is dumb, the hollow sky

Is sad with silentness.

The letter fails, and systems fall,

And every symbol wanes; The Spirit over-brooding all

Eternal Love remains.

And not for signs in heaven above

Or earth below they look, Who know with John His smile of love.

With Peter His rebuke.

In joy of inward peace, or sense

Of sorrow over sin. He is His own best evidence.

His witness is within.

No fable old,, nor mythic lore. Nor dream of bards and seers,

No dead fact stranded on the shore Of the oblivious years ; —

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 47

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help is He ; And faith has still its Olivet,

And love its Galilee.

The heaUng of His seamless dress

Is by our beds of pain ; We touch Him in life's throng and press,

And we are whole again.

Through Him the first fond prayers are said

Our lips of childhood frame, The last low whispers of our dead

Are burdened with His name.

O Lord and Master of us all !

Whate'er our name or sign, We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,

We test our hves by Thine.

Thou judgest us ; Thy purity

Doth all our lusts condemn ; The love that draws us nearer Thee

Is hot with wrath to them.

Our thoughts lie open to Thy sight ;

And, naked to Thy glance, Our secret sins are in the light

Of Thy pure countenance.

Thy healing pains, a keen distress

Thy tender light shines in ; Thy sweetness is the bitterness,

Thy grace the pang of sin.

Yet, weak and blinded though we be,

Thou dost our service own ; We bring our varying gifts to Thee,

And Thou rejectest none.

To Thee our full humanity.

Its joys and pains, belong ; The wrong of man to man on Thee

Inflicts a deeper wrong.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Who hates, hates Thee, who loves becomes

Therein to Thee allied ; All sweet accords of hearts and homes

In Thee are multiplied.

Deep strike Thy roots, O heavenl}^ Vine,

Within our earthly sod. Most human and yet most divine,

The flower of man and God !

O Love ! O Life ! Our faith and sight

Thy presence maketh one. As through transfigured clouds of white

We trace the noon-day sun.

So, to our mortal eyes subdued, Flesh-veiled, but not concealed.

We know in Thee the fatherhood And heart of God revealed.

We faintly hear, we dimly see,

In differing phrase we pray; But, dim or clear, we own in Thee

The Light, the Truth, the Way!

The homage that we render Thee

Is still our Father's own ; No jealous claim or rivalry

Divides the Cross and Throne.

To do Thy will is more than praise,

As words are less than deeds, And simple trust can find Thy ways

We miss with chart of creeds.

No pride of self Thy service hath.

No place for me and mine ; Our human strength is weakness, death

Our life, apart trom Thine.

Apart from Thee all gain is loss.

All labor vainly done ; The solemn shadow of Thy Cross

Is better than the sun.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 49

Alone, O Love ineffable !

Thy saving name is given ; To turn aside from Thee is hell,

To walk with Thee is heaven !

How vain, secure in all Thou art,

Our noisy championship ! The sighing of the contrite heart

Is more than flattering lip.

Not Thine the bigot's partial plea.

Nor Thine the zealots ban : Thou well canst spare a love of Thee

Which ends in hate of man.

Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,

What may Thy service be ? — Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,

But simply following Thee.

We bring no ghastly holocaust,

We pile no graven stone ; He serves Thee best who loveth most

His brothers and Thy own.

Thy litanies, sweet offices

Of love and gratitude ; Thy sacramental liturgies.

The joy of doing good.

In vain shall waves of incense drift

The vaulted nave around, In vain the minster turret lift

Its brazen weights of sound.

The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells,

Thy inward altars raise ; Its faith and hope Thy canticles,

And its obedience praise !

MY BIRTHDAY

BENEATH the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year ; The winter winds are wailing low Its dirges in my ear.

E

50 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

I grieve not with the moaning wind

As if a loss befell ; Before me, even as behind,

God is, and all is well !

His light shines on me from above, His low voice speaks within, —

The patience of immortal love Outwearying mortal sin.

Not mindless of the growing years Of care and loss and pain,

My eyes are wet with thankful tears For blessings which remain.

If dim the gold of life has grown,

I will not count it dross, Nor turn from treasures still my own

To sigh for lack and loss.

The years no charm from Nature take As sweet her voices call,

As beautiful her mornings break, As fair her evenings fall.

Love watches o'er my quiet ways. Kind voices speak my name.

And lips that find it hard to praise Are slow, at least, to blame.

How softly ebb the tides of will !

How fields, once lost or won. Now he behind me green and still

Beneath a level sun !

How hushed the hiss of party hate. The clamor of the throng !

How old, harsh voices of debate Flow into rhythmic song !

Methinks the spirit's temper grows

Too soft in this still air ; Somewhat the restful heart foregoes

Of needed watch and prayer.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 51

The bark by tempest vainly tossed

May founder in the calm, And he who braved the polar frost

Faint by the isles of balm.

Better than self-indulgent years

The outflung heart of youth, Than pleasant songs in idle 3'^ears

The tumult of the truth.

Rest for the weary hands is good,

And love for hearts that pine, But let the manly habitude

Of upright souls be mine.

Let winds that blow from heaven refresh,

Dear Lord, the languid air ; And let the weakness of the flesh

Thy strength of spirit share.

And, if the eye must fail of light,

The ear forget to hear. Make clearer still the spirit's sight,

More fine the inward ear !

Be near me in mine hours of need,

To soothe, or cheer, or warn, And down these slopes of sunset lead

As up the hills of morn !

CHURCH DEDICATION

ALL things are Thine : no gift have we, l\ Lord of all gifts ! to ofier Thee ; And hence with grateful hearts to-day, Thy own before Thy feet we lay.

Thy will was in the builders' thought; Thy hand unseen amidst us wrought ; Through mortal motive, scheme and plan. Thy wise eternal purpose ran.

No lack Thy perfect fulness knew ; From human needs and longings grew This house of prayer, this home of rest In the fair garden of the West. E 2

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

In weakness and in want we call

On Thee for whom the heavens are small

Thy glory is Thy children's good,

Thy joy Thy tender Fatherhood,

O Father ! deign these walls to bless ; Fill with Thy love their emptiness: And let their door a gateway be To lead us from ourselves to Thee !

THE VOICE OF CALM

DEAR Lord and Father of mankind, Forgive our foolish ways ! Reclothe us in our rightful mind, In purer lives Thy service find, . In deeper reverence, praise.

In simple trust like theirs who heard

Beside the Syrian sea The gracious calling of the Lord, Let us, like them, without a word,

Rise up and follow Thee.

O Sabbath rest by Galilee !

O calm of hills above. Where Jesus knelt to share with Thee The silence of eternity

Interpreted by love !

With that deep hush subduing all

Our words and works that drown The tender whisper of Thy call, As noiseless let Thy blessing fall As fell Thy manna down.

Drop Thy still dews of quietness,

Till all our strivings cease ; Take from our souls the strain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess

The beauty of Thy peace.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 53

Breathe through the heats of our desire

Thy coolness and Thy bahn ; Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire ; Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,

O still, small voice of calm f

THE FRIENDS BURIAL

MY thoughts are all in yonder town. Where, wept by many tears, To-day my mother's friend lays down The burden of her years.

True as in life, no poor disguise

Of death with her is seen, And on her simple casket lies

No wreath of bloom and green.

O, not for her the florist's art, The mocking weeds of woe ;

Dear memories in each mourner's heart Like heaven's white lilies blow.

And all about the softening air Of new-born sweetness tells,

And the ungathered Ma3'^-flowers wear The tints of ocean shells.

The old, assuring miracle

Is fresh as heretofore ; And earth takes up its parable

Of life from death once more.

Here organ-swell and church-bell toll Methinks but discord were, —

The prayerful silence of the soul Is best befitting her.

No sound should break the quietude

Alike of earth and sky ; O wandering wind in Seabrook wood,

Breathe but a half-heard sigh !

54 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake ;

And thou not distant sea, Lapse Hghtly as if Jesus spake,

And thou wert GaUlee !

For all her quiet life flowed on As meadow streamlets flow.

Where fresher green reveals alone The noiseless ways they go.

From her loved place of prayer I see The plain-robed mourners pass,

With slow feet treading reverently The graveyard's springing grass.

Make room, O mourning ones, for me, Where, like the friends of Paul,

That you no more her face shall see You sorrow most of all.

Her path shall brighten more and more

Unto the perfect day ; She cannot fail of peace who bore

Such peace with her away.

O sweet, calm face that seemed to wear

The look of sins forgiven ! O voice of prayer that seemed to bear

Our own needs up to heaven !

How reverent in our midst she stood, Or knelt in grateful praise !

What grace of Christian womanhood Was in her household ways !

For still her holy living meant

No duty left undone ; The heavenly and the human blent

Their kindred loves in one.

And if her life small leisure found

For feasting ear and eye, And Pleasure, on her daily round,

She passed unpausing by,

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 55

Yet with her went a secret sense

Of all things sweet and fair, And Beauty's gracious providence

Refreshed her unaware.

She kept her line of rectitude

With love's unconscious ease ; Her kindly instincts understood

All gentle courtesies.

An inborn charm of graciousness Made sweet her smile and tone

And glorified her farm-wife dress With beauty not its own.

The dear Lord's best interpreters

Are humble human souls ; The Gospel of a life like hers

Is more than books or scrolls.

From scheme and creed the light goes out,

The saintly fact survives ; The blessed Master none can doubt

Revealed in holy lives.

AT LAST

WHEN on my day of life the night is falling, And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling My feet to paths unknown,

Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant. Leave not its tenant when its walls decay ;

0 Love Divine, O Helper ever present,

Be Thou my strength and stay !

Be near me when all else is from me drifting:

Earth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and shine, And kindly faces to my own uplifting The love which answers mine.

1 have but Thee, my Father! let Thy spirit Be with me then to comfort and uphold ;

No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit. Nor street of shining gold.

56 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Suffice it if— my good and ill unreckoned,

And both forgiven through Thy abounding grace — • I find myself by hands familiar beckoned Unto my fitting place.

Some humble door among Thy many mansions,

Some sheltering shade where sin and striving cease,- And flows for ever through heaven's green expansions The river of Thy peace.

There, from the music round about me stealing,

I fain would learn the new and holy song, And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing, The life for which I long.

THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT

A TENDER child of summers three, Seeking her little bed at night, . Paused on the dark stair timidly, 'Oh, mother! take my hand,' said she, 'And then the dark will all be light.'

We older children grope our way

From dark behind to dark before ; And only when our hands we lay, Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day. And there is darkness nevermore.

Reach downwards to the sunless days, Wherein our guides are bhnd as we.

And faith is small and hope delays;

Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise, And let us feel the light of Thee.

OUR LIMITATIONS

WE trust and fear, we question and believe, From life's dark threads a trembhng faith to weave. Frail as the web that misty night has spun, Whose dew-gemmed awnins^s glitter in the sun.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 57

While the calm centuries spell their lessons out, Each truth we conquer spreads the realm of doubt ; When Sinai's summit was Jehovah's throne, The chosen Prophet knew His voice alone ; When Pilate's hall that awful question heard. The heavenly Captive answered not a word.

Eternal Truth ! beyond our hopes and fears Sweep the vast orbits of thy myriad spheres ! From age to age, while history carves sublime On her waste rock the flaming curves of time, How the wild swayings of our planet show That worlds unseen surround the world we know.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTHUS

THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed mam, — The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings. And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl !

And every chambered cell. Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell.

Before thee lies revealed,— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed !

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past years dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old n< more.

58 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn ! From thy dead hps a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : —

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll !

Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

THE LIVING TEMPLE

NOT in the world of light alone, Where God has built His blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below. With belted seas that come and go, And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen : Look in upon thy wondrous frame, — Eternal wisdom still the same !

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

No rest that throbbing slave may ask, For ever quivering o'er his task, While far and wide a crimson jet Leaps forth to fill the woven net

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 59

Which in unnumbered crossing tides The flood of burning life divides, Then, kindling each decaying part, Creeps back to find the throbbing heart.

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

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

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

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

6o OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

N

THE PROMISE

OT charity we ask,

Nor yet thy gift refuse ; Please thy hght fancy with the easy task, Only to look and choose.

The little-heeded toy That wins thy treasured gold May be the dearest memory, holiest joy. Of coming years untold.

Heaven rains on every heart. But there its showers divide, The drops of mercy choosing as they part The dark or glowing side.

One kindly deed may turn The fountain of thy soul To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er thee burn Long as its currents roll !

The pleasures thou hast planned, — Where shall their memory be When the white angel with the freezing hand Shall sit and watch by thee?

Living, thou dost not live. If mercy's spring run dry ; What heaven has lent thee wilt thou freely give. Dying, thou shalt not die !

He promised even so! To thee His lips repeat, — Behold, the tears that soothed thy sister's woe Have washed thy Master's feet !

A SUNDAY HYMN

LORD of all being ! throned afar. Thy glory flames from sun and star ; Centre and soul of every sphere, Yet to each loving heart how near !

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 6r

Sun of our life, Thy quickening ray Sheds on our path the glow of day ; Star of our hope, Thy softened light Cheers the long watches of the night.

Our midnight is Thy smile withdrawn ; Our noontide is Thy gracious dawn ; Our rainbow arch Thy mercy's sign ; All, save the clouds of sin, are Thine !

Lord of all life, below, above,

Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love.

Before Thy ever-blazing throne

We ask no lustre of our own.

Grant us Thy truth to make us free, And kindhng hearts that burn for Thee, Till all Thy living altars claim One holy hght, one heavenly flame !

HYMN OF TRUST

OLOVE Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earth-born care. We smile at pain while Thou art near !

Though long the weary way we tread, And sorrow crown each lingering year,

No path we shun, no darkness dread.

Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near !

When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear,

The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!

On Thee we fling our burdening woe,

O Love Divine, for ever dear. Content to suffer while we know,

Living and dying, Thou art near!

62

^UpUn (Btreenfeaf (guffincg THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS

WE gather to the sacred board, Perchance a scanty band ; But with us in sublime accord What mighty armies stand !

In creed and rite howe'er apart,

One Saviour still we own, And pour the worship of the heart

Before our Father's throne.

A thousand spires o'er hill and vale Point to the same blue heaven ;

A thousand voices tell the tale Of grace through Jesus given.

High choirs, in Europe's ancient fanes, Praise Him for man who died ;

And o'er our boundless Western plains His name is glorified.

Around His tomb, on Salem's height,

Greek and Armenian bend; And through all Lapland's months of night

The peasants' hymns ascend.

Are we not brethren ? Saviour dear !

Then may we walk in love, Joint subjects of Thy kingdom here,

Joint heirs of bliss above !

MEDITATION

'And they said one to another, Did not our heart burn ivithin us, ivhile He talked with us by the way, and while He opened to us the Scriptures ? ' — Luke xxiv, 32.

HATH not thy heart within thee burned At evening's calm and holy hour. As if its inmost depths discerned The presence of a loftier power ?

STEPHEN GREENLEAF BULFINCH 63

Hast thou not heard 'mid forest glades, While ancient rivers murmured by,

A voice from forth the eternal shades, That spake a present Deity?

And as, upon the sacred page.

Thine eye in rapt attention turned

O'er records of a holier age,

Hath not thy heart within thee burned ?

It was the voice of God, that spake

In silence to thy silent heart ; And bade each worthier thought awake,

And every dream of earth depart.

Voice of our God, O yet be near!

In low, sweet accents, whisper peace ; Direct us on our pathway here;

Then bid in heaven our wanderings cease.

THE SABBATH DAY

* / ivill have mercy ^ and not sacrifice.' — Matt. xii. 7.

HAIL to the Sabbath Day, The day divinely given. When men to God their homage pay, And earth draws near to heaven.

Lord, in this sacred hour. Within Thy courts we bend ; And bless Thy love, and own Thy power, Our Father and our Friend.

But Thou art not alone In courts by mortals trod : Nor only is the day Thine own When crowds adore their God.

Thy Temple is the arch Of yon unmeasured sky ; Thy Sabbath the stupendous march Of grand Eternity.

64 STEPHEN GREENLEAF BULFINCH

Lord, may a holier day Dawn on Thy servants' sight : And grant us in Thy courts to pray Of pure, unclouded light.

SILENCE

THERE are some qualities — some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs

From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence — sea and shore —

Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places.

Newly with grass o'ergrown ; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless : his name 's ' No More.' He is the corporate Silence : dread him not !

No power hath he of evil in himself; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)

Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the low regions where hath trod No foot of man), commend thyself to God !

CANA

DEAR Friend ! whose presence in the house, Whose gracious word benign, Could once, at Cana's wedding-feast. Change water into wine, —

Come, visit us, and when dull work

Grov/s weary, line on line, Revive our souls, and make us see

Life's water glow as wine.

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE 65

Gay mirth shall deepen into joy,

Earth's hopes shall grow divine, When Jesus visits us, to turn

Life's water into wine.

The social talk, the evening fire,

The homely household shrine, Shall glow with angel-visits when

The Lord pours out the wine.

For when self-seeking turns to love, Which knows not mine and thine,

The miracle again is wrought, And water changed to wine.

JESUS

JESUS, there is no dearer name than Thine, Which Time has blazoned on his mighty scroll ; No wreaths nor garlands ever did entwine So fair a temple of so vast a soul.

There every virtue set his triumph-seal ;

Wisdom, conjoined with strength and radiant grace, In a sweet copy Heaven to reveal,

And stamp perfection on a mortal face.

Once on the earth wert Thou, before men's eyes, That did not half Thy beauteous brightness see ;

E'en as the emmet does not read the skies. Nor our weak orbs look through immensity.

THE ALMIGHTY LOVE

IN darkest days and nights of storm. Men knew Thee but to fear Thy form ; And in the reddest lightning saw Thine arm avenge insulted law.

66 THEODORE PARKER

In brighter days, we read Thy love In flowers beneath, in stars above ; And in the track of every storm Behold Thy beauty's rainbow form.

And in the reddest lightning's path We see no vestiges of wrath, But always wisdom, — perfect love, From flowers beneath to stars above.

See, from on high sweet influence rains On palace, cottage, mountains, plains ; No hour of wrath shall mortals fear, For their Almighty Love is here.

EV'ENING HYMN

LO ! the day of rest declineth, Gather fast the shades of night ; Ma}' the Sun that ever shineth Fill our souls with heavenly light.

Softly now the dew is falling ;

Peace o'er all the scene is spread ; On His children, meekly calling.

Purer influence God will shed.

While Thine ear of love addressing, Thus our parting hymn we sing, —

Father, give Thine evening blessing ; Fold us safe beneath Thy wing.

PEACE ON EARTH

IT came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, PYom angels bending near the earth, To touch their harps of gold —

EDMUND HAMILTON SEARS 67

' Peace on the earth, good will to men,'

From heaven's all-gracious King ; The world in solemn stillness lay

To hear the angels sin?.

Still through the cloven skies they come,

With peaceful wings unfurled. And still their heavenly music floats

O'er all the weary world ; Above its sad and lowly plains

They bend on hovering wing, And ever o'er its Babel-sounds

The blessed angels sing.

Yet, with the woes of sin and strife,

The world has suffered long ; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled

Two thousand years of wrong ; And man, at war with man, hears not

The love-song which they bring : O hush the noise, ye men of strife,

And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load,

Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way,

With painful steps and slow, — Look now ; for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing : O rest beside the weary road

And hear the angels sing !

For lo ! the daj^s 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 ancient splendors fling, And the whole world send back the sonj

Which now the angels sing.

68 EDMUND HAMILTON SEARS

O BRIGHT Ideals, how ye shine, Aloft in realms of air ! Ye pour your streams of light divine Above our low despair.

I've climbed, and climbed these weary years

To come your glories nigh ; I'm tired of climbing, and in tears

Here on the earth I lie.

As a weak child all vainly tries

To pluck the evening star, So vain have been my life-long cries .

To reach up where ye are.

Shine on, shine on, through earth's dark night,

Nor let your glories pale ! Some stronger soul may win the height

Where weaker ones must fail.

And this one thought of hope and trust

Comes with its soothing balm, As here I lay my brow in dust,

And breathe my lowly psalm,—

That not for heights of victory won,

But those I tried to gain. Will come my gracious Lord's 'Well done!'

And sweet effacing rain.

Then on your awful heights of blue

Shine on, for ever shine ; I come ! I'll climb, 111 fly to you,

For endless years of mine.

69

(H)iffiam ^ent:^ (guvfet^g

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN

OH, deem not that earth's crowning bhss Is found in joy alone ; For sorrow, bitter though it be,

Hath blessings all its own; From lips divine, like healing balm.

To hearts oppressed and torn, This heavenly consolation fell, — ' Blessed are they that mourn ! '

As blossoms smitten by the rain

Their sweetest odors yield, As where the ploughshare deepest strikes

Rich harvests crown the field. So, to the hopes by sorrow crushed,

A nobler faith succeeds ; And life, by trials furrowed, bears

The fruit of loving deeds.

Who never mourned, hath never known

What treasures grief reveals : The sympathies that humanize,

The tenderness that heals. The power to look within the veil

And learn the heavenly lore. The key-word to life's mysteries,

So dark to us before.

How rich and sweet and full of strength

Our human spirits are. Baptized into the sanctities

Of suffering and of prayer ! Supernal wisdom, love divine.

Breathed through the lips which said, * Oh, blessed are the souls that mourn—

They shall be comforted ! '

70 WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH

TRUST

STILL will we trust, though earth seem dark and drear}' And the heart faint beneath His chastening rod, Though rough and steep our pathway, worn and weary, Still will we trust in God !

Our ej'es see dimly till by faith anointed,

And our blind choosing brings us grief and pain ; Through Him alone, who hath our way appointed, We find our peace again.

Choose for us, God, nor let our weak preferring

Cheat our poor souls of good Thou hast designed : Choose for us, God ! Thy wisdom is unerring, And we are fools and blind.

So from our sky the night shall furl her shadows,

And day pour gladness through her golden gates ; Our rough path lead to flower-enamelled meadows. Where joy our coming waits.

Let us press on : in patient self-denial,

Accept the hardship, shrink not from the loss ; Our guerdon lies beyond the hour of trial. Our crown beyond the cross.

MATINS

FOR the dear love that kept us through the night, And gave our senses to sleep's gentle sway, - P'or the new miracle of dawning light

Flushing the east with prophecies of day, We thank Thee, O our God !

P'or the fresh life that through our being flows With its full tide to strengthen and to bless —

For calm sweet thoughts, upspringing from repose To bear to Thee their song of thankfulness. We praise Thee, O our God !

WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH 71

Day uttereth speech to day, and night to night Tells of Thy power and glory. So would we,

Thy children, duly, with the morning light, Or at still eve, upon the bended knee Adore Thee, O our God !

Thou know'st our needs. Thy fulness will supply Our blindness, — let Thy hand still lead us on.

Till, visited by the dayspring from on high, Our prayer, one only, ' Let Thy will be done ! ' We breathe to Thee, O God !

GIFTED FOR GIVING

'Freely ye have received, freely give.' — Matt. x. 8.

BE true, O poet, to your gift divine ! And let your heart go throbbing through your line, Till it grows vital with the life that burns In joy and grief, in faith and doubt, by turns. And full, complete expression gives to these In the clear ringing of its cadences ! Pour your soul's passion through the tide of song. Nor ask the plaudits of the changeful throng. Sing as the bird sings, when the morning beam With gentlest touch awakes it from its dream. And life and light, their motion and their glow, Gush through the song, with flow and overflow; Sing as the stream sings, winding through the maze Of woods and meadows with no thought of praise, Its murmurous music, or in storm or calm, Blending its low, sweet notes with Nature's psalm ; Sing as the wind sings, when the forest trees Are vocal with its mystic melodies. And every leaf lifts up its tiny harp To answer back in tones distinct and sharp. Though purblind men, the devotees of greed To song or singer give but little heed. And the deaf multitudes refuse to turn From Mammon's shrines diviner lore to learn,

72

WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH

The angels, in their starry homes, shall know How true a spirit walks the earth below, And, pausing in their song, to list your lyre, Shall whisper through the spaces, ' Come up higher .

^antuef ©cwee (RofiStne

BACA

THROUGH Baca's vale my way is cast,- Its thorns my feet have trod; But I have found the well at last, And quench my thirst in God.

My roof is but an humble home

Hid in the wilderness ; But o'er me springs the eternal dome,

For He my dwelling is.

My raiment rude and lowly seems,

All travel-stained and old ; But with His brightest morning beams

He doth my soul infold.

How scantly is my table spread !

With tears my cup o'erflows : But He is still my daily bread, —

No want my spirit knows.

Hard is the stony pillow bed ;

How broken is my rest! On Him I lean my aching head.

And sleep upon His breast.

For faith can make the desert bloom ;

And, through the vistas dim. Love sees, in sunlight or in gloom.

All pathways lead to Him.

T

SAMUEL DOWSE ROBBINS 73

THE COMPASS

HOU art, O God, my East ! In Thee I dawned ; X Within me ever let Thy day-spnng shme ; Then, for each night of sorrow 1 have mourned, I'll bless Thee, Father, since it seals me Thme.

Thou art, O God, my North ! My trembling soul, Like a charmed needle, points to Jhee alone :

Each wave of time, each storm of life, shall roil My trusting spirit forward to Thy throne.

Thou art, O God, my South I Thy fervent love Perennial verdure o'er my hfe hath shed ;

And constant sunshine, from Thy heart above With wine and oil Thy grateful child hath ted.

Thou art, O God, my West ! Into Thy arms, Glad as the setting sun, may I decline ;

Baptized from earthly stains and sin's alarms, Reborn, arise in Thy new heavens to shme.

CEASELESS ASPIRATIONS

NOT all the beauties of this joyous earth. Its smiUng valleys or its azure sky, Or the sweet blossoms that in quiet mirth

Turn their soft cheeks to winds that wander by, Can please enough the ear, or satisfy the eye !

The silver fountain, with its misty shower;

The curUng wave, dissolving on the shore ; The clouds that feed with dew each infant flower ;

The small stream's gentle song, the ocean's roar,— All give the mind delight, and yet it seeks for more !

74 ROBERT CASSIE WATERSTON

Thus doth the soul, by its innate desire, Give inward prophecy of what shall be ! —

The spirit struggling, higher 3^et, and higher^ Panting for light and restless to be free,

Foreshadows in itself its immortality

MORTAL AND IMMORTAL

I STAND between the Future and the Past,— That which has been and that which is to be ;— A feeble ray from the Eternal cast ;

A scanty rill, that seeks a shoreless sea ; A living soul, treading this earthly sod ; A finite being, yet a child of God !

A body crumbling to the dust away ;

A spirit panting for eternal peace ; A heavenly kingdom in a frame of clay ;

An infant-angel fluttering for release ; An erring man, whose race has just begun ; A pilgrim, journe3dng on from sun to sun !

Creature of clay, yet heir of future life ;

Dweller upon a world I shall outlive ; Soldier of Christ, battling midst earthly strife.

Yet hoping, by that strength which God may give, To burst the doors of death, and glorying rise Triumphant from the grave, to tread the skies !

THE OTHER WORLD

IT lies around us like a cloud,- A world we do not see ; Yet the sweet closing of an eye May bring us there to be.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 75

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek ;

Amid our worldly cares. Its gentle voices whisper love,

And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,

Sweet helping hands are stirred, And palpitates the veil between

With breathings almost heard.

The silence, awful, sweet, and calm,

They have no power to break ; For mortal words are not for them

To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide,

So near to press they seem, They lull us gently to our rest,

And melt into our dream.

And in the hush of rest they bring

'Tis easy now to see How lovel}^ and how sweet a pass

The hour of death may be ; —

To close the eye and close the ear,

Wrapped in a trance of bliss, And gently dream in loving arms,

To swoon to that — from this, —

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,

Scarce asking where we are. To feel all evil sink away.

All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us ! watch us still ;

Press nearer to our side ; Into our thoughts, into our prayers,

With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught,

A dried and vanished stream : Your joy be the reality.

Our suftering life the dream.

76 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

THE sours ANSWER ^ Abide in Me, and I in you.'' — John xv. 4.

THAT mystic word of Thine, O sovereign Lord, Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me ; Weary of striving, and with longing faint, I breathe it back again in prayer to Thee.

Abide in me, I pray, and I in Thee;

From this good hour, O, leave me never more ; Then shall the discord cease, the wound be healed,

The Hfe-long bleeding of the soul be o'er.

Abide in me ; o'ershadow by Thy love

Each half-formed purpose and dark thought of sin ; Quench, ere it rise, each selfish, low desire.

And keep my soul as Thine, calm and divine.

As some rare perfume in a vase of clay Pervades it with a fragrance not its own.

So, when Thou dwellest in a mortal soul, AH heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown.

Abide in me ; there have been moments blest

When I have heard Thy voice and felt Thy power.

Then evil lost its grasp, and passion hushed. Owned the divine enchantment of the hour.

These were but seasons, beautiful and rare ;

Abide in me, and they shall ever be; Fulfil at once Thy precept and my prayer —

Come, and abide in me, and I in Thee 1

THE SECRET

' Thou shalt keep them in the secret of Thy presence from the strife of tongues.^

WHEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean. And billows wild contend with angry roar, 'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion. That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.

77

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth, And silver waves glide ever peacefully,

And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth, Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea.

So to the soul that knows Thy love, O Purest !

There is a temple, sacred evermore ! And all the babble of life's angry voices

Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.

Far, far away, the noise of passion dieth. And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully,

And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth. Disturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in Thee.

O Rest of rests ! O Peace serene, eternal !

Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never; And in the secret of Thy presence dwelleth

Fulness of joy, forever and forever.

M^HEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE.

STILL, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh and the shadows flee ; Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight. Dawns the sweet consciousness, / am ivith Thee /

Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born ;

Alone with Thee, in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

Still, still with Thee, as to each new-born morning A fresh and solemn splendor still is given,

So doth this blessed consciousness, awaking. Breathe, each day, nearness unto Thee and heaven.

When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer;

Sweet the repose beneath Thy wings o'ershading, But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there.

; HARRIET BEECHER STOVv^E

So shall it be at last, in that bright morning When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee ;

O, in that hour fairer than daylight dawning,

Shall rise the glorious thousrht, / am with Thee/'

GNOSIS

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought ; Souls to souls can never teach

What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils ;

Man by man was never seen ; All our deep communing fails

To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known ;

Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns, left alone,

Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near,

In our light we scattered lie ; All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company

But a babbling summer stream.^ What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream ?

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought ; Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught ;

Only when our souls are fed

By the Fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth ;

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 79

We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they melt and run,

Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one.

COMPENSATION

TEARS wash away the atoms in the eye That smarted for a day ; Rain-clouds that spoiled the splendors of the sky The fields with flowers array.

No chamber of pain but has som.e hidden door

That promises release ; No solitude so drear but yields its store

Of thought and inward peace.

No night so wild but brings the constant sun

With love and power untold ; No time so dark but through its woof there run

Some blessed threads of gold.

And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn

In changing calm and strife The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn,—

The unquenched lamps of life.

O Love supreme ! O Providence divine !

What self-adjusting springs Of law and life, what even scales, are Thine,

What sure-returning wings

Of hopes and joys that flit like birds away.

When chilling autumn blows, But come again, long ere the buds of May

Their rosy lips unclose !

What wondrous play of mood and accident Through shiftmg days and years ;

What fresh returns of vigor overspent In feverish dreams and fears 1

8d CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH

What wholesome air of conscience and of thought When doubts and forms oppress ;

What vistas opening to the gates we sought Beyond the wilderness :

Beyond the narrow cells where self-involved,

Like chrysalids, we wait The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved

Of death and change and fate !

O Light divine ! we need no fuller test

That all is ordered well ; We know enough to trust that all is best

Where love and wisdom dwell.

/ IN THEE, AND THOU IN- ME

I AM but clay in Thy hands, but Thou art the all- loving Artist. Passive I lie in Thy sight, yet in my selfhood I strive So to embody the life and the love Thou ever impartest, That in my sphere of the finite I may be truly alive.

Knowing Thou needest this form, as I Thy divine in- spiration, Knowing Thou shapest the clay with a vision and purpose divine. So would I answer each touch of Thy hand in its loving creation. That in my conscious life Thy power and beauty may shine,

Reflecting the noble intent Thou hast in forming Thy creatures ; Waking from sense into life of the soul, and the image of Thee ; Working with Thee in Thy work to model humanity's features Into the Hkeness of God, myself from myself I would free.

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 8r

One with all human existence, no one above or below me ; Lit by Thy wisdom and love, as roses are steeped in the morn ; Growing from clay to a statue, from statue to flesh, till Thou know me Wrought into manhood celestial, and in Thine image re-born.

So in Thy love will I trust, bringing me sooner or later Past the dark screen that divides these shows of the finite from Thee.

Thine, Thine only, this warm dear life, O loving Creator ! Thine the invisible future, born of the present, must be.

LIFE AND DEATH

IF death be final, what is life, with all Its lavish promises, its thwarted aims,

Its lost ideals, its dishonoured claims. Its uncompleted growth? A prison wall. Whose heartless stones but echo back our call ;

An epitaph recording but our names ;

A puppet-stage where joys and griefs and shames Furnish a demon jesters' carnival ; A plan without a purpose or a form ;

A roofless temple ; an unfinished tale. And men like madrepores through calm and storm

Toil, die to build a branch of fossil frail, And add from all their dreams, thoughts, acts, belief, A few more inches to a coral-reef.

Jone0 (P^f^

NATURE

THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, Because my feet find measure with its call. The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, For I am known to them both great and small ;

G

82 JONES VERY

The flowers that on the lovely hill-side grow

Expect me there when Spring their bloom has given ; And many a tree and bush my wanderings know,

And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ; For he who with his Maker w^alks aright,

Shall be their lord, as Adam was before ; His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,

Each object wear the dress which then it wore ; And he, as when erect in soul he stood, Hear from his Father's lips, that all is good.

THE S ABB ATI A

THE sweet-briar rose has not a form more fair, Nor are its hues more beauteous than thine own, Sabbatia, flower most beautiful and rare ! '

In lonely spots blooming unseen, unknown. So spiritual thy look, thy stem so light,

Thou seemest not from the dark earth to grow ; But to belong to heavenly regions bright.

Where night comes not, nor blasts of winter blow. To me thou art a pure, ideal flower,

So delicate that mortal touch might mar ; Not born, like other flowers, of sun and shower.

But wandering from thy native home afar To lead our thoughts to some serener clime Beyond the shadows and the storms of time.

LIFE

IT is not life upon Thy gifts to live, But to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee ; And when the sun and shower their bounties give,

To send out thick-leaved limbs ; a fruitful tree, Whose green head meets the eye for many a mile, Whose spreading boughs a friendly shelter rear, Where full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile, As to its goodly shade our feet draw near;

JONES VERY 83

Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more, For 'tis the Father spreads the pure repast,

"Who, while we eat, renews the ready store, Which at His bounteous board must ever last ;

For none the Bridegroom's supper shall attend,

Who will not hear and make His Word their friend.

THE PRESENCE

I SIT within my room, and joy to find That Thou who always lov'st art with me here, That I am never left by Thee behind,

But by Thyself Thou keep'st me ever near; The fire burns brighter when with Thee I look.

And seems a kinder servant sent to me; With gladder heart I read Thy holy book.

Because Thou art the eyes by which I see ; This aged chair, that table, watch, and door

Around in ready service ever wait ; Nor can I ask of Thee a menial more

To fill the measure of my large estate. For Thou Thyself, with all a Father's care Where'er I turn, art ever with me there.

THE SPIRIT

I WOULD not breathe, when blows Thy mighty wind O'er desolate hill and winter-blasted plain, But stand, in waiting hope, if I may find

Each flower recalled to newer life again. That now unsightly hides itself from Thee,

Amid the leaves or rustling grasses dry, With ice-cased rock and snowy-mantled tree,

Ashamed lest Thou its nakedness should spy; But Thou shalt breathe, and every rattling bough

Shall gather leaves; each rock with rivers flow; And they that hide them from Thy presence now,

In new-found robes alon^ Thy path shall glow, And meadows at Thy coming fall and rise. Their green waves sprinkled with a thousand eyes.

G 2

84 JONES VERY

LABOR AND REST

THOU need'st not rest : the shining spheres are Thine That roll perpetual on their silent way, And Thou dost breathe in me a voice divine,

That tells more sure of Thine eternal sway ; Thine the first starting of the early leaf,

The gathering green, the changing autumn hue ; To Thee the world's long years are but as brief

As the fresh tints that Spring will soon renew. Thou needest not man's little life of years,

Save that he gather wisdom from them all ; That in Thy fear he lose all other fears,

And in Thy calHng heed no other call. Then shall he be Thy child to know Thy care. And in Thy glorious Self the eternal Sabbath share.

w

THE PRAYER

ILT Thou not visit me? The plant beside me feels Thy gentle dew ; And every blade of grass I see, From Thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew.

Wilt Thou not visit me ? Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone ;

And every hill and tree Lend but one voice, the voice of Thee alone.

Come, for I need Thy love, More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain ;

Come, gently as Thy holy Dove ; And let me in Thy sight rejoice to live again.

I will not hide from them When Thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath ;

But bow with leafy stem. And strengthened follow on Thy chosen path.

Yes, Thou wilt visit me, Nor plant nor tree Thine eye delights so well,

As when, from sin set free My spirit loves with Thine in peace to dwell.

JONES VERY 85

THE LIGHT FROM WITHIN

I SAW on earth another Hght Than that which lit my eye Come forth as from my soul withm, And from a higher sky.

Its beams shone still unclouded on,

When in the farthest west The sun I once had known had sunk

Forever to his rest.

And on I walked, though dark the night,

Nor rose his orb by day; As one who by a surer guide

Was pointed out the way.

'Twas brighter far than noonday's beam ;

It shone from God within. And lit, as by a lamp from heaven.

The world's dark track of sin.

o

THE MOUNTAINS

.LD mountains! dim and gray ye rise

. ^ As ceaseless prayer,- earth's sacnhce

Sharing your breath, the soul adores, And with your soarmg summits soars.

Where Moses taught, where Jesus trod,

Your tops stand altars unto God.

O shapes of glory, sacred all.

From every height heaven's blessmgs tall.

The minaret-watchman's punctual cry Summons loud worship to the sky; Voiceless appeals, from you sent down, A million silent throbbings own.

86

thtite Zimof^^ (grooRc

SUCH IS LIFE

LIFE is a sea; like ships we meet, — We speak each other and are gone. Across that deep, Oh, what a fleet Of human souls is hurrying on !

We meet, we part, and hope some daj^

To meet again on sea or shore, Before we reach that peaceful bay,

Where all shall meet to part no more.

O great Commander of the fleet !

O Ruler of the tossing seas ! Thy signal to our eyes how sweet !

How sweet Thy breath,— the heavenly breeze

THE GREAT VOICES

A VOICE from the sea to the mountains. From the mountains again to the sea : A call from the deep to the fountains, O spirit ! be glad and be free !

A cry from the floods to the fountains, And the torrents repeat the glad song.

As they leap from the breast of the mountains, O spirit ! be free and be strong !

The pine forests thrill with emotion Of praise, as the spirit sweeps by;

With a voice like the murmur of ocean, To the soul of the listener they cr3\

O sing, human heart, like the fountains,

With joy reverential and free ; Contented and calm as the mountains.

And deep as the woods and the sea.

87

3ame0 Z^omac ^id^e

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL

UNDERNEATH the sod, low lying, Dark and drear, Sleepeth one who left, in dying, Sorrow here.

Yes, they're ever bending o'er her,

Eyes that weep ; Forms that to the cold grave bore her,

Vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining

Soft and fair, Friends she loved in tears are twining

Chaplets there.

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,

Throned above ; Souls like thine with God inherit

Life and love !

Cgatrfee (damage ^aetman

DIRGE

SOFTLY ! She is lying With her lips apart.

Softly ! She is dying Of a broken heart.

Whisper ! She is going To her tinal rest.

Whisper ! Life is growing Dim within her breast.

88 CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN

Gently . She is sleeping ; She has breathed her last.

Gently ! While you're weeping, She to heaven has past.

INSPIRATION

IF with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of anything, The verse is weak and shallow as its source.

But if with bended neck I grope,

Listening behind me for my wit. With faith superior to hope.

More anxious to keep back than forward it ;

Making my soul accomplice there

Unto the flame my heart hath lit. Then will the verse for ever wear, —

Time cannot bend the line which God has writ.

I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before ;

I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.

Now chiefly is my natal hour,

And only now my prime of life ; Of manhood's strength it is the flower,

'Tis peace's end, and war's beginning strife.

It comes in summer's broadest noon By a gray wall, or some chance place,

Unseasoning time, insulting June, And vexing day with its presuming face.

I will not doubt the love untold

Which not my worth nor want hath bought, Which woo'd me young, and wooes me old.

And to this evening hath me brought.

89

THE DESIRE OF ALL NATIONS

S

AVIOUR, sprinkle many nations, _ Fruitful let Thy sorrows be ; By Thy pains and consolations

Draw the Gentiles unto Thee : Of Thy Cross the wondrous story

Be to all the nations told ; Let them see Thee in Thy glory,

And Thy mercy manifold.

Far and wide, though all unknowing,

Pants for Thee each mortal breast ; Human tears for Thee are flowing,

Human hearts in Thee would rest : Thirsting as for dews of even,

As the new-mown grass for rain, Thee they seek, as God of heaven,

Thee as Man for sinners slain.

Saviour, lo, the isles are waiting,

Stretched the hand, and stramed the sight For Thy Spirit, new-creating.

Love's pure flame and wisdom's light ; Give the word, and of the preacher

Speed the foot and touch the tongue, Till on earth by every creature

Glory to the Lamb be sung.

^gonta0 (pOieftam (parsone

EPITAPH ON A CHILD

THIS little seed of life and love, Just lent us for a day. Came like a blessing from above, - Passed like a dream away.

90 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS

And when we garnered in the earth The foison that was ours,

We felt that burial was but birth To spirits, as to flowers.

And still that benediction stays Although its angel passed :

Dear God ! Th}^ ways, if bitter ways. We learn to love at last.

But for the dream,— it broke indeed, Yet still great comfort gives ;

What was a dream is now our creed, We know our darhng lives.

PARADISI GLORIA

O frate mio ! ctascuna e cittadina D' una vera citta. . . .

THERE is a city, builded hy no hand, And unapproachable by sea or shore, And unassailable by any band

Of storming soldiery for evermore.

There we no longer shall divide our time By acts or pleasures, — doing petty things

Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme ; But we shall sit beside the silver springs

That flow from God's own footstool, and behold Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few

Who loved us once and were beloved of old. To dwell with them and walk with them anew.

In alternations of sublime repose,

Musical motion, the perpetual play Of every faculty that heaven bestows

Through the bright, busy, and eternal day.

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS

91

TO A YOUNG GIRL DYING

THIS is Palm Sunday. Mindful of the day, I bring palm-branches, found upon my wa}' ; But these will wither, thine shall never die, The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky ! Dear little saint, though but a child in years, Older in wisdom than thy gray compeers ! We doubt and tremble, we with bated breath, Talk of this mystery of life and death : Thou, strong in faith, and gifted to conceive Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe !

Then take thy palms triumphal to thy home, Gentle white palmer, never more to roam ! Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st. Thy benediction, for my love thou know'st ; We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine.

^xxixa, (^av^ ^on?e

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of

wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword : His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred cir- cling camps ;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps ;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps : His day is marching on.

92 JULIA WARD HOWE

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of

steel : * As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace

shall deal ; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with

His heel! Since God is marching on.'

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call

retreat ; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment

seat ; Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, mv

feet ! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born, across the

sea. With a glory in His bosom that transfigures ^''ou and

me : As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men

free. While God is marchins: on.

3o0ia6 (BiiUvt Igoffan^

A SONG OF DOUBT

HE day is quenched, and the sun is fled God has forgotten the world ! The moon is gone, and the stars are dead ; God has forgotten the world !

Evil has won in the horrid feud

Of ages with the throne ; Evil stands on the neck of Good,

And rules the world alone.

There is no good ; there is no God ;

And faith is a heartless cheat. Who bares the back for the Devil's rod,

And scatters thorns for the feet.

T

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND 93

What are prayers in the lips of death,

Filling and chilling with hail ? What are prayers but wasted breath,

Beaten back by the gale? The day is quenched, and the sun is fled ;

God has forgotten the world ! The moon is gone, and the stars are dead;

God has forgotten the world !

A SONG OF FAITH

DAY will return with a fresher boon ; God will remember the world ! Night will come with a newer moon; God will remember the w^orld !

Evil is only the slave of good ;

Sorrow the servant of joy ; And the soul is mad that refuses food

Of the meanest in God's employ.

The fountain of joy is fed by tears,

And love is lit by the breath of sighs ; The deepest griefs and the wildest fears

Have holiest ministries; Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm ;

Safely the flower sleeps under the snow; And the farmer's hearth is never warm

Till the cold wind starts to blow. Day will return with a fresher boon;

God will remember the world ! Night will come with a newer moon ;

God will remember the world !

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

THERE'S a song in the air! There 's a star in the sky ! There's a mother's deep prayer

And a baby's low cry; .

And the star rains its fire while the beautitul sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king !

94 JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND

There's a tumult of joy

O'er the wonderful birth, For the Virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth. Ay, the star rains its fire, and the beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king !

In the light of that star

Lie the ages impearled ; And that song from afar Has swept over the world ; Every hearth is aflame, and the beautiful sing. In the homes of the nations, that Jesus is king !

Jamee (Rueeeff Boweff

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING

I DO not come to weep above thy pall, And mourn the dying-out of noble powers ; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all

Earth's seeming woe, the seed of heaven's flowers.

Truth needs no champions : in the infinite deep Of everlasting Soul her strength abides.

From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap, Through Nature's veins her strength, undying tides.

Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, Where force were vain, makes conquest o'er the wave;

And love lives on and hath a power to bless. When they who loved are hidden in the grave.

The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields.

And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood ; But Alexander now to Plato yields,

Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood.

I watch the circle of the eternal years.

And read for ever in the storied page One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears, —

One onward step of Truth from age to age.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 95

The poor are crushed ; the tyrants link their chain ;

The poet sings through narrow dungeon-grates ; Man's hope lies quenched ; — and, lo ! with steadfast gain

Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates.

Men slay the prophets ; fagot, rack, and cross Make up the groaning record of the past ;

But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, And sovereign Beauty wins the soul at last.

No power can die that ever wrought for Truth ;

Thereby a law of Nature it became, And lives unwithered in its sinewy youth.

When he who called it forth is but a name.

Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone ;

The better part of thee is with us still ; Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown,

And only freer wrestles with the 111.

Thou livest in the life of all good things ;

What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die ; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings

To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly.

And often, from that other world, on this

Some gleams from great souls gone before ma^^ shine

To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine.

Thou art not idle : in thy higher sphere

Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, And strength, to perfect what it dreamed of here,

Is all the crown and glory that it asks.

For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room For love and pity, and for helpful deeds ;

Else were our summons thither but a doom To life more vain than this in clayey weeds.

From off the starry mountain-peak of song. Thy spirit shows me, in the coming time,

An earth unwithered by the foot of wrong, A race revering its own soul sublime.

96 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes ma}' come, Thou knowest not, nor I ; but God will lead

The prodigal soul from want and sorrow home, And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed.

Farewell ! good man, good angel now ! this hand Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning too ;

Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand, Then leap to thread the free, unfathomed blue :

When that day comes, O, may this hand grow cold, Busy, hke thine, for Freedom and the Right ;

O, ma}' this soul, like thine, be ever bold To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight !

This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier;

Let worthier hands than these thy wreath intwine ; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear,—

For us weep rather thou in calm divine !

THE PRESENT CRISIS

WHEN a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east

to west, And the slave, wnere'er he cowers, feels the soul

within him climb To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.

Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan- taneous throe,

When the travail of the Ages wnngs earth's sj^stems to and fro ;

At the birth of each new Era, with a recognising start.

Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart,

And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 97

So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill, Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies

with God In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by

the sod, Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the

nobler clod.

For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears

along, Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right

or wrong ; Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast

frame Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy

or shame ; — In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal

claim.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to

decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or

evil side ; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each

the bloom or blight. Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon

the right, And the choice goes by for ever 'twixt that darkness

and that light.

Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou

shalt stand, Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust

against our land ? Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone

is strong, And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her

throng Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all

wrong.

H

98 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments

see, That, Hke peaks of some sunk continent, jut through

Obhvion's sea; Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding

cry Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose

feet earth's chaff must fly ; Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment

hath passed by.

Careless seems the great Avenger ; history's pages but

record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems

and the Word ; Truth for ever on the scaffold, Wrong for ever on the

throne, — Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim

unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above

His own.

We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great.

Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate.

But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,

List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within, —

'They enslave their children's children who make com- promise with sin.'

Slavery, the earthborn Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched

the earth with blood, P'amished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer

Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable

prey ;— Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless

children play?

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 99

Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her

wretched crust, Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous

to be just ; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward

stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had

denied.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes,— they were souls that stood alone.

While the men they agonized for hurled the contu- melious stone,

Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline

To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine,

By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,

Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,

And these mounts of anguish number how each genera- tion learned

One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet- hearts hath burned.

Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.

For Humanity sweeps onward : where to-day the martyr

stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his

hands ; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling

fagots burn. While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden

urn.

300 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves

Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves,

Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light

a crime; — Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered b}^

men behind their time? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make

Plymouth rock sublime ?

They were men of present valour, stalwart old icono- clasts,

Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's ;

But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free,

Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee

The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea.

They have rights who dare maintain them ; we are traitors to our sires.

Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar- fires ;

Shall we make their creed our jailer?

Shall we, in our haste to slay,

P>om the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away

To Hght up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-da}^ ?

New occasions teach new duties ; Time makes ancient good uncouth ;

They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth ;

Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires ! we ourselves must Pilgrims be,

Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea.

Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood- rusted key.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

THE CHANGELING

I HAD a little daughter, And she was given to me To lead me gently backward

To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature,^

Might in some dim wise divme

The depth of His infinite patience

To this wayward soul of mine.

I know not how others saw her,

But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from

Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ; For it was as wavy and golden,

And as many changes took, As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples

On the yellow bed of a brook.

To what can I liken her smiling,

Upon me, her kneeling lover. How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids,

And dimpled her wholly over, Till her outstretched hands smiled also,

And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother

Sending sun through her veins to me !

She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth,

And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels

Stole my little daughter away ; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari

But loosed the hampering strings. And when they had opened her cage-door,

My little bird used her wings.

But they left in her stead a changeling,

A little angel child. That seems hke her bud in full blossom,

And smiles as she never smiled :

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

When I wake in the morning, I see it Where she always used to lie,

And I feel as weak as a violet Alone 'neath the awful sky.

As weak, yet as trustful also ;

For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature

Still worked for the love of me ; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,

Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper

A poor little violet.

This child is not mine as the first was,

I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly

And bliss it upon my breast ; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle

And sits in my little one's chair. And the light of the heaven she 's gone to

Transfigures its golden hair.

BIBLIOLATRES

BOWING thyself in dust before a Book, And thinking the great God is thine alone, O rash iconoclast, thou wilt not brook What gods the heathen carves in wood and stone, As if the Shepherd, who from outer cold Leads all His shivering lambs to one sure fold. Were careful for the fashion of His crook.

There is no broken reed so poor and base. No rush, the bending tilt of swamp-fly blue. But He therewith the ravening wolf can chase, And guide His flock to springs and pastures new ; Through ways unlooked for, and through many lands, Far from the rich folds built with human hands. The gracious footprints of His love I trace.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 103

And what art thou, own brother of the clod, That from His hand the crook would snatch away, And shake instead thy dry and sapless rod, To scare the sheep out of the wholesome day ? Yea, what art thou, blind, unconverted Jew, That with thy idol-volume's covers two Wouldst make a jail to coop the living God ?

Thou hear'st not well the mountain organ-tones By prophet ears from Hor and Sinai caught. Thinking the cisterns of those Hebrew brains Drew dry the springs of the All-knower's thought, Nor shall thy lips be touched with living fire. Who blow'st old altar-coals with sole desire To weld anew the spirit's broken chains.

God is not dumb, that He should speak no more; If thou hast wanderings in the wilderness And find'st not Sinai, 'tis thy soul is poor; There towers the mountain of the Voice no less, Which whoso seeks shall find, but he who bends, Intent on manna still and mortal ends, Sees it not, neither hears its thundered lore.

Slowly the Bible of the race is writ,

And not on paper leaves nor leaves of stone ;

Each age, each kindred, adds a verse to it,

Texts of despair or hope, of joy or moan.

While swings the sea, while mists the mountains shroud,

While thunder's surges burst on cliffs of cloud,

Still at the prophets' feet the nations sit.

ALL-SAINTS

ONE feast, of holy days the crest, I, though no Churchman, love to keep, All-Saints, — the unknown good that rest

In God's still memory folded deep ; The bravely dumb that did their deed. And scorned to blot it with a name, Men of the plain heroic breed,

That loved Heaven's silence more than fame.

104 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Such lived not in the past alone,

But thread to-day the unheeding street, And stairs to Sin and Famine known

Sing with the welcome of their feet ; The den they enter grows a shrine,

The grimy sash an oriel burns, Their cup of water warms like wine,

Their speech is filled from heavenly urns.

About their brows to me appears

An aureole traced in tenderest light, The rainbow-gleam of smiles through tears

In dying eyes, by them made bright. Of souls that shivered on the edge

Of that chill ford repassed no more. And in their mercy felt the pledge

And sweetness of the farther shore.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

WHAT means this glory round our ^^ei,'' The Magi mused, ' more bright than morn ?' And voices chanted clear and sweet, ' To-day the Prince of Peace is born.'

'What means that star,' the shepherds said, 'That brightens through the rocky glen.-*'

And angels, answering overhead,

Sang, ' Peace on earth, good-will to men.'

'Tis eighteen hundred years and more Since those sweet oracles were dumb ;

We wait for Him, like them of yore ; Alas! He seems so slow to come.

But it was said in words of gold.

No time or sorrow e'er shall dim, That little children might be bold,

In perfect trust to come to Him.

All round about our feet shall shine A light like that the wise men saw,

If w^e our willing hearts incline

To that sweet Life which is the Law.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 105

So shall we learn to understand

The simple faith of shepherds then, And, kindly clasping hand in hand,

Sing, ' Peace on earth, good-will to men.'

For they who to their childhood cling, And keep their natures fresh as morn.

Once more shall hear the angels sing, 'To-day the Prince of Peace is born.'

HYMN OF WINTER

?'T~'IS winter now; the fallen snow 1 Has left the heavens all coldly clear;

Through leafless boughs the sharp winds blow. And all the earth lies dead and drear.

And yet God's love is not withdrawn ;

His life within the keen air breathes. His beauty paints the crimson dawn.

And clothes the boughs with glittering wreaths.

And though abroad the sharp winds blow, And skies are chill, and frosts are keen,

Home closer draws her circle now, And warmer glows her light within.

O God ! who giv'st the winter's cold,

As well as summers joyous rays. Us warmly in Thy love enfold,

And keep us through life's wintry days.

VESPER HYMN

NOW on land and sea descending, Brings the night its peace profound ; Let our vesper-hymn be blending

With the holy calm around. Soon as dies the sunset glory.

Stars of heaven shine out above, TeUing still the ancient story, — Their Creator's changeless love.

io6 SAMUEL LONGFELLOW

Now our wants and burdens leaving

To His care, who cares for all, Cease we fearing, cease we grieving,

At His touch our burdens fall. As the darkness deepens o'er us,

Lo ! eternal stars arise ; Hope and Faith and Love rise glorious

Shining in the spirit's skies.

THE CHURCH UNIVERSAL

ONE holy church of God appears Through every age and race, Unwasted by the lapse of years. Unchanged by changing place.

From oldest time, on farthest shores, Beneath the pine or palm,

One Unseen Presence she adores, With silence, or with psalm.

Her priests are all God's faithful sons. To serve the world raised up ;

The pure in heart her baptized ones, Love her communion-cup.

The truth is her prophetic gift, The soul her sacred page ;

And feet on mercy's errand swift, Do make her pilgrimage.

O living church, thine errand speed,

Fulfil thy task sublime ; With bread of life earth's hunger feed ;

Redeem the evil time !

LOOKING UNTO GOD

I LOOK to Thee in ever}^ need, And never look in vain ; I feel Thy strong and tender love,

And all is well again : The thought of Thee is mightier far Than sin and pain and sorrow are.

SAMUEL LONGFELLOW 107

Discouraged in the work of life,

Disheartened by its load, Shamed by its failures or its fears

I sink beside the road ; But let me only think of Thee, And then new heart springs up in me.

Thy calmness bends serene above.

My restlessness to still ; Around me flows Thy quickening life,

To nerve my faltenng will ; Thy*presence fills my solitude ; Thy providence turns all to good.

Embosomed deep in Thy dear love,

Held in Thy law, I stand ; Thy hand in all things I behold,

And all things in Thy hand ; Thou leadest me by unsought ways, And turn'st my mourning into praise.

THE GOLDEN SUNSET

THE golden sea its mirror spreads Beneath the golden skies, And but a narrow strip between Our earth and shadow lies.

The cloud-hke cliffs, the cliff-like clouds,

Dissolved in glory float. And mid-way of the radiant floods

Hangs silently the boat.

The sea is but another sky,

The sky a sea as well ; And which is earth, and which the heavens,

The eye can scarcely tell.

So when for me life's latest hour

Soft passes to its end, May glory born of earth and heaven

The earth and heaven blend ;

io8 SAMUEL LONGFELLOW

Flooded with light the spirit float,

With silent rapture glow, Till where earth ends and heaven begins,

The soul can scarcely know.

T'

LOVE

'O love and seek return, To ask but only this, To feel where we have poured our heart The spirit's answering kiss ; To dream that now our eyes The brightening eyes shall meet, And that the word we've listened for Our hungering ears shall greet — How human and how sweet !

To love nor find return, —

Our hearts poured out in vain ; No brightening look, no answering tone,

Left lonely with our pain ;

The open heavens closed,

Night when we looked for morn. The unfolding blossom harshly chilled,

Hope slain as soon as born, —

How bitter, how forlorn !

To love nor ask return,

To accept our solitude. Not now for others' love to yearn

But only for their good ;

To joy if they are crowned.

Though thorns our head entwine, And in the thought of blessing them

All thought of self resign, —

How god-like, how divine !

I09

THE SEA OF FAITH

PASSAGE, immediate passage! the blood burns in my veins ! Away, O soul ! hoist instantly the anchor ! Cut the hawsers -haul out— shake out every sail ! Have we not stood here like trees in the ground long

enough ? Have we not grovell'd here long enough eating and

drinking like mere brutes ? Have we not darken'd and dazed ourselves with books

long enough ?

Sail forth— steer for the deep waters only,

Reckless, O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou

with me, For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go, And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all.

O my brave soul ! O farther, farther sail !

O daring joy, but safe ! are they not all the seas of God ? farther sail !

THE PRAYER OF COLUMBUS

ONE effort more, my altar this bleak sand ; That Thou, O God, my life hast lighted, With ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of Thee, Light rare untellable, lighting the very light, Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages ; For that, O God, be it my latest word, here on my

knees, Old, poor, and paralyzed, I thank Thee.

My terminus near,

The clouds already closing in upon me, The voyage balk'd, the course disputed, lost, I yield my ships to Thee.

no WALT WHITMAN

My hands, my limbs grow nerveless,

My brain feels rack'd, bevvilderd,

Let the old timbers part, I will not part,

I will cling fast to Thee, O God, though the waves

buffet me, Thee, Thee at least I know. . .

WHISPERS OF HEAVENLY DEATH

WHISPERS of heavenly death murmur'd I hear. Labial gossip of night, sibilant chorals, Footsteps gentl}^ ascending, mystical breezes wafted soft

and low, Ripples of unseen rivers, tides of a current flowing,

forever flowing, (Or is it the splashing of tears? the measureless waters

of human tears ?) I see, just see skyward, great cloud-masses, Mournfully slowly they roll, silently swelling and

mixing. With at times a half-dimm'd sadden'd far-off star. Appearing and disappearing,

(Some parturition rather, some solemn immortal birth ; On the frontiers to eyes impenetrable, Some soul is passing over.)

PENSIVE AND FALTERING

PENSIVE and faltering, The words the Dead I write. For living are the Dead, (Haply the only living, only real. And I the apparition, I the spectre).

THE LAST INVOCATION

^T the last, tenderly,

From the walls of the powerful fortress'd house, From the clasp of the knitted locks, from the keep of the well-closed doors, Let me be wafted.

A"

WALT WHITMAN iii

Let me glide noiselessly forth ; With the key of softness unlock the locks— with a whisper, Set ope the doors, O soul.

Tenderly, be not impatient, (Strong is 3''our hold, O mortal flesh ; Strong is your hold, O love.)

'THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER'

NOW, trumpeter ! for thy close. Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet. Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the

future. Give me for once its prophecy and joy.

O glad, exulting, culminating song !

A vigor more than earth's is in th}'- notes !

Marches of victory — man disenthral'd— the conqueror at

last. Hymns to the universal God from universal man— all joy 1 A reborn race appears— a perfect world, all joy ! W^omen and men in wisdom innocence and health — all

Riotous, laughing bacchanals, fill'd with joy !

War, sorrow, suffering gone— the rank earth purged —

nothing but joy left ! The ocean fill'd with joy — the atmosphere all joy ! Joy ! joy ! in freedom, worship, love ! Joy in the ecstas}'

of life ! Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe ! Joy! joy! all overjoy!

LIGHT

B

E not much troubled about many things, P>ar often hath no whit of substance in And lives but just a minute ;

2 ALICE GARY

While from the very snow the wheat-blade springs.

And light is like a flower, That Dursts in full leaf from the darkest hour.

And He who made the night, Made, too, the flowery sweetness of the light. Be it thy task, through His good grace, to win it. .

SERMONS IN STONES

FLOWER of the deep red zone, Rain the fine light about thee, near and far, Hold the wide earth, so as the evening star

Holdeth all heaven, alone. And with thy wondrous glory make men see His greater glory who did fashion thee!

Sing, little goldfinch, sing Make the rough billows lift their curly ears And listen, fill the violet's eyes with tears.

Make the green leaves to swing As in a dance, when thou dost hie along, .Showing the sweetness whence thou get'st th}?- song.

O daisies of the hills. When winds do pipe to charm ye, be not slow. Crowd up, crowd up, and make your shoulders show

White o'er the daffodils ! Yea, shadow forth through your excelling grace With whom ye have held counsel face to face.

Fill full our desire. Gray grasses ; trick your lowly stems with green, And wear your splendors even as a queen

Weareth her soft attire. Unfold the cunning mystery of design That combs out all j^our skirts to ribbons fine.

And O, my heart, my heart, Be careful to go strewing in and out Thy way with good deeds, lest it come about

That when thou shalt depart, No low lamenting tongue be found to say. The world is poorer since thou went'st away !

ALICE GARY 113

Thou shouldst not idly beat, While beauty draweth good men's thoughts to prayer, Even as the bird's wing draweth out the air,

But make so fair and sweet Thy house of clay, some dusk shall spread about. When death unlocks the door and lets thee out.

TIME

^HAT is time, O glorious Giver, With its restlessness and might, But a lost and wandering river Working back into the light ?

w

Every gloomy rock that troubles Its smooth passage, strikes to life

Beautiful and joyous bubbles, That are only born through strife.

Overhung with mist-like shadows, Stretch its shores away, away,

To the long, delightful meadows Shining with immortal May :

Where its moaning reaches never, Passion, pain, or fear to move,

And the changes bring us ever Sabbaths and new moons of love.

THE SURE WITNESS

THE solemn wood had spread Shadows around my head ; ' Curtains they are,' I said,

' Hung dim and still about the house of prayer ; ' Softly among the limbs,

I heard the winds, and asked if God were there. No voice replied, but while I listening stood, Sweet peace made holy hushes through the wood. I

114 ALICE GARY

With ruddy, open hand,

I saw the wild rose stand

Beside the green gate of the summer hills ;

And pulhng at her dress,

I cried, ' Sweet hermitess,

Hast thou beheld Him who the dew distils ? ' -

No voice replied, but while I listening bent,

Her gracious beauty made my heart content.

The moon in splendor shone ;

' She walketh heaven alone,

And seeth all things,' to myself I mused :

' Hast thou beheld Him, then,

Who hides himself from men

In that great power through nature interfused ? '

No speech made answer, and no sign appeared.

But in the silence I was soothed and cheered.

Waking one time, strange awe

Thrilling my soul, I saw

A kingly splendor round about the night ;

Such cunning work the hand

Of spinner never planned, —

The finest wool may not be washed so white.

' Hast thou come out of heaven ? '

I asked ; and lo !

The snow was all the answer of the snow.

Then my heart said, ' Give o'er ;

Question no more, no more !

The wind, the snow-storm, the wild hermit flower,

The illuminated air.

The pleasure after prayer,

Proclaim the unoriginated Power !

The mystery that hides Him here and there

Bears the sure witness He is everywhere.'

A DREAM OF HOME

SUNSET ! a hush is on the air. Their gray old heads the mountains bare, As if the winds were saying prayer.

ALICE GARY

The woodland, with its broad, green wing, Shuts close the insect whispering, And lo ! the sea gets up to sing.

The day's last splendor fades and dies, And shadows one by one arise. To light the candles of the skies.

O wild flowers, wet with tearful dew,

0 woods, with starlight shining through ! My heart is back to-night with you !

1 know each beech and maple tree, Each climbing brier and shrub I see,— Like friends they stand to welcome me.

Musing, I go along the streams. Sweetly believing in my dreams; For Fancy like a prophet seems.

Footsteps beside me tread the sod, As in the twilights gone they trod ; And I unlearn my doubts, thank God !

Unlearn my doubts, forget my fears. And that bad carelessness that sears, And makes me older than my years.

I hear a dear, familiar tone,

A loving hand is in my own.

And earth seems made for me alone.

If I my fortunes could have planned, I would not have let go that hand ; But they must fall who learn to stand.

And how to blend life's varied hues, What ill to find, what good to lose, My Father knoweth best to choose.

I 2

i'5

ii6 ALICE GARY

PLEA FOR CHARITY

IF one had never seen the full completeness Of the round year, but tarried half the wa}^, How should he guess the fair and flowery sweetness

That cometh with the May — Guess of the bloom, and of the rainy sweetness That come in with the May !

Suppose he had but heard the winds a-blowing, And seen the brooks in icy chains fast bound,

How should he guess that waters in their flowing Could make so glad a sound — ■

Guess how their silver tongues should be set going To such a tuneful sound !

Suppose he had not seen the bluebirds winging, Nor seen the day set, nor the morning rise,

Nor seen the golden balancing and swinging Of the gay butterflies^

Who could paint April pictures, worth the bringing To notice of his eyes ?

Suppose he had not seen the living daisies, Nor seen the rose, so glorious and bright,

Were it not better than your far-off praises Of all their lovely light,

To give his hands the holding of the daisies. And of the roses bright ?

O Christian man, deal gently with the sinner — Think what an utter wintry waste is his

Whose heart of love has never been the winner, To know how sweet it is —

Be pitiful, O Christian, to the sinner. Think what a world is his !

He never heard the lisping and the trembling Of Eden's gracious leaves about his head—

His mirth is nothing but the poor dissembling Of a great soul unfed —

Oh, bring him where the Eden-leaves are trembling. And give him heavenly bread.

ALICE GARY 117

As Winter doth her shriveled branches cover

With greenness, knowing spring-time's soft desire,

Even so the soul, knowing Jesus for a lover, Puts on a new attire —

A garment fair as snow, to meet the Lover Who bids her come up higher.

T

KNOWN BY HIS WORKS

HY works, O Lord, interpret Thee, And through them all Thy love is shown ;

Flowing about us like a sea,

Yet steadfast as the eternal throne.

Out of the light that runneth through Thy hand, the lily's dress is spun :

Thine is the brightness of the dew, And Thine the glory of the sun.

MY DARLINGS

WHEN steps are hurrying homeward, And night the world o'erspreads, And I see at the open windows

The shining of little heads, I think of you, my darlings.

In your low and lonesome beds.

And when the latch is lifted.

And I hear the voices glad, I feel my arms more empty.

My heart more widely sad ; For we measure dearth of blessings

By the blessings we have had.

But sometimes in sweet visions

My faith to sight expands, And with my babes in His bosom,

My Lord before me stands. And I feel on my head bowed lowly

The touches of little hands.

ii3 ALICE GARY

Then pain is lost in patience, And tears no longer flow :

They are only dead to the sorrow And sin of life, I know:

For if they were not immortal My love would make them so.

LAST AND BEST

SOMETIMES, when rude, cold shadows run Across whatever light I see ; When all the work that I have done, Or can do, seems but vanity ;

I strive, nor vainly strive, to get

Some little heart's ease from the day

When all the weariness and fret Shall vanish from my life away ;

For I, with grandeur clothed upon. Shall he in state and take m}^ rest,

And all my household, strangers grown, Shall hold me for an honored guest.

But ere that day when all is set

In order, very still and grand, And while my feet are hngering yet

Along this troubled border-land,

What things v^ill be the first to fade, And down to utter darkness sink ?

The treasures that my hands have laid Where moth and rust corrupt, I think.

And Love will be the last to wait

And light my gloom with gracious gleams ;

For Love lies nearer heaven's glad gate, Than all imagination dreams.

Aye, when my soul its mask shall drop. The twain to be no more at one.

Love, with its prayers, shall bear me up Beyond the lark s wings, and the sun.

ALICE GARY 119

DREAMS

OFTEN I sit and spend my hour, Linking my dreams from heart to brain, And as the child joins flower to flower, Then breaks and joins them on again,

Casting the bright ones in disgrace. And weaving pale ones in their stead,

Changing the honors and the place Of white and scarlet, blue and red ;

And finding after all his pains

Of sorting and selecting dyes, No single chain of all the chains

The fond caprice that satisfies ;

So I from all things bright and brave, Select what brightest, bravest seems,

And, with the utmost skill I have. Contrive the fashion of my dreams.

Sometimes ambitious thoughts abound. And then I draw my pattern bold,

And have my shuttle only wound

With silken threads or threads of gold.

Sometimes my heart reproaches me, And mesh from cunning mesh I pull,

And weave in sad humility

With flaxen threads or threads of wool.

For here the hue too brightly gleams, And there the grain too dark is cast.

And so no dream of all my dreams Is ever finished, first or last.

And looking back upon my past

Thronged with so many a wasted hour,

I think that I should fear to cast My fortunes if I had the power.

ALICE GARY

And think that he is mainly wise, Who takes what comes of good or i]

Trusting that wisdom underhes And worketh in the end — His will.

HERE AND THERE

DOWN in the darkness, deep in the darkness, All in the blind, black night; Near to the morning, clear to the morning, All in the glad, gold light !

Down in the daisies, deep in the daisies.

Under the daisies to lie ; Over the stork's wing, over the lark's v/ing,

Over the moon and the sky !

Tears in the daisies, drowning the daisies, Blight that no moon can remove;

Praises, and praises, and evermore praises. Gladness, and glory, and love !

Broken and bruised, and heart-sick and sin-sick,

Crying for mercy and grace ; Rising and risen and out of our prison,

Spirits with face unto face !

Longing and looking, and thirsting and fainting.

Deserts to left, and to right ; Coolness of shadows, and greenness of meadows,

And fountains of living delight.

Hearts that are aching, and hearts that are breaking, Like waves on a rocky-bound shore ;

Footsteps of lightness, and faces of brightness. And sickness and sighing no more.

Wanderers, wayfarers, desolate orphans.

Deaf to the Shepherd's soft call ; Gathered together by God, our good Father,

Blessed forever, o'er all !

ALICE GARY

DYING HYMN

EARTH, with its dark and dreadful ills, Recedes, and fades away ; Lift up your heads, 3^e heavenly hills ; Ye gates of death, give way !

My soul is full of whispered song ;

My blindness is my sight ; The shadows that I feared so long

Are all alive with light.

The while my pulses faintly beat.

My faith doth so abound, I feel grow firm beneath my feet

The green immortal ground.

That faith to me a courage gives,

Low as the grave, to go ; I know that my Redeemer lives :

That I shall live, I know.

The palace walls I almost see.

Where dwells my Lord and King ;

O grave, where is thy victory ! O death, where is thy sting !

FAITH

SECURELY cabined in the ship below. Through darkness and through storm I cross the sea, A pathless wilderness of waves to me : But yet I do not fear, because I know That he who guides the good ship o'er that waste Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. Blindfold I walk this Hfe's bewildering maze ; Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain pass. Through thorn-set barren and through deep morass ; But strong in faith I tread the uneven wa3's, And bare my head unshrinking to the blast. Because my Father's arm is round me cast ; And if the way seems rough, I only clasp The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp.

EARLY WORK

BESIDE my window, in the early spring. A robin built her nest and reared her young ; And every day the same sweet song she sung Until her little ones had taken wing To try their own bird-living; everything Was done before the summer roses hung About our home, or purple clusters swung Upon our vines at Autumn's opening. Do your work early in the day or year. Be it a song to sing, or word to cheer, Or house to build, or gift to cheer the race ; Life may not reach its noon, or setting sun ; No one can do the work you leave undone, For no one ever fills another's place.

HER CREED

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

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

A troubled look was in her e3^es ; She answered, as in vague surprise, As though the sense to her were dim ; ' I only strive to follow Him.'

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

SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON

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

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

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

(matia C^^iU Boweff

THE ALPINE SHEEP

WHEN on my ear your loss was knelled, And tender sympathy upburst, A little spring from memory welled,

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst.

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as healing dew.

To steal some fever from your grief.

After our child's untroubled breath

Up to the Father took its way, And on our home the shade of Death

Like a long twilight haunting lay.

And friends came round, with us to weep

Her little spirit's swift remove. The story of the Alpine sheep

Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley's sheltering care. Soon crop the meadow's tender prime.

And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb

MARIA WHITE LOWELL

To airy shelves of pasture green, That hang along the mountain's side,

Where grass and flowers together lean.

And down through mist the sunbeams slide.

But naught can tempt the timid things The steep and rugged path to try.

Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, And seared below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms their lambs he takes,

Along the dizzy verge to go ; Then, heedless oT the rifts and breaks,

They follow on, o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures, lifted fair, More dewy-soft than lowland mead,

The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable by Nature breathed, Blew on me as the south-wind free

O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision through the night Would all my stony senses sway.

Of the Good Shepherd on the height, Or climbing up the happy way,

Holding our little lamb asleep, — While, like the murmur of the sea,

Sounded that voice along the deep. Saying, ' Arise and follow Me ! *

THE LOVE OF GOD

THOU Grace Divine, encircling all, A shoreless, boundless sea, Wherein at last our souls must fall, O Love of God most free !

ELIZA SCUDDER 125

When over dizzy heights we go,

One soft hand blinds our eyes ; The other leads us safe and slow,

O Love of God most wise !

And though we turn us from Thy face,

And wander wide and long, Thou hold'st us still in Thine embrace,

O Love of God most strong !

The saddened heart, the restless soul,

The toil-worn frame and mind, Alike confess Thy sweet control,

O Love of God most kind !

But not alone Thy care we claim,

Our wayward steps to win ; We know Thee by a dearer name;

O Love of God 'within !

And filled and quickened by Thy breath,

Our souls are strong and free, To rise o'er sin and tear and death ;

O Love of God to Thee !

TRUTH

THOU long disowned, reviled, opprest. Strange friend of human kind, Seeking through weary years a rest Within our hearts to find.

How late thy bright and awful brow Breaks through these clouds of sm !

Hail, Truth divme ! we know thee now, Angel of God, come in !

Come, though with purifying fire

And desolating sword, Thou of all nations the desire.

Earth waits thy cleansing word.

126 ELIZA SCUDDER

Struck by the lightning of thy glance,

Let old oppressions die ! Before thy cloudless countenance

Let fear and falsehood fly!

Anoint our eyes with healing grace,

To see, as ne'er before, Our Father, in our brother's face,

Our Master, in His poor.

Flood our dark life with golden day, Convince, subdue, enthrall !

Then to a mightier yield thy sway. And Love be all in all.

THE QUEST

T CANNOT find Thee! Still on restless- pinion 1 My spirit beats the void where Thou dost dwell ; I wander lost through all Thy vast dominion, And shrink beneath Thy light ineffable.

1 cannot find Thee ! E'en when most adoring, Before Thy throne, I bend in lowliest prayer ;

Beyond these bounds of thought, my thought upsoaring, From farthest quest comes back : Thou art not there.

Yet high above the limits of my seeing, And folded far within the inmost heart,

And deep below the deeps of conscious being, Thy splendor shineth ; there, O God ! Thou art.

1 cannot lose Thee ! Still in Thee abiding. The end is clear, how wide soe'er I roam ;

The Hand that holds the worlds my steps is guiding, And I must rest at last, in Thee, my home.

THE NEW HEAVEN

LET whosoever will, inquire Of spirit or of seer, To shape unto the heart's desire The new life's vision clear.

ELIZA SCUDDER 127

My God, I rather look to Thee

Than to these fancies fond, And wait till Thou reveal to nie

That fair and far Beyond.

I seek not of Thine Eden-land

The forms and hues to know, — What trees in mystic order stand.

What strange, sweet waters flow ;

What duties fill the heavenly da}'^.

Or converse glad and kind ; Or how along each shining way

The bright processions wind.

Oh joy ! to hear with sense new born

The angels' greeting strains. And sweet to see the first fair morn

Gild the celestial plains.

But sweeter far to trust in Thee

While all is yet unknown, And through the death-dark cheerily

To walk with Thee alone !

In Thee m}'' powers, my treasures live ;

To Thee my life shall tend ; Giving Thyself, Thou all dost give,

O soul-sufficing Friend.

And wherefore should I seek above

Thy city in the sky ? Since firm in faith and deep in love

Its broad foundations he ;

Since in a life of peace and prayer, Not known on earth, nor praised,

By humblest toil, by ceaseless care. Its holy towers are raised.

Where pain the soul hath purified.

And penitence hath shriven. And truth is crowned and glorified,

There — only there — is Heaven.

128 ELIZA SCUDDER

WHOM BUT THEE

FROM past regret and present faithlessness, From the deep shadow of foreseen distress, And from the nameless weariness that grows As hfe's long day seems wearing to its close ;

Thou Life within my life, than self more near ! Thou veiled Presence infinitely clear! From all illusive shows of sense I flee, To find my centre and my rest in Thee.

Below all depths Thy saving mercy lies. Through thickest glooms I see Thy light arise, Above the highest heaven Thou art not found More surely than within this earthly round.

Take part with me against those doubts that rise And seek to throne Thee far in distant skies ! Take part with me against this self that dares Assume the burden of these sins and cares !

How shall I call Thee who art always here, How shall I praise Thee who art still most dear. What may I give Thee save what Thou hast given. And whom but Thee have I in earth or heaven ?

VESPER HYMN

HE day is done ; the weary day of thought and toil is past, Soft falls the twilight cool and gray, on the tired earth

at last ; By wisest teachers wearied, by gentlest friends opprest, In Thee alone, the soul, out-worn, refreshment finds and rest.

Bend, gracious Spirit, from above, like these o'erarch-

ing skies, And to Thy firmament of love lift up these longing

eyes; And folded by Thy sheltering Hand, in refuge still

and deep, Let blessed thoughts from Thee descend, as drop the

dews of sleep.

T

ELIZA SCUDDER 129

And when, refreshed, the soul once more puts on new

life and power, Oh, let Thine image, Lord, alone, gild the first waking

hour ! Let that dear Presence rise and glow fairer than

morn's first ray, And Thy pure radiance overflow the splendor of the

day.

So in the hastening evening, so in the coming morn, When deeper slumber shall be given, and fresher life

be born, Shine out, true Light ! to guide my way amid that

deepening gloom. And rise, O Morning Star, the first that dayspring to

illume.

I cannot dread the darkness, where Thou wilt watch

o'er me. Nor smile to greet the sunrise, unless Thy smile I see ; Creator, Saviour, Comforter ! on Thee my soul is cast ; At morn, at night, in earth, in heaven, be Thou my

First and Last.

MADE PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING

I BLESS Thee, Lord, for sorrows sent To break my dream of human power ; For now, my shallow cistern spent, I find Thy founts, and thirst no more.

I take Thy hand, and fears grow still ;

Behold Thy face, and doubts remove ; Who would not yield his wavering will

To perfect Truth and boundless Love ?

That Love this restless soul doth teach The strength of Thine eternal calm ;

And tune its sad and broken speech, To join, on earth, the angels' psalm.

K

[30 SAMUEL JOHNSON

O be it patient in Thy hands,

And drawn, through each mysterious hour, To service of Thy pure commands,

The narrow way to Love and Power!

THE CITY OF GOD

CITY of God, how broad and far Outspread thy walls subHme ! The true thy chartered freemen are Of every age and clime.

One holy Church, one army strong.

One steadfast high intent, One working hand, one harvest song,

One King Omnipotent !

How purely hath thy speech come down

From man's primeval youth ! How grandly hath thine empire grown

Of freedom, love, and truth !

How gleam thy watchfires through the night

With never- fain ting ray ! How rise thy towers, serene and bright.

To meet the dawning day !

In vain the surge's angry shock.

In vain the drifting sands ; Unharmed upon the Eternal Rock,

The Eternal City stands.

CAGED

POOR prisoned bird, that sings and sings, Unconscious of the gift of wings ; Or, knowing it, content to be Shorn of its birthright liberty !

CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON

Like souls — a sadder thrall who bear,

Or wittingly or unaware —

Consenting to their prison bars,

When, haply, they might pierce the stars.

Oh, I would rather be the clod That knows not, cannot know, of God, Than thus, in sluggish wise, deny My title to His open sky!

He gave us wings; He must have meant,

Thereby, a noble discontent

To teach us, that we might essay

To break each bond and soar away.

What is the cage that shuts us in, But our own sloth ? but our own sin ? All outward limitations are But cobwebs to such bolt and bar.

For me, no idle lance I tilt Against my lot : mine all the guilt ; I am mine own most bitter foe — Ah, this it is which irks me so !

If from myself I could set free Myself! At odds I still must be, Till my victorious wings shall rise, Unclogged, and sweep the farthest skies.

EVENTIDE

AT cool of da}^, with God I walk l\ My garden's grateful shade ; I hear His voice among the trees, And I am not afraid.

I see His presence in the night, — And, though my heart is awed,

I do not quail beneath the sight Or nearness of my God.

[32 CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON

He speaks to me in every wind, He smiles from every star ;

He is not deaf to me, nor blind, Nor absent, nor afar.

His hand, that shuts the flowers to sleep.

Each in its dewy fold, Is strong my feeble life to keep.

And competent to hold.

I cannot walk in darkness long, —

My light is by my side ; I cannot stumble or go wrong,

While following such a guide.

He is my stay and my defence ; —

How shall I fail or fall ? My helper is Omnipotence !

My ruler ruleth all.

The powers below and powers above

Are subject to His care : — I cannot wander from His love

Who loves me everywhere.

Thus dowered, and guarded thus, with Him I walk this peaceful shade ;

I hear His voice among the trees, And I am not afraid !

EN VOYAGE

WHICHEVER way the wind doth blow Some heart is glad to have it so ; Then blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best.

My little craft sails not alone ;

A thousand fleets from every zone

Are out upon a thousand seas ;

And what for me were favoring breeze

Might dash another, with the shock

Of doom, upon some hidden rock.

CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON 133

And so I do not dare to pray

For winds to waft me on my way,

But leave it to a Higlier Will

To stay or speed me ; trusting still

That all is well, and sure that He

Who launched my bark will sail with me

Through storm and calm, and will not fail,

Whatever breezes may prevail,

To land me, every peril past,

Within His sheltering heaven at last.

Then, whatsoever wind doth blow, My heart is glad to have it so ; And blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best.

NOT YET

NOT yet! Along the purpling sky We see the dawning ray ; But leagues of cloudy distance lie Between us and the day.

Not yet ! The aloe waits serene

Its promised advent hour,— A patient century of green

To one full, perfect flower.

Not yet! No harvest song is sung

In the sweet ear of spring. Nor hear we while the blade is young

The reapers sickle swing.

Not yet! Before the crown, the cross;

The struggle, ere the prize ; Before the gain the fearful loss,

And death ere Paradise !

LOST AND FOUND

I HAD a treasure in my house, And woke one day to find it gone ; I mourned for it from dawn till night, From night till dawn.

134 CAROLINE ATHERTON MASON

I said, ' Behold, I will arise

And sweep my house,' and so I found What I had lost, and told my joy To all around.

I had a treasure in my heart,

And scarcely knew that it had fled, Until communion with my Lord Grew cold and dead.

' Behold/ I said, ' I will arise

And sweep my heart of self and sin ; And so the peace that I have lost May enter in.'

O friends, rejoice with me ! Each da}'

Helps my lost treasure to restore ; And sweet communion with my Lord Is mine once more.

MARTHA OR MARY?

I CANNOT choose ; I should have liked so much To sit at Jesus' feet, — to feel the touch Of His kind, gentle hand upon my head While drinking in the gracious words He said.

And yet to serve Him !— Oh, divine emplo}^— To minister and give the Master joy, To bathe in coolest springs His weary feet, And wait upon Him while He sat at meat !

Worship or service, — which ? Ah, that is best To which He calls us, be it toil or rest, — To labor for Him in life's busy stir. Or seek His feet, a silent worshipper.

SEEN AND UNSEEN

THE wind ahead, the billows high, A whited wave, but sable sky, And many a league of tossing sea Between the hearts I love and me.

DAVID ATWOOD WASSON 135

The wind ahead : day after day These weary words the sailors say ; To weeks the days are lengthened now, — Still mounts the surge to meet our prow.

Through longing day and lingering night, I still accuse Time's lagging flight, Or gaze out o'er the envious sea, That keeps the hearts I love from me.

Yet, ah ! how shallow is all grief ! How instant is the deep relief! And what a hypocrite am I, To feign forlorn, to 'plain and sigh !

The wind ahead ? The wind is free ! For evermore it favoreth me, — To shores of God still blowing fair, O'er seas of God my bark doth bear.

This surging brine / do not sail ; This blast adverse is not my gale ; 'Tis here I only seem to be. But really sail another sea, —

Another sea, pure sky its waves,

Whose beauty hides no heaving graves, —

A sea all haven, whereupon

No helpless bark to wreck hath gone.

The winds that o'er my ocean run Reach through all heavens beyond the sun ; Through life and death, through fate, through time, Grand breaths of God, they sweep sublime.

Eternal 'trades,' they cannot veer, And, blowing, teach us how to steer; And well for him whose joy, whose care. Is but to keep before them fair.

O thou, God's mariner, heart of mine. Spread canvas to the airs divine ! Spread sail! and let thy Fortune be Forgotten in thy Destiny!

136 DAVID ATWOOD WASSON

For Destiny pursues us well,

By sea, by land, through heaven or hell ;

It suffers Death alone to die,

Bids Life all change and chance defy.

Would earth's dark ocean suck thee down ? Earth's ocean thou, O Life ! shalt drown, Shalt flood it with thy finer wave. And, sepulchred, entomb thy grave !

Life loveth life and good ; then trust What most the spirit would, it must ; Deep wishes, in the heart that be, Are blossoms of Necessity.

A thread of Law runs through thy prayer, Stronger than iron cables are ; And Love and Longing toward her goal Are pilots sweet to guide the Soul.

So Life must live, and Soul must sail, And Unseen over Seen prevail. And all God's argosies come to shore, Let ocean smile, or rage and roar.

And so, 'mid storm or calm, my bark With snowy wake still nears her mark ; Cheerly the 'trades' of being blow. And sweeping down the wind I go.

ALL'S WELL

SWEET-VOICED Hope, thy fine discourse Foretold not half life's good to me ; Thy painter. Fancy, hath not force To show how sweet it is to be ! Thy witching dream And pictured scheme To match the fact still want the power; Thy promise brave From birth to grave Life's boon may beggar in an hour.

DAVID ATWOOD WASSON i37

Ask and receive,— 'tis sweetly said ;

Yet what to plead for, know 1 not ; For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped, And aye to thanks returns my thought.

If I would pray,

I've naught to say But this, that God may be God still,

For Him to live

Is still to give, And sweeter than my wish His will.

O wealth of life beyond all bound !

Eternity each moment given ! What plummet may the Present sound? Who promises a future heaven ?

Or glad, or grieved,

Oppressed, relieved, In blackest night, or brightest day

Still pours the flood

Of golden good. And more than heartfuU fills me aye.

My wealth is common ; I possess

No petty province, but the whole; What's mine alone is mine far less Than treasure shared by every soul.

Talk not of store,

Millions or more,— Of values which the purse may hold,—

But this divine !

I own the mine Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold.

I have a stake in every star,

In every beam that fills the day; All hearts of men my coffers are, My ores arterial tides convey;

The fields, the skies,

The sweet replies Of thought to thought are my gold-dust ;

The oaks, the brooks,

And speaking looks Of lovers, faith and iriendship's trust.

138 DAVID ATWOOD WASSON

Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow

For him who lives above all years, Who all-immortal makes the Now, And is not ta'en in Time's arrears :

His life 's a hymn

The seraphim Might hark to hear or help to sing,

And to his soul

The boundless whole Its bounty all doth daily bring.

' All Mine is thine,' the Sky-Soul saith :

' The wealth I Am must thou become ; Richer and richer, breath by breath, — Immortal gain, immortal room ! '

And since all His

Mine also is. Life's gift outruns my fancies far, .

And drowns the dream

In larger stream. As morning drmks the morning-star.

IDEALS

ANGELS of Growth, of old in that surprise L Of your first vision, wild and sweet, I poured in passionate sighs My wish unwise That ye descend my heart to meet, — My heart so slow to rise !

Now thus I pray: Angelic be to hold In heaven your shining poise afar,

And to my wishes bold

Reply with cold. Sweet invitation, like a star

Fixed in the heavens old.

Did ye descend : what were ye more than I ? Is't not by this ye are divine, —

That, native to the sky,

Ye cannot hie Downward, and give low hearts the wine

That should reward the high 1

DAVID ATWOOD WASSON 139

Weak, yet in weakness I no more complain Of your abiding in your places :

Oh ! still, howe'er my pain

Wild prayers may rain, Keep pure on high the perfect graces

That stooping could but stain.

Not to content our lowness, but to lure And lift us to your angelhood, Do your surprises pure, Dawn far and sure Above the tumult of j^oung blood. And, star-like, there endure.

Wait there ! wait and invite me while I climb ; For see, I come ! but slow, but slow !

Yet ever as your chime

Soft and sublime. Lifts at my feet, they move, they go

Up the great stair of time.

T'

/ ^P7LL ARISE AND GO UNTO MY FATHER

'O Thine eternal arms, O God,

Take us, Thine erring children, in ; From dangerous paths too boldly trod,

From wandering thoughts and dreams of sin.

Those arms were round our childish ways, A guard through helpless years to be ;

O, leave not our maturer days.

We still are helpless without Thee !

We trusted hope and pride and strength :

Our strength proved false, our pride was vain,

Our dreams have faded all at length, — We come to Thee, O Lord, again !

A guide to trembling steps yet be !

Give us of Tiiine eternal powers ! So shall our paths all lead to Thee,

And life smile on, like childhood's hours.

140 THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON

PANTHEISM AND THEISM

NO human eyes Thy face may see; No human thought Thy form may know; But all creation dwells in Thee, And Thy great life through all doth flow!

And yet, O, strange and wondrous thought !

Thou art a God who hearest prayer, And every heart with sorrow fraught

To seek Thy present aid may dare.

And though most weak our efforts seem Into one creed these thoughts to bind,

And vain the intellectual dream

To see and know the Eternal Mind, —

Yet Thou wilt turn them not aside, • Who cannot solve Thy life divine,

But would give up all reason's pride

To know their hearts approved by Thine.

So, though we faint on life's dark hill,

And thought grow weak, and knowledge flee,

Yet faith shall teach us courage still, And love shall guide us on to Thee !

THE THINGS I MISS

AN easy thing, O Power Divine, . To thank Thee for these gifts of Thine ! For summer's sunshine, winters snow. For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow. But when shall I attain to this, — To thank Thee for the things I miss ?

For all young Fancy's early gleams. The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams, Hopes unfultilled, and pleasures known Through others' fortunes, not my own. And blessings seen that are not given. And never will be, this side heaven.

THOMAS WENTWORTH IIIGGIXSON 14

Had I too shared the joys I see,

Would there have been a heaven for me ?

Could I have felt Thy presence near,

Had I possessed what I held dear ?

My deepest fortune, highest bliss,

Have grown perchance from things I miss.

Sometimes there comes an hour of calm ; Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm ; A Power that works above my will Still leads me onward, upward still : And then my heart attains to this, — To thank Thee for the things I miss.

TO MY SHADOW*

A MUTE companion at my side Paces and plods, the whole day long, Accepts the measure of my stride, Yet gives no cheer by word or song.

More close than any doggish friend, Not ranging far and wide, like him.

He goes where'er my footsteps tend. Nor shrinks for fear of life or limb.

I do not know when first we met,

But till each day's bright hours are done

This grave and speechless silhouette Keeps me betwixt him and the sun.

They say he knew me when a child ;

Born with my birth, he dies with me ; Not once from his long task beguiled,

Though sin or shame bid others flee.

What if, when all this world of men Shall melt and fade and pass away,

This deathless sprite should rise again And be himself my Judgment Day ?

* See Note.

^42 THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON

VESTIS ANGELICA *

O GATHER, gather! Stand Round her on either hand ! O shining angel-band

More pure than priest !

A garment white and whole

Weave for this passing soul,

Whose earthly joy and dole

Have almost ceased.

Weave it of mothers' prayers, Of sacred thoughts and cares, Of peace beneath grey hairs,

Of hallowed pain ; Weave it of vanished tears, Of childlike hopes and fears, Of joys, by saintly years

Washed free from stain.

Weave it of happy hours.

Of smiles and summer flowers,

Of passing sunlit showers,

Of acts of love ; Of footsteps that did go Amid life's work and woe, — Her eyes still fixed below.

Her thoughts above.

Then as those eyes grow dim Chant we her best-loved hymn, While from yon church-tower's brim

A soft chime swells. Her freed soul floats in bliss To unseen worlds from this, Nor knows in which it is

She hears the bells.

* See Note.

THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON 143

BENEATH THE VIOLETS

SAFE 'neath the violets Rests the baby form ; Every leaf that springtime sets

Shields it from the storm. Peace to all vain regrets Mid this sunshine warm !

Shadows come and shadows go O'er the meadows wide ;

Twice each day, to and fro, Steals the river-tide ;

Each morn with sunrise-glow Gilds the green hillside.

Peace that no sorrow frets

In our souls arise ! Over all our wild regrets

Arching, like the skies ; While safe 'neath the violets

Sleep the violet eyes.

TWO VOYAGERS

WHEN first I mark upon my child's clear brow Thought's wrestling shadows their new struggle keep, Read my own conflicts in her questions deep, My own remorse in her repentant vow, My own vast ignorance in her 'Why?' and 'How:" When my precautions only serve to heap New burdens, and my cares her needs o'erleap, Then to her separate destiny I bow. So seem we like two ships, that side by side, Older and younger, breast the same rough main Bound for one port, whatever winds betide. In solemn interchange of joy or pain. I may not hold thee back. Though skies be dark, Put lorth upon the seas, O priceless bark !

144

THE EXCHANGE

SAD souls, that harbor fears and woes In many a haunted breast, Turn but to meet your lowly Lord, And He will give you rest.

Into His commonwealth alike

Are ills and blessings thrown ;

Bear ye your neighbors' burdens ; lo ! Their ease shall be your own.

Yield only up His price, your heart,

Into God's loving hold ; He turns, with heavenly alchemy,

Your lead of life to gold.

Some needful pangs endure in peace,

Nor yet for freedom pant ; He cuts the bane you cleave to off.

Then gives the boon you want.

THi! CHHUS PLEA

BECAUSE I wear the swaddling-bands of Time, Still mark and watch me, Eternal Father on Thy throne sublime, Lest Satan snatch me.

Because to seek Thee I have yet to learn,

Come down and lead me ; Because I am too weak my bread to earn.

My Father, feed me.

Because I grasp at things that are not mine

And might undo me. Give, from thy treasure-house of goods divine.

Good gifts unto me.

SARAH HAMMOND PALFREY 145

Because too near the pit I creeping go,

Do not forsake me ; To climb into Thine arms I am too low,

O Father, take me !

(Beor^e ^enrj (§oUv

THE YEARLY MIRACLE OE SPRING

THE yearly miracle of spring, Of budding tree and blooming flower, Which Nature's feathered laureates sing In my cold ear from hour to hour,

Spreads all its wonders round my feet ;

And every wakeful sense is fed On thoughts that o'er and o'er repeat,

' The Resurrection of the Dead P

If these half vital things have force To break the spell which winter weaves,

To wake, and clothe the wrinkled corse In the full life of shining leaves ;

Shall I sit down in vague despair,

And marvel if the nobler soul We laid in earth shall ever dare

To wake to life, and backward roll

The sealing stone, and striding out,

Claim its eternity, and head Creation once again, and shout,

' 77?^ Resurrection of the Dead'}

SUMMER MORNING

WITH song of birds and hum of bees. And odorous breath of swinging flowers, With fluttering herbs and swaying trees, Begin the early morning hours.

L

146 GEORGE HENRY BOKER

The warm tide of the southern air

Swims round, with gentle rise and fall,

And, burning through a golden glare, The sun looks broadly over all.

So fair and fresh the landscape stands,

So vital, so beyond decay. It looks as though God's shaping hands

Had just been raised and drawn away.

The holy baptism of the rain Yet lingers, like a special grace ;

For I can see an aureole plain Above the world's transfigured face.

The moments come in dreamy bhss, In dreamy bliss they pause and pass:

It seems not hard on days like this. Dear Lord, to lie beneath the grass.

UNBELIEF

FAITHLESS, perverse, and blind. We sit in our house of fear, When the winter of sorrow comes to our souls, And the days of our life are drear.

For when in darkness and clouds

The way of God is concealed. We doubt the words of His promises,

And the glory to be revealed.

We do but trust in part ;

We grope in the dark alone ; Lord, when shall we see Thee as Thou art.

And know as we are known?

When shall we live to Thee,

And die to Thee, resigned. Nor fear to hide what we would keep,

And lose what we would find?

PHCEBE GARY 147

For we doubt our Father's care,

We cover our faces and cry, If a little cloud, like the hand of a man,

Darkens the face of our sky.

We judge of His perfect day

By our life's poor glimmering spark,

And measure eternity's circle By the segment of an arc.

We say, they have taken our Lord,

And we know not where He lies, When the light of His resurrection morn

Is breaking out of the skies.

And we stumble at last when we come On the brink of the grave to stand ;

As if the souls that are born of His love Could sHp from their Father's hand !

ANSWERED

I THOUGHT to find some heahng clime For her I loved ; she found that shore, That city, whose inhabitants Are sick and sorrowful no more.

I asked for human love for her ;

The Loving knew how best to still The infinite yearning of a heart,

Which but infinity could fill.

Such sweet communion had been ours, I prayed that it might never end ;

My prayer is more than answered ; now I have an angel for my friend.

I wished for perfect peace, to soothe The troubled anguish of her breast ;

And, numbered with the loved and called, She entered on untroubled rest.

L2

148 PHCEBE GARY

Life was so fair a thing to her, I wept and pleaded for its stay;

My wish was granted me, for lo ! She hath eternal life to-day.

SUNSET

AWAY in the dim and distant past l\ That little valley lies,

Where the clouds that dimmed life's morning hours Were tinged with hope's sweet dyes ;

That peaceful spot from which I looked

To the future, — unaware That the heat and burden of the day

Were meant for me to bear.

Alas, alas ! I have borne the heat,

To the burden learned to bow ; For I stand on the top of the hill of life,

And I see the sunset now !

I stand on the top, but I look not back

To the way behind me spread ; Not to the path my feet have trod,

But the path they still must tread.

And straight and plain before my gaze

The certain future lies ; But my sun grows larger all the while.

As he travels down the skies.

Yea, the sun of my hope grows large and grand ;

For, with my childish years, I have left the mist that dimmed my sight,

I have left my doubts and fears.

And I have gained in hope and trust,

Till the future looks so bright, That, letting go of the hand of Faith,

I walk, at times, by sight.

PHCEBE GARY 149

For we only feel that faith is life,

And death is the fear of death, When we suft'er up to the solemn heights

Of a true and living faith ;

When we do not say, the dead shall rise

At the resurrection's call ; But when we trust in the Lord, and know

That we cannot die at all !

'FIELD PREACHING'

I HAVE been out to-day in field and wood, Listening to praises sweet and counsel good, Such as a little child had understood, That, in its tender youth, Discerns the simple eloquence of truth.

The modest blossoms, crowding round my way, Though they had nothing great or grand to say. Gave out their fragrance to the wind all day; Because his loving breath, With soft persistence, won them back from death.

And the right royal lily, putting on Her robes, more rich than those of Solomon, Opened her gorgeous missal in the sun, And thanked Him, soft and low, Whose gracious, liberal hand had clothed her so.

When wearied, on the meadow-grass I sank; So narrow was the rill from which I drank. An infant might have stepped from bank to bank ; And the tall rushes near. Lapping together, hid its waters clear.

Yet to the ocean joyously it went ; And, rippling in the fulness of content. Watered the pretty flowers that o'er it leant ; For all the banks were spread With delicate flowers that on its bounty fed.

50 PHCEBE GARY

The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight, With serried spear-points bristling sharp and bright, Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight. To all their tawny length, Like Samson, glorying in his lusty strength.

And every little bird upon the tree, Ruffling his plumage bright, for ecstasy, Sang in the wild insanity of glee ; And seemed, in the same lays. Calling his mate and uttering songs of praise.

The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing: The plain bee, busy with her housekeeping, Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing. As if she understood That, with contentment, labor was a good.

I saw eacn creature, in his own best place, To the Creator lift a smiling face, Praising continually His wondrous grace; As if the best of all Life's countless blessings was to live at all !

So with a book of sermons, plain and true, Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through, I went home softly, through the falling dew. Still listening, rapt and calm. To Nature giving out her evening psalm.

While, far along the west, mine e3'^es discerned, Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned, The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned, And I, in that great hush. Talked with His angels in each burning bush !

NEARER HOME

ONE sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er I am nearer home to-day Than I ever have been before ;

PHCEBE GARY 151

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be ; Nearer the great white throne,

Nearer the crystal sea ;

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down ;

Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown !

But lying darkly between,

Winding down through the night,

Is the silent, unknown stream, That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps

Come to the dread abysm : Closer Death to my lips

Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet

Have almost gained the brink ; If it be I am nearer home

Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust ;

Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set

On the rock of a living faith !

BEHIND THE MASK

IT was an old distorted face. An uncouth visage rough and wild, Yet from behind with laughing grace Peep'd the fresh beauty of a child.

And so, contrasting strange to-day. My heart of youth doth inly ask

If half earth's wrinkled grimness may Be but the baby in the mask.

152 ADELINE D. TRAIN WHITNEY

Behind gray hairs and furrow'd brow And wither'd look that Hfe puts on,

Each, as he wears it, comes to know How the child hides, and is not gone.

For while the inexorable years To sadden'd features fix their mold,

Beneath the work of time and tears

Waits something that will not grow old.

The rifted pine upon the hill,

Scarr'd by the lightning and the wind,

Through bolt and blight doth nurture still Young fibres underneath the rind.

And many a storm-blast, fiercel}^ sent. And wasted hope, and sinful stain,

Roughen the strange integument The struggling soul must wear in pain.

Yet, when she comes to claim her own, Heaven's angels haply shall not ask

For that last look the world hath known, - But for the face behind the mask.

KYRIE ELEISON

IN His glory ! When the spheres Lighten with that wondrous blaze, How shall all my sins and fears Meet thy dawning, Day of days ?

Nothing hid ! ' No thought so mean That to darkness it may creep ;

Very darkness shall be seen, Very death to life shall leap.

Nothing deep, or far, or old ;

Nothing left in years behind ; All the secret self unrolled :

Light of God ! I would be blind I

ADELINE D. TRAIN WHITNEY 153

Only I shall see a Face

In the glory lifted up ; And a Hand,— the Hand of grace,

Whose sweet mercy held the Cup.

And a Voice, I think, will speak,

Asking of each sin-defiled Whom His saving came to seek,

As a mother asks her child :

* Wert thou sorry ? ' ' Yea, dear Christ,

Sick and sorry I have been, Wearily Thy wa3's have missed : Wash my feet, and lead me in !

' Though in this clear light of Thine

Sin and sore must stand revealed, Though no stainless health be mine, Count me, Lord, among the healed.

' Not with Scribe and Pharisee Dare I crave an upmost seat ; Only, Saviour, suffer me With the sinners at Thy feet ! '

SUNLIGHT AND STARLIGHT

GOD sets some souls in shade, alone ; They have no daylight of their own Only in lives of happier ones They see the shine of distant suns.

God knows. Content thee with thy night ; The greater heaven hath grander light. To-day is close ; the hours are small ; Thou sitt'st afar, and hast them all.

Lose the less joy that doth but blind ; Reach forth a larger bliss to find. To-day is brief: the inclusive spheres Rain raptures of a thousand years.

154 ADELINE D. TRAIN WHITNEY

RELEASED

A LITTLE, low-ceiled room. Four walls Whose blank shut out all else of life, And crowded close within their bound A world of pain, and toil, and strife.

Her world. Scarce furthermore she knew Of God's great globe that wondrously

OutroUs a glory of green earth,

And frames it with the restless sea.

Four closer walls of common pine ;

And therein lying, cold and still, The weary flesh that long hath borne

Its patient mystery of ill.

Regardless now of work to do,

No queen more careless in her state,

Hands crossed in an unbroken calm ; For other hands the work may wait.

Put by her implements of toil ;

Put by each coarse, intrusive sign ; She made a sabbath when she died.

And round her breathes a rest divine.

Put by, at last, beneath the lid, The exempted hands, the tranquil face ;

Uplift her in her dreamless sleep, And bear her gently from the place.

Oft she hath gazed, with wistful eyes, Out from that threshold on the night ;

The narrow bourn she crosseth now; She standeth in the eternal light.

Oft she hath pressed, with aching feet, Those broken steps that reach the door ;

Henceforth, with angels, she shall tread Heaven's golden stair, for evermore !

155

OUR CHRIST

IN Christ I feel the heart of God Throbbing from heaven through earth ; Life stirs again within the clod, Renewed in beauteous birth ; The soul springs up, a flower of prayer, Breathing His breath out on the air.

In Christ I touch the hand of God, From His pure height reached down.

By blessed ways before untrod, To lift us to our crown ;

Victory that only perfect is

Through loving sacrifice, like His.

Holding His hand, my steadied feet

May walk the air, the seas ; On life and death His smile falls sweet,

Lights up all mysteries : Stranger nor exile can I be In new worlds where He leadeth me.

Not my Christ only ; He is ours ;

Humanity's close bond ; Key to its vast, unopened powers.

Dream of our dreams beyond. What yet we shall be none can tell : Now are we His, and all is well.

HINTS

THEY whose hearts are whole and strong, Loving holiness, Living clean from soil of wrong,

Wearing truth's white dress, — They unto no far-off height Wearily need climb ; Heaven to them is close in sight From these shores of time.

156 LUCY LARCOM

Only the anointed eye

Sees in common things, — Gleam of wave, and tint of sky, —

Heavenly blossomings. To the hearts w^here light has birth

Nothing can be drear ; Budding through the bloom of earth,

Heaven is always near.

THE PROOF

TMPOSSIBLE,-the eagle's flight!

1 A body lift itself in air ?

Yet see, he soars away from sight! —

Can mortals with the immortal share ? To argue it were wordy strife ; Life only is the proof of life.

Duration, circumstances, things, — These measure not the eternal state :

Ah, cease from thy vain questionings Whether an after-life await !

Rise thou from self to God, and see

That immortality must be !

IMMORTAL

INTO the heaven of Thy heart, O God, 1 I lift up my life, like a flower ; Th}^ light is deep, and Thy love is broad, And I am not the child of an hour.

As a little blossom is fed from the whole

Vast depth of unfathomed air, Through every fibre of thought my soul

Reaches forth, in Thyself to share.

1 dare to say unto Thee, my God, Who hast made me to climb so high.

That I shall not crumble away with the clod 1 am Thine, and I cannot die !

LUCY LARCOM t57

The throb of Thy infinite life I feel

In every beat of my heart ; Upon me hast Thou set eternity's seal ;

Forever alive, as Thou art.

1 know not Thy mystery, O my God,

Nor yet what my own life means. That feels after Thee, through the mould and the sod,

And the darkness that intervenes.

But I know that I live, since I hate the wrong,

The glory of truth can see ; Can cling to the right with a purpose strong,

Can love and can will with Thee.

o

GROWING OLD

,LD,— we are growing old: _ Going on through a beautiful road. Finding earth a more blessed abode ; Nobler work by our hearts to be wrought, Freer paths for our hope and our thought : Because of the beauty the years unfold. We are cheerfully growing old !

Old,— we are growing old : Going up where the sunshine is clear; Watching grander horizons appear Out of clouds that enveloped our youth ; Standing firm on the mountains of truth : Because of the glory the years unfold,

We are joytully growing old.

Old,— we are growing old : Going in to the gardens of rest That glow through the gold of the west. Where the rose and the amaranth blend. And each path is the way to a friend : Because of the peace that the years unfold, We are thankfully growing old.

58 LUCY LARCOM

Old, — are we growing old ? Life blooms as we travel on Up the hills, into fresh, lovely dawn : We are children, who do but begin The sweetness of living to win : Because heaven is in us, to bud and unfold,

We are younger, for growing old !

EASTER DAWN

BREAKS the joyful Easter dawn, Clearer yet, and stronger ; Winter from the world has gone,

Death shall be no longer ! Far away good angels drive

Night and sin and sadness ; Earth awakes in smiles, alive With her dear Lord's gladness.

Roused by Him from dreary hours

Under snowdrifts chilly, — In His hand He brings the flowers,

Brings the rose and lily. Every httle buried bud

Into life He raises ; Every wild-flower of the wood

Chants the dear Lord's praises.

Open, happy flowers of spnng,

For the Sun has risen ! Through the sky glad voices ring,

Calling you from prison. Little children dear, look up !

Toward His brightness pressing, Lift up every heart, a cup

For the dear Lord's blessing.

ACROSS THE RIVER VVTHEN for me the silent oar W Parts the Silent River, And I stand upon the shore Of the strange Forever, Shall I miss the loved and known ? Shall I vainly seek mine own?

LUCY LARCOM 159

Mid the crowd that come to meet

Spirits sin-forgiven, — Listening to their echoing feet

Down the streets of heaven, — Shall I know a footstep near That I listen, wait for here?

Then will one approach the brink

With a hand extended, One whose thoughts I loved to think

Ere the veil was rended ; Saying, ' Welcome ! we have died, And again are side by side ' ?

Saying, ' I will go with thee.

That thou be not lonely. To yon hills of mystery :

I have waited only Until now, to climb with thee Yonder hills of mystery.'

Can the bonds that make us here

Know ourselves immortal, Drop away, like foliage sear.

At life's inner portal ? What is holiest below Must forever live and grow.

I shall love the angels well,

After I have found them In the mansions where they dwell,

With the glory round them : But at first, without surprise, Let me look in human eyes.

Step by step our feet must go

Up the holy mountain ; Drop by drop within us flow

Life's unfailing fountain. Angels sing with crowns that burn : We shall have our song to learn.

i6o LUCY LARCOM

He who on our earthly path Bids us help each other- -

Who His Well-beloved hath Made our Elder Brother —

Will but clasp the chain of love

Closer, when we meet above.

Therefore dread I not to go O'er the Silent River.

Death, thy hastening oar I know ; Bear me, thou Life-giver,

Through the waters, to the shore,

Where mine own have gone before

(Ricgar^ ^enr^ §(o^larb

OUT OF THE DEEPS OF HEAVEN

OUT of the deeps of heaven A bird has flown to my door, As twice in the ripening summers Its mates have flown before.

Why it has flown to my dwelHng

Nor it nor I may know, And only the silent angels

Can tell when it shall go.

That it will not straightway vanish,

But fold its wings with me, And sing in the greenest branches

Till the axe is laid to the tree.

Is the prayer of my love and terror, For my soul is sore distrest,

Lest I wake some dreadful morning, And find but its empty nest !

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD i6t

ADSUM*

THE Angel came by night, (Such angels still come down,) And like a winter cloud

Passed over London town ; Along its lonesome streets,

Where want had ceased to weep, Until it reached a house

Where a great man lay asleep ; The man of all his time

Who knew the most of men, The soundest head and heart,

The sharpest, kindest pen. It paused beside his bed,

And whispered in his ear ; He never turned his head,

But answered, ' I am here.'

Into the night they went ;

At morning, side by side, They gained the sacred Place

Where the greatest Dead abide. Where grand old Homer sits

In godlike state benign ; Where broods in endless thought

The awful Florentine ; Where sweet Cervantes walks,

A smile on his grave face ; Where gossips quaint Montaigne,

The wisest of his race ; Where Goethe looks through all

With that calm eye of his. Where— little seen but Light-

The only Shakespeare is ! When that new Spirit came,

They asked him, drawing near. Art thou become like us.?'

He answered, ' I am here.'

* See note.

M

1 62

PRAISE

THOU who sendest sun and rain. Thou who spendest bliss and pain, Good with bounteous hand bestowing, Evil, for Thy will allowing, — Though Thy ways we cannot see, All is just that comes from Thee.

In the peace of hearts at rest. In the child at mother's breast. In the lives that now surround us, In the deaths that sorely wound us, Though we may not understand, Father, we behold Thy hand !

Hear the happy hymn we raise ; Take the love which is Thy praise ; Give content in each condition ; Bend our hearts in sweet submission, And Thy trusting children prove Worthy *of the Father's love.

A PRAYER

GOD, to whom we look up blindl}', Look Thou down upon us kindly; We have sinned, but not designedly.

If our faith in Thee w^as shaken. Pardon Thou our hearts mistaken, Our obedience re-awaken.

We are sinful. Thou art holy : Thou art mighty, we are lowly : Let us reach Thee, climbing slowly.

Our ingratitude confessing.

On Thy mercy still transgressing.

Thou dost punish us with blessing.

BAYARD TAYLOR 163

WAIT''

NOT so in haste, my heart ! Have faith in God and wait Although He Hriger long, He never comes too late.

He never comes too late, He knoweth what is best ;

Vex not thyself in vain : Until He cometh, rest.

Until He cometh, rest,

Nor grudge the hours that roll ; The feet that wait for God

Are soonest at the goal ;

Are soonest at the goal

That is not gained by speed ;

Then hold thee still, my heart, For I shall wait His lead.

Jufta e. (H. ©orr

SOMEWHERE

HOW can I cease to pray for thee ? Somewhere In God's great universe thou art to-day ; Can He not reach thee with His tender care ? Can He not hear me when for thee I pray ?

What matters it to Him who holds within The hollow of His hand all worlds, all space.

That thou art done with earthly pain and sin ? Somewhere within His ken thou hast a place.

Somewhere thou livest and hast need of Him : Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb;

And somewhere still there may be valleys dim, That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime.

* See note. M 2

i64 JULIA C. R. DORR

Then all the more, because thou canst not hear Poor human words of blessing, will I pray,

O true, brave heart ! God bless thee, wheresoe'er In His sreat universe thou art to-day !

THE BLIND BIRD'S NEST

The nest of the blind bird is built by God. — Turkish Proverb.

THOU who dost build the blind bird's nest, Am I not blind? Each bird that flieth east or west The track can find.

Each bird that flies from north to south

Knows the far way ; From mountain's crest to river's moath

It does not stray.

Not one in all the lengthening land,

In all the sky, Or by the ocean's silver strand,

Is blind as I !

And dost Thou build the bhnd bird's nest ?

Build Thou for me Some shelter where my soul may rest

Secure in Thee.

Close clinging to the bending bough,

Bind it so fast It shall not loose, if high or low

Blows the loud blast.

If fierce storms break, and the wild rain

Comes pelting in, Cover the shrinking nest, restrain

The furious din.

At sultry noontide, when the air

Trembles with heat, Draw close the leafy covert where

Cool shadows meet.

JULIA C. R. DORR 165

And when night falleth, dark and chill,

Let one fair star, Love's star all luminous and still,

Shine from afar.

Thou who dost build the blind bird's nest,

Build Thou for me ; So shall my being find its rest

For evermore in Thee.

MARTHA

YEA, Lord ! — Yet some must serve. Not all with tranquil heart, Even at Thy dear feet. Wrapped in devotion sweet, May sit apart !

Yea, Lord ! — Yet some must bear

The burden of the day, Its labor and its heat, While others at Thy feet

May muse and pray !

Yea, Lord ! —Yet some must do Life's daily task-work ; some

Who fain would sing must toil

Amid earth's dust and moil. While lips are dumb !

Yea, Lord ! — Yet man must earn ;

And woman bake the bread ! And some must watch and wake Early, for others' sake,

Who pray instead !

Yea, Lord ! — Yet even Thou Hast need of earthly care,

I bring the bread and wme

To Thee, O Guest Divine ! Be this my prayer !

i66 JULIA C. R. DORR

QUIETNESS

T WOULD be quiet, Lord, 1 Nor tease, nor fret ; Not one small need of mine Wilt Thou forget.

I am not wise to know

What most I need ; I dare not cry too loud,

Lest Thou shouldst heed ;

Lest Thou at length shouldst say ' Child, have thy will ;

As thou hast chosen, lo ! Thy cup I fill ! '

What I most crave, perchance Thou wilt withhold ;

As we from hands unmeet Keep pearls, or gold ;

As we, wnen childish hands Would play with fire,

Withhold the burning goal Of their desire.

Yet choose Thou for me — Thou

Who knowest best ; This one short prayer of mine

Holds all the rest!

^oratto Qlefeon (powers

FIREFLIES

ON the warm and perfumed dark Glows the firefly's tender spark. Copse, and dell, and lonesome plain Catch the drops of lambent rain. Scattered swarms are snarled among Boughs where thrushes brood their young. Little cups of daisies hold Tapers that illume their gold.

HORATIO NELSON POWERS 167

See! they light their floating lamps Where the katydid encamps, Glint the ripples, soft and cool, On the grassy-cinctured pool, Poise where blood-red roses burn And rills creep under drooping fern. Weave inconstant spangles through Vines that drip with fragrant dew. And mid clumps of dusky pine In the mournful silence shine. They cling to tufts of the morass ; l^he meadow lilies feel them pass: They deck the turf about the feet Of lovers hid in shadows sweet. And round the musing poet gleam Like scintillations of his dream.

O winged spark ! effulgent mite ! Live atom of the Infinite ! Thou doest what for thee is done, In thy place faithful as the sun ; Love s highest law compels thy heart ; AH that thou hast thou dost impart ; Thy life is lighted at its core — Sages and saints achieve no more.

MY WALK TO CHURCH

{From Harper's Magazine. Copyrioht 1888 by Harper & Brothers)

BREATHING the summer-scented air Along the bowery mountain wa}', Each Lord's day morning I repair To serve my church, a mile away.

Below, the glorious river lies — A bright, broad-breasted, sylvan sea—

And round the sumptuous highlands rise, Fair as the hills of Galilee.

Young flowers are in my path. I hear

Music of unrecorded tone : The heart of Beauty beats so near.

Its pulses modulate my own.

t68 HORATIO NELSOX POWERS

The shadow on the meadow's breast Is not more cahn than my repose

As, step by step, I am the guest Of every Hving thing that grows.

Ah, something melts along the sky, And something rises from the ground,

And fills the inner ear and eye

Beyond the sense of sight and sound.

It is not that I strive to see

What Love in lovely shapes has wrought,- Its gracious messages to me

Come, like the gentle dews, unsought.

I merely walk with open heart Which feels the secret in the sign :

But, oh, how large and rich my part In all that makes the feast divine !

Sometimes I hear the happy birds That sang to Christ beyond the sea,

And softly His consoling words Blend with their joyous minstrelsy.

Sometimes in royal vesture glow The lilies that He called so fair.

Which never toil nor spin, yet show The loving Father's tender care.

And then along the fragrant hills A radiant presence seems to move,

And earth grows fairer, as it fills The very air I breathe with love.

And now I see one perfect Face, And hastening to my church's door,

Find Him within the holy place Who, all my way, went on before.

169

BEYOND

FROM her own fair dominions Long since, with shorn pinions, My spirit was banished : But above her still hover, in vigils and dreams, Ethereal visitants, voices, and gleams. That for ever remind her Of something behind her Long vanished.

Through the listening night, With mysterious flight,

Pass those wmged intimations ; Like stars shot from heaven, their still voices fall to me ; Far and departing, they signal and call to me, Strangely beseeching me, Chiding, yet teaching me Patience.

Then at times, oh ! at times, To their luminous climes

I pursue as a swallow ! To the river of Peace, and its solacing shades, To the haunts of my lost ones in heavenly glades, With strong aspirations Their pinions' vibrations I follow.

O heart ! be thou patient ! Though here I am stationed A season in durance. The chain of the world I will cheerfully wear ; For, spanning my soul like a rainbow, I bear With the yoke of my lowly Condition, a holy Assurance, —

I70 JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE

That never in vain Does the spirit maintain

Her eternal allegiance : Though suffering and yearning, Hke Infancy learning Its lesson, we linger; then skyward returning, On plumes fully grown We depart to our own Native regions !

MIDSUMMER

AROUND this lovely valley rise k The purple hills of Paradise.

Oh, softly on yon banks of haze Her rosy face the Summer lays!

Becalmed along the azure sky, The argosies of cloud-land lie, Whose shores, with many a shining rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

Through all the long midsummer daj' The meadow sides are sweet with hay. I seek the coolest sheltered seat Just where the field and forest meet, Where grow the pine trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand. And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet.

I watch the mowers as they go Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring; Behind the nimble youngsters run And toss the thick swaths in the sun ; The cattle graze ; while, warm and still. Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, when summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE rvr

The butterfly and humble-bee Come to the pleasant woods with me ; Quickly before me runs the quail, The chickens skulk behind the rail, High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And the wood-pecker pecks and flits. Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum. The partridge beats his throbbing drum. The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house. The oriole flashes by ; and, look ! Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain bluebird trims his coat. Two tiny feathers fall and float.

As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me. Oh, this is peace ! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read : A dear Companion here abides ; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His voice : I lie and listen and rejoice.

AT SEA

THE night is made for cooling shade, For silence, and for sleep ; And when I was a child I laid My hands upon my breast and prayed,

And sank to slumbers deep : Childlike as then, I lie to-night. And watch my lonely cabin light.

Each movement of the swaying lamp

Shows how the vessel reels : As o'er her deck the billows tramp. And all her timbers strain and cramp,

With every shock she feels, It starts and shudders, while it burns, And in its hinged socket turns.

172 JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE

Now swinging slow, and slanting low,

It almost level lies ; And yet I know, while to and fro I watch the seeming pendule go

With restless fall and rise. The steady shaft is still upright, Poising Its little globe of light.

0 hand of God ! O Lamp of Peace ! O Promise of my soul ! —

Though weak and tossed, and ill at ease, Amid the roar of smiting seas, The ship's convulsive roll,

1 own, with love and tender awe, Yon perfect type of faith and law !

A heavenly trust my spirit calms.

My soul is filled with light ; The ocean sings his solemn psalms. The wild winds chant : I cross my palms,

Happy as if, to-night, Under the cottage roof, again I heard the soothing summer rain.

(Ro0e Z^vv^ <!^oofte

A THANKSGIVING

I BRING my hymn of thankfulness To Thee, dear Lord, to-day ; Though not for joys Thy name I bless,

And not for gifts I pray. The griefs that know not man's redress Before Thy feet I lay.

Master ! I thank Thee for the sin That taught mine eyes to see

What depths of loving lie within The heart that broke for me ;

What patience human want can win From God's divinity.

ROSE TERRY COOKE 173

I thank Thee for the blank despair, When friend and love forsake,

That taught me how Thy cross to bear, Who bore it for my sake,

And showed my lonely soul a prayer That from Thy lips I take.

I thank Thee for the life of grief

I share with all below, Wherein I learn the sure relief

My brother's heart to know, And in the wisdom taught of pain

To soothe and share his woe.

I thank Thee for the languid years

Of loneliness and pain, When flesh and spirit sowed in tears,

But scattered not in vain ; For trust in God and faith in man

Sprang up beneath the rain.

I thank Thee for my vain desires.

That no fulfilment knew ; For life's consuming, cleansing fires,

That searched me through and through, Till I could say to Him : ' Forgive !

They know not what they do.'

What fulness of my earthly store,

What shine of harvest sun. What ointment on Thy feet to pour,

What honored race to run, What joyful song of thankfulness,

Here ended or begun, Shall mate with mine, who learn so late

To know Thy will is done?

REST

Oh ! spare me, that I may recover strength before I go hence and be no more. — Ps. xxxix. 13.

FOLD up thy hands, my weary soul, Sit down beside the way ! Thou hast at last a time to rest, At last a holiday.

174 ROSE TERRY COOKE

Thy lingering life of weariness,

Thy time of toil and tears, A little space may grant thee grace

To overcome thy fears—

A bright access of patient peace.

Not rapture, nor delight ; But even as sounds of labor cease

Before the hush of night ;

Or as the storm that all day long Has wailed, and raged, and wept.

Nor ceased its force nor changed its course, While slow the daylight crept ;

But suddenly, before the sun Drops down behind the hills,

A clear, calm shining parts the cloud And all the ether hlls ;

Or as the sweet and steadfast shore

To them that sail the sea ; Or home to them that ply the oar,

Or leave captivity.

Like any child that cries itself

On mother's breast to sleep, Lord, let me lie a httle while,

Till slumber groweth deep ;

So deep that neither love nor life

Shall stir its calm repose — Beyond the stress of mortal strife.

The strain of mortal woes.

Spare me this hour to sleep, before

Thy sleepless bliss is given ; Give me a day of rest on earth,

Before the work of heaven !

175

6ffen Cfementine ^owartg

THE PASSION FLOWER

I PLUCKED it in an idle hour, And placed it in my book of prayer, 'Tis not the only passion flower

That hath been crushed and hidden there. And now through floods of burning tears

My withered bloom once more 1 see, And I lament the long, long years, The wasted years, afar from Thee.

My flower is emblem of the bright

'First fervor' that my spirit knew, A dream of beauty, joy and light —

Now pale and dead it meets my view. What is there left of dream or flower

But ashes? Take, I pray, from me, All my vain thoughts of fame and power,

And draw my spirit nearer Thee.

€6avfe0 (Bov^on «Ewe0

O

UNDER THE CLOUD

BEAUTEOUS things of earth I cannot feel your worth To-day.

O kind and constant friend ! Our spirits cannot blend To-day.

0 Lord of truth and grace !

1 cannot see Thy face

To-day.

A shadow on my heart Keeps me from all apart To-day.

76 CHARLES GORDON AMES

Yet something in me knows How fair creation glows To-da3\

And something makes me sure That love is not less pure To-da3^

And that th' Etex'nal Good Minds nothing of my mood To-day.

For when the sun grows dark A sacred, secret spark Shoots rays.

Fed from a hidden bowl A Lamp burns in my soul All days.

T'

ATHANASIA

'HE ship may sink, And I may drink A hasty death in the bitter sea; But all that I leave In the ocean-grave Can be slipped and spared, and no loss to me.

What care I,

Though falls the sky, And the shrivelling earth to a cinder turn ?

No fires of doom

Can ever consume What never was made nor meant to burn.

Let go the breath,

There is no death To the living soul, nor loss, nor harm.

Not of the clod

Is the life of God ; Let it mount, as it will, from form to form.

CHARLES GORDON AMES 177

HIDDEN LIFE

SINCE Eden, it keeps the secret ! Not a flower beside it knows To distil from the day the fragrance And beauty that flood the rose.

Silently speeds the secret

From the loving eye of the sun

To the willing heart of the flower : The life of the twain is one.

Folded within my being, A wonder to me is taught,

Too deep for curious seeing Or fathom of soundmg thought,

Of all sweet mysteries holiest !

Faded are rose and sun ! The Highest hides in the lowliest ;

My Father and I are one.

UNSEEN

HOW do the rivulets find their way? How do the flowers know the day, And open their cups to catch the ray ?

I see the germ to the sunlight reach,

And the nestlings know the old bird's speech ;

I do not see who is there to teach.

I see the hare from the danger hide,

And the stars through the pathless spaces ride

I do not see that they have a guide.

He is Eyes for All who is eyes for the mole ;

All motion goes to the rightful goal;

O God ! I can trust for the human soul.

178

TO MY SOUL

GUEST from a holier world. Oh, tell me where the peaceful valleys lie ! Down in the ark of life, when thou shalt fly, Where will thy wings be furled ?

Where is thy native nest ? Where the green pastures that the blessed roam ? Impatient dweller in thy clay-built home.

Where is thy heavenly rest ?

On some immortal shore, Some realm away from earth and time, I know; A land of bloom, where living waters flow,

And grief comes nevermore.

Faith turns my eyes above ; Day fills with floods of light the boundless skies ; Night watches calmly with her starr}'- eyes

All tremulous with love.

And, as entranced I gaze, Sweet music floats to me from distant lyres: I see a temple, round whose golden spires

Unearthly glory plays !

Beyond those azure deeps 1 fix thy home,— a mansion kept for thee Within the Father's house, whose noiseless key

Kind Death, the warder, keeps !

HONOR ALL MEN

GREAT Master! teach us how to hope in man We lift our eyes upon his works and ways, And disappointment chills us as we gaze, Our dream of him so far the truth outran. So far his deeds are ever falUng short.

MARTHA PERRY LOWE 179

And then we fold our graceful hands, and say, ' The world is vulgar.' Didst Thou turn away,

O Sacred Spirit, delicately wrought !

Because the humble souls of Galilee Were tuned not to the music of Thine own, And chimed not to the pulsing undertone

Which swelled Thy loving bosom like a sea ?

Shame Thou our coldness, most Benignant P'riend, When we so daintily do condescend.

WORK

LORD, send us forth among Thy fields to work ! Shall we for words and names contending be,

Or lift our garments from the dust we see, And all the noonday heat and burden shirk ? The fields are v/hite for harvest, shall we stay

To find a bed of roses for the night,

And watch the far-off cloud that comes to sight, Lest it should burst in showers upon our way ? Fling off, my soul, thy grasping self, and view

With generous ardor all thy brothers' need ;

FHng off thy thoughts of golden ease, and weed A corner of thy Master's vineyard too.

The harvest of the world is great indeed, O Jesus ! and the laborers are few.

6mi% ©idtneon

THE CHARIOT

BECAUSE I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me ; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

i8o EMILY DICKINSON

We passed the school where children played,

Their lessons scarcely done ; We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed

A swelling of the ground ; The roof was scarcely visible,

The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, but each

Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads

Were toward eternity.

CERTAINTY

I NEVER saw a moor, I never saw the sea ; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be.

I never spoke with God,

Nor visited in heaven ; Yet certain am I of the spot

As if the chart were given.

A DIALOGUE

DEATH is a dialogue between The spirit and the dust ; Dissolve,' says Death. The spirit, 'Sir, I have another trust.'

Death doubts it, argues from the ground ;

The spirit turns away, Just laying off, for evidence.

An overcoat of clay.

EMILY DICKINSON i8r

SETTING SAIL

EXULTATION is the going Of an inland soul to sea, — Past the houses, past the headlands, Into deep eternity!

Bred as we, among the mountains, Can the sailor understand

The divine intoxication

Of the first league out from land ?

AFTER DEATH

THE bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,—

The sweeping up the hearth, And putting love away

We shall not want to use again Until eternity.

NEEDLESS FEAR

AFRAID ? Of whom am I afraid ? x\ Not Death ; for who is he ? The porter of my father's lodge As much abasheth me.

Of life ? 'Twere odd I fear a thing

That comprehendeth me In one or more existences

At Deity's decree.

Of resurrection ? Is the east

Afraid to trust the morn With her fastidious forehead ?

As soon impeach my crown !

[8a EMILY DICKINSON

NOT IN VAIN

IF I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain ; If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.

TIME

LOOK back on Time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best ; How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west.

THE BATTLE-FIELD

THEY dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes.

They perished in the seamless grass, —

No eye could find the place ; But God on His repealless list

Can summon every face.

VANISHED

SHE died. — this was the way she died And when her breath was done, Took up her simple w^ardrobe And started for the sun.

Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied,

Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

EMILY DICKINSON 183

PRAYER

AT least to pray is left, is left. l\ O Jesus ! in the air I know not which Thy chamber is, — I'm knocking everywhere.

Thou stirrest earthquake in the south, And maelstrom in the sea;

Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth, Hast Thou no arm for me ?

THE FOLD

LET down the bars, O Death ! The tired flocks come in Whose bleating ceases to repeat, Whose wandering is done.

Thine is the stillest night.

Thine the securest fold ; Too near thou art for seeking thee.

Too tender to be told.

THE MARTYRS

THROUGH the straight pass of suffering The martyrs ever trod, Their feet upon temptation, Their faces upon God.

A stately shriven company,

Convulsion playing round, Harmless as streaks of meteor

Upon a planet's bound.

Their faith the everlasting troth ;

Their expectation fair ; The needle to the north degree

Wades so, through polar air.

184

MILTON'S PRAYER OF PATIENCE

I

AM old and blind ! Men point at me as smitten by God's frown ;

Afflicted and deserted of my kind, Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong ; I murmur not that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong.

Father supreme ! to Thee.

All-merciful One ! When men are furthest, then art Thou most near ; When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,

Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face Is leaning toward me ; and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, --

And there is no more night.

On my bended knee I recognize Thy purpose clearly shown : My vision Thou hast dimmed, that I may see

Thyself, — Thyself alone.

I have naught to fear ; This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing ; Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here

Can come no evil thing.

Oh, I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in that radiance from the sinless land.

Which eye hath never seen !

Visions come and go : Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; From angel lips I seem to hear the flow

Of soft and holy song.

ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL 183

It is nothing now, When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,

That earth in darkness Hes.

In a purer cHme My being fills with rapture,— waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit,— strains sublime

Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre ! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine : Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,

Lit by no skill of mine.

CHRISTIAN EXALTATION

O CHRISTIAN soldier ! shouldst thou rue Life and its toils, as others do,— Wear a sad frown from day to day. And garb thy soul in hodden-gray ? Oh ! rather shouldst thou smile elate, Unquelled by sin, unawed by hate,— Thy lofty-statured spirit dress In moods of royal stateliness ; — For say, what service so divine As that, ah ! warrior heart, of thine, High pledged alike through gain or loss, To thy brave banner of the cross ?

Yea! what hast l/iou to do with gloom. Whose footsteps spurn the conquered tomb? Thou, that through dreariest dark canst see A smiling immortahty?

Leave to the mournful, doubting slave. Who deems the whole wan earth a grave. Across whose dusky mounds forlorn Can rise no resurrection morn. The sombre mien, the funeral weed. That darkly match so dark a creed;

1 86 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE

But be thy brow turned bright on all,

Thy voice like some clear clarion call,

Pealing o'er life's tumultuous van

The key-note of the hopes of man,

While o'er thee flames through gain, through loss,

That fadeless symbol of the cross !

THE MASK OF DEATH

IN youth, when blood was warm and fancy high, I mocked at Death. How many a quaint conceit I wove about his veiled head and feet, Vaunting aloud, ' Why need we dread to die?' But now, enthralled by deep solemnity, Death's pale, phantasmal shade I darkly greet ; Ghostlike it haunts the earth, it haunts the street, Or drearier makes drear midnight's mystery. Ah, soul-perplexing vision ! oft I deem That antique myth is true which pictured Death A masked and hideous form all shrank to see ; But at the last slow ebb of mortal breath. Death, his mask melting like a nightmare dream, Smiled, — heaven's High-Priest of Immortality.

'NOT AS I WHL'

BLINDFOLDED and alone I stand, With unknown thresholds on each hand The darkness deepens as I grope, Afraid to fear, afraid to hope : Yet this one thing I learn to know Each day more surely as I go. That doors are opened, ways are made, Burdens are lifted or are laid. By some great law unseen and still, Unfathomed purpose to fulfil, 'Not as I will.'

HELEN HUNT JACKSON 187

Blindfolded and alone I wait ; Loss seems too bitter, gain too late ; Too heavy burdens in the load And too few helpers on the road ; And joy is weak and grief is strong, And years and days so long, so long: Yet this one thing I learn to know Each day more surely as I go, That I am glad the good and ill By changeless law are ordered still, ' Not as I will.'

' Not as I will ' : the sound grows sweet Each time my lips the words repeat. * Not as I will ' : the darkness feels More safe than light when this thought steals Like whispered voice to calm and bless All unrest and all loneliness. ' Not as I will,' because the One Who loved us first and best has gone Before us on the road, and still For us must all His love fulfil, 'Not as we w^U.'

DOUBT

THEY bade me cast the thing away, They pointed to my hands all bleeding, They listened not to all my pleading; The thing I meant I could not say ; I knew that I should rue the da}^ If once I cast that thing away.

I grasped it firm, and bore the pain ; The thorny husks I stripped and scattered ; If I could reach its heart, what mattered

If other men saw not my gain,

Or even if I should be slain ?

I knew the risks ; I chose the pain.

i88 HELEN HUNT JACKSON

O, had I cast that thing away, 1 had not found what most I cherish, A faith without which I should perish,- The faith which, hke a kernel, lay Hid in the husks which on that day My instinct would not throw away !

GLIMPSES

AS when on some great mountain -peak we stand, L In breathless awe beneath its dome of sk^^, Whose multiplied horizons seem to lie Beyond the bounds of earthly sea and land, We find the circled space too vast, too grand, And soothe our thoughts with restful memory Of sudden sunlit glimpses we passed by Too quickly, in our feverish demand To reach the height,—

So, darling, when the brink Of highest heaven we reach at last, I think Even that great gladness will grow yet more glad. As we, with eyes that are no longer sad. Look back, while Life's horizons slowly sink, To some swift moments which on earth we had.

L'

SPINNING

IKE a bhnd spinner in the sun, _-/ I tread my days ; I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways ; I know each day will bring its task, And, being blind, no more I ask.

I do not know the use or name

Of that I spin ; I only know that some one came And laid within My hand the thread, and said, ' Since 370U Are blind, but one thing you can do.'

HELEN HUNT JACKSON 189

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast

And tangled fly, I know wild storms are sweeping past, And fear that I Shall fall ; but dare not try to find A safer place, since I am blind.

I know not why, but I am sure

That tint and place In some great fabric to endure Past time and race My threads will have ; so from the first, Though blind, I never felt accurst.

I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung

From one short word Said over me when I was young, — So young, I heard It, knowing not that God's name signed My brow, and sealed me His, though bhnd.

But whether this be seal or sign

Within, without, It matters not,— the bond divine I never doubt. I know He set me here, and still. And glad, and blind, I wait His will.

But listen, listen, day by day,

To hear their tread Who bear the finished web away. And cut the thread, And bring God's message in the sun, 'Thou poor, blind spinner, work is done.'

THE ANGEL OF PAIN

ANGEL of Pain, I think thy face J\ Will be, in all the heavenly place. The sweetest face that I shall see. The swiftest face to smile on me.

I90 SAXE HOLM

All other angels faint and tire; Joy wearies, and forsakes desire ; Hope falters face to face with fate, And dies because it cannot wait ; And Love cuts short each loving day, Because fond hearts cannot obey The subtlest law which measures bliss By what it is content to miss.

But thou, O loving, faithful Pain- Hated, reproached, rejected, slain — Dost only closer cling and bless In sweeter, stronger steadfastness. Dear, patient angel, to thine own Thou comest, and art never known Till late, in some lone twilight place The light of thy transfigured face Sudden shines out, and speechless, they Know they have walked with Christ all day.

THE LOVE OF GOD

LIKE a cradle, rocking, rocking, Silent, peaceful, to and fro, — Like a mother's sweet looks dropping

On the little face below, — Hangs the green earth, swinging, turning,

Jarless, noiseless, safe and slow; Falls the light of God's face, bending Down and watching us below.

And as feeble babes that suffer,

Toss and cry, and will not rest. Are the ones the tender mother

Holds the closest, loves the best ; So when w^e are weak and wretched.

By our sins weighed down, distressed, Then it is that God's great patience

Holds us closest, loves us best.

O great Heart of God ! whose loving Cannot hindered be nor crossed ;

Will not weary, will not even In our death itself be lost—

SAXE HOLM 191

Love divine ! of such great loving

Only mothers know the cost, — Cost of love, which all love passing,

Gave a Son to save the lost.

A HYMN

I CANNOT think but God must know About the thing I long for so ; I know He is so good, so kind, I cannot think but He will find Some way to help, some way to show

fi

Me to the thing I long for so.

I stretch my hand, — it lies so near :

It looks so sweet, it looks so dear.

' Dear Lord,' I pray, ' oh, let me know

If it is wrong to want it so.'

He only smiles,— He does not speak;

My heart grows weaker and more weak,

With looking at the thing so dear,

Which lies so far and yet so near.

Now, Lord, I leave at Thy loved feet This thing which looks so near, so sweet, I will not seek, I will not long,— I almost fear I have been wrong. I'll go and work the harder. Lord, And wait till by some loud, clear word Thou callest me to Thy loved feet. To take this thing, so dear, so sweet.

THE GOSPEL OF MYSTERY

GOOD tidings every day. God's messengers ride fast. We do not hear one half they say, There is such noise on the highway, Where we must wait till they ride past.

192 ■ SAXE HOLM

Their banners blaze and shine

With Jesus Christ's dear name And story, how by God's design He saves us, in His love divine,

And lifts us from our sin and shame.

Their music fills the air,

Their songs sing all of heaven ; Their ringing trumpet-peals declare What crowns to souls who fight and dare

And win, shall presently be given.

Their hands throw treasures round

Among the multitude.

No pause, no choice, no count, no bound. No questioning how men are found,

If they be evil or be good.

But all the banners bear

Some words we cannot read ; And mystic echoes in the air. Which borrow from the song no share,

In sweetness all the songs exceed.

And of the multitude.

No man but in his hand

Holds some great gift misunderstood, Some treasure, for whose use or good

His ignorance sees no demand.

These are the tokens lent By immortality ;

Birth-marks of our divine descent ;

Sureties of ultimate intent, God's gospel of Eternity.

Good tidings every day. The messengers ride fast.

Thanks be to God for all they say ;

There is such noise on the highway, Let us keep still while they ride past.

193

TRANSFIGURA TION

MYSTERIOUS Death ! who in a single hour Life's gold can so refine ; And by thy art divine Change mortal weakness to immortal power !

Bending beneath the weight of eighty years,

Spent with the noble strife

Of a victorious life, We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.

But, ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung,

A miracle was wrought.

And swift as happy thought She lived again, brave, beautiful, and young.

Age, Pain, and Sorrow dropped the veils they wore.

And showed the tender eyes

Of angels in disguise, Whose discipline so patiently she bore.

The past years brought their harvest rich and fair,

While Memory and Love

Together fondly wove A golden garland for the silver hair.

How could we mourn like those who are bereft.

When every pang of grief

Found balm for its relief In counting up the treasure she had left? —

Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time,

Hope that defied despair,

Patience that conquered care. And loyalty whose courage was sublime ;

The great deep heart that was a home for all,

Just, eloquent and strong,

In protest against wrong ; Wide charity that knew no sin, no fall ;

o

194 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

The Spartan spirit that made life so grand,

Mating poor daily needs

With high, heroic deeds. That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.

We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead,

Full of the grateful peace

That followed her release ; For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.

Oh noble woman ! never more a queen

Than in the laying down

Of sceptre and of crown, To win a greater kingdom yet unseen,

Teaching us how to seek the highest goal.

To earn the true success

To Hve, to love, to bless, And make death proud to take a royal soul.

6^mun^ thvtnu ^te^man

'THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY'

COULD we but know The land that ends our dark uncertain travel, Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, — Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil.

Aught of that country could we surely know. Who would not go ?

Might w^e but hear The hovering angels' high imagined chorus,

Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear One radiant vista of the realm before us, — With one rapt moment given to see and hear, Ah, who would fear?

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 195

Were we quite sure To find the peerless friend who left us lonel}', Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, To gaze in eyes that here were love-lit only, — This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, Who would endure?

THE DISCOVERER

I HAVE a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three. And yet a voyager is he Greater than Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together ! He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. Ay, he has travelled whither A winged pilot steered his bark Through the portals of the dark. Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, Across the unknown sea.

Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower. And laid it in his dimpled hand

With this command : * Henceforth thou art a rover ! Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover.' With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went.

Since that time no word

From the absent has been heard.

Who can tell How he fares, or answer vvell What the little one has iound Since he left us, outward bound ? o 2

196 EDMUND CLARE^XE STEDMAX

Would that he might return !

Then should we learn

From the pricking of his chart

How the skyey roadways part.

Hush ! does not the baby this way bring,

To lay beside this severed curl,

Some starry offering

Of chrysolite or pearl ?

Ah, no ! not so ! We may follow on his track, But he comes not back. And yet I dare aver He is a brave discoverer Of climes his elders do not know. He has more learning than appears On the scroll of twice three thousand years, More than in the groves is taught', Or from furthest Indies brought ; He knows, perchance, how spirits fare, — What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reach,— And his eyes behold

Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.

(Ttanc^ (pvmt (JDaEefiefb

HEAVEN

THE city's shining towers we may not see With our dim earthly vision ; For Death the silent warder, keeps the key That opes the gates Elysian.

But sometimes, when adown the western sky

A fiery sunset lingers. Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,

Unlocked by unseen fingers.

NANXY PRIEST WAKEFIELD 197

And while they stand a moment half ajar,

Gleams from the inner glory Stream brightly through the azure vault afar,

And half reveal the story.

(> land unknown ! O land of love divine !

Father, all wise, eternal ! O guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine

Into those pastures vernal I

^^m^Q (grooRe

THE CHILD OF BETHLEHEM

O LITTLE town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie ! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by ; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting light ; The hopes and fears of all the 3-ears Are met in thee to-night I

For Christ is born of Mar}' ; And gathered all above. While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars ! together Proclaim the holy birth. And praises sing to God the King, And peace to mxen on earth I

How silently, how silentlj'', The wondrous gift is given ! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming; But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him, still The dear Christ enters in.

193 PHILLIPS BROOKS

O holy Child of Bethlehem ! Descend to us, we pray ; Cast out our sin and enter in — Be born in us to-day ! We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell ; Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel I

JUBILATE

GRAY distance hid each shining sail, By ruthless breezes borne from me ; And, lessening, fading, faint and pale, My ships went forth to sea.

Where misty breakers rose and fell I stood and sorrowed hopelessl}^ ;

For every wave had tales to tell Of wrecks far out at sea.

To-day, a song is on my lips : Earth seems a paradise to me :

For God is good, and lo, my ships Are coming home from sea !

IN THE DARK-

ALL moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees Ji\ Along the drifted sandhills where the}^ grow: And from the dark west comes a wandering breeze, And waves them to and fro.

A murky darkness lies along the sand,

Where bright the sunbeams of the morning shone, And the eye vainly seeks by sea and land

Some light to rest upon.

* See note.

GEORGE ARNOLD 199

No large pale star its glimmering vigil keeps ;

An inky sea reflects an inky sky, And the dark river, like a serpent, creeps

To where its black piers lie.

Strange salty odors through the darkness steal, And, through the dark, the ocean-thunders roll ;

Thick darkness gathers, stifling, till I feel Its weight upon my soul.

I stretch my hands out in the empty air ;

I strain my eyes into the heavy night ; Blackness of darkness ! — Father, hear my prayer!

Grant me to see the light !

'§avvkt (mc6n)en HimBaff

THE GUEST

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock ; if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I zvill come in to him, and will sup zvith him ; and he with Me.

SPEECHLESS Sorrow sat with me; I was sighing wearily. Lamp and fire were out : the rain Wildly beat the window-pane. In the dark we heard a knock, And a hand was on the lock ; One in waiting spake to me,

Saying sweetly, ' I am come to sup with thee ! '

All my room was dark and damp ; ' Sorrow,' said I, ' trim the lamp ; Light the fire, and cheer thy face ; Set the guest-chair in its place.' And again I heard the knock; In the dark I found the lock :— ' Enter ! I have turned the key !

Enter, Stranger ! Who art come to sup with me.'

HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL

Opening wide the door He came, But I could not speak His name ; In the guest-chair took His place ; But I could not see His face ! When my cheerful fire was beaming, When my little lamp was gleaming, And the feast was spread for three,

Lo ! my Master Was the Guest that supped with me !

THE FEAST-TIME OF THE YEAR

THIS is the feast-time of the year, When hearts grow warm and home more dear ; When autumn's crimson torch expires To flash again in winter fires ; And they who tracked October's flight Through woods with gorgeous hues bedight, In charmed circle sit and praise The goodly log's triumphant blaze.

This is the feast-time of the year,

When Plenty pours her wine of cheer,

And even humble boards may spare

To poorei poor a kindly share ;

While bursting barns and granaries know

A richer, fuller overflow.

And they who dwell in golden ease

Bless without toil, yet toil to please.

This is the feast-time of the year : The blessed Advent draweth near. Let rich and poor together break The bread of love for Christ's sweet sake, Against the time when rich and poor Must ope for Him a common door, Who comes a guest, 3'et makes a feast, And bids the greatest and the least.

HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL

ALL'S WELL

THE day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine ; Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep This httle life of mine.

With loving-kindness curtain Thou my bed, And cool in rest my burning pilgrim feet ; Thy pardon be the pillow for my head ; So shall my rest be sweet.

At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and Thee, No fears my soul's unwavering faith can shake ; All's well, whichever side the grave for me The mornkig light may break.

gogn ^am^ ^iait

GLOW-WORM AND STAR

A GOLDEN twinkle in the wayside grass. See the lone glow-worm, buried deep in dew. Brightening and lightening the low darkness through, Close to my feet, that by its covert pass ; And, in the little pool of recent rain, O'erhung with tremulous grasses, look, how bright, Filling the drops along each blade with light. Yon great white star, some system's quickening brain, Whose voyage through that still deep is never done, Makes its small mirror by this gleam of earth ! O soul, with wonders where thy steps have trod, Which is most wondrous, worm or mirrored sun? . . . The Mighty One shows in everything one birth ; The worm's a star as high from thee in God.

JOHN JAMES PIATT

A SONG OF CONTENT

THE eagle nestles near the sun; The dove's low nest for me ! — The eagle's on the crag : sweet one,

The dove's in our green tree. For hearts that beat like thine and mine,

Heaven blesses humble earth ; The angels of our heaven shall shine The angels of our hearth !

TRANSFIGURATION

CRIMSONING the woodlands dumb and hoary. Bleak with long November winds and rains, Lo, at sunset breathes a sudden glory, Breaks a fire on all the western panes !

Eastward far I see the restless splendor

Shine through many a window-lattice bright ;

Nearer all the farm-house gables render

Flame for flame, and meet in breathless light.

Many a mansion, many a cottage lowly, Lost in radiance, palpitates the same.

At the torch of beauty strange and hol}^, All transfigured in the evening flame.

Luminous, within, a marvelous vision, —

Things familiar half-unreal show ; In the effluence of Land Elysian,

Every bosom feels a holier glow.

Peaces lose, as at some wondrous portal,

Earthly masks, and heavenly features wear ;

Many a mother like a saint immortal. Folds her child, a haloed angel fair.

203

§ava^ (m. (g. (Piatt

THE GIFT OF TEARS

THE legend says : In Paradise God gave the world to man. Ah me ! The woman lifted up her eyes :

' Woman I have but tears for thee.' But tears ? And she began to shed, Thereat, the tears that comforted.

(No other beautiful woman breathed,

No rival among men had he. The seraph's sword of fire was sheathed,

The golden fruit hung on the tree. Her lord was lord of all the earth. Wherein no child had wailed its birth.)

Tears to a bride ? ' ' Yea, therefore tears.' ' In Eden ? ' ' Yea, and tears therefore.'

Ah, bride in Eden, there were fears

In the first blush your young cheek wore,

Lest that first kiss had been too sweet.

Lest Eden withered from your feet !

Mother of women ! Did you see

How brief your beauty, and how brief,

Therefore, the love of it must be, In that first garden, that first grief?

Did those first drops of sorrow fall

To move God's pity for us all ?

Oh, sobbing mourner by the dead- One watcher at the grave grass-grown !

Oh, sleepless for some darling head Cold-pillowed on the prison-stone,

Or wet with drowning seas ! He knew,

Who gave the gift of tears to you !

204 SARAH M. B. PIATT

THE ANSWER OF THE GARDENER

HE leant, at sunset, on his spade. (Oh, but the child was sweet to see, The one who in the orchard played !) He called: 'I've planted you a tree!'

The boy looked at it for a while. Then at the radiant woods below ;

And said, with wonder in his smile—

' Why don't you put the leaves on, though ?

The gardener, with a reverent air, Lifted his eyes, took off his hat —

The Other Man, the One up there,' He answered, ' He must see to that.'

FAITH

' XT'ES, God is good, I'm told. You see,

1 I cannot read. But, then, I can beheve. He's good to me, He is, and good to men. They say He sends us sorrow, too. The world would be too sweet To leave, if this should not be true.' — ('The world the moth can eat.')

' WHEN SA W WE THEE ? '

THEN shall He answer how He lifted up. In the cathedral there, at Lille, to me The same still mouth that drank the Passion-cup, And how I turned away and did not see.

Mow— oh, that boy's deep eyes and withered arm 1 In a mad Paris street, one glittering night.

Three times drawn backward b}^ His beauty's charm, I gave Him— not a farthing for the sight.

SARAH M. B. PIATT 205

How, in that shadowy temple at Cologne, Through all the mighty music, I did wring

The agony of His last mortal moan

From that blind soul I gave not anything.

And how at Bruges, at a beggar's breast,

There by the windmill where the leaves whirled so,

I saw Him nursing, passed Him with the rest, Followed by His starved mother's stare of woe.

But, my Lord Christ, Thou knowest I had not much, And fain must keep that which I had for grace

To look, forsooth, where some dead painter's touch Had left Thy thorn-wound or Thy Mother's face.

Therefore, O my Lord Christ, I pray of Thee That of Thy great compassion Thou wilt save.

Laid up from moth and rust, somewhere, for me, High in the heavens — the coins I never gave.

A DREAM'S AWAKENING

SHUT in a close and dreary sleep. Lonely and frightened and oppressed, I felt a dreadful serpent creep,

Writhing and crushing, o'er my breast.

I woke, and knew my child's sweet arm, As soft and pure as flakes of snow,

Beneath my dream's dark, hateful charm, Had been the thing that tortured so.

And in the morning's dew and light

I seemed to hear an angel say, ' The pain that stings in time's low night May prove God's love in higher day.'

WE TWO

GOD'S will is — the bud of the rose for your hair. The ring for your hand and the pearl for 3^our breast ; God's will is — the mirror that makes you look fair. No wonder you whisper : ' God's will is the b«

JCai.

2o6 SARAH M. B. PIATT

But what if God's will were the famine, the flood ? — .Vnd were God's will the coffin shut down in 3^our face ? —

And were God's will the worm in the fold of the bud, Instead of the picture, the light, and the lace ?

Were God's will the arrow that flieth by night, Were God's will the pestilence walking by day,

The clod in the valley, the rock on the height — I fancy ' God's will ' would be harder to say.

God's will is — your own will? What honor have you For having your own will, awake or asleep ?

Who praises the lily for keeping the dew,

When the dew is so sweet for the lily to keep ?

God's will unto me is not music or wine.

With helpless reproaching, with desolate tears, God's will I resist, for God's will is divine ;

And I — shall be dust to the end of my years.

God's will is— not mine. Yet one night I shall lie Very still at His feet, where the stars may not shine.

' Lo ! I am well pleased,' I shall hear from the sky ; Because — it is God's will I do, and not mine.

Boutce C^Cintkv QUoufton

LONG IS THE WAY

LONG is the way, O Lord ! My steps are weak: I listen for Thy word, — When wilt Thou speak ?

Must I still wander on 'Mid noise and strife;

Or go as Thou hast gone, From life to Life ?

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 207

SOME DAY OR OTHER

SOME day or other I shall surely come Where true hearts wait for me ; Then let me learn the language of that home

While here on earth I be, Lest my poor lips for want of words be dumb In that High Company.

LOVER AND FRIEND HAST THOU PUT FAR FROM ME

I HEAR the soft September rain intone, And cheerful crickets chirping in the grass,— I bow my head, I, who am all alone ; The light winds see, and shiver as they pass.

No other thing is so bereft as I, — The rain-drops fall, and mingle as they fall, —

The chirping cricket knows his neighbor nigh, — Leaves sway responsive to the light wind's call.

But Friend and Lover Thou hast put afar, And left me only Thy great, solemn sky, —

I try to pierce beyond the farthest star To search Thee out, and find Thee ere I die ;

Yet dim my vision is, or Thou dost hide

Thy sacred splendor from my yearning eyes :

Be pitiful, O God, and open wide To me, bereft, Thy heavenly Paradise.

Give me one glimpse of that sweet, far-off rest, — Then I can bear Earth's solitude again ;

My soul, returning from that heavenly quest, Shall smile, triumphant, at each transient pain.

Nor would I vex my heart with grief or strife. Though Friend and Lover Thou hast put afar,

If I could see, through my worn tent of Life, The steadfast shining of Thy morning star.

2o8 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON

SELFISH PRAYER

HOW we, poor pla37-ers on Life's little stage, Thrust blindly at each other in our rage, Quarrel and fret, and rashly dare to pray To God to help us on our selfish way.

We think to move Him with our prayer and praise, To serve our needs ; as in the old Greek days Their gods came down and mingled in the fight With mightier arms the flying foe to smite.

The laughter of those gods pealed down to men, For heaven was but earth's upper story then, Where goddesses about an apple strove, And the high gods fell humanly in love. ^

We own a God whose presence fills the sky, — Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by ; Shall not His memory number, one by one. The sons of men, who call them each His son ?

QUESTION

DEAR and blessed dead ones, can you look and listen To the sighing and the moanmg down here below ? Does it make a discord in the hymns of heaven, — The discord that jangles in the Life you used to know ?

When we pray our prayers to the great God above you. Does the echo of our praying ever glance aside your way? Do you know the thing we ask for, and wish that you could give it. You, whose hearts ached with wishing m your own little day?

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 209

Are your ears deaf with praises, you blessed dead of heaven, And your eyes blind with glory, that you cannot see our pain ? If you saw, if you heard, you would weep among the angels. And the praises and the glory would be for 3'ou in vain.

Yet He listens to our praying, the great God of pit}'. As He fills with pain the measure of our Life's httle day, — Could He bear to sit and shine there, on His white throne in heaven. But that He sees the end, while we only see the way ?

AN OPEN DOOR

City, of thine a single, simple door

By some new Power reduplicate must be

Even yet my life-porch in eternity.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

THAT longed-for door stood open, and he passed On through the star-sown fields of light, and stayed Before its threshold, glad and unafraid. Since all that Life or Death could do at last Was over, and the hour so long forecast

Had brought his footsteps thither. Undismayed He entered. Were his lips on her lips laid t God knows. They met, and their new day was vast.

Night shall not darken it, nor parting blight : ' Whatever is to know,' they know it now : He comes to her with laurels on his brow, Hero and conqueror from his life's fierce fight, And Longing is extinguished in Delight, — ' I still am I,' his eyes say, — ' Thou art thou I '

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON

COME UNTO ME

I HEAR the low voice call that bids me come, — Me, even me, with all my grief opprest, With sins that burden my unquiet breast, And in my heart the longing that is dumb, Yet beats forever, like a muffled drum. For all delights whereof I, dispossest. Pine and repine, and find nor peace nor rest This side the haven where He bids me come.

He bids me come and lay my sorrows dowm, And have my sins washed white by His dear grace ;

He smiles— what matter, then, though all men frown? Naught can assail me, held in His embrace ;

And if His welcome home the end may crown. Shall I not hasten to that heavenly place ?

IN MID-OCEAN

ACROSS this sea I sail, and do not know

l\. What hap awaits me on its farther side, — In these long days what dear hope may have died ;

What sweet, accustomed joy I must forgo ;

What new acquaintance make with unguessed woe (I, who with sorrow have been long allied). Or what blest gleam of joy yet undescried

Its tender light upon my way will throw.

Thus over Death's unsounded sea w^e sail, Toward a far, unmapped, unpictured shore,

Unwitting what awaits us, bliss or bale, Like the vast multitude that went before,

Scourged on by the inexorable gale The everlasting mystery to explore.

HELP THOU MY UNBELIEF/

BECAUSE I seek Thee not, oh seek Thou me ! Because my lips are dumb, oh hear the cry I do not utter as Thou passest by. And from my life-long bondage set me free !

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 21 1

Because content I perish, far from Thee,

Oh seize me, snatch me from my fate, and try My soul in Thy consuming fire ! Draw nigh

And let me, blinded, Thy salvation see.

If I were pouring at Thy feet my tears, If I were clamoring to see Thy face,

I should not need Thee, Lord, as now I need. Whose dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears, Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place — Because I seek not, pray not, give Thou heed !

AT END

AT end of Love, at end of Life, i\. At end of Hope, at end of Strife, At end of all we cling to so — The sun is setting — must we go?

At dawn of Love, at dawn of Life, At dawn of Peace that follows Strife, At dawn of all we long for so — The sun is nsinff — let us go.

LOVE'S RESURRECTION DAY

ROUND among the quiet graves, . When the sun was low, Love went grieving, — Love who saves Did the sleepers know?

At his touch the flowers awoke.

At his tender call Birds into sweet singing broke.

And it did befall

From the blooming, bursting sod

All Love's dead arose, And went flying up to God

By a way Love knows.

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON

ON HOMEWARD WING

FROM the soft south the constant bird comes back, Faith-led, to find the welcome of the Spring In the old boughs whereto she used to cling, Before she sought the unknown southward track : Above the Winter and the storm-cloud's wrack She hears the prophecy of days that bring The Summer's pride, and plumes her homeward wing To seek again the joys that exiles lack.

Shall I of little faith, less brave than she. Set forth unwillingly my goal to find, Go home from exile with reluctant mind,-

Distrust the steadfast stars I cannot see,

And doubt the heavens because m}'- eyes are blind ?

Nay! Give me faith, like wings, to soar to Thee!

FOR EASTER MORNING

THE glad Dawn sets his fires upon the hills, Then floods the valleys with his golden light, And, triumphing o'er all the hosts of night, The waiting world with new-born rapture thrills : And, hark ! I seem to hear a song which fills The trembling air of earth with heaven's delight. And straight uplifts, with its celestial might, Souls faint with longing, compassed round with ills.

' Christ, Christ is risen 1 ' the unseen singers sing : * Christ, Christ is risen ! ' the echoing hosts reply—

The whist wind feels a passing seraph's wing. And holds its breath while shining ones go b}^ :

'Christ, Christ is risen !'— loud let the anthem ring; He lives— He loves — He saves — we need not die.

F

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 213

^FAIN WOULD I CLIMB'

AIN would I climb the heights that lead to God, But my feet stumble and my steps are weak

Warm are the valleys, and the hills are bleak : Here, where I Hnger, flowers make soft the sod, But those far heights that martyr feet have trod

Are sharp with flints, and from the farthest peak

The still, small voice but faintly seems to speak, While here the drowsy lilies dream and nod.

1 have dreamed with them, till the night draws ni^'h In which I cannot climb : still high above,

In the blue vastness of the awful sky.

Those unsealed peaks my fatal weakness prove—

Those shining heights that I must reach, or die Afar from God, unquickened by His love.

THE SONG OF THE STARS

IN those high heavens, wherein the fair stars flower, They do God's praises sound from night till morn, And when the smiling day is newly born Chant, each to each. His glory and His power- Then silent wait, through Day's brief triumph hour. Watching till Night shall come again, with scorn Of those chameleon splendors that adorn Day's death, and then before his victor cower.

F^orever to immortal ears they sing— ^

These shining stars that praise their Maker s grace-

And from far world to world their anthems ring : They shine and sing because they see His face—

We, cowards, dread the vision Death shall bring. The waking rapture, and the fair, far place.

214

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FIRST AND LAST

JUST come from heaven, how bright and fair The soft locks of the baby's hair, As if the unshut gates still shed The shining halo round his head !

Just entering heaven, what sacred snows lUpon the old man's brow repose ! For there the opening gates have strown The glory from the great white throne.

WITNESSES

VUTHENEVER my heart is heavy, W And life seems sad as death, A subtle and marvelous mockery

Of all who draw their breath, And I weary of throned injustice.

The rumor of outrage and wrong, And I doubt if God rules above us,

And I cry, O Lord, how long, How long shall sorrow and evil

Their forces around them draw ! Is there no power in Thy right hand

Is there no life in Thy law

Then at last the blazing brightness

Of day forsakes its height, Slips like a splendid curtain

From the awful and infinite night ; And out of the depths of distance.

The gulfs of purple space, The stars steal, slow and silent.

Each in its ancient place, — Each in its armor shining,

The hosts of heaven arra3''ed. And wheeling through the midnight,

As they did when the world was made.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD 215

And I lean out among the shadows

Cast by that far white gleam, And I tremble at the murmur

Of one mote in the mighty beam, As the everlasting squadrons

Their fated influence shed, While the vast meridians sparkle

With the glory of their tread. That constellated glory

The primal morning saw, And 1 know God moves to His purpose,

And still there is life in His law !

DAYS OF REST

STILL Sundays, rising o'er the world. Have never failed to bring their calm. While from their tranquil wings unfurled,

On the tired heart distilling balm, A purer air bathes all the fields,

A purer gold the generous sky ; The land a hallowed silence jaelds.

All things in mute, glad worship lie, — All, save where careless innocence

In the great Presence sports and plays, A wild bird whistles, or the wind

Tosses the light snow from the sprays.

For life renews itself each week,

Each Sunday seems to crown the year ; The fair earth rounds as fresh a cheek

As though just made another sphere. The shadowy film that sometimes breathes

Between our thought and heaven disparts, The quiet hour so brightly wreathes

Its solemn peace about our hearts, And Nature, whether sun or shower

Caprices with her soaring days. Rests conscious, in a happy sense.

Of the wide smile that lights her ways.

2r6

^geo^ote ZiUon

IN GOD'S ACRE

THOU art alive, O grave. Thou with thy living grass, Blown of all winds that pass,— Thou with thy daisies white, Dewy at morn and night, — Thou on whose granite stone Greenly the moss has grown, — Thou on whose holy mound, Through the whole summer round, Sweetly the roses thrive, — Thou art alive ! O grave, thou art alive !

Answer me, then, O grave, — Yea, from thy living bloom Speak to me, O green tomb,- Say if the maid I know. Sepulchred here below,— Say if the sweet white face. Hidden in this dark place, — Say, if the hair of gold Buried amid thy mould, — Say, O thou grave, her bed,— Is my love dead ? O say, are the dead dead ?

ULTIMA VERITAS

IN the bitter waves of woe, Beaten and tossed about By the sullen winds that blow

From the desolate shores of doubt,

WASHINGTON GLADDEN 2,7

When the anchors that faith had cast

Are dragging in the gale, I am quietly holding fast

To the things that cannot fail :

I know that right is right ;

That it is not good to lie ; That love is better than spite,

And a neighbor than a spy ;

I know that passion needs

The leash of a sober mind ; I know that generous deeds

Some sure reward will find ;

That the rulers must obey ;

That the givers shall increase ; That Duty lights the way

For the beautiful feet of Peace ; —

In the darkest night of the year, When the stars have all gone out,

That courage is better than fear. That faith is truer than doubt;

And fierce though the fiends may fight, And long though the angels hide,

I know that Truth and Right Have the universe on their side ;

And that somewhere, beyond the stars, Is a Love that is better than fate ;

When the night unlocks her bars I shall see Him, and I will wait.

Z^oma^ (gaifc^ cEf^ricg

MIRACLES

SICK of myself and all that keeps the light Of the blue skies away from me and mine. I climb this ledge, and by this wind-swept pine Lingering, watch the commg of the night.

2i8 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

'Tis ever a new wonder to my sight :

Men look to God for some mysterious sign,

For other stars than those that nightly shine,

For some unnatural symbol of His might : —

Would'st see a miracle as grand as those

The Prophets wrought of old in Palestine ?

Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows

In yonder west ; the fair, frail palaces,

The fading alps and archipelagoes,

And great cloud-continents of sunset seas.

SLEEP

WHEN to soft sleep we give ourselves awa}', And in a dream as in a fair}'- bark Drift on and on through the enchanted dark To purple daybreak — little thought we pay To that sweet better world we know by day. We are clean quit of it, as is a lark So high in heaven no human eye can mark The thin swift pinion cleaving through the gra}'. Till we awake ill fate can do no ill, The resting heart shall not take up again The heavy load that yet must make it bleea ; For this brief space the loud world's voice is still, No faintest echo of it brings us pain. How will it be when we shall sleep indeed ?

KNOWLEDGE

KNOWLEDGE— who hath it .? Nay, not thou, Pale student, pondering thy futile lore ! A little space it shall be thine, as now 'Tis his whose funeral passes at thy door : Last night a clown that scarcely knew to spell- Now he knows all. O wondrous miracle !

219

A SONG OF EASTER

SING, children, sing! And the hly censers swing ; Sing that life and joy are waking and that Death no

more is king. Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly brightening spring ;

Sing, little children, sing !

Sing, children, sing ! Winter wild has taken wing. Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes

ring ! Along the eaves the icicles no longer glittering cling; And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to

the sun, And in the meadows softly the brooks begin to run ; And the golden catkins swing In the warm airs of the spring ;

Sing, little children, sing !

Sing, children, sing ! The lilies white you bring

In the joyous Easter morning for hope are blossoming; And as the earth her shroud of snow from oft" her breast

doth fling, So may we cast our fetters off in God's eternal spring. So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain, So may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn again. Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling

grace, Without a shade of doubt or fear into the Future's face ! Sing, sing in happy chorus, with joyful voices tell That death is life, and God is good, and all things shall

be well ; That bitter days shall cease In warmth and light and peace, — • That winter yields to spring, —

Sing, little children, sing !

CELIA THAXTER

THE SUNRISE NEVER FAILED US YET

UPON the sadness of the sea The sunset broods regretfully; From the far lonely spaces, slow Withdraws the wistful afterglow.

So out of life the splendor dies ; So darken all the happy skies ; So gathers twilight, cold and stern ; But overhead the planets burn ;

And up the East another day Shall chase the bitter dark away ; What though our eyes with tears be wet ! The sunrise never failed us yet.

The blush of dawn may yet restore Our light and hope and joy once more : Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget That sunrise never failed us yet !

THE SANDPIPER

ACROSS the narrow beach we flit, l\ One httle sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered drift-wood bleached and dr}- The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,^ One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white light-houses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,^ One little sandpiper and I.

CELIA THAXTFR

I watch him as he skims along

Uttering his sweet and mournful cr3\

He starts not at my fitful song,

Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong;

He scans me with a fearless e3^e.

Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,

The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? M}^ driftwood fire will burn so bright ! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky : For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I.

(Wimam (Winter

THE ANGEL DEATH

COME with a smile, when come thou must, Evangel of the world to be. And touch and glorify this dust, —

This shuddering dust, that now is me — And from this prison set me free !

Long in those awful eyes I quail, That gaze across the grim profound :

Upon that sea there is no sail. Nor any fight nor any sound From the far shore that girds it round :

Only — two still and steady rays

That those twin orbs of doom o'ertop ;

Only — a quiet, patient gaze

That drinks my being, drop by drop. And bids the pulse of nature stop.

WILLIAM WINTER

Come with a smile, auspicious friend, To usher in the eternal day !

Of these weak terrors make an end, And charm the paltry chains away That bind me to this timorous clay !

And let me know my soul akin

To sunrise, and the winds of morn,

And every grandeur that has been

Since this all-glorious world was born,— Nor longer droop in my own scorn.

Come, when the way grows dark and chill !

Come, when the baffled mind is weak, And in the heart that voice is still,

Which used in happier days to speak.

Or only whispers, sadly meek.

Come with a smile that dims the sun ! . With pitying heart and gentle hand !

And waft me, from my vigil done,

To peace, that waits on thy command. In some mysterious better land.

EGERIA

THE star I worship shines alone. In native grandeur set apart ; Its light, its beauty, all my own, And imaged only in my heart.

The flower I love lifts not its face For other eyes than mine to see ;

And, having lost that sacred grace,

'Twould have no other charm for me.

The hopes I bear, the joys I feel. Are silent, secret, and serene ;

Pure is the shrine at which I kneel, And purity herself my queen.

I would not have an impious gaze Profane the altar where are laid

My hopes of nobler, grander days.

By heaven inspired, by earth betrayed.

WILLIAM WINTER

I would not have the noontide sky

Pour down its bold, obtrusive light

Where all the springs of feeling lie, Deep in the soul's celestial night.

Far from the weary strife and noise, The tumult of the great to-day,

I guard my own congenial joj^s,

And keep my own sequestered way.

For all that world is cursed with care ;

Has nothing holy, nothing dear, No light, no music anywhere, —

It will not see, it will not hear.

But Thou, Sweet Spirit, viewless Power, Whom I have loved and trusted long, —

In pleasure's day, in sorrow's hour, — Muse of my life and of my song ;

Breathe softly. Thou, with peaceful voice, In my soul's temple, vast and dim !

In Thy own perfect joy rejoice.

With morning and with evening hymn !

And though my hopes around me fall Like rain-drops in a boundless sea,

I will not think I lose them all

While yet I keep my trust in Thee !

TRUST

BUILD a little fence of trust Around to-day ; Fill the space with loving work,

And therein stay; Look not through the sheltering bars

Upon to-morrow ; God will help thee bear what comes Of joy or sorrow.

224

(VOmam <S)tan Igoweffe

A THANKSGIVING

LORD, for the erring thought Not into evil wrought ; Lord, for the wicked will Betrayed and baffled still ; For the heart from itself kept, Our thanksgiving accept.

For ignorant hopes that were Broken to our blind prayer ; For pain, death, sorrow, sent Unto our chastisement ; For all loss of seeming good, Quicken our gratitude !

CALVARY

IF He could doubt on His triumphant cross, How much more I, in the defeat and loss Of seeing all my selfish dreams fulfilled. Of having lived the very life I willed, Of being all that I desired to be? My God, my God ! Why hast Thou forsaken me

WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT?

IF I lay waste, and wither up with doubt The blessed fields of heaven where once my faith Possessed itself serenely safe from death ; If I deny the things past finding out ; Or if I orphan my own soul of One That seemed a Father, and make void the place Within me where He dwelt in power and grace, What do I gain b}^ that I have undone ?

A^

THE TWO SHIPS S I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,

Looking over the ultimate sea ; In the gloom of the mountain a ship hes at rest,

And one sails away from the lea : One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching tract,

With pennant and sheet flowing free ; One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,—

The ship that is waiting for me !

But lo ! in the distance the clouds break away.

The Gate's glowing portals I see ; * And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay

The song of the sailors in glee. So I think of the luminous footprints that bore

The comfort o'er dark Galilee, And wait for the signal to go to the shore,

To the ship that is waiting for me.

THE ANGEL US

HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868 *

BELLS of the Past, whose long- forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With color of romance :

I hear your call, and see the sun descending

On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the Mission voices blending

Girdle the heathen land.

Within the circle of your incantation

No blight nor mildew falls ; Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition

Passes those airy walls.

* See note. Q

226 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding,

I touch the farther Past, — I see the dying glow of Spanish glory,

The sunset dream, and last,

Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers,

The white Presidio ; The swart commander in his leathern jerkin,

The priest in stole of snow.

Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting

Above the setting sun ; And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting

The freighted galleon.

O solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses

Recall the faith of old,— O tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music

The spiritual fold !

Your voices break and falter in the darkness, —

Break, falter, and are still ; And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending.

The sun sinks from the hill !

Jo^n Qgutrtroug^e

WAITING

SERENE, I fold my hands and wait. Nor care for wind or tide or sea ; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate. For, lo ! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face.

JOHN BURROUGHS 227

Asleep, awake, by night or day,

The friends I seek are seeking me ;

No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone ?

I wait with joy the coming years ; My heart shall reap where it has sown.

And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own, and draw The brook that springs in yonder height,

So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky :

The tidal wave unto the sea ; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,

Can keep my own away from me.

THE INSPIRATION OF THE SPIRIT

MYSTERIOUS Presence, source of all,— The world without, the soul within, — Fountain of life, O hear our call. And pour Thy living waters in.

Thou breathest in the rushing wind, Thy Spirit stirs in leaf and flower ;

Nor wilt Thou from the willing mind Withhold Thy light, and love, and power.

Thy hand unseen to accents clear Awoke the psalmist's trembling lyre.

And touched the lips of holy seer

With flame from Thine own altar fire.

That touch divine still. Lord, impart, Still give the prophet's burning word ;

And, vocal in each waiting heart.

Let living psalms of praise be heard.

Q2

PRAYERS FOR THE DEAD

NAY ! I will pray for them until I go To their far realm beyond the strait of death ! For, past the deeps and all the winds that blow, Somewhere within God's silences I know

My yearning heart, my prayers with sobbing breath, Will find and bring them gladness ! Drear and slow Would dawn my days, were they not followed so With perfect love that never varieth !

Does the fond wife, when mists hide wave and lea,

Forget her fisher's safety to implore, Till the lost bark that holds her joy in fee,

Blithe, through the billows, comes again to shore ? — Our vanished ones but sail a vaster sea,

And there, as here, God listens evermore.

THE PERFECT DAY

THE blast has swept the clouds away, The gloom, the mist, the rain ; Serene and blue is all the sk}^, Save for a white cloud floating high, A lone, celestial argosy

That dares the azure main ; And, light as wafts of Eden blow. The zephyrs wander to and fro.

What do I care that yester-night

The wind was loud and chill ? Now earth is lapt in sunny calm ; The woods, the fields, exhale their balm And breeze and brook and bird a psalm

Sing sweet, by vale and hill, — What do I care that skies were cold } To-day all heaven is flushed with gold.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR

O when the blast of death has blown

The clouds of time away, So may the shadows of our years— The gloom of doubts and grief and fears And dark regrets and bitter tears- Fade in God's perfect day ! And seem as slight and brief and vain As yester-evening's mist and rain.

^env^ «llme0 (gfoo^

PRO MORTUIS

FOR the dead and for the dying; For the dead that once were living, And the living that are dying, Pray I to the All- Forgiving;

For the dead who yester journeyed ;

For the living who, to-morrow, Through the Valley of the Shadow,

Must all bear the world's great sorrow;

For the immortal, who, in silence. Have already crossed the portal ;

For the mortal, who, in silence. Soon shall follow the immortal.

Keep Thine arms round all, O Father! — Round lamenting and lamented ;

Round the living and repenting,

Round the dead who have repented.

Keep Thine arms round all, O Father !

That are left or that are taken ; For they all are needy, whether

The forsaking or forsaken.

229

230

(t(lav^ (UUptB ©o^^e

THE TWO MYSTERIES*

WE know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still ; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale

and chill; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call

and call, The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart- pain, —

This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again.

We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go ;

Nor why we're left to wonder still ; nor why v/e do not know.

But this we know : our loved and dead, if they should

come this da}^ — Should come and ask us, 'What is life?' not one of us

could say. Life is a m3'stery as deep as ever death can be; Yet, oh, how sweet it is to us, this life we live and see I

Then might they say, — these vanished ones,— and blessed

is the thought ! — ' So death is sweet to us, beloved, though we may tell

you naught ; We ma}^ not tell it to the quick, — this mystery of death, — Ye may not tell us, if ye would, the m3^stery of breath.'

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge

or intent, So those who enter death must go as little children sent. Nothing is known, but I believe that God is overhead ; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.

* See note.

231

IN GALILEE

THE Master walked in Galilee, Across the hills and by the sea, And in whatever place He trod, He felt the passion of a God.

The twelve who deemed Him King of men, Longed for the conquering hour, when The peasant's robe without a seam Should be the purple of their dream.

Yet daily from His lips of love Fell words their thoughts as far above As wisdom's utmost treasure, piled Upon the stammering of a child.

Like frost on flower, like blight on bloom. His speech to them of cross and tomb ; Nor could their grieving spirits see One gleam of hope in Gahlee.

What booted it that He should rise. Were death to hide Him from their eyes ? What meant the promised throne divine Were earth to be an empty shrine?

Low drooped the skies above the land. Too dull the Lord to understand. Alas ! as slow of heart are we, Abiding oft in Galilee.

t^atUtt fie^e (g»ate0 (Boge

SATISFIED

LIFE is unutterably dear, God makes to-day so fair; Though heaven is better,— being here I long not to be there.

232 CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES ROGE

The weights of life are pressing still, Not one of them may fail ;

Yet such strong joys my spirit fill, That I can bear them all.

Though Care and Grief are at my side, There would I let them stay,

And still be ever satisfied With beautiful To-day !

EVIL THOUGHT

A FORM not always dark, but ever dread, That sometimes haunts the holiest of all, — ■ God's audience-room, the chamber of the dead, He ventures here, to woo or to appal !'

When the soUx sits with every portal wide, Joyful to drink the air and light of God,

This dark one rushes through with rapid stride, Leaving the print of evil where he trod.

Sometimes he enters like a thief at night ;

And breaking in upon the stillest hour Startles the soul to tremble with affright,

Lest she be pinioned by so foul a power.

Again we see his shadow, feel his tread,

And just escape that strange and captive touch ;

Perhaps by some transfixing wonder led, We look till drawn within his very clutch.

O valorous souls ! so strong to meet the foe, O timid souls ! yet brave in flight of wing.

Secure and happy ones who seldom know The agony this visitant can bring, —

Have mercy on your brothers housed so ill, Too weak or blinded any force to wield ;

Judging their deeds, this fiend remember still : Christ pity those who cannot use His shield !

233

3o6n (5^6ite eealwicR

A PRAYER FOR UNITY

ETERNAL Ruler of the ceaseless round Of circling planets singing on their way ; Guide of the nations from the night profound

Into the glory of the perfect day ; Rule in our hearts that we may ever be Guided, and strengthened, and upheld by Thee,

We are of Thee, the children of Thy love. The brothers of Thy well-beloved Son ;

Descend, O Holy Spirit ! hke a dove.

Into our hearts, that we may be as one,—

As one with Thee, to whom we ever tend ;

As one with Him, our Brother, and our Friend.

We would be one in hatred of all wrong, One in our love of all things sweet and fair.

One with the joy that breaketh into song. One with the grief that trembles into prayer,

One in the power that makes Thy children free,

To follow Truth, and thus to follow Thee.

Oh ! clothe us with Thy heavenly armor. Lord,— Thy trusty shield. Thy sword of love divine.

Our inspiration be Thy constant word ; We ask no victories that are not Thine.

Give or withhold, let pain or pleasure be.

Enough to know that we are serving Thee.

AULD LANG SYNE

IT singeth low in every heart. We hear it each and all,— A song of those who answer not,

However we may call ; They throng the silence of the breast.

We see them as of yore, — The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet, Who walk with us no more.

234 JOHN WHITE CHADWICK

'Tis hard to take the burden up,

When these have laid it down ; The}^ brightened all the joy of life,

They softened every frown ; But, oh ! 'tis good to think of them

When we are troubled sore ! Thanks be to God that such have been,

Though they are here no more.

More home-like seems the vast unknown.

Since they have entered there ; To follow them were not so hard,

Wherever they may fare ; They cannot be where God is not,

On any sea or shore; Whate'er betides, Thy love abides,

Our God, for evermore.

IN JUNE

I show you a mystery.

O FRIEND, your face I cannot see, Your voice I cannot hear. But for us both breaks at our feet

The flood-tide of the year ; The summer-tide all beautiful

With fragrance, and with song Sung by the happy-hearted birds To cheer the months along.

And so the mystery I show

Is this, all simple sweet : Because God's summer-tide so breaks

At yours and at my feet, We're not so very far apart

As it at first would seem ; We're near each other m the Lord;

The miles are all a dream.

235

(JOtfftam ^Unnirx^ ^anmtt

CONSIDER THE LILIES, HOW THEY GROW

HE hides within the lily A strong and tender care, That wins the earth-born atoms

To glory of the air ; He weaves the shining garments

Unceasingly and still, Along the quiet waters, In niches of the hill.

We linger at the vigil

With Him who bent the knee To watch the old-time lilies

In distant Galilee ; And still the worship deepens

And quickens into new, As brightening down the ages

God's secret thrilleth through.

O Toiler of the lily,

Thy touch is in the Man ! No leaf that dawns to petal

But hints the angel-plan. The flower-horizons open !

The blossom vaster shows! We hear Thy wide worlds echo, —

See how the lily grows.

Shy yearnings of the savage,

Unfolding thought by thought, To holy lives are lifted,

To visions fair are wrought; The races rise and cluster,

And evils fade and fall. Till chaos blooms to beauty,

Thy purpose crowning all !

136 WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT

THE SECRET PLACE OF THE MOST HIGH

THE Lord is in His Holy Place In all things near and far! Shekinah of the snowflake, He,

And Glory of the star, And Secret of the April land

That stirs the field to flowers, Whose little tabernacles rise

To hold Him through the hours.

He hides Himself within the love

Of those whom we love best ; The smiles and tones that make our homes

Are shrines by Him possessed ; He tents within the lonely heart,

And shepherds every thought; We find Him not by seeking lar,^ '

We lose Him not, unsought.

Our art may build its Holy Place,

Our feet on Sinai stand, But Holiest of Holies knows

No tread, no touch of hand ; The listening soul makes Sinai still

Wherever we may be, And in the vow, 'Thy will be done!'

Lies all Gethsemane,

IN LITTLES

A LITTLE House of Life, With many noises rife. Noises of joy and crime ; A little gate of birth. Through which I slipped to Earth And found myself in Time.

And there, not far before, Another little door,

One day to swing so free ! None pauses there to knock. No other hand tries lock, —

It knows, and waits for me.

WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT 037

From out what Silent Land I came, on Earth to stand

And learn life's little art, Is not in me to say : I know I did not stray,—

Was sent; to come, my part.

And down what Silent Shore Beyond yon little door

I pass, I cannot tell ; I know I shall not stray, Nor ever lose the way, — •

Am sent: and all is well.

WHERE DID IT GO?

WHERE did yesterday's sunset go, When it faded down the hills so slow, And the gold grew dim, and the purple light Like an army with banners passed from sight ? Will its flush go into the golden-rod, Its thrill to the purple aster's nod, Its crimson fleck the maple-bough, And the Autumn-glory begin from now ?

Deeper than flower-fields sank the glow Of the silent pageant passing slow.

It flushed all night in many a dream,

It thrilled in the folding hush of prayer.

It glided into a poet's song.

It is setting still in a picture rare;

It changed by the miracle none can see

To the shifting lights of a symphony;

And in resurrections of faith and hope

The glory died on the shining slope.

For it left its light on the hills and seas That rim a thousand memories.

238 WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT

THE HIGHWAY

iriiatever road I take joins the highway that leads to Thee.

WHEN the night is still and far, Watcher from the shadowed deeps ! When the morning breaks its bar,

Life that shines and wakes and leaps ! When old Bible-verses glow,

Starring all the deep of thought, Till it fills with quiet dawn

From the peace our years have brought, — Sun within both skies, we see How all lights lead back to Thee !

'Cross the field of daily work

Run the footpaths, leading— where ? Run they east or run they west,

One way all the workers fare. Every awful thing of earth, —

Sin and pain and battle-noise ; Every dear thing,— baby's birth.

Faces, flowers, or lovers' joys, — Is a wicket-gate, where we Join the great highway to Thee !

Restless, restless, speed we on, —

Whither in the vast unknown ? Not to you and not to me

Are the sealed orders shown : But the Hand that built the road,

And the Light that leads the feet, And this inward restlessness,

Are such invitation sweet. That where I no longer see, Highway still must lead to Thee !

IN TWOS

SOMEWHERE in the world there hide Garden-gates that no one sees, Save they come in happy twos, — Not in ones, nor yet in threes.

WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT 239

But from every maiden's door

Leads a pathway straight and true ;

Map and survey know it not,— He who finds, finds room for two !

Then they see the garden-gates !

Never skies so blue as theirs, Never flowers so many-sweet,

As for those who come in pairs.

Round and round the alleys wind :

Now a cradle bars the way, Now a little mound, behind,—

So the two go through the day.

When no nook in all the lanes

But has heard a song or sigh, Lo ! another garden-gate

Opens as the two go by.

In they wander, knowing not;

' Five and Twenty ! ' fills the air With a silvery echo low,

All about the startled pair.

Happier yet these garden-walks ;

Closer, heart to heart, they lean ; Stiller, softer, falls the light ;

Few the twos, and far between.

Till, at last, as on they pass

Down the paths so well they know,

Once again at hidden gates

Stand the two; they enter slow.

Golden Gates of ' Fifty Years,' May our two your latchet press !

Garden of the Sunset Land, Hold their dearest happiness !

Then a quiet walk again :

Then a wicket in the wall : Then one, stepping on alone,—

Then two at the Heart of All !

240 WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT

MARY'S MANGER-SONG

SLEEP, my little Jesus, On Thy bed of hay, While the shepherds homeward

Journey on the way ! Mother is Thy shepherd,

And will vigil keep ; O, did the angels wake Thee ? Sleep, my Jesus, sleep!

Sleep, my little Jesus,

While Thou art my own ! Ox and ass Thy neighbors, —

Shalt Thou have a throne ? Will they call me blessed ?

Shall I stand and weep ? O, be it far, Jehovah !

Sleep, my Jesus, sleep !

Sleep, my little Jesus,

Wonder-baby mine ! Well the singing angels

Greet Thee as divine. Through my heart, as heaven.

Low the echoes sweep Of Glory to Jehovah !

Sleep, my Jesus, sleep !

5t^et)ertcR j^uctan ^center FOUND

They that know Thy natne will put their trust in Thee.

ONAME, all other names above. What art Thou not to me. Now I have learned to trust Thy love And cast my care on Thee !

/

FREDERICK LUCIAN HOSMER 241

What is our being but a cr}',

A restless longing still, Which Thou alone canst satisfy,

Alone Thy fulness fill !

Thrice blessed be the holy souls

That lead the way to Thee, That burn upon the martyr-rolls

And lists of prophecy.

And sweet it is to tread the ground

O'er which their faith hath trod ; But sweeter far, when Thou art found,

The soul's own sense of God !

The thought of Thee all sorrow calms ;

Our anxious burdens fall ; His crosses turn to triumph-palms,

Who finds in God his all.

PASSING UNDERSTANDING

The peace of God that passeth all understanding. ANY things in life there are

M

Past our ' understanding ' far, And the humblest flower that grows Hides a secret no man knows.

All unread by outer sense Lies the soul's experience ; Mysteries around us rise, We, the deeper mysteries !

Who hath scales to weigh the love That from heart to heart doth move, The divine unrest within, Or the keen remorse for sin?

Who can map those tracks of light Where the fancy wings its flight. Or to outer vision trace Thought's mysterious dwelling-place ?

242 FREDERICK LUCIAN HOSMER

Who can sound the silent sea, Where, with sealed orders, we Voyage from birth's forgotten shore Toward the unknown land before?

While we may so little scan Of Thy vast creation's plan, Teach us, O our God, to be Humble in our walk with Thee !

May we trust, through ill and good. Thine unchanging Fatherhood, And our highest wisdom find In the reverent heart and mind !

Clearer vision shall be ours. Larger wisdom, ampler powers, , And the meaning yet appear Of what passes knowledge here.

ON THE MOUNT

NOT always on the mount may we Rapt in the heavenly vision be ; The shores of thought and feeling know The Spirit's tidal ebb and flow.

Lord, it is good abiding here — We cry, the heavenly Presence near ; The vision vanishes, our eyes Are lifted into vacant skies !

Yet hath one such exalted hour Upon the soul redeeming power. And in its strength through after days We travel our appointed ways ;

Till all the low^ly vale grows bright, Transfigured in remembered light, And in untiring souls we bear The freshness of the upper air.

FREDERICK LUCIAN HOSMER 243

The mount for vision, — but below The paths of daily duty go, And nobler life therein shall own The pattern on the mountain shown.

MY DEAD

T CANNOT think of them as dead 1 Who walk with me no more ; Along the path of life I tread They have but gone before.

The Father's house is mansioned fair

Beyond my vision dim ; All souls are His, and, here or there,

Are living unto Him.

And still their silent ministry

Within my heart hath place, As when on earth they walked with me,

And met me face to face.

Their lives are made forever mine ;

What they to me have been Hath left henceforth its seal and sign

Engraven deep within.

Mine are they by an ownership

Nor time nor death can free ; For God hath given to Love to keep

Its own eternally.

A PSALM OF TRUST

T LITTLE see, I little know, 1 Yet can I fear no ill ; He who hath guided me till now Will be my leader still.

No burden yet was on me laid

Of trouble or of care, But He my trembling step hath stayed,

And given me strength to bear.

344 FREDERICK LUCIAN HOSMER

I came not hither of my will

Or wisdom of mine own : That Higher Power upholds me still,

And still must bear me on.

I knew not of this wondrous earth, Nor dreamed what blessings lay

Beyond the gates of human birth To glad my future way.

And what beyond this life may be

As little I divine, — What love may wait to welcome me,

What fellowships be mine.

I know not what beyond ma}'- lie,

But look, in humble faith, Into a larger life to die,

And find new birth in death.

He will not leave my soul forlorn ;

I still must find Him true, Whose mercies have been new each morn

And every evening new.

Upon His providence I lean,

As lean in faith I must : The lesson of my life hath been

A heart of grateful trust.

And so my onward way I fare With happy heart and calm,

And mingle with my daily care The music of my psalm.

THE INDWELLING GOD O that I knew where I might find Him.

GO not, my soul, in search of Him, Thou wilt not find Him there,— Or in the depths of shadow dim, Or heights of upper air.

FREDERICK LUCIAN HOSMER 245

For not in far-oflf realms of space

The Spirit hath its throne ; In every heart it findeth place

And waiteth to be known.

Thought answereth alone to thought,

And Soul with soul hath kin ; The outward God he findeth not,

Who finds not God within.

And if the vision come to thee

Revealed by inward sign, Earth will be full of Deity

And with His glory shine !

Thou shalt not want for company,

Nor pitch thy tent alone ; The indwelling God will go with thee,

And show thee of His own.

O gift of gifts, O grace of grace

That God should condescend To make thy heart His dwelling-place.

And be thy daily Friend !

Then go not thou in search of Him,

But to thyself repair ; Wait thou within the silence dim,

And thou shalt find Him there.

THE MYSTERY OF GOD

OTHOU, in all Thy might so far. In all Thy love so near. Beyond the range of sun and star, And yet beside us here,—

What heart can comprehend Thy name, Or, searching, find Thee out,

Who art within, a quickening Flame, A Presence round about?

hS FREDERICK LUCIAN HOSMER

Yet though I know Thee but in part, I ask not, Lord, for more :

Enough for me to know Thou art, To love Thee and adore.

O sweeter than aught else besides,

The tender mystery That like a veil of shadow hides

The Light I may not see !

And dearer than all things I know

Is childlike faith to me, That makes the darkest way I go

An open path to Thee.

th^iotU (meffen ^acUv^

VESPERS

O SHADOW in a sultry land ! We gather to thy breast, Whose love, enfolding like the night

Brings quietude and rest. Glimpse of the fairer life to be, In foretaste here possessed !

From aimless wanderings we come. From drifting to and fro ;

The wave of being mingles deep Amid its ebb and flow ;

The grander sweep of tides serene Our spirits yearn to know.

That which the garish day had lost,

The twilight vigil brings, While softlier the vesper bell

Its silver cadence rings,— The sense of an immortal trust,

The brush of angel wings.

CHARLOTTE MELLEN PACKARD 247

Drop down behind the solemn hills,

O Day with golden skies ! Serene above its fading glow

Night, starry crowned, arise ! So beautiful may heaven be,

When life's last sunbeam dies.

LIVE WHILE YOU LIVE

A VIEW of present life is all thou hast! Oblivion's cloud, like a high-reaching wall, Conceals thy former being, and a pall Hangs o'er the gate through which thou'lt soon have

passed. Dost chafe, in these close bounds imprisoned fast ? Perhaps thy spirit's memory needs, withal, Such limits, lest vague dimness should befall Its records of a life-duration vast; And artfully thy sight may be confined While thou art dwelling on this earthly isle, That its exceeding beauty may the while Infuse itself within thy growing mind. And fit thee, in some future state sublime. Haply, to grasp a wider range of time.

KINSHIP

So light, yet sure, the bond that binds the ivorld.

I FOUND beside a meadow brooklet bright, Spring flowers whose tranquil beauty seemed to give Glad answers as to whence and why we live. With pleased delay I lingered while I might, Because I thought when they were out of sight, No more of joy from them I should receive.

248 GEORGE Mcknight

But now I know absence cannot bereave

Their loveliness of power to give delight ;

For still my soul with theirs glad converse holds,

Through sense more intimate and blessed than seeing

A bond of kindred that includes all being,

Our lives in conscious union now infolds :

And oh, to me it is enough of bliss

To know I am, and that such beauty is.

IN UNISON

MAY nevermore a selfish wish of mine Grow to a deed, unless a greater care For others' welfare in the incitement share. O Nature, let my purposes combine, Henceforth, in conscious unison with thine, — To spread abroad God's gladness, and declare In living form what is forever fair — Meekly to labor in thy great design, Oh, let my little life be given whole! If so, by action or by suffering, Joy to my fellow-creatures I may bring, Or, in the lowly likeness of my soul. To beautiful creation's countless store One form of beauty may be added more.

EUTHANASIA

SEEING our lives by Nature now are led In an appointed way so tenderly ; So often lured by Hope's expectancy ; So seldom driven by scourging pain and dread ; And though by destiny so limited Insuperably, our pleasant paths seem free : — May we not trust it ever thus shall be ? That when we come the lonely vale to tread, Leading away into the unknown night, Our Mother then, kindly persuasive still, Shall gently temper the reluctant will ? So, haply, we shall feel a strange delight, Even that dreary way to travel o'er, And the mysterious realm beyond explore.

249

LOVE'S OPPORTUNITY

EARLY they came, yet they were come too late; The tomb was empty ; in the misty dawn Angels sat watching, but the Lord was gone. Beyond earth's clouded day-break far was He, Beyond the need of their sad ministry; Regretful stood the three, with doubtful breast, Their gifts unneeded and in vain their quest.

The spices — were they wasted ? Legend saith That, flung abroad on April's gentle breath, They course the earth, and evermore again In Spring's sweet odors they come back to men. The tender thought ! Be sure He held it dear ; He came to them with words of highest cheer, And mighty joy expelled their hearts' brief fear.

Yet happier that morning— happier yet —

I count that other woman in her home.

Whose feet impatient all too soon had come,

Who ventured chill disfavor at the feast,

'Mid critics' murmur sought that lowliest Guest,

Broke her rare vase, its fragrant wealth outpoured.

And gave her gift aforehand to her Lord.

THE STAR AT DAWN

A STEALING glory, still, intent and sure, And one fair star left on the flushing sky ; (It is a time of birth, an opening door, A moment full of possibihty ; None knows how great a thing this day may see.)

'Twas night that lit that fair star, dark-browed night. And still it burns, paled but before the sun ;

Pure through the darkness beamed its steadfast light. When sunshine conquers shade, when night is gone, Its tender radiance to the day is won.

250 SOPHIE WINTHROP WEITZEL

So thou, dear grace of patience, in the soul

Dost keep brave vigil through the shadowed hour;

Joy comes,— the morning ! swift the mists unroll ; The full day dawns, thy faithful watch is o'er; Not that thy light is less, but heaven's' is more.

LAM^S AND LAW

MIGHTY man's will, and sweeps a world-wide arc : Great Nature's arm swings free in Titan curve ; Holding them both, with tense and tireless nerve, Eternal Love moves onward to its mark.

FROM ONE WHO WENT AWAY IN HASTE

SWEET friends, I could not speak before I went. We could not wait— the messenger and I ; Will you guess all— with love's clear vision bent

On that poor past, with eyes that search the sky? Some things 1 would have done, some words have said ;

Swift had my feet on those last errands run. Once more I would have said, 'I love you,' -plead

Once more forgiveness for the good undone. And do I hear a whisper, ' Ah, forgive,

Eorgive us any tenderness forgot ' ? Hush, dearest pleader, where to-day I live

Love's depth drowns all ; the things that were are not. Of all the wondrous tale anon we'll talk. And on some sunny height together walk.

(Tlotra (pevt^

A PRAYER

ANOINT my eyes that I may see l\ Through all this sad obscurity, This worldly mist that dims my sight. These crowding clouds that hide the light.

NORA PERRY 251

Full vision, as perhaps have they Who walk beyond the boundary wa}', 1 do not seek, I do not ask, But only this,— that through the mask,

Which centuries of soil and sin Have fashioned for us, I may win A clearer sight to show me where Truth walks with faith divine and fair.

QYlinot 3^^^*^*^ ^Ava^e

MYSTERY

OWHY are darkness and thick cloud Wrapped close for ever round the throne of God ? Why is our pathway still in mystery trod ? None answers, though we call aloud.

The seedlet of the rose.

While still beneath the ground, Think you it ever knows The mystery profound Of its own power of birth and bloom, Until it springs above its tomb ?

The caterpillar crawls

Its mean life in the dust. Or hangs upon the walls A dead aurelian crust ; Think you the larva ever knew Its gold-winged flight before it flew ?

When from the port of Spain

Columbus sailed away, And down the sinking main Moved toward the setting day, Could any words have made him see The new worlds that were yet to be?

252 MINOT JUDSON SAVAGE

The boy with laugh and play

Fills out his little plan, Still lisping, day by day, Of how he'll be a man ; But can you to his childish brain Make aught of coming manhood plain ?

Let heaven be just above us,

Let God be e'er so nigh. Yet howso'er He love us, And howe'er much we cry, There is no speech that can make clear The thing 'that doth not yet appear.'

'Tis not that God loves mystery. The things beyond us we can never -know, Until up to their lofty height we grow,

And finite grasps infinity.

James ^evBed QUorae

LABOR AND LIFE

HOW to labor and find it sweet : How to get the good red gold That veined hides in the granite fold

Under our feet— The good red gold that is bought and sold. Raiment to man, and house, and meat !

And how, while delving, to lift the eye To the far-off mountains of amethyst, The rounded hills, and the intertwist

Of waters that lie Calm in the valleys, or that white mist Sailing across a soundless sky.

253

THE DYING DAY

DAY is dying in the west ; Heaven is touching earth with rest Wait and worship while the night Sets her evening lamps alight Through all the sky.

Lord of life, beneath the dome Of the universe, Thy home. Gather us who seek Thy face To the fold of Thy embrace, For Thou art nigh.

While the deepening shadows fall, Heart of Love, enfolding all. Through the glory and the grace Of the stars that veil Thy face Our hearts ascend.

When, forever from our sight Pass the stars— the day— the night. Lord of angels, on our eyes Let eternal morning rise, And shadows end.

THE BREAD OF LIFE

BREAK Thou the bread of life, Dear Lord, to me; As Thou didst break the loaves

Beside the sea; Beyond the sacred page

I seek Thee, Lord ; My spirit pants for Thee, O living Word !

254 MARY ANNE LATHBURY

Bless Thou the truth, dear Lord,

To me— to me — As Thou didst bless the bread

By Galilee ; Then shall all bondage cease,

All fetters fall; And I shall find my peace,

My all-in-all.

A MORNING THOUGHT

WHAT if some morning, when the stars were paling, And the dawn whitened, and the East was clear, Strange peace and rest fell on me from the -presence Of a benignant Spirit standing near :

And I should tell him, as he stood beside me,

' This is our Earth — most friendly Earth, and fair ;

Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air :

' There is blest living here, loving and serving, And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear ;

But stay not Spirit ! Earth has one destroyer— His name is Death : flee, lest he find thee here ! '

And what if then, while the still morning brightened, And freshened in the elm the Summer's breath.

Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel. And take my hand and say, ' My name is Death.'

HOME

THERE lies a little city in the hills; White are its roofs, dim is each dwelHng's door. And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills.

There the pure mist, the pity of the sea. Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o'er And touches its still face most tenderly.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 255

Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting years, Lo ! where it lies, far from the clash and roar, With quiet distance blurred, as if thro' tears.

O heart, that prayest so for God to send

Some loving messenger to go before

And lead the way to where thy longings end,

Be sure, be very sure, that soon will come His kindest angel, and through that still door Into the Infinite love will lead thee home.

LIFE

FORENOON and afternoon and night, — Foren* And afternoon, and night, — Forenoon, and— what !

The empty song repeats itself. No more? Yea, that is Life : make this forenoon sublime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And Time is conquered, and th}'' crown is won.

THE FUTURE

WHAT may we take into the vast Forever? That marble door Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor,

No fame- wreathed crown we wore, No garnered lore.

What can we bear beyond the unknown portal ?

No gold, no gains Of all our toiling : in the life immortal

No hoarded wealth remains.

Nor gilds, nor stains.

Naked from out that far abyss behind us

We entered here : No word came with our coming, to remind us

What wondrous world was near,

No hope, no fear.

•56 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

Into the silent, starless Night before us,

Naked we glide : No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us,

No comrade at our side,

No chart, no guide.

Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow.

Our footsteps fare : The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow —

His love alone is there,

No curse, no care.

THE FOOLS PRAYER

THE royal feast was done ; the King Sought some new sport to banish care. And to his jester cried : ' Sir Fool,

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer !

The jester doffed his cap and bells. And stood the mocking court before ;

They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool,

His pleading voice arose : ' O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool !

' No pity. Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool ;

The rod must heal the sin : but Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool !

' 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay ;

'Tis by our follies that so long

We hold the earth from heaven away.

' These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end ;

These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Amonsr the heart-strings of a friend.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 257

' The ill-timed truth we might have kept — Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?

The word we had not sense to say — Who knows how grandly it had rung ?

' Our faults no tenderness should ask,

The chastening stripes must cleanse Lliem all :

But for our blunders—oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

' Earth bears no balsam for mistakes ;

Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will ; but Thou, O Lord,

Be merciful to me, a fool ! '

The room was hushed ; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool.

And walked apart, and murmured low, ' Be merciful to me, a fool ! '

OPPORTUNITY

THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: — There spread a cloud of dust along a plain ; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, ' Had I a sword of keener steel — That blue blade that the king's son bears,— but this Blunt thing ! '—he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout

Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down.

And saved a great cause that heroic day.

258

Joaquin (miffer

HOPE

WHAT song is well sung not of sorrow? What triumph well won without pain? What virtue shall be and not borrow Bright lustre from many a stain?

What birth has there been without travail ?

What battle well won without blood ? What good shall earth see without evil

Ingarner'd as chaff with the good ?

Lo ! the Cross set in rocks by the Roman, And nourish'd by blood of the Lamb,

And water'd by tears of the woman, ' Has flourish'd, has spread Hke a palm ;

Has spread in the frosts and far regions Of snows in the North, and South sands

Where never the tramp of his legions

Was heard, or reach'd forth his red hands.

Be thankful : the price and the payment,

The birth, the privations and scorn, The Cross, and the parting of raiment, Are finish'd. The star brought us morn.

THE LAST SUPPER

i>id when they had sung an hymn they went out into the Mount of Olives.

WHAT song sang the twelve with the Saviour When finish'd the sacrament wine ? Were they bow'd and subdued in behavior, Or bold, as made bold with a sign?

Were tne nairy breasts strong and defiant ?

Were the naked arms brawny and strong ? Were the bearded lips lifted reliant.

Thrust forth and full sturdy with song?

JOAQUIN MILLER 259

What sang they? What sweet song of Zion, With Christ in their midst hke a crown ?

While here sat Saint Peter, the lion ; And there like a lamb, with head down,

Sat Saint John, with his silken and raven Rich hair on his shoulders, and eyes

Lifting up to the faces unshaven Like a sensitive child's in surprise.

Was the song as strong fishermen swinging

Their nets full of hope to the sea ? Or low, like the ripple-wave singing

Sea-songs on their loved Galilee ?

Were they sad with foreshadow of sorrows, Like the birds that sing low when the breeze

Is tip-toe with a tale of to-morrow, — Of earthquakes and sinking of seas ?

Ah ! soft was their song as the waves are,

That fall in low musical moans ; And sad I should say as the winds are.

That blow by the white gravestones.

§i^ne^ Banter

4 BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER

INTO the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him, The little gray leaves were kind to Him, The thorn-tree had a mind to Him, When into the woods He came.

Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well-content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame, s 2

26o SIDNEY LANIER

When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew him last ; 'Twas on a tree they slew Him— last When out of the woods He came.

IN ABSENCE

LET no man say, He at his lady's feet Lays worship that to heaven alone belongs; Yea, sivings the incense that for God is meet

In flippant censers of light lover s songs. Who says it knows not God, nor love, nor thee

For love is large as is yon heavenly dome : In love's great blue, each passion is full free

To fly his favorite flight and build his home. Did e'er a lark with skyward-pointing beak

Stab by mischance a level-flying dove ? Wife-love flies level, his dear mate to seek :

God-love darts straight into the skies above. Crossing the windage of each other's wings But speeds them both upon their journeyings.

MY SPRINGS

IN the heart of the Hills of Life, I know Two springs that with unbroken flow Forever pour their lucent streams Into my soul's far Lake of Dreams.

Not larger than two eyes, they lie Beneath the many-changing sky. And mirror all of life and time,' — Serene and daintj" pantomime.

Shot through with lights of stars and dawns. And shadowed sweet by ferns and fawns, — Thus heaven and earth together vie Their shining depths to sanctify.

Always when the large Form of Love Is hid by storms that rage above, I gaze in my two springs and see Love in his very verity.

SIDNEY LANIER 261

Always when Faith with stifling stress Of grief hath died in bitterness, I gaze in my two springs and see A Faith that smiles immortally.

Always when Charity and Hope, In darkness bounden, feebly grope, I gaze in my two springs and see A Light that sets my captives free.

Always, when Art on perverse wing Flies where I cannot hear him sing, I gaze in my two springs and see A charm that brings him back to me.

When Labor faints, and Glory fails, And coy Reward in sighs exhales, I gaze in my two springs and see Attainment full and heavenly.

O Love, O Wife, thine eyes are they, — My springs from out whose shming gray Issue the sweet celestial streams That feed my life's bright Lake of Dreams.

Oval and large and passion-pure, And gray and wise and honor-sure; Soft as a dying violet-breath Yet calmly unafraid of death ;

Thronged, like two dove-cotes of gray doves. With wife's and mother's and poor-folks' loves, And home- loves and high glory-loves, And science loves and story-loves,

And loves for all that God and man In art or nature make or plan, And lady-loves for spidery lace And broideries and supple grace,

And diamonds and the whole sweet round Of littles that large life compound. And loves for God and God's bare truth, And loves for Magdalen and Ruth.

262 SIDNEY LANIER

Dear eyes, dear eyes and rare complete — Being heavenly-sweet and earthly-sweet, — I marvel that God made you mine, For when He frowns, 'tis then ye shine !

WEDDING HYMN

THOU God, whose high, eternal love Is the only blue sky of our life, Clear all the heaven that bends above The life-road of this man and wife.

May these two lives be but one note

In the world's strange-sounding harmony,

Whose sacred music e'er shall float Through every discord up to Thee-,

As when from separate stars two beams

Unite to form one tender ray : As when two sweet but shadowy dreams

Explain each other in the day :

So may these two dear hearts one light

Emit, and each interpret each. Let an angel come and dwell to-night

In this dear double-heart, and teach !

THE MARSHES OF GLYNN

AS the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, l\ Behold, I will build me a nest on the greatness of

God : I will fl}' in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies. In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh

and the skies : By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a- hold on the greatness of God : Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Gl3''nn.

263

QUa^ fioutee (gtfe^ gmt'fg

SOMETIME

SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have been learned, And sun and stars forevermore have set, The things which our weak judgments here have spurned,

The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us, out of life's dark night.

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue ; x\nd we shall see how all God's plans are right. And how what seems reproof was love most true.

And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh,

God's plans go on as best for you and me ; How, when we called, He heeded not our cry.

Because His wisdom to the end could see. And e'en as prudent parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now

Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good.

And if sometimes, commingled with life's wine,

We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink. Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine

Pours out this potion for our lips to drink; And if some friend we love is l3^ing low,

Where human kisses cannot reach his face. Oh, do not blame the loving Father so.

But wear your sorrow with obedient grace !

And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath

Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death

Conceals the fairest boon His love can send. If we could push afar the gates of hfe,

And stand within, and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife.

And for each mystery could find a key.

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart !

God's plans like lihes pure and white unfold ; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,

Time will reveal the cal3^xes of gold.

264 MAY LOUISE RILEY SMITH

And if, through patient toil, we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest,

When we shall clearly know and understand, I think that we will say, ' God knew the best ! '

C^avks QUuntoe ©tdtneon A MORNING MIRACLE

As Christ statids close to hath God and sin, So earth meets heaven where the skies begin ; But the air is so pure though faint and thin. It keeps the earthly out and the heavenly in.

THE river lifts its morning mist. An incense-oifering to the sun ; Through countless threads of amethyst

And gold and silver, finely spun, It trembles upward through the skies, As slowly as a soul might rise, Until it felt the magnet-power of Paradise. Tis of the earth, but out of it

Has been distilled each earthly trace ; The watchful skies alone transmit

The pure through their transparent space; The earthy back to the earth is given ; No longer a part of the river even, The heavenly alone ascendeth to heaven.

;^tranct0 ^owavb (pS)ifftam0

AN ANSWER

T QUESTIONED: Why is evil on the Earth? 1 A sage for answer struck a chord, and lo ! I found the harmony of little worth To teach my soul the truth it longed to know,

He struck again ; a saddened music, rife With wisdom, in my ear an answer poured :

Sin is the jarring semitone of life, — The needed minor in a perfect chord.

FRANCIS HOWARD WILLIAMS 265

LOVE CAME TO ME

LOVE came to me when I was young ; He brought me songs, he brought me flowers ; Love wooed me lightly, trees among, And dallied under scented bowers ; And loud he carolled : * Love is King ! ' For he was riotous as spring, And careless of the hours,— When I was young.

Love lingered near when I grew old ;

He brought me light from stars above ; And consolations manifold ;

He fluted to me like a dove ; And Love leaned out of Paradise, And gently kissed my faded eyes,

And whispered, ' God is Love,' — When I grew old.

THE SOWER

A SOWER went forth to sow; His eyes were dark with woe ; He crushed the flowers beneath his feet, Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet, That prayed for pity everywhere. He came to a field that was harried By iron, and to heaven laid bare; He shook the seed that he carried O'er that brown and bladeless place. He shook it, as God shakes the hail Over a doomed land. When lightnings interlace The sky and the earth, and his wand Of love is a thunder-flail.

Thus did that Sower sow; His seed was human blood. And tears of women and men.

266 RICHARD WATSON GILDER

And I, who near him stood, Said : ' When the crop comes, then There will be sobbing and sighing, Weeping and wailing and crying, Flame, and ashes, and woe.'

II It was an autumn day Wlien next I went that wa}'. And what, think 3'ou, did I see ? What was it that I heard. What music was in the air? The song of a sweet- voiced bird ? Nay — but the songs of many, Thrilled through with praise and praj^er. Of all those voices not any Were sad of memory ; But a sea of sunlight flowed, A golden harvest glowed. And I said : ' Thou only art wise, God of the earth and skies ! And I praise Thee, again and again, For the Sower whose name is Pain.'

' THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN

THERE is nothing new under the sun ; There is no new hope or despair ; The agony just begun

Is as old as the earth and the air. M}^ secret soul of bhss

Is one with the singing stars,

And the ancient mountains miss

No hurt that my being mars.

I know as I know my life,

I know as I know my pain, That there is no lonely strife.

That he is mad who would gain A separate balm for his woe,

A single pity and cover ; The one great God I know

Hears the same prayer over and over.

RICHARD WATSON GILDER 267

I know it, because at the portal

Of heaven I bowed and cried, And I said : ' Was ever a mortal

Thus crowned and crucified ! My praise thou hast made my blame ;

My best thou hast made my worst ; M}'- good thou hast turned to shame ;

My drink is a flaming thirst.*

But scarce my prayer was said

Ere from that place I turned ; 1 trembled, I hung my head,

My cheek, shame-smitten, burned ; For there where I bowed down

In my boastful agony, I thought of Thy cross and crown —

O Christ, I remembered Thee.

AFTER-SONG

THROUGH love to light ! Oh, wonderful the way That leads from darkness to the perfect da}'' ! From darkness and from sorrow of the night To morning that comes singing o'er the sea. Through love to light ! through light, O God, to Thee, Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light !

MORNING AND NIGHT

THE mountain that the morn doth kiss Glad greets its shining neighbor ; Lord ! heed the homage of our bliss, The incense of our labor.

Now the long shadows eastward creep,

The golden sun is setting ; Take, Lord ! the worship of our sleep,

The praise of our forgetting.

268 RICHARD WATSON GILDER

TEMPTATION

NOT alone in pain and gloom Does the abhorred tempter come; Not in light alone and pleasure Proffers he the poisoned measure. When the soul doth rise Nearest to its native skies, There the exalted spirit finds, Borne upon the heavenly winds, Satan, in an angel's guise. With voice divine and innocent eyes.

^EACH MOMENT HOLY IS'

EACH moment holy is, for out from God Each moment flashes forth a human soul. Holy each moment is, for back to Him Some wandering soul each moment home returns.

FATHER AND CHILD

BENEATH the deep and solemn midnight sky, At this last verge and boundary of time I stand, and listen to the starry chime

That sounds to the inward ear, and will not die.

Now do the thoughts that daily hidden lie Arise, and live in a celestial clime, — Unutterable thoughts, most high, sublime.

Crossed by one dread that frights mortality.

Thus, as I muse, I hear my little child Sob in its sleep within the cottage near — My own dear child ! Gone is that mortal doubt !

The Power that drew our lives forth from the wild Our Father is ; we shall to Him be dear, Nor from His universe be blotted out !

RICHARD WATSON GILDER 269

HOLY LAND

THIS is the earth He walked on : not alone That Asian country keeps the sacred stain ;

Ah, not alone the far Judsean plain, Mountain and river! Lo, the sun that shone On Him, shines now on us ; when day is gone

The moon of Galilee comes forth again,

And lights our path as His; an endless chain Of years and sorrows makes the round world one. The air we breathe, He breathed, — the very air

That took the mold and music of His high And God-like speech. Since then shall mortal dare

With base thought front the ever sacred sky— Soil with foul deed the ground whereon He laid, In holy death, His pale immortal head !

THE SONG OF A HEATHEN

SOJOURNING IN GALILEE A. D. 32

IF Jesus Christ is a man, — And only a man, — I say That of all mankind I cleave to Him, And to Him will I cleave alway.

If Jesus Christ is a God, —

And the only God, — I swear I will follow Him through heaven and hell,

The earth, the sea, and the air !

A MADONNA OF FRA LIPPO LIPPI

NO heavenly maid we here behold. Though round her brow a ring of gold This baby, solemn- eyed and sweet, Is human all from head to feet.

Together close her palms are prest In worship of that godly guest ; But glad her heart and unafraid. While on her neck His hand is laid.

RICHARD WATSON GILDER

Two children, happy, laughing, gay,

Uphold the little child in play ;

Not flying angels these, what though

Four wings from their four shoulders gi'ow.

Fra Lippo, we have learned from thee

A lesson of humanity ;

To every mother's heart forlorn,

In every house the Christ is born.

3o6n (gani^Uv ZM

THE PASCHAL MOON

THY face is whitened with remembered woe ; For thou alone, pale satellite, didst see, Amid the shadows of Gethsemane, The mingled cup of sacrifice o'erflow ; Nor hadst the power of utterance to show The wasting wound of silent sympath}^, Till sudden tides, obedient to thee, Sobbed, desolate in weltering anguish, low.

The holy night returneth year by year ;

And while the mystic vapors from thy rim Distil the dews, as from the Victim there

The red drops trickled in the tw^ilight dim, The ocean's changeless threnody we hear,

And gaze upon thee as thou didst on Him.

EASTER

LIKE a meteor, large and bright, Fell a golden seed of light On the field of Christmas night When the Babe was born ; Then 'twas sepulchred in gloom Till above His holy tomb Flashed its everlasting bloom — Flower of Easter morn.

JOHN BANISTER TABB 271

THE PLAYMATES

WHO are thy playmates, boy ? ' My favorite is Joy, Who brings with him his sister Peace, to stay The Hvelong day. I love them both ; but he Is most to me.'

And where thy playmates now,

O man of sober brow ?

' Alas ! dear Joy, the merriest, is dead.

But I have wed

Peace; and our babe, a boy,

New-born, is Joy.'

NEKROS

LO ! all thy glory gone ! God's masterpiece undone ! The last created and the first to fall ; The noblest, frailest, godliest of all.

Death seems the conqueror now.

And yet his victor thou :

The fatal shaft, its venom quench'd in thee,

A mortal raised to immortality.

Child of the humble sod. Wed with the breath of God, Descend ! for with the lowest thou nmst lie- Arise ! thou hast inherited the sky.

ALTER EGO

THOU art to me as is the sea Unto the shell ; A life whereof I breathe, a love Wherein I dwell.

272 JOHN BANISTER TABB

THE SUNBEAM

A LADDER from the Land of Light, I rest upon the sod, Whence dewy angels of the Night Chmb back aafain to God.

CONFIDED

ANOTHER lamb, O Lamb of God, behold, xV Within this quiet fold, Among Thy Father's sheep I lay to sleep !

A heart that never for a night did rest Beyond its mother's breast. Lord, keep it close to Thee, Lest waking it should bleat and pine .for me !

THE INCARNATION

SAVE through the flesh Thou wouldst not come to me— The flesh, wherein Thy strength my weakness found, A weight to bow Thy Godhead to the ground, And lift to heaven a lost humanity.

TO THE CHRIST

THOU hast on earth a Trinity,— Thj^self, my fellow-man, and me ; When one with him, then one with Thee ; Nor, save together. Thine are we.

EARTH'S TRIBUTE

FIRST the grain, and then the blade — The one destroyed, the other made ; Then stalk and blossom, and again The gold of newly minted grain.

So Life, by Death the reaper cast To earth, again shall rise at last ; For 'tis the service of the sod To render God the things of God.

JOHN BANISTER TABB 273

RESURRECTION

ALL that springeth from the sod l\. Tendeth upwards unto God ; All that Cometh from the skies Urging it anon to rise.

Winter's life-delaying breath Leaveneth the lump of death, Till the frailest fettered bloom Moves the earth, and bursts the tomb.

Welcome, then, Time's threshing-pain And the furrows where each grain, Like a Samson, blossom-shorn. Waits the resurrection morn.

6ft^aBe(g ^i\k(Kxi QJgefpe

FEELING THE WAY

FEELING the way,— and all the way uphill ; But on the open summit, calm and still, The feet of Christ are planted ; and they stand In view of all the quiet land.

Feeling the way, — and though the way is dark. The eyelids of the morning yet shall mark Against the East the shining of His face. At peace upon the lighted place.

Feeling the way, — and if the way is cold, What matter ? — since upon the fields of gold His breath is melting; and the warm winds sing While rocking summer days for Him.

274 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS

LEARNING TO PRAY

MY inmost soul, O Lord, to Thee Leans like a growing flower Unto the light. I do not know

The day nor blessed hour When that deep-rooted, daring growth

We call the heart's desire Shall burst and blossom to a prayer

Within the sacred fire Of Thy great patience ; grow so pure,

So still, so sweet a thing As perfect prayer must surely be.

And yet my heart will sing Because Thou seem'st sometimes so near,

Close-present God ! to me. It seems I could not have a wnsh

That was not shared by Thee ; It seems I cannot be afraid

To speak my longings out, So tenderly Thiy gathering love

Enfolds me round about ; It seems as if my heart would break,

If, living on the light, I should not lift to Thee at last

A bud of flawless white. And yet, O helpless heart ! how sweet

To grow, and bud, and say : The flower, however marred or wan,

Shall not be cast away.

HE THAT BELIEVETH SHALL NOT MAKE HASTE

'HE aloes grow upon the sand, The aloes thirst with parching heat ;

Year after year they wait and stand, Lonely and calm, and front the beat Of desert winds, and still a sweet

And subtle voice thrills all their veins :

T'

SARAH CHAUNCEY WOOLSEY 275

' Great patience wins ; it still remains, After a century of pains,

For you to bloom and be complete.

' I grow upon a thorny waste,

Hot noontide lies on all the way. And with its scorching breath makes haste,

Each freshening dawn, to burn and slay ;

Yet patiently I bide and stay, Knowing the secret of my fate. The hour of bloom, dear Lord, I wait, Come when it will, or soon or late,

A hundred years is but a day.'

LABORARE EST ORARE

HOW infinite and sweet, Thou everywhere And all-abounding Love, Thy service is ! Thou liest an ocean round my world of care, My petty every-day ; and fresh and fair

Pour Thy strong tides through all my crevices, Until the silence ripples into prayer.

That Thy full glory may abound, increase. And so Thy likeness shall be formed in me,

I pray ; the answer is not rest or peace,

But charges, duties, wants, anxieties, Till there seems room for everything but Thee,

And never time for anything but these.

And I should fear, but lo ! amid the press, The whirl and hum and pressure of my day,

I hear Thy garment s sweep. Thy seamless dress,

And close beside my work and weariness Discern Thy gracious form, not far away,

But very near, O Lord, to help and bless.

The busy fingers fly, the eyes may see Only the glancing needle which they hold,

But all my life is blossoming inwardly,

And every breath is like a htany. While through each labor, like a thread of gold,

Is woven the sweet consciousness of Thee ! T 2

276

6^gat ^awutt

MY LITTLE ONE

GOD bless my little one ! how fair The mellow lamplight gilds his hair, Loose on the cradle-pillow there, God bless my little one !

God love my little one ! as clear, Cool sunshine holds the first green spear On April meadows, hold him dear. God love my little one !

When these fond lips are mute, and when I slumber, not to wake again, God bless, God guard, God love him then, My Httle one ! Amen.

%tnv2 dElu^ueiin ^utQ

PSYCHE

AT evening in the port she lay, jl\ a lifeless block with canvas furled ; But silently at peep of day Spread her white wings and skimmed away, And, rosy in the dawn's first ray.

Sank down behind the rounding world.

So hast thou vanished from our side,

Dear bark, that from some far bright strand,

Anchored awhile on life's dull tide ;

Then, lifting spirit-pinions wide.

In heaven's own orient glorified, Steered outward seeking Holy Land.

277

THE HAPPIEST HEART

WHO drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were done,

And kept the humble way. The rust will find the sword of fame,

The dust will hide the crown; Ay, none shall nail so high his name

'Time will not tear it down. The happiest heart that ever beat

Was in some quiet breast That found the common daylight sweet.

And left to heaven the rest.

TEARS

NOT in the time of pleasure Hope doth set her bow ; But in the sky of sorrow, Over the vale of woe.

Through gloom and shadow look we

On beyond the years : The soul would have no rainbow

Had the eyes no tears.

FAITH

NO help in all the stranger-land, O fainting heart, O failing hand ? There 's a morning and a noon. And the evening cometh soon.

The way is endless, friendless? No; God sitteth high to see below; There's a morning and a noon, And the evening cometh soon. Look yonder on the purpling west : Ere long the glory and the rest. There's a morning and a noon, And the evening cometh soon.

278

HOPE

HER languid pulses thrill with sudden hope, That will not be forgot nor cast aside, And life in statelier vistas seems to ope,

inimitably lofty, long, and wide. What doth she know? She is subdued and mild. Quiet and docile 'as a weaned child.'

If grief came in such unimagined wise,

How may joy dawn ? In what undreamed-of hour May the light break with splendor of surprise,

Disclosing all the mercy and the power? — A baseless hope, yet vivid, keen, and bri-ght, As the wild lightning in the starless night.

She knows not whence it came, nor where it passed, But it revealed, in one brief flash of flame,

A heaven so high, a world so rich and vast, That, full of meek contrition and mute shame,

In patient silence hopefully withdrawn.

She bows her head, and bides the certain dawn.

PATIENCE

THE passion of despair is quelled at last; The cruel sense of undeserved wrong, The wild self-pity, these are also past ;

She knows not what may come, but she is strong She feels she hath not aught to lose nor gain, Her patience is the essence of all pain.

As one who sits beside a lapsing stream, She sees the flow of changeless day by day,

Too sick and tired to think, too sad to dream. Nor cares how soon the waters slip away.

Nor where they lead ; at the wise God's decree,

She will depart or 'bide indifierently.

EMMA LAZARUS 279

There is a deeper pathos in the mild

And settled sorrow of the quiet eyes, Than in the tumults of the anguish wild,

That made her curse all things beneath the skies ; No question, no reproaches, no complaint, Hers is the holy calm of some meek saint.

GIFTS

O WORLD-GOD, give me wealth ! ' the Egyptian cried. His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold Palace and Pyramid ; the brimming tide

Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold. Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet. World-circling traffic roared through mart and street, His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings en- shrined Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep. Seek Pharaoh's race to-day, and ye shall find Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

' O World-God, give me beauty ! ' cried the Greek.

His prayer was granted. All the earth became Plastic and vocal to his sense ; each peak,

Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame, Peopled the world with imaged grace and light. The lyre was his, and his the breathing might Of the immortal marble, his the play

Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue. Go seek the sunshine-race, ye find to-day

A broken column and a lute unstrung.

' O World-God, give me power ! ' the Roman cried.

His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained A captive to the chariot of his pride.

The blood of myriad provinces was drained To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart ; Invulnerably bulwarked every part With serried legions, and with close-meshed Code ;

Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home. A roofless ruin stands where once abode

The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

28o EMMA LAZARUS

' O Godhead, give me Truth ! ' the Hebrew cried.

His prayer was granted ; he became the slave Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,

Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save. The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld, His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld. Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.

Seek him to-day, and find in every land No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;

Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

IN SHADOW

OH, egotism of agony ! While we Weep thus sore-stricken, filling earth -with moan, The feet of those we love, through Vv'a3^s unknown, Brought into lands of living light may be.

E'en our tear-bhnded eyes can dimly see What heights are reached b}^ sorrow's paths alone, Where heavenly joy and radiance shall atone ;

For gloom and woe have held us utterl}' ;

And sure our dead, Isftier of soul, and now

Free from the weakness human sight doth mar, Must death with power and vision new endow.

If we, blind, groping, feel the truth afar,

They wear its very radiance on their brow. Death takes a rush-light, but he gives a star!

REQUIESCAAI''

LAY me down to sleep, _ With little thought or care, Whether my waking find Me here or there.

* See note.

I

MRS. ROBERT G. ROWLAND 281

A bowing, burdened head, That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast.

My good right hand forgets Its cunning now. To march the weary march I know not how.

I am not eager, bold. Nor strong— all that is past; I am ready not to do At last, at last.

My half day's work is done. And this is all my part ; I give a patient God My patient heart, —

And grasp His banner still, Though all its blue be dim ; These stripes, no less than stars, Lead after Him.

IVITH A PRAYER-BOOK

IN Common Prayer our hearts ascend To that white throne where angels bend. Now grant, O Lord, that those who call Themselves by Thy dear name may all Show forth Thy praise in lives that tend

To noble purpose, lofty end, And unto us Thy blessing lend As low upon our knees we fall In Common Prayer.

28a OSCAR FAY ADAMS

In this dear Book past ages blend Their voice with ours ; we do commend Our souls, in doubt and sin-held thrall, To His fond care, and cot and hall Alike to Him petitions send

In Common Prayer.

IN THE OLD COUNTRY CHURCH

IS it a dream ? Am I once more a child ? In this old church I worshipped long ago ! Again I feel the strange delightful glow That filled my young heart with a radiance mild, While from the organ-loft the tones, beguiled By skilful hands, harmoniously flow, Now swelling high, now welling faint and low, As though harsh discords all were reconciled !

Outside, the graceful elm-boughs softly sway ;

Thro' open windows breathes the summer breeze ; And in the hush before the people pray

I hear the murmur of a myriad bees. Is it a dream? Am I a child to-day?

It verily seems so, as I bow my knees !

Ah ! golden hours of childhood gone for ever !

My brown-eyed, quiet little maiden there,

Who feels but knows not what is meant by prayer. The time must come when she too will endeavor Her weary heart from sad to-days to sever,

To lift the burden of a present care ;

Then will she to the Father's house repair To find sure comfort ! May it fail her never !

The summer breeze will sweep the cloudless sky;

The yellow bees will hum among the elms ; The mellow organ-tones will swell and sigh ; The priest will speak his words of counsel sweet To guide the wandering soul to heavenly realms ; And thus each age its marvels doth repeat.

283

^u^trx^ ^i

CHRISTMAS EVE

OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, The evening shades are falling,— Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear The voice of the Master calling ?

Deep lies the snow upon the earth.

But all the sky is ringing With joyous song, and all night long

The stars shall dance, with singing.

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, And close thine eyes in dreaming.

And angels fair shall lead thee where The singing stars are beaming.

A Shepherd calls His little lambs. And He longeth to caress them ;

He bids them rest upon His breast, That His tender love may bless them.

So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, Whilst evening shades are falling,

And above the song of the heavenly throng Thou shalt hear the Master callins:.

THE DEAD BABE

LAST night, as my dear babe lay dead, In agony I knelt and said : ' O God ! What have I done. Or in what wise offended Thee, That Thou shouldst take away from me My Httle son?

* Upon the thousand useless lives, Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives.

Thy wrath were better spent ! Why shouldst Thou take my little son — Why shouldst Thou vent Thy wrath upon

This innocent ? '

EUGENE FIELD

Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, Before mine eyes the vision spread

Of things that might have been ; Licentious riot, cruel strife. Forgotten prayers, a wasted life

Dark red with sin !

Then, with sweet music in the air, I saw another vision there :

A Shepherd in whose keep A little lamb -my little child! Of worldly wisdom undefiled,

Lay fast asleep !

Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, In those two messages I read

A wisdom manifest; And, though my arms be childless now, I am content — to Him I bow

Who knoweth best.

BETHLEHEM- TOWN

AS I was going to Bethlehem-town, l\. Upon the earth I cast me down All underneath a little tree. That whispered in this wise to me : ' Oh, I shall stand on Calvary And bear what burthen saveth thee ! '

As up I fared to Bethlehem-town,

I met a shepherd coming down,

And thus he quoth : ' A wondrous sight

Hath spread before mine eyes this night.

An angel host, most fair to see,

That sung full sweetly of a tree

That shall uplift on Calvary

What burthen saveth you and me ! '

And as I gat to Bethlehem-town,

Lo ! wise men came that bore a crown.

'Is there,' cried I, 'in Bethlehem

A King shall wear this diadem ? '

EUGENE FIELD 28=

'Good sooth,' they quoth, 'and it is He

That shall be lifted on the tree,

And freely shed on Calvary

What blood redeemeth us and thee ! '

Unto a Child in Bethlehem-town The wise men came and brought the crown ; And while the Infant smiling slept, Upon their knees they fell and wept ; But, with her Babe upon her knee, Naught recked that Mother of the tree That should uphft on Calvary What burthen saveth all and me.

Again I walk in Bethlehem-town,

And think on Him that wears the crown.

I may not kiss His feet again.

Nor worship Him as did I then ;

My King hath died upon the tree,

And hath outpoured on Calvary

What blood redeemeth you and me !

THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME

DEAREST, how hard it is to say That all is for the best. Since, sometimes, in a grievous way God's will is manifest.

See with what hearty, noisy glee

Our little ones to-night Dance round and round our Christmas-tree

With pretty toys bedight.

Dearest, one voice they may not hear,

One face they may not see, — Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer

Cometh to you and me ?

Cometh before our misty eyes

That other little face ; And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise.

That love in the old embrace.

286 EUGENE FIELD

Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,

Bringing His peace to men ; And He bringeth to you and to me the light

Of the old, old years again :

Bringeth the peace of long ago.

When a wee one clasped your knee

And lisped of the morrow,— dear one, you know,- And here come back is he !

Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to say

That all is for the best, For, often in a grievous way,

God's will is manifest.

But in the grace of this holy night That bringeth us back our child,

Let us see that the ways of God are right, And so be reconciled.

THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE

FROM out Cologne there came three kings To worship Jesus Christ their King. To Him they sought, fine herbs they brought,

And many a beauteous golden thing; They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, And in that manger set them down.

Then spake the first king, and he said, ' O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair !

I bring this crown to Bethlehem town For Thee, and only Thee, to wear ;

So give a heavenly crown to me

When I shall come at last to Thee!'

The second then, 'I bring Thee here This royal robe, O Child ! ' he cried ;

' Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one There is not in the world beside ;

So in the day of doom requite

Me with a heavenly robe of white ! '

EUGENE FIELD 287

The third king gave his gift, and quoth : ' Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring,

And with these twain would I most fain Anoint the body of my King ;

So may their incense sometime rise

To plead for me in yonder skies ! '

Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, That gave their gifts, and went their way ;

And now kneel I in prayer hard by The cradle of the Child to-day ;

Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring

As offering unto Christ, my King.

Yet have I brought a gift the Child

May not despise, however small ; For here I lay my heart to-day,

And it is full of love to all. Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, My only tribute, Christ, my King!

t^axks ^vanci^ (^ic^arteon

IVISDOM

A CANDLE in the night But Httle space makes bright And when the skylark sings He soars on fading wings.

Thus wisdom may not see The things that distant be ; Nor may its eager ear The world's far secrets hear.

But God exists ; what more Lies hid in learned lore? My duty well I know ; Has life aught else to show ?

288 CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON

God's works and ways I see, God's wisdom teaches me ; I seek no other guide, If He be by my side.

PEACE

IF sin be in the heart, The fairest sky is foul, and sad the summer weather, The eye no longer sees the lambs at play together, The dull ear cannot hear the birds that sing so sweetl}^, And all the joy of God's good earth is gone completely. If sin be in the heart.

If peace be in the heart. The wildest winter storm is full of solemn beauty, The midnight lightning flash but shows the path of duty, Each living creature tells some new and joyous storj% The very trees and stones all catch a ray of glor}-.

If peace be in the heart.

LOVE

IF suddenly upon the street My gracious Saviour I should meet. And He should say, ' As I love thee, What love hast thou to offer Me.?' Then what could this poor heart of mine Dare offer to that heart divine ?

His eye would pierce my outward show. His thought my inmost thought would know ; And if I said, ' I love Thee, Lord,' He would not heed my spoken w^ord. Because my daily life would tell If verily I loved Him well.

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

CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON 289

JUSTICE

A HUNDRED noble wishes fill my heart, I long to help each soul in need of aid ; In all good works my zeal would have its part, Before no weight of toil it stands afraid.

But noble wishes are not noble deeds, And he does least who seeks to do the whole ;

Who works the best, his simplest duties heeds, Who moves the world, first moves a single soul.

Then go, my heart, thy plainest work begin,

Do first not what thou canst, but what thou must;

Build not upon a corner-stone of sin.

Nor seek great works until thou first be just.

(WUutrtce [g'rancte S^an

MAURICE DE GUERIN

THE old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair Unseen by others ; to him maidenhair And waxen Hlacs, and those birds that rise A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise, Brought charmed thoughts ; and in earth everywhere He, like sad Jaques, found a music rare As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he, He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed, Till earth and heaven met within his breast ; As if Theocritus in Sicily Had come upon the Figure crucified, And lost his gods in deep Christ-given rest.

290 MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN

A QUESTION

FROM thy whole life take all the sweetest days Of earthly joy ; take love before it cools ; Take words far-brought by all the learned schools Since man first thought ; then take the brightest rays . Which poets limned with their rose-flushed tools ; Take heart-wrung music chastened with strict rules Of greatest masters ; and in all thy ways Find things that make men only pleasure's fools. Take these; beside them lay one heart-felt prayer; Take these ; beside them lay one little deed^ One simple act done for the great Christ-Heart — And all earth's fairest toys like graspless air To it will be ; this being, then what need To strive for things that will, with time, depart ?

WE CONQUER GOD '

O WORLD, great world, now thou art all my own, In the deep silence of my soul I stay The current of thy life, though the wild day Surges around me, I am all alone ; — Millions of voices rise, yet my weak tone Is heard by Him who is the Light, the Way, All Life, all Truth, the center of Love's ray ; Clamor, O Earth, the Great God hears my moan I Praj^er is the talisman that gives us all, We conquer God by force of His own love, He gives us all ; when prostrate we implore — The Saints must listen ; pra^'ers pierce Heaven's wall ; The humblest soul on earth, when mindful of Christ's promise, is the greatest conqueror.

COLUMBUS THE WORLD-GIVER

WHO doubts has met defeat ere blows can fall ; Who doubts must die with no palm in his hand ; Who doubts shall never be of that high band Which clearly answer — Present ! to Death's call • For Faith is life, and, though a funeral pall Veil our fair Hope, and on our promised land A mist malignant hang, if Faith but stand Among our ruins, we shall conquer all.

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 291

O faithful soul, that knew no doubting low ; O Faith incarnate, lit by Hope's strong flame, And led by Faith's own cross to dare all ill And find our world!— but more than this we owe To thy true heart ; thy pure and glorious name Is one clear trumpet call to Faith and Will.

FRA ANGELICO

ART is true art when art to God is true, l\. And only then : to copy Nature's work Without the chains that run the whole world through Gives us the eye without the lights that lurk In its clear depths : no soul, no truth is there. Oh, praise your Rubens and his fleshly brush ! Oh, love your Titian and his carnal air ! Give me the trilling of a pure-toned thrush. And take your crimson parrots. Artist-saint ! O Fra Angelico, your brush was dyed In hues of opal, not in vulgar paint ; You showed to us pure joys for which you sighed, Your heart was in your work, you never feigned : You left us here the Paradise you gained !

PERPETUAL YOUTH

TIS said there is a fount in Flower Land, — De Leon found it, — where Old Age away Throws weary mind and heart, and fresh as day Springs from the dark and joins Aurora's band : This tale, transformed by some skilled trouvere's wand From the old myth in a Greek poet's lay. Rests on no truth. Change bodies as Time may, Souls do not change, though heavy be his hand. Who of us needs this fount ? What soul is old .? Age is a mask, — in heart we grow more young, For in our winters we talk most of spring; And as we near, slow-tottering, God's safe fold. Youth's loved ones gather nearer ; — though among The seeming dead, youth's songs more clear they sing, u 2

292

ilnnte ^rumfiuff ^foeeon

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

WHERE are you going, my little children, Soft-eyed Zillah, and brown-faced Seth, Little David with cheek so ruddy, Dark-haired, slender Elizabeth ?

What are the burdens you carry with you, Poised on the head and swung in the hand ;

What is the song from your red lips ringing, What is 3^our errand, you little band ?

' Sirs, as you know, we are Hebrew children,

I am Zillah, and this is Seth ; Here is David, our little brother.

And this our sister Elizabeth.

' Our father's sheep are on yonder hillside, He cares for us and he watches them ;

We left our home in the early morning, And go our way into Bethlehem.

' Surely you know that the Blessed Baby, Greeted by angels with songs of joy.

Is lying there with His gentle Mother, And we are going to see the Boy.

' Here in our baskets are gifts we bring Him,

All to lay at His little feet; Amber honey our bees have gathered,

Milk from our goats so white and sweet ;

' Cakes of our figs, and grapes that are purple, Olives plucked from our own old trees ;

Savory herbs, and fragrant spices, All we bring Him on bended knees.

' See, this is wool so soft and so fleec}'. Purple d\^es that a king might wear;

Skins of the goat, and the ram, and the badger, All for the Baby that 's sleeping there.

ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON 293

' Here are shells from the Red Sea brought us, Here are feathers all bright and gay ;

Tell us, good sirs, had ever a baby Fairer gifts than we bring to-day?

' Seth gives his dove, though he loves it dearly ;

David these shells for the Holy Boy ; Elizabeth w^ove Him this pretty basket,

But I have only this little toy, —

' Two sticks of olive-wood, carved by my father. One standing up and one crossing it— so ;

We have little to offer, we poor httle children. But we give all we can, and we sing as we go.'

Singing they went with their simple treasures, Sweet rang their voices o'er valley and hill,

* Glory, oh, glor}^ to God in the highest, Peace upon earth, and to men good-will.'

Still they went singing, these Hebrew children. Soft-eyed Zillah and brown-faced Seth ;

Little David with cheek so ruddy, Dark-haired, slender Elizabeth.

A CHILD'S EASTER

HAD I been there, when Christ, our Lord, lay sleeping Within that tomb in Joseph's garden fair, I would have watched all night beside my Saviour- Had I been there.

Close to the hard, cold stone my soft cheek pressing, I should have thought my head lay on His breast ; And dreaming that His dear arms were about me, Have sunk to rest.

All thro' the long, dark night when others slumbered. Close, close beside Him still I would have stayed. And, knowing how He loved the little children. Ne'er felt afraid.

* To-morrow,' to my heart I would have whispered,

* I will rise early in the morning hours. And wand'ring o'er the hillside I will gather

The fairest flowers ;

294 ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON

' Tall, slender lilies (for my Saviour loved them, And tender words about their beauty spake), And golden buttercups, and glad-eyed daisies, But just awrake ;

' '• Grass of the field " in waving, feathVy beaut}', He clothed it with that grace, so fair but brief. Mosses all soft and green, and crimson berr^^, With glossy leaf.

' While 3^et the dew is sparkling on the blossoms, I'll gather them and lay them at His feet. And make the blessed place where He is sleeping All fair and sweet.

'The birds will come, I know, and sing above Him, The sparrows whom He cared for when awake, And they will fill the air with joyous music For His dear sake.'

And, thinking thus, the night would soon be passing, Fast drawing near that first glad Easter light. Ah. Lord, if I could but have seen Thee leaving The grave's dark night I

I would have kept so still, so still, and clasping M}^ hands together as I do in praj^er, I would have knelt, reverent, but oh, so happy! — Had I been there.

Perhaps He would have bent one look upon me ; Perhaps in pity for that weary night, He would have laid on my uplifted forehead A touch so light ;

And all the rest of life I should have felt it, A sacred sign upon my brow imprest, And ne'er forgot that precious, lonely vigil, So richlv blest.

1 )ear Lord, thro' death and night I was not near Thee Hut in Thy risen glory can rejoice. So, loud and glad in song this Easter morning, Thou'lt hear my voice.

293

3ame0 (VO^itcom^ (gife^

THE PRAYER PERFECT

DEAR Lord! kind Lord! Gracious Lord ! I pra}^ Thou wilt look on all I love

Tenderly to-day ! Weed their hearts of weariness ;

Scatter every care Down a wake of angel-wings Winnowing the air.

Bring unto the sorrowing

All release from pain ; Let the lips of laughter

Overflow again ; And with all the needy

O divide, I pray, This vast treasure of content

That is mine to-day !

THE KINGLY PRESENCE

BY the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, — We feel Thy Kingly presence, and we humbly bow the

knee, And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Th}^ Messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled

and gone As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before

the dawn ; And in the kindly shelter of the Light around us drawn, We would nestle down for ever on the breast we lean

upon.

296 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

You have given us a Shepherd — you have given us a

Guide, And the light of heaven grew dimmer when you sent

Him from your side, — But He comes to lead Thy children where the gates

will open wide To welcome His returning, when His works are glorified.

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon

the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, — We feel Thy Kingly presence, and we humbly bow the

knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

THE BEAUTIFUL CITY

THE Beautiful City ! forever Its rapturous praises resound ; We fain would behold it — but never

A glimpse of its glory is found : We slacken our lips at the tender

White breasts of our mothers to hear Of its marvelous beauty and splendor : — We see— but the gleam of a tear !

Yet never the story may tire us.

First graven in symbols of stone — Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus,

And parchment, and scattered and blown By the winds of the tongues of all nations,

Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled Down the rack of a hundred translations,

From the earliest lisp of the world.

We compass the earth and the ocean,

From the Orient's uttermost light, To where the last ripple in motion

Lips hem of the skirt of the night, — But the Beautiful City evades us^

No spire of it glints in the sun — No glad-bannered battlement shades us.

When all our long journey is done.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 297

Where lies it ? We question and listen ;

We lean from the mountain, or mast, And see but dull earth or the glisten

Of seas inconceivably vast : The dust of the one blurs our vision,

The glare of the other our brain — Nor city nor island Elysian

In all of the land or the main !

We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders

Of organs tumultuous roll, And the longing heart listens and wonders,

And the eyes look aloft from the soul ; But the chanson grows fainter and fainter,

Swoons wholly away and is dead ; And our eyes only reach where the painter

Has dabbled a saint overhead.

The Beautiful City ! O mortal,

Fare hopefully on in thy quest. Pass down through the green grassy portal

That leads to the Valley of Rest, There first passed the One who, in pity

Of all thy great yearning, awaits To point out the Beautiful City,

And loosen the trump at the gates.

THE DEAD WIFE

ALWAYS I see her in a saintly guise l\ Of lilied raiment, white as her own brow When first I kissed the tear-drops to the eyes That smile forever now.

Those gentle eyes ! They seem the same to me, As, looking through the warm dews of mine own,

I see them gazing downward patiently Where, lost and all alone

In the great emptiness of night, I bow And sob aloud for one returning touch

Of the dear hands that, heaven having now, I need so much — so much !

298

(Bffen QUacRa^ ^utcgineon

UNDER THE STARS

O NIGHT, look down through cloud and star Upon our fret and pain ! Bid all the dreams that day denies

Bloom into faith again ! In silvery shades of shadow come. And take earth's weary children home !

Sweet teacher, wiser than the schools,

Thy speechless lessons bring ! The rebel soul, the aching heart,

The will like broken wing, Make ready for a stiller night. And for a dearer Morning Light !

IVIiat shall I say? He hath both spoken iinto me, and Himself lidth done it : I shall go softly all my years in the bitterness of my so/fl. Isa. xxxviii. 15.

THE QUIET PHGRIM

WHEN on my soul in nakedness His swift avertless hand did press. Then I stood still, nor cried aloud, Nor murmured low in ashes bowed ; And, since my woe is utterless,

To supreme quiet I am vowed ; Afar from me be moan and tears,— I shall go softly all my years.

Whenso my quick light-sandalled feet Bring me where joys and pleasures meet,

I mingle with their throng at will;

They know me not an alien still, Since neither words nor ways unsweet

Of stored bitterness I spill ; Youth shuns me not, nor gladness fears, — I shall go softly all my years.

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 299

Whenso I come where griefs convene, And in my ear their cry is keen ;

They know me not, as on I ghde,

That with Arch Sorrow I abide. They haggard are, and dropped of mien.

And round their brows have cypress tied ; Such shows I leave to hght Grief's peers,— I shall go softly all my years.

Yea, softly ! heart of hearts unknown,

Silence hath speech that passeth moan, More piercing-keen than breathed cries To such as heed, made sorrow-wise.

But save this voice without a tone, That runs before me to the skies.

And rings above Thy ringing spheres,

Lord, I go softly all my years.

IF STILL THEY LIVE, WHOM TOUCH NOR SIGHT'

IF still they live, whom touch nor sight Nor any subtlest sense can prove. Though dwelling past our day and night. At farthest star's remove,—

Oh, not because these skies they change For upper deeps of sky unknown, Shall that which made them ours grow strange. For spirit holds its own ;

Whether it pace this earth around, Or cross, with printless, buoyant feet, The unreverberant Profound

That hath no name nor mete !

^OFT HAVE I WAKENED ERE THE SPRING OF DAY'

OFT have I wakened ere the spring of day, And from my window looking forth have found All dim and strange the long-familiar ground, But soon I saw the mist glide slow away,

300 EDITH MATILDA THOMAS

And leave the hills in wonted green arraj'-, While from the stream-sides and the fields around Rose many a pensive day-entreating sound, And the deep-breasted woodlands seemed to pray.

Will it be even so when first we wake Beyond the Night in which are merged all nights,- The soul sleep-heavy and forlorn will ache, Deeming herself midst alien sounds and sights ? Then will the gradual Day with comfort break Along the old deeps of being, the old heights?

(JOtTftam ^r^wa^ Q^atfn^^e

THE MASTERS WORK ■

THE hands that do God's work are patient hands, And quick for toil, though folded oft in prayer ; They do the unseen work they understand And find — no matter where.

The feet that follow His must be swift feet, For time is all too short, the way too long; Perchance they will be bruised, but falter not, For love shall make them strong.

The lips that speak God's words must learn to wear Silence and calm, although the pain be long; And, loving so the Master, learn to share His agony and wrong.

CHANGE

THE dearest things in this fair world must change ; Thy senses hurry on to sure decay ; Thy strength will fail, the pain seem no more strange,

While love more feebly cheers the misty way. What then remains above the task of living?

Is there no crown w^here that rude cross hath pressed ? Yes, God remains, His own high glory giving To light thy lonely path, to make it blest.

WILLIAM ORDWAY PARTRIDGE 301

Yea, God remains, though suns are daily dying, — A gracious God, who marks the sparrow's fall ;

He listens while thine aching heart is sighing; He hears and answers when His children call ;

His love shall fill the void when death assails,—

The one, eternal God, who never fails.

Cavf Spencer

THE KINGS SHIPS

GOD hath so many ships upon the sea ! His are the merchant-men that carry treasure, The men-of-war, all bannered gallantly,

The little fisher-boats and barks of pleasure. On all this sea of time there is not one That sailed without the glorious name thereon.

The winds go up and down upon the sea,

And some they lightly clasp, entreating kindl}^

And waft them to the port where they would be; And other ships they buffet long and blindly.

The cloud comes down on the great sinking deep,

And on the shore the watchers stand and weep.

And God hath many wrecks within the sea ;

Oh, it is deep ! I look in fear and wonder ; The wisdom throned above is dark to me,

Yet it is sweet to think His care is under ; That yet the sunken treasure may be drawn Into His storehouse when the sea is gone.

So I, that sail in peril on the sea.

With my beloved, whom 3'et the waves may cover, Say : God hath more than angels' care of me.

And larger share than I in friend and lover ! Why weep ye so, ye watchers on the land ? This deep is but the hollow of His hand !

302

SODOM A' S CHRIST SCOURGED

I SAW in Siena pictures, Wandering wearily ; I sought not the names of the masters,

Nor the works men care to see ; But once in a low-ceiled passage

I came on a place of gloom, Lit here and there with halos

Like saints within the room. The pure, serene, mild colors

The early artists used Had made my heart grow softer,

And still on peace I mused. Sudden I saw the Sufferer,

And my frame was clenched with pain Perchance no throe so noble

Visits my soul again. Mine were the stripes of the scourging ;

On my thorn-pierced brow blood ran ; In my breast the deep compassion

Breaking the heart for man. I drooped with heavy eyelids,

Till evil should have its will ; On my lips was silence gathered ;

My waiting soul stood still. I gazed, nor knew I was gazing ;

I trembled, and vv^oke to know Him whom they worship in heaven

Still walking on earth below. Once have I borne His sorrows

Beneath the flail of fate ! Once in the woe of His passion,

I felt the soul grow great ! I turned from my dead Leader;

I passed the silent door ; The gray-walled street received me ;

On peace I mused no more.

* See note.

303

'WITH YOU ALWAY'

"VVTHY seek ye for Jehovah W Mid Sinai's awful smoke ? The burning bush now shelters A sparrow's humble folk ; The curve of God's sweet heaven Is the curve of the leaf of oak ; The Voice that stilled the tempest To the little children spoke, — The bread of life eternal Is the bread He blessed and broke.

UNTO THE PERFECT DA Y

A MORNING-GLORY* bud, entangled fast Amid the meshes of its winding stem, Strove vainly with the coils about it cast. Until the gardener came and loosened them.

A suffering human life entangled lay

Among the tightening coils of its own past ;

The Gardener came, the fetters fell away. The hfe unfolded to the sun at last.

THE SAINTS' MESSENGER

IF I knew it now, how strange it would seem. To think, to know, ere another day I should have passed over the silent way, And my present life become as a dream ; But what if that step should usher me Right into the sinless company Of the saints in heaven.

* Convolvulus.

304 ANNA JANE GRANNISS

111 carefully watch the door of my lips As I talk with my comrades to-day, And think a little before I sa)'-,

To see that no careless expression slips, Which I should find would so ill compare With the holy converse uttered there. By the saints in heaven.

If they let me in— Oh, how sweet, how strange.

The thought that before a new day dawn,

I may put the incorruptible on,— That beautiful garment, the robe of change !

And walk and talk with that happy throng.

Perhaps join my voice in the 'new, new song,' With the saints in heaven.

But I fear I should be poorly meet To mingle much with the saints at all ; My earthly service would seem so small —

Just going of errands on tired feet ;

But, oh ! how blest, if it were my share To be the trusted messenger there, For the saints in heaven !

With holy missives to take and bring, Sometime, perhaps, it would come to be That some pure saint would commission me

To carry his message straight to the King: And the King His answer would defer, To turn and smile on the messenger Of His saints in heaven !

MY GUEST

THE day is fixed that there shall come to me A strange mysterious guest ; The time I do not know, he keeps the date, So all I have to do is work and wait, And keep me at my best, And do my common duties patiently.

ANNA JANE GRANNISS 305

I've often wondered if that day would break Brighter than other days That I might know, or wrapped in some strange gloom ; And if he'd find me waiting in my room, Or busy with life's ways, With tired hands, and weary eyes that ache.

For many years I've known that he would come, And so have watched for him ; And sometimes even said, 'He will come soon!' Yet mornings pass followed by afternoon, With twilights dusk and dim. And silent night-times, when the world is dumb.

But he will come, and find me here or there. It does not matter when. For when he comes, I know that he will take In his these very hands of mine that ache, (They will be idle then,) Just folded may be, with a silent prayer.

Yes, he whom I expect has been called Death, And once he is my guest. Nothing disturbs of what has been, or is ; 111 leave the world's loud company for his, As that which seemeth best, And none may hear the tender words he saith.

So we pass out, my royal guest and I, As noiseless as he came; For naught will do but I must go with him, And leave the house I've lived in closed and dim, It only bears my name — I've known I should not need it, by and by.

And so I sleep and wake, I toil and rest, Knowing when he shall come, My Elder Brother will have sent for me. Bidding him say that they especially Have need of me at home; And so, I shall go gladly with my guest.

3o6

(mar^atrei (Watt ©efanb HYMN

O PATIENT Christ ! when long ago O'er old Judea's rugged hills Thy willing feet went to and fro, To find and comfort human ills — Did once Thy tender, earnest eyes Look down the solemn centuries. And see the smallness of our lives ?

Souls struggling for the victory.

And martyrs, finding death was gain, Souls turning from the Truth and Thee, And falling deep in sin and pain —

Great heights and depths were surely seen, But, oh ! the dreary waste between — Small lives, not base perhaps, but mean :

Their selfish efforts for the right.

Or cowardice that keeps from sin ; Content to only see the height That nobler souls will toil to win !

Oh, shame, to think Thine eyes should see The souls contented just to be — The lives too small to take in Thee.

Lord, let this thought awake our shame, That blessed shame that stings to life. Rouse us to live for Thy dear name, A.rm us with courage for the strife ! O Christ ! be patient with us still ; Dear Christ! remember Calvary's hill — Our little lives with purpose fill !

LOVE AND DEATH A LAS ! that men must see Jl\ Love, before Death ! Else they content might be With their short breath ;

Aye, glad, when the pale sun Showed restless Day was done,

MARGARET WADE DELAND 307

Glad, when with strong, cool hand

Death clasped their own, And with a strange command, Hushed every moan ;

Glad to have finished pain, And labor wrought in vain, Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.

But Love's insistent voice

Bids Self to flee— ' Live that I may rejoice, Live on for me !'

So, for Love's cruel mind, Men fear this Rest to find, Nor know great Death is kind !

DOUBT

O DISTANT Christ ! the crowded, darkening year.- Drift slow between Thy gracious face and me ; My hungry heart leans back to look for Thee, But finds the way set thick with doubts and fears.

My groping hands would touch Thy garment's hem. Would find some token Thou art walking near ; Instead they clasp but empty darkness drear,

And no diviner hands reach out to them !

Sometimes my listening soul, with bated breath, Stands still to catch a footfall by my side. Lest, haply, my earth-blinded eyes but hide

Thy stately figure, leading Life and Death ;

My straining eyes, O Christ, but long to mark A shadow of Thy presence, dim and sweet, Or far-oft' light to guide my wandering feet.

Or hope for hands prayer-beating 'gainst the dark.

O Thou ! unseen by me, that like a child Tries in the night to find its mother's heart, And weeping, wanders only more apart,

Not knowing in the darkness that she smiled — X 2

3o8 MARGARET WADE DELAND

Thou, all unseen, dost hear my tired cry,

As I, in darkness of a half belief.

Grope for Thy heart, in love and doubt and grief O Lord ! speak soon to me — ' Lo, here am I ! '

EASTER MUSIC

BLOW, golden trumpets, sweet and clear, Blow soft upon the perfumed air ; Bid the sad earth to join your song.

Oh, let the winds your message bear To every heart of grief and care ; Sound through the world the joyful lay, ^ Our Christ hath conquered Death to-day t'

On cloudy wings let glad words fly Through the soft blue of echoing sky : Ring out, O trumpets, sweet and clear, ' Through Death hnmortal Life is here!'

3na ©onna toMxit^

IN BLOSSOM TIME

IT'S O my heart, my heart, To be out in the sun and sing ! To sing and shout in the fields about. In the balm and the blossoming.

Sing loud, O bird in the tree ;

O bird, sing loud in the sky, And honey-bees blacken the clover seas

There are none of you glad as L

The leaves laugh low in the wind. Laugh low with the wind at play;

And the odorous call of the flowers all Entices my soul away !

INA DONNA COOLBRITH 309

For O but the world is fair, is fair :

And O but the world is sweet ! I will out in the gold of the blossoming mould,

And sit at the Master's feet.

And the love my heart would speak,

I would fold in the lily's rim, That the lips of the blossom, more pure and meek,

May offer it up to Him.

Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush,

O skylark, sing in the blue ; Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,

And my soul shall sing with you !

o

A PRAYER

SOUL ! however sweet The goal to which I hasten with swift feet— If just within my grasp, I reach, and joy to clasp, And find there one whose body I must make

A footstool for that sake. Though ever and for evermore denied, Grant me to turn aside !

O howsoever dear The love I long for, seek, and find anear —

So near, so dear, the bliss

Sweetest of all that is. If I must win by treachery or art,

Or wrong one other heart. Though it should bring me death, my soul, that day

Grant me to turn away!

That in the life so far And yet so near, I be without a scar Of wounds dealt others ; greet with lifted eyes

The pure of Paradise !

So I may never know The agony of tears I caused to flow !

3IO

A CHRISTMAS SONG

WHEN mother-love makes all things bright. When joy comes with the morning light, When children gather round their tree, Thou Christmas Babe, We sing of Thee !

When manhood's brows are bent in thought To learn what men of old have taught, When eager hands seek wisdom's key,

Wise Temple Child,

We learn of Thee !

When doubts assail, and perils fright, When, groping blindly in the night,' We strive to read life's mystery,

Man of the Mount,

We turn to Thee !

When shadows of the valley fall. When sin and death the soul appal. One light we through the darkness see —

Christ on the Cross,

We cr}'' to Thee !

And when the world shall pass away, And dawns at length the perfect day, In glory shall our souls made free.

Thou God enthroned.

Then worship Thee!

WAITING

AS little children in a darkened hall L At Christmas-tide await the opening door. Eager to tread the fairy-haunted floor About the tree with goodly gifts for all,

CHARLES HENRY CRANDALL 311

And in the dark unto each other call — Trying to guess their happiness before,— Or of their elders eagerly implore

Hints of what fortune unto them may fall :

So wait we in Time's dim and narrow room, And with strange fancies, or another's thought. Try to divine, before the curtain rise, The wondrous scene. Yet soon shall fly the gloom. And we shall see what patient ages sought, The Father's long-planned gift of Paradise.

t^avkB ^enr^ BixUvs

TIME AND ETERNITY

WHEN Life and Death clasp hands to part no more. When the wide wings of Earth no longer soar, Time's pathway through the eternal heavens will gleam, Brief as the passing of a meteor.

PERFECTIBILITY

GOD first made man of common clay, And o'er the earth he brute- like went But deep within his bosom stirr'd A strange, unearthly discontent.

Woman God made a living soul —

He made her fair. He made her sweet, —

Upon her with delight man look'd.

And brought his conquests to her feet.

In her he found his heart's desire ;

He lov'd, and was no more a clod ; Subtly she purifies his soul.

Surely she draws him up to God.

312

%tkn <Btaj €one

THE TORCH RACE

BRAVE racer, who hast sped the living light With throat outstretched and every nerve a strain, Now on thy left hand labors gray-faced Pain, And Death hangs close behind thee on the right. Soon flag the flying feet, soon fails the sight, With every pulse the gaunt pursuers gain ; And all thy splendor of strong life must wane And set into the mystery of night.

Yet fear not, though in falling, blindness hide Whose hand shall snatch, before it sears the sod. The light thy lessening grasp no more controls: Truth's rescuer. Trust shall instantly provide : This is the torch-race game, that noblest souls Play on through time beneath the eyes of God.

A RESURRECTION

Neither would they he persuaded^ though one rose from the dead. — Luke xvi. 31.

I WAS quick in the flesh, was warm, and the live heart shook my breast ; In the market I bought and sold, in the temple I bowed my head. I had swathed me in shows and forms, and was honored above the rest For the sake of the life I lived ; nor did any esteem me dead.

But at last, when the hour was ripe — was it sudden- remembered word ? Was it sight of a bird that mounted, or sound of a strain that stole ? I was 'ware of a spell that snapped, of an inward strength that stirred, Of a Presence that filled that place ; and it shone, and I knew my Soul.

HELEN GRAY CONE 313

And the dream I had called my life was a garment about my feet, For the web of the years was rent with the throe of a yearning strong. With a sweep as of winds in heaven, with a rush as of flames that meet, The Flesh and the Spirit clasped; and I cried, 'Was I dead so long ? '

I had glimpse of the Secret, flashed through the symbol obscure and mean, And I felt as a fire what erst I repeated with lips of clay; And I knew for the things eternal the things eye hath not seen ; Yea, the heavens and the earth shall pass ; but they never shall pass away.

And the miracle on me wrought, in the streets I would straight make known : ' When this marvel of mine is heard, without cavil shall men receive Any legend of haloed saint, starting up through the sealed stone ! ' So I spake in the trodden ways ; but behold there would none believe !

MAY

WHEN Eve went out from Paradise With looks distraught and sad surmise, And when she tried to make a home For Adam in the thorny land, By kinship I can understand The homesick longing that would come, The sad and lonely memories Of Eden trees and Eden skies.

314 DANSKE CAROLINA DANDRIDGE

At sunset when her work was done, Perchance she sat to muse alone, And hear the Eden waters flow. The birds might sing, but she was mute, Still tasting in her mouth the fruit, That sweet beginning of her woe. Perchance some bird that she had fed Would come to flutter overhead — Some happy bird that built his nest Within the cherub-guarded spot. Would come to thrill her aching breast With tender jargon, unforgot ; Or bring her in his beak a flower She planted in a peaceful hour.

What heritage, O weeping Eve, Your wistful daughters yet receive Of yearnings, and of longing pain. For that which may not come again ! What dim, inherited desire. Still thwarted by the swords of fire ! Yet when the riot garden-close Just hints the coming of the rose ; When sumptuous tulips burst apart, And rock the wild bee, heart to heart ; When languid butterflies a-swing From apple-blossoms droop the wing ; When purple iris, by the wall. Imperial iris, proud and tall. With Persian lilac is a-blow, And nodding lilies, row by row ; When hoyden creepers run apace To kiss the lime-rock's wrinkled face ; When snowball turns from green to white And keeps the secret that she knows, The pretty secret, out of sight. Wherein the robin's household grows ; And when we pace the pleached aisles, And share, with tender words and smiles. The beauty of the summer feast, — 'Tis then we miss our Eden least.

DANSKE CAROLINA DANDRIDGE 315

THE SINGING HEART

THOU Heart ! why dost thou hTt thy voice The birds are mute ; the skies are dark ; Nor doth a living thing rejoice ; Nor doth a living creature hark ; Yet thou art singing in the dark.

Hov^ small thou art ; how poor and frail ; Thy prime is past ; th}' friends are chill ;

Yet as thou hadst not any ail Throughout the storm thou liftest still A praise that winter cannot chill.

Then sang that happy Heart reply :

'God lives, God loves, and hears me sing.

How warm, how safe, how glad am I, In shelter 'neath His spreading wing, And there I cannot choose but sing.'

WINGS

SHALL we know in the hereafter All the reasons that are hid.? Does the butterfly remember

What the caterpillar did ? How he waited, toiled, and suffered To become a chr3'salid.

When we creep so slowly upward ;

When each day new burden brings When we strive so hard to conquer

Vexing sublunary things; When we wait and toil and suffer.

We are working for our wings.

THE STRUGGLE

' O ODY, I pray you, let me go ! '

J3 (It is a Soul that struggles so.) ' Body, I see on yonder height Dim reflex of a solemn light ;

,i6 DANSKE CAROLINA DANDRIDGE

A flame that shineth from the place Where Beauty walks with naked face : It is a flame you cannot see ; — Lie down, you clod, and set me free.

' Body, I pray you, let me go ! '

(It is a Soul that striveth so.)

' Body, I hear dim sounds afar,

Dripping from some diviner star ;

Dim sounds of holy revelry :

It is my mates that sing, and I

Must drink that song or break my heart ;

Body, I pray you, let us part.

' Comrade ! your frame is worn and frail ; Your vital force begins to fail ; I long for life, but you for rest ; Then, Body, let us both be blest. When you are lying 'neath the dew I'll come, sometimes, and sing to you ; But you will feel nor pain nor woe ; Body, I pray you, let me go ! '

Thus strove a Being : Beauty-fain, He broke his bonds and fled amain. He fled : the Body lay bereft, But on its lips a smile was left, As if that Spirit, looking back. Shouted upon his upward track. With joyous tone and hurried breath. Some message that could comfort Death.

ARE YOU GLAD?

ARE you glad, my big brother, my deep-hearted oak ? L Are you glad in each open-palm leaf? Do you joy to be God's ? Does it thrill you with living

delight ? Are you sturdy in stalwart belief? As you stand day and night, As you stand through the nights and the days, Do you praise ?

DANSKE CAROLINA DANDRIDGE 317

O strenuous vine, do you run,

As a man runs a race to a goal.

Your end that God's will may be done,

Like a strong-sinewed soul ?

Are you glad ? Do you praise ?

Do you run ?

And shall I be afraid,

Like a spirit undone ;

Like a sprout in deep shade ;

Like an infant of days :

When I hear, when I see and interpret aright

The winds in their jubilant flight ;

The manifest peace of the sky and the rapture of

light ; The paean of waves as they flow ; The stars that reveal The deep bliss of the night ; The unspeakable joy of the air ; And feel as I feel, And know as I know God is there ?

Hush!

For I hear him — Enshrined in the heart of the wood : 'Tis the priestly and reverent thrush, Anointed to sing to our God : And he hymns it full well, All I stammer to tell, All I yearn to impart.

Listen !

The strain Shall sink into the heart, And soften and swell Till its meaning is plain,

. And love in its manifold harmonies, that shall remain, Shall remain.

318

'Kat^atrine ;Eee (gaits

UNDER THE SNOWS

UNDER the drifted snows, with weeping and holy rite, For a Httle maid's repose Hes the lonely bed bedight. Cold is the cradle-cover our pitiful hands fold over The heart that had won repose or ever it knew delight.

High are the heavens and steep to us who would enter in

By the fasts that our faint hearts keep and the thorn- set crowns we win.

Sweetly the child awaketh, brightly the day-dawn breaketh

On the eyes that fell asleep or ever they looked on sin.

EASTER

ACROSS the winter's gloom l\ There falls a golden ray, And from each wild-flower's tomb The stone is rolled away.

Once more to life and love The buds and leaves of spring

Come forth, and hear above The birds like angels sing.

In every wood and field

Behold the symbol shown, —

The mystery revealed. The majesty made known.

Christ who was crucified

Is risen ! Lo, the sign ! The earth at Eastertide

Touched by His hand divine.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN 319

ALLAH'S HOUSE

NANAC the faithful pausing once to pray, From holy Mecca turned his face away ; A Moslem priest, who chanced to see him there. Forgetful of the attitude in prayer, Cried : ' Infidel, how durst thou turn thy feet Toward Allah's house— the sacred temple seat ? ' To whom the pious Nanac thus replied : ' Know'st thou God's house is, as the world is, wide ? Thou, turn them, if thou canst, toward any spot Where mighty Allah's awful house is not.'

JSoutee Jmo^en (Butne^

SUMMUM BONUM

WAITING on Him who knows us and our need. Most need have we to dare not, nor desire, But as He giveth, softly to suspire Against His gift, with no inglorious greed, For this is joy, tho' still our joys recede ; And, as in octaves of a noble lyre. To move our minds with His, and clearer, higher, Sound forth our fate ; for this is strength indeed.

Thanks to His love let earth and man dispense

In smoke of worship when the heart is stillest,

A praying more than prayer : ' Great good have I,

Till it be greater good to lay it by ;

Nor can I lose peace, power, permanence,

For these smile on me from the thing Thou wiliest ! '

FLO REN TIN

HEART all full of heavenly haste, too like the bubble bright On loud little water floating half of an April night, Fled from the ear in music, fled from the eye in light. Dear and stainless heart of a boy! No sweeter thing

can be Drawn to the quiet centre of God who is our sea ; Whither, thro' troubled valleys, we also follow thee.

320 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY

A TALISMAN

TAKE Temperance to thy breast, While yet is the hour of choosing, As arbitress exquisite Of all that shall thee betide ; For better than fortune's best Is mastery in the using, And sweeter than anything sweet The art to lay it aside !

SONG

MARY, the mother, sits on the hill. And cradles child Jesu, that lies so still She cradles child Jesu, that sleeps so sound, And the little wind blows the song around.

The little wind blows the mother's words, ' Ei, Jesu, ei,' like the song of birds ; ' Ei, Jesu, ei,' I heard it still, As I lay asleep at the foot of the hill.

' Sleep, babe, sleep, mother watch doth keep, Ox shall not hurt thee, nor ass, nor sheep ; Dew falls sweet from Thy Father's sky, Sleep, Jesu, sleep ! ei, Jesu, ei.'

THE IMPERIAL SOUL

WHAT man can live denying his own soul ? Hast thou not learned that noble uncontrol Is virtue's right, the breath by which she lives ? O sure, if any angel ever grieves, 'Tis when the living soul hath learnt to chide Its passionate indignations, and to hide The sudden flows of rapture, the quick birth Of overwhelming loves, that balance the worth

LANCiDON ELWYN MITCH KLL 321

Of the wide world against one loving act, As less than a sped dream : shall the cataract Stop, pause, and palter, ere it plunge towards The vale unseen ! Our fate hath its own lords, Which if we follow truly, there can come No harm unto us.

BEETHOVEN'S THIRD SYMPHONY

PASSION and pain, the outcome of despair, The pang of the unattainable desire. And youth's delight in pleasures that expire, And sweet high dreamings of the good and fair Clashing in swift soul-storm, through which no prayer Uplifted stays the destined death-stroke dire. Then through a mighty sorrowing, as through fire. The soul burnt pure yearns forth into the air Of the dear earth and, with the scent of flowers And song of birds assuaged, takes heart again, Made cheerier with this drinking of God's wine. And turns with healing to the world of men. And high above a sweet, strong angel towers, And Love makes Life triumphant and divine.

Jltnefte (Htvee

DEATH

DEATH is but life's renewal ; but the pause Between two great thoughts of a loving God, Full of mysterious tenderness. The hush That follows on some marvelous harmony ; The indrawn breath before a shout of joy ; The backward movement of God's tidal love. Which, for its brief withdrawal to the deep. Comes voluming in with mightier force of hope. And vastlier floods the thirsty shore with peace.

322 AMELIE RIVES

UNTO THE LEAST OF THESE LITTLE ONES

{From Harper's Magazine. Copyright 1889 by Harper & Brothers)

O CHILDREN'S eyes unchildlike !— Children's eyes That make pure, hallowed age seem young indeed-^ Wan eyes that on drear horrors daily feed ; Learned deep in all that leaves us most unwise ! Poor wells, beneath whose troubled depths Truth lies, Drowned, drowned, alas ! So does my sad heart bleed When I remember you ; so does it plead And strive within my breast — as one who cries For torture of her first-born— that the day, The long, bright day, seems thicker sown for me With e3^es of children than the heavens at night With stars on stars. To watch you is to pray That you may some day see as children see. When man, like God, hath said, ' Let there be light.'

Dear Christ, Thou hadst Thy childhood ere Thy cross ;

These, bearing first their cross, no childhood know,

But, aged with toil, through countless horrors grow

To age more horrible. Rough locks atoss

Above drink-reddened eyes, like Southern moss

That drops its tangles to the marsh below ;

No standard dreamed or real by which to show

The piteous completeness of their loss ;

No rest, no hope, no Christ ; the cross alone

Borne on their backs by day, their bed by night,

Their ghastly plaything when they pause to weep,

Their threat of torture do they dare to moan :

A darkness ever dark across their light,

A weight that makes a waking of their sleep.

Father, who countest such poor birds as fall. Count Thou these children fallen from their place ; Lift and console them of Thy pity's grace, And teach them that to suher is not all ; Hedge them about with love as with a wall, Give them in dreams the knowledge of Thy face, And wipe away such stains as sin doth trace. Sending deliverance when brave souls call.

AMELIE RIVES 323

Deliver them, O Lord, deliver them! — These children — as Thy Son was once a child ! Make them even purer than before they fell, Radiant in raiment clean from throat to hem : For, Lord, till Thou hast cleansed these sin-defiled. Of such the kingdom, not of heaven, but hell.

A WINTER HYMN

OH, Spirit of Love and of Light, Thou, the Unknown whom I serve. Be with me, make me Thine own ! — Urench all my being with Thine, Like as the wild winter rain Drenches the winter-wan grass ; Be to me like as the wind. Heard in the plumes of the pines — Swaying me ; loosening my thoughts — (Thought is the scent of the soul !) Change, O Divine One, my mood, — Heavy and mist-like and dark, Like as the sunset the clouds. Till in the golden delight Clouds are more lovely than air. Delicate secret withheld. Once did I call Thee by name ! Once in a far-away world ! — Vaguer than perfume of flowers Blossoming pale in a dream, — (Flowers the dark earth never knew) Softer than croon in rill Heard 'neath its prison of ice ; Lovelier than musing on Love, Sweeter than tears of a Bride, Holier than joy for the Dead, The waft of Thy once spoken name. Oh, Spirit of Love and of Light, Thou, the Unknown whom I serve, Be with me, make me Thine own !

Y 2

324

LORD, OFT I COME

LORD, oft I come unto Thy door, But when Thou openest it to me, Back to the dark I shrink once more, Away from light and Thee.

Lord, oft some gift of Thee I pray ; Thou givest bread of finest wheat ; Empty I turn upon my way.

Counting a stone more sweet.

Thou bidst me speed ; then sit I still ; Thou bidst me stay ; then do I go ; Lord, make "me Thine in deed and will. And ever keep me so !

A RHYME OF DEATH'S INN

A RHYME of good Death's inn! My love came to that door ; And she had need of m.any things. The way had been so sore.

My love she lifted up her head, 'And is there room?' said she;

' There was no room in Bethlehem's inn For Christ who died for me.'

But said the keeper of the inn,

' His name is on the door.' My love then straightway entered there :

She hath come back no more.

Mia (grown

IN EXTREMIS

NOT from the pestilence and storm, — Fate's creeping brood, — the crouching form Of dread disease, and image dire Of wrack and loss, of flood and fire ;

ALICE BROWN 325

Not from the poisoned fangs of hate, Or death-worm born to be my mate, But from the fear that such things be, O Lord, deliver me !

Fear dogs the shadow at my side; Fear doth my wingless soul bestride. In the lone stillness of the night His whisper doth mine ear affright ; His formless shape mine eye appals; Under his touch my body crawls. Now, from his loathsome mastery, O Lord, deliver me !

I would not loose me, if I might, ' From touch, or sound, or taste, or sight, Of all life's dread revealing. Nay, Were I God's angel, I would stay Here on this clod of crucial grief, And learn my rede without relief; But from this basest empery

And last, I would be free.

My fiend hath poisoned even the cup Of faith and love : I may not sup But horror grins within the bowl, And spectre guests affright my soul. Yea, and the awful Sisters Three, Spinning the web eternity. Have lost their solemn state, and wear The Furies' snake-bound hair.

Out of the jaws of hell and night Lead my sick soul, O Sovereign Light! Let me tread shivering through the cold. Despised, forsaken, hunted, old. Unloved, unwept, beneath the ban Of sharpest anguish laid on man ; But from the monster foul I flee, O God, deliver me !

326 ALICE BROWN

THE SILENT WATCH

FULL- ARM ED I fought the Paynim foe Now palm to palm I lie ; My bed, of stone ; my covering, The minster s vaulted sky.

Pilgrim and priest move softly here,

On vain or holy quest. Let me sleep on, and take the meed

Of my appointed rest.

Let me sleep on, until my soul Hath made her strong again

To fight the fight of good with ill, Of peace with mortal pain.

For one day there shall come a voice

Sounding from sky to sea : ' Arise, Sir Knight, before My face !

Now I have need of thee.'

HORA CHRIS TI

SWEET is the time for joyous folk Of gifts and minstrelsy ; Yet I, O lowly-hearted One,

Crave but Thy company. On lonesome road, beset with dread,

My questing lies afar. I have no light, save in the east The gleaming of Thy star.

In cloistered aisles they keep to-day

Thy feast, O living Lord ! With pomp of banner, pride of song.

And stately-sounding word. Mute stand the kings of power and place,

While priests of holy mind Dispense Thy blessed heritage

Of peace to all mankind.

ALICE BROWN 327

I know a spot where budless twigs

Are bare above the snow, And where sweet winter-loving birds

FHt softly to and fro ; There with the sun for altar-fire,

The earth for kneeling-place, The gentle air for chorister,

Will I adore Thy face.

Lord, underneath the great blue sky.

My heart shall paean sing. The gold and myrrh of meekest love

Mine only offering. Bliss of Thy birth shall quicken me ;

And for Thy pain and dole Tears are but vain, so I will keep

The silence of the soul.

ilnne (geeve ilf^ncg

A WAYSIDE CALVARY

ITS shadow makes a sheltered place All through -the burning summer day, There at the foot, secure from sun, The ragged little children play.

And in the winter huddled birds

Take refuge from the windward side,

When driving snows make bleak the plain, And herald holy Christmas-tide.

The bleeding Christ that hangs above To bid the passer stop and pray.

Smiles through His bitter agony

On such small, tender thmgs as they !

WRITTEN BENEATH A CRUCIFIX

HE hath not guessed Christ's agony, He hath not dreamed His bitterest woe, Who hath not worn the crown of love, And felt the crown of anguish so.

328 ANNE REEVE ALDRICH

Ah, not the torments of the cross,

Or nails that pierced, or thirst that burned.

Heightened the Kingly Victim's pain. But grief of griefs, — His love was spurned !

A LITTLE PARABLE

I MADE the cross myself, whose weight Was later laid on me. This thought is torture as I toil Up life's steep Calvary.

To think mine own hands drove the nails

I sang a merry song. And chose the heaviest wood I had

To build it firm and strong.

If I had guessed— if I had dreamed Its weight was meant for me,

I should have made a lighter cross To bear up Calvary !

THE ETERNAL JUSTICE

THANK God that God shall judge my soul, not man I marvel when they say, ' Think of that awful Day — No pitying fellow-sinner's eyes shall scan With tolerance thy soul, But His who knows the whole, The God whom all men own is wholly just.' Hold thou that last word dear, And live untouched by fear.

He knows with what strange fires He mixed this dust. The heritage of race, The circumstance and place

Which make us what we are— were from His hand, That left us, faint of voice. Small margin for a choice.

ANNE REEVE ALDRICH 329

He gave, I took : shall I not fearless stand ?

Hereditary bent

That hedges in intent

He knows, be sure, the God who shaped thy brain,

He loves the souls He made ;

He knows His own hand laid

On each the mark of some ancestral stain.

Not souls severely white.

But groping for more light,

Are what Eternal Justice here demands.

Fear not ; He made thee dust.

Cling to that sweet word— 'Just.'

All 's well with thee if thou art in just hands.

l^atU^int 6feanotr Conway

IN THANKSGIVING

AT last ! at last ! Oh joy ! Oh victory ! l\ But not to me, my God, ah, not to me, But to Thy Name the praise, the glory be !

At last ! at last ! but when was prayer unheeded ? And more wouldst Thou have given, had more been

needed, For purer lips than mine my cause have pleaded.

O trust that trembled on the verge of failing !

0 timid heart, at shadowy terrors quailing ! Spending thyself in conflict unavailing !

Dear God, forgive ! my fears are shamed to flight ; Oershadowed by Thy mercy and Thy might,

1 rest in humble-hearted, still delight.

Oh teach me song to praise Thee gladsomely, Whose strong hands cleared the tangled way for me. And saved me from the snares I could not flee !

330 KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY

CHRIST AND THE MOURNERS

DOWN on the shadowed stream of time and tears, Voice of new grief and grief of ancient years- Sad as when first from loving lips 'twas sighed — ' Hadst Thou been here, my brother had not died.'

Comfort us. Lord, who heardst poor Martha's plaint, Heal the sore heart, uplift the spirit faint— O Thou, the Peace that cometh after strife ! O Thou, the Resurrection and the Life !

Why didst Thou take the love we leaned on so ? We know not, but hereafter we shall know. Speaks now our faith, through tears Thou wilt not chide, ' Most wert Thou here when our beloved died.'

QUinnte (Btfmore

ADIEU

ADIEU ! To God ! l\ In all love's m3'stic language No word so sweet as this. Wherein some dear, dear heart to God we tender Between the sob and kiss.

No song, no poem,

No prayer, has its completeness, Its pathos, faith, its love ; Not one on earth is meet to guard our treasure, — Meet only God above !

O hearts! O Hps !

Not for the common parting Where no love is, nor pain — Not for the farewells spoken 'midst light laughter, This holy word profane:

But hold in trust

For life's sure Passion-hour, When scourging fates beset. And called our souls, to tender their best loved On Parting's Olivet.

MINNIE GILMORE 331

O sundered breasts !

O sore souls torn and bleeding ! O lonely hearts that ache! Love is a bond earth's partings forge but firmer, Nor death itself shall break.

And each 'A Dieu,'

As from faint lips it falters, Has issue great and grand, Our dear ones shrining surely in the hollow Of God's own guarding hand.

LIFE

A SONG of a White Throne circled By a girdle of white fire. — Once on the flame God breathed,

Filled with divine desire. Out, at His breath, there flickered

A single tongue of flame, Paling the golden planets, Putting the sun to shame.

It flashed thro' the flashing Saturn,

It flamed thro' the flaming Mars, Flooded the skies with glory,

Glowed down the glowing stars ; Burst on the six-day Eden,

And since has the world been rife With fruit of that flame from heaven -

The God-breathed flame of Life.

%<x-m(x^ ^(xxUx ICimSaff

CONTRAST

ROUT and defeat on every hand. On every hand defeat and rout; Yet through the rent clouds' hurrying rack The stars look out.

332 HANNAH PARKER KIMBALL

Decay supreme from west to east,

From south to north supreme decay Yet still the withered fields and hills Grow green with May.

In clod and man unending strife,

Unending strife in man and clod ; Yet burning in the heart of man The fire of God.

LIGHT

HE wills we may not read life's book aright, Wrest from each awful line its meaning clear, Till we have bowed to read it by the light Of pallid tapers on some true love's bier.

LOVES MIRACLE

LOVE, work thy wonted miracle to-day. Here stand, in jars of manifold design, Life's bitter waters, mixed with mire and clay. And thou canst change them into purest wine.

TWO POINTS OF VIEW

I

l\ For a few white souls forgiven, For a smiling throng of a few elect,

LL this costly expense 1l For a few white son. )r a smiling throng of a White harpers harping in heaven.

Lord, Thy glance is wide,

And Thy wide arms circle the whole ; Shall out of Thy net of loving ghde

One wand'ring human soul .''

HANNAH PARKER KIMBALL 333

THE CHRIST-CHILD ALONE

IN the long pageant of man's destiny, A sweep of sunburnt country and a hill, Where sits a little child to watch the sky. — O little Jesus, wide-eyed, charmed, and still, How doth Thy hushed, expectant, wondering will Commune with blade, and flower, and startled thing That flits across Thy path on timid wing ? What thoughts, what dreams, what hopes, what fantasies, Doth yon vast sweep of radiant heavens bring ? In Thy child's brain loom what strange images?

THE REFUGE OF THE IDEAL

OUR souls are sick for permanence; this world Shifts wearily on creaking poles through space ; No atom stays, no friend ; there is no place Where man may rest a heart through transience whirled.

And we are sick for permanence. We know Too well how cities sink upon the sands ; — Yet far away one cloud-tipped city stands

Secure, and through it ever, to and fro.

Surges a voice that cries : ' Ye sons of care,

Frequent, with hearts appeased, my gleaming walls ; Tread my white streets, and hear your sad footfalls

Rise deathless music through my radiant air.'

Oh to attain this city of our quest,

This luminous shelter for our souls' unrest !

(JDimam %mitx (gtVcRgea^

ASPIRATION

HIGHER, higher. Purified by suffering's fire, Rise, my soul, until thy flight Pierce its way to heaven's light.

334 WILLIAM HUNTER BIRCKHEAD

Clearer, clearer,

Until, ever drawing nearer,

There shall burst upon thy sight.

Through the darkness of earth's night,

All the eye of faith may see.

Set in God's eternity.

LOST HOURS

THEIR advent is as silent as their going, They have no voice nor utter any speech, No whispered murmur passes each to each, As on the bosom of the years' stream flowing, They pass beyond recall, beyond our knowing, Farther than sight can pierce or thought -can reach, Nor shall we ever hear them on Time's beach. No matter how the winds of life are blowing.

They bide their time, they wait the awful warning Of that dread day, when hearts and graves unsealing. The trumpet's note shall call the sea and sod, To yield their secrets to the sun's revealing: What voices then shall thrill the Judgment morning, As our lost hours shall cry aloud to God ?

^auf Bawtence ®un6atr

CONSCIENCE AND REMORSE

' /'^ OOD-BYE,' I said, to my conscience — VJ ' Good-bye for aye and aye,' And I put her hands off harshly,

And turned my face away ;

And conscience, smitten sorely.

Returned not from that day.

But a time came when my spirit

Grew weary of its pace ; And I cried : ' Come back my conscience,

I long to see thy face,' But conscience cried : ' I cannot,

Remorse sits in my place.'

335

6ffen ^(ut^te ^oo^jer

DUTY

I SLEPT, and dreamed that life was Beauty ; I woke, and found that hfe was Duty. Was thy dream then a shadowy he ? Toil on, sad heart, courageously, And thou shalt find thy dream to be A noonday light and truth to thee.

' THALA TTA '

Cry of the Ten Thousand

I Stand upon the summit of my years.

Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife,

The wandering and the desert; vast, afar,

Beyond this weary way, behold ! the Sea !

The sea o'er-swept by clouds and winds and wings,

By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath

Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.

Palter no question of the dim Beyond ;

Cut loose the bark ; such voyage itself is rest ;

Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,

A widening heaven, a current without care.

Eternity ! — Deliverance, Promise, Course!

Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.

336

EPILOGUE

THE POETS

TXTHEN flits young land has reached its wrinkled

prime, And we are gone, and all our songs are done, And naught is left unchanged beneath the sun, IVhat other singers shall the womb of Time Bring forth to reap the sunny slopes of rhyme ? For surely till the thread of life be spun The world shall not lack poets, though but one Make lovely music like a vesper chime Above the heedless turmoil of the street.

Those unborn poets! What melodious breath, What larger music, shall be given to these? Shall they more closely lie at Nature's feet, Reading the volume of her mysteries? Shall they new secrets wring from darksome Death ?

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

NOTES

BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

PAGE

1. John Pierpont, b. Litchfield, Conn., Apr, 6, 1785. Graduated Yale ; admitted to the bar 1812, retired on account of conscien- tious scruples. Entered Harvard Divinity School, 1818. Held pastorates at Hollis Street Church, Boston ; Troy, N.Y. ; and Medford, Mass. When more than 70 years of age became Chaplain of a Massachusetts regiment in the Civil War— this proved too much for his strength. He then undertook the vast w^ork of indexing the decisions of the Treasury Department at Washington, which he completed before his sudden death, Aug. 27, 1866. His poetic works were Airs of Palestine, 1816 ; Collected Poems, 1840.

' Universal Worship' — written for the opening of the Congre- gational Church in Barton Square, Salem, Mass., Dec. 7, 1824 — is the earliest really great hymn I have found by an American writer.

3. Andrews Worton, b. Hingham, Mass., 1786. Graduated Harvard. Librarian, Lecturer, and Professor of Sacred Literature at Harvard, 1819-30. Well known for his Historical Evidences of the Gemtineness of the Gospels, d. 1853.

3. Written for the dedication of the First Church, Cambridge, Mass.

4. Charles Sprague, b. Boston, Oct. 25, 1791. (His father was one of those who, in resistance to British taxation, threw over- board the tea in Boston Harbor, 1773.) For the greater part of his life cashier in the Globe Bank, Boston. Poems appeared 1841. d. 1875.

' The Winged Worshippers ' was addressed to two swallows that flew into Chauncy Place Church during divine service — see Monthly Magazine for May, 1870.

5. Nathaniel L. Frothingham, D.D., b. Boston, July 23, 1793. Graduated Harvard, 1811, with distinguished honor. When 19 years of age he became Instructor in Rhetoric and Oratory in Harvard. Studied theology, and was ordained pastor of the First Church, Boston, 1815, where he remained till failing sight,

z

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which ended in blindness, obliged him to resign, 1850. Much of his best poetic work was done after he had become blind. d. Apr. 4, 1870.

' A Lament,' for the Rev. Wm. Parsons Lunt, D.D., who died at Akabah, the ancient Ezion-Geber, on the Red Sea, Mar. 20, 1857, on his way to the Holy Land. 7. "William CuUen Bryant, b. Nov. 3, 1794. Son of a highly cultured physician, to whose training he owed much. Before he was ten years old some of his verses appeared in the Hampshire Gazette for 1S07. For two years a student at Williams College. Then studied law, and practised until 1825, first at Plainfield, Mass., and next at Great Barrington. Removing to New York became the editor of the New York Review. In the following year he joined William Coleman in conducting the New York Eveiiitig Post, assuming its entire editorial charge a year after, d. New York, 1878, Bryant was the first of American poets whose fame reached out to all English-speaking lands. Lowell describes him thus —

' He 's a Cowper condensed, with no craziness bitten, And the advantage that Wordsworth before him has written.

He is almost the one of your poets that knows How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in repose.'

For a long period his poetry held a very high place on account of its finish, and fidelity to nature, but the rise of the Impres- sionist School in poetry has made critics a little impatient of what they deem his over-elaboration.

' Thanotopsis,' written when he was only seventeen or eighteen years old, appeared in the North American Review in 1817. ' He had been engaged, as he says, in comparing Blair's poem of " The Grave," with another of the same cast by Bishop Porteus ; and his mind was also considerably occupied with a recent volume of Kirke White's verses — those "Melodies of Death," to use a phrase from the Ode to the Rosary. It was in the autumn ; the blue of the summer sky had faded into gray, and the brown earth was heaped with sere and withered emblems of the departed glory of the year. As he trod upon the hollow-sounding ground, in the loneliness of the woods, and among the prostrate trunks of trees that for generations had been mouldering into dust, he thought how the vast solitudes about him were filled with the same sad tokens of decay. He asked himself, as the thought expanded in his mind, What, indeed, is the whole earth but a great sepulchre of once living things, and its skies and stars but the witness and decorations

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 339

FAGE

of a tomb? All that ever trod its surface, even they who preceded the kings and patriarciis of the ancient world, the teeming populations of buried cities that tradition itself has forgotten, are mingled with its soil. All who tread it now, in the flush of beauty, hope, and joy, will soon lie down with them, and all who are yet to tread it in ages still unknown . . . will join the innumerable hosts that have gone the dusky way. While his mind was yet tossing with the thought, he hurried home, and endeavoured to paint it to the eye, and render it in music to the ear. This poem, for which he coined a name from the Greek, was, says the poet Stoddard, "the greatest poem ever written b3'- so young a man." And as it came out of the heart of our primaeval woods, so it first gave articulate voice to the genius of the New World, which is yet, as the geologists tell us, older than the Old.' 9. * Ode to a Waterfowl.' ' Written in his very early 3'ears, when about to begin his work as a lawyer at Plainfield. He went over to the place to make the necessary inquiries. He says in a letter that he walked up the hills very forlorn and desolate indeed, not knowing what was to become of him in the big world, which grew bigger as he ascended, and yet darker with the coming on of night. The sun had already set, leaving behind it one of those brilliant seas of chrysolite and opal which often flood the New England skies ; and while he was looking on the rosy splendor with rapt admiration, a solitary bird made wing along the illuminated horizon. He watched the lone wanderer until it was lost in the distance, asking himself whence it had come, and to what home it was flying. When he went to the house where he was to stop for the night, his mind was full of what he had seen and felt, and he wrote these lines, as imperishable as our language.'

Students of Robert Browning will note the striking similarity of thought in the last verse of this poem and the following lines in ' Paracelsus ' — the favorite passage of General Gordon : — ' I go to prove my soul ! I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive ! what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send His hail. Or blinding fireballs, sleet, or stifling snow, In some time, His good time, I shall arrive : He guides me and the bird. In His good time ! '

Bryant's Hymns were not included in his Poems, but published separately. 12. 'The Mothers Hymn,' written at the suggestion of the

Z 2

340 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

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Rev. Samuel Osgood, D.D., and included in the Service-book entitled Christian Worship, w^hich he and the Rev. F. A. Farley, D.D., compiled.

14. Henry Ware, jun., D.D., b. Hingham, Mass., Apr. 21, 1794. Son of Henry Ware, D.D., Hollis Professor of Divinity at Cambridge. Graduated with high honor at Harvard, 1812.' Ordained minister of the Second Church of Boston in 1817. On account of ill-health resigned in 1828 ; the church, unwilling to accept his resignation, appointed Ralph Waldo Emerson to be his associate. The same year he was appointed Professor of Pulpit Eloquence and Pastoral Care in the Harvard Divinity School, d. Sept. 25, 1843.

15. "William Augustus Miihlenberg, grandson of Henrj^ Mel- chior Muhlenberg, the patriarch of Lutheranism in America, b. Philadelphia, 1796. Graduated at the University of Penn- sylvania, 1814. He was greatly beloved as the Rector of the Church of the Holy Communion in New York, and as the founder of philanthropic institutions, of which St. Lukes Hospital, in New York, is chief, d. 1877. His poem, 'I would not live alway,' attained great popularity in America. In an abbreviated form it was included in the hymnal of the Protestant Episcopal Church, but was omitted from the last edition. Dr. Doane, the Bishop of Albany, told me that the author expressed his gratification at its omission, since the hymn had been the outcome of a morbid mood.

16. William Bourne Oliver Peabody, D.D., b. Exeter, N. H., July 9, 1799. Graduated Harvard, 1817. Studied theology at the Harvard Divinity School. Ordained pastor at Springfield, Mass., Oct., 1820, where he died, May 28, 1847.

16. George Washington Doane, b. Trenton, May 27, 1799. Educated at Union College. For 27 years Bishop of New Jersey, d. Apr. 27, 1859. Father of Dr. W. Croswell Doane, the pre- sent Bishop of Albany.

17. Lydia Maria (Francis) Child, b. Medford, Mass., Feb. 11, 1802. m. 1828, David L. Child. Wrote in 1833 appeal ' For that Class of Americans called Africans,' said to be the first anti- slavery book in America; and many stories. d. Wayland, Mass., Oct. 20, 1880.

18. Louisa Jane Hall — daughter of John Park, a physician — b. Newburyport, Mass., Feb. 2, 1802. During her long life she contributed much, both in prose and poetry, chiefly of a religious character, to the papers and magazines. Published a volume under the title of Verse and Prose in 1850. d. 1892.

19. William Henry Furness, D.D., b. Boston, Apr. 20, 1802. Graduated at Harvard, 1820, and the Harvard Divinity School,

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 341

PAGE

1823. Ordained pastor, 1825. Author of many theological works, d. 1896. One of the most beautiful and venerable figures of America. 20. Ralph "Waldo Emerson, b. Boston, Mass., May 25, 1803. Entered Boston Latin School, 1813, and Harvard, 1817. Col- league, and afterwards successor, of Henry Ware, jun., in the Second Church of Boston. Resigned on account of scruples concerning the Communion. Thenceforward he devoted himself to literature and lecturing. He was at once the moving spirit and the severe critic of the so-called Transcendentalists. d. Concord, Mass., Apr. 27, 1882. Emerson's fame rests on his prose writings, which are poetic in all save their form. Lowell describes him as

* A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range Has Olympus for one pole, for t'other the exchange.'

And of his verse he says —

* In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter. But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter.'

His is the poetry of ideas, but often the ideas are so penetrating that we can forgive the poorness of their vesture. He once said to his close friend, Elizabeth Peabcdy, ' I am not a great poet — but whatever is of me, is poetV Earl Lytton very happily describes his poems thus — ' They are not Hebrew Psalms at- tuned to the harp, but Delphic oracles, or sunny meditations of a serene Pan delivered in broken snatches to faint sounds of sylvan flutes.' And yet every now and then we may say of some of his poems what John Ruskin sometimes says of his own writing — ' This could not be better expressed.' Like Robert Browning, caring chiefly for ideas, yet every now and then he struck out passages exquisite in their lyric beauty,

27. ' The House of God.' Written in 1833 for the ordination of Rev. Chandler Robbins, who succeeded Emerson as minister of the Second Church, Boston.

28. William Croswell, b. Hudson, N. Y., Nov. 7, 1804. d. Boston, 1851. The founder, and for seven years Rector, of the Church of the Advent in that city. His Poems, edited by Bishop Coxe, appeared in 1861.

29. Frederic Henry Hedge, D.D. , b. Cambridge, Mass. , Dec. 12, 1805. After studjnng at Ilfeld and Schulpforte, graduated at Harvard, 1825, and Harvard Divinity School three years later. Held pastorates at West Cambridge, now Arlington ; Bangor, Me ; Providence, R.I.; and Brookline, Mass. Pro- fessor of Ecclesiastical History in the Harvard Divinity School, and Professor of German Literature in Harvard, d. 1890.

342 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

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31. Henry "Wadsworth Longfellow, b. Portland, Me., Feb. 27, 1807. Entered Bowdoin College, 1822. After graduating in 1825, visited Europe to prepare himself for the chair of Modern Languages at that College. Entered upon the Professorship, 1829. Called to a similar post at Harv^ard, which he held from 1836 to 1864 LL.D. at Cambridge, Eng., and D.C.L. at Oxford, 1868. His bust placed in the Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey, 1884. d. Cambridge, Mass., Mar. 24, 1882. His Life, followed by Final Memoj-ials, edited by his brother Samuel. He is one of the most widely read of American poets. Unfortu- nately, some of his least worthy poems are the best known, such as ' The Psalm of Life.' This has tended to depreciate him som.ewhat in the eyes of the cultivated.

34. Written for Samuel Longfellow's ordination, 1848.

35. ' Nature ' is by many regarded as the finest of American sonnets. It reminds one somewhat of Filicaja's lovel}^ sonnet translated by Leigh Hunt.

'Just as a mother, with sweet, pious face, '

Yearns towards her little children from her seat,

Gives one a kiss, another an embrace,

Takes this upon her knees, that on her feet ;

And while from actions, looks, complaints, pretences.

She learns their feelings and their various will,

To this a look, to that a word, dispenses,

And, whether stern or smiling, loves them still ; —

So Providence for us, high, infinite.

Makes our necessities its watchful task,

Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants,

And even if it denies w^hat seems our right,

Either denies because 'twould have us ask.

Or seems but to deny, or in denying grants.

37. Sarah. Elizabeth (Appletoii) Miles, b. Boston, Mass., Mar. 28, 1807. Her verse, written mostly at a very early age, was sent to the printer by her father. Her finest hymn, given here, appeared in the Christian Examiner in 1827, and is remarkable for so young a writer.

38. Nathaniel Parker Willis, b. Portland, Me., Jan. 20, 1807. Graduated Yale, 1827. Founded the American Monthly Magazine, 1829, which in 1831 became the New York Mirror. Made a tour through Europe and the East, 1831, of which he sent accounts to his paper. Reports of private conversations in these led to a duel with Captain Marryat. Leaving the Mirror in 1839 he established The Corsair, to which Thackeray contributed. In 1846 started The Home Journal J with which he was connected till his death,

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 343

PAGE

Jan. 20, 1867. Best known by his poems on Scripture Events,, which, though rather inflated, were once very popular.

38. Written for the consecration of Hanover St. Church, Boston, 1826

38. Ray Palmer, D.D., b. Little Compton, R.I., Nov. 12. 1808. Graduated Yale, 1830. Held pastorates in Bath, Maine, and Albany, N.Y. d. 1887.

' My faith looks up to Thee ' is probably the best-known of American hymns. Written in 1830, when its author was between his college and theological studies — in poor health and teaching in a girls' school. He says, 'I gave form to what I felt by writing with little effort the stanzas. I wrote them with very tender emotion, and ended the last line with tears.' The manu- script was then placed in a pocket-book until Lowell Mason asked young Palmer if he had not some hymn to contribute to his new book. The hymn was produced, and Dr. Mason asked for a copy ; they stepped together into a store and the copy was made and taken away ; on examining the hymn at home Dr. Mason was so much pleased that he wrote for it the tune Olivet. A few days after he met the author and said, 'Mr. Palmer, you may live many years and do many good things, but I think you will be best known to posterity as the author of ' My faith looks up to Thee.' A true prophecy. It has been translated into Arabic, Tamil, Tahitian, Mahratta, Chinese, to say nothing of the European languages. It consisted originally of six stanzas, but in Ray Palmer's Poetical Works it stands as in the text.

41. John Greenleaf "Whittier, b. Haverhill, Mass., Dec. 17, 1807. Brought up on his father's farm till his twentieth year, when verses of his having appeared in the Newburyport Free Press, its editor, William Lloyd Garrison, urged his father to give him a better education. As a result he went for two terms to the Haverhill Academy, the funds being provided by the youth's own work at slipper-making and teaching. When he was 21 he edited at Boston the Atnerican Mamifactnrcr. From 1830 to 1832 he edited successively the Haverhill Gazette and the New England Weekly Revieiv. From 1832 to 1837 he was occupied in managing the family farm and writing for the anti- slavery press. In 1837 he removed to Philadelphia, where, for two years, he edited the Pennsylvania Freeman. In 1840 he made his home at Amesbury, Mass., but during his latest years he resided at Oak Knoll, Danvers. From 1847 to 1857 the greater part of his writing appeared in the National Era of Washington, D.C., an anti-slavery paper. When the Atlantic Monthly was founded in 1857, most of his work appeared first

344 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

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in its pages. His first volume, Legends of New England in Prose and Verse, appeared in 1831 ; his last, St. Gregory's Guest and Recent Poems, in 1886. A posthumous volume, At Sundown, was published in 1892. His complete writings in prose and verse were published in 7 vols, by Houghton. Mifflin & Co. in Boston, and Macmillan & Co. in London (1888-9). Whittier is one of the few poets who belonged to the Society of Friends, and, strange to say, his muse was kindled by a volume of Robert Burns's poetry left at his father's house by a travelling pedlar ; but the muse was in him, and the marvel is that, with so slender an education, it gave forth notes so rich. Had he been blessed with the opportunities of culture which fell to the lot of Longfellow, Holmes, and Lowell, he would, I think, have outdistanced them all in lyric work. Lowell says : — ' There was ne'er a man born who had more of the swing Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing; And his failures arise (though perhaps he don't know it), From the very same cause that has made him a poet — A fervor of mind which knows no separation 'Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration.'

Opportunities for culture would have taught him to know that difference. His poem ' Snow^-bound ' is worthy of a place beside Goldsmith's Desetied Village and Gray's Elegy, and is as perfect a picture of American as these are of English village life. In pathetic expression his religious verse has few equals in English poetry.

51. Written for the opening of Plymouth Church, Minnesota, 1872.

52. ' The Voice of Calm ' from ' The Brewing of Soma.'

56. Oliver Wendell Holmes, b. Cambridge, Mass., Aug. 29, 1809. For a year at Phillips Academy in Andover. Graduated Harvard, 1829. After a year's study of law he turned to medicine, which he studied at Harvard, Edinburgh, and Paris, taking his medical degree in 1836. Appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology at Dartmouth, 1839. In 1840 began practice in Boston. Seven years later appointed Parkman Professor of Anatomy at Harvard, d. 1894. His professional works were numerous and valuable, but his fame rests on his literary writings both in prose and verse. His first poem — a protest against the breaking up of the worn-out frigate Constitution, appeared in the Boston Advertiser in 1830. On the founding of the Atlantic Monthly in 1857 he contributed the papers afterwards known as The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, followed in i860 by The Professor, and in 1873 by The Poet at the Breakfast Table. In these some of his finest verse first

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 345

PAGE

appeared. From time to time he gathered his fugitive verse for publication in book-form — the last of these being Before the Curfew^ in 1888. His complete poetical works were issued by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. He was one of the most delight- ful characters of America, and beloved on both sides of the Atlantic. Best known though he is by his prose, especially The Autocrat^ his poems are full of fanc3', fun, kindly satire, but sometimes they are marked by the tenderest pathos, and in a few cases they rise to grandeur, as in certain verses of 'The Chambered Nautilus' and ' The Living Temple.' 57. ' The Chambered Nautilus,' from The Autocrat of the Breakfast Tabic, 1857-1858.

60. 'A Sunday Hymn' is introduced with these words at the conclusion of The Professor at the Breakfast Table:—' They will, doubtless, forget for the moment the difference of the hues of truth we look at through our human prisms, and join in singing (inwardly) this hymn to the Source of the light we all need to lead us, and the warmth which alone will make us all brothers.'

61. ' Hymn of Trust ' is also from The Professor at the Breakfast Table.

62. Stephen Greenleaf Bulfinch, b. Boston, June 18, 1809. (His father, Charles Bulfinch, was the designer of the National Capitol at Washington.) Graduated at Columbia College, 1827, and at the Harvard Divinity School in 1830. Held pastorates at Pittsburgh, Pa.; Washington, D.C. ; Nashua, N.H. ; Dorches- ter, and at East Cambridge, Mass., where he died, Oct. 12, 1870. His verse — Poems, 1834 ; Lays of the Gospel, 1845 ; Editor of The Harp and the Cross. 1857.

64. Edgar Allan Poe, b. Boston, Mass., Jan. 19, 1809. Educated at Manor House School near London, Eng., 1815-20, and for a few months in 1826 at the University of Virginia. After a changeful and somewhat wayward life, d. Baltimore, Oct. 7, 1849. Remarkable for his w^eird stories and such poems as ' The Raven,' 'The Bells,' and 'Annabel Lee.'

64. James Freeman Clarke, b. Hanover, N.H., Apr. 4, 1810. Graduated at Harvard, 1829, and in its Divinity School, 1833. Held pastorates at Louisville and Boston. Professor of Natural Theology and Christian Doctrine at Harvard. For six years a member of the State Board of Education, d. 1888. Author of numerous and valuable theological works.

65. Theodore Parker, b. Lexington, Mass., Aug. 24, 1810. His father was a farmer and mechanic, but the son managed to teach himself during the winter months. Entered Harvard, 1830, at the same time working on a farm. From 1837 to 1845 minister at West Roxbury, and from 1846 to 1859 of an inde-

346 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

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pendent religious society organized in Boston. Compelled to resign from failure of health, d. Florence, Italy, May lo. i860. An ardent abolitionist and eloquent preacher and writer. His works, published in 14 vols, after his death, edited by Frances Power Cobbe.

'Jesus' expresses his earlier view.

66. Chandler Robbins, b. Lynn, Mass., i8ro. Graduated at Harvard, 1829, and Harvard Divinity School, 1833. Minister of Second Church, Boston, 1833-1874. d. 1882. This hymn was contributed to Dr. George E. Ellis's Psalms and Hymns for the Sanctuary, 1845.

66. Edmund Hamilton Sears, b. Sandisfield, Mass., 1810. Graduated Union College, 1834 ; Harvard Divinity School, 1837. Minister of churches in Lancaster, Way land, and Weston, Mass. d. Weston, 1876. Author of The Fourth Gospel — the Heart of Christ, and other works.

' Peace on Earth ' was first published in the Christian Register, Boston, 1849.

68. ' Ideals' appeared in the Christian Register, Jan. 3, 1889.

69. "William Henry Burleigh, b. Woodstock, Conn., 1812. Harbor Master and afterwards Port Warden of New York, 1853-70. d. 1871, in which j^ear his poems were published at New York.

72. Samuel Dowse Robbins, brother of Chandler Robbins, b. Lynn, Mass., 1812, where he was ordained in 1833. After three pastorates in other towns, he retired from active work in 1873. d. recently.

73. Robert Cassie Waterston, b. Kennebunk, Me., 1812. Lifelong resident in Boston, where, beside pastoral charges, he was largely interested in educational and philanthropic work. Contributed to the North Ameri-an Review, d. recentl3^

74. Harriet (Beecher) Stowe, b. Litchfield, Conn., June 14, 1812. Daughter of Rev. Lyman Beecher, D.D. m. 1836 the Rev. Calvin E. Stowe, D.D , Professor first at Bowdoin College and then at Andover Theological Seminar3^ Best known as the authoress of Uncle Tom's Cabin, which first appeared in the National Era, of Washington, D.C., 1851-52, followed by many other works, d. 1896. The verses quoted are from Religions Poems, 1865.

77. One verse omitted from ' When I awake I am still with Thee.'

78. Christopher Pearse Cranch, b. Alexandria, Va., 1813. Studied art in Europe. Afterwards lived at Cambridge, Mass., and New York. Beyond his work as an artist, published Aineid of Virgil in English Verse (1872), The Bird and the Bell

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(1875), and Ariel and Caliban (i877\ d, Cambridge, Mass.. Jan. 20, 1892. 81. Jones Very, b. Salem, Mass., Aug. 28, 1813. Early left fatherless. At fourteen errand boy, occupying spare time in self-education, and then tutor in a private school. Entered Harvard, 1834 ; two years later graduated with honors and appointed tutor in Greek — was spoken of as an ideal in- structor 'who fairly breathed the spirit of the Greek language and its litera^^ure, surrounding their study with a charm whicli his pupils declare vanished from Harvard with him.' Many of the verses that flowed from his pen appeared first on the backs of 3'oung men's Greek exercises, as ' Incentives to a nobler life.' In 1838 he gave up his classical work and retired to Salem. Regarded by many as insane, but Dr. James Freeman Clarke said it was a case of luoiwsattia rather than ntonoitiania^ and Emerson wished the whole world were as mad as he. He was most modest, and deemed himself only a reed through which the Spirit might breathe a music of its own. He said, ^ I value these verses not because they are mine, but because they are not.' A fellow-clergyman said, 'To have walked with Very was truly to have walked with God'; and a sportsman once remarked, ' I don't set up to be a religious man, but you could not meet Very in the field without feeling the better for it somehow.' ' Rapt, twirling in his hands a withered spray, and waiting for the spark from heaven to fall, it seemed as if a gentle presence had wandered from another world than ours.' d. May 8, 1880. His collected works were published, with a portrait, and biographical sketch by Dr. James Freeman Clarke, 1886.

84. ' Labor and Rest.' Not included in the complete edition of the works of Jones Very, but in the volume edited by W. P. Andrews.

85. Cyrus Augustus Bartol, b. Freeport, Me., Apr. 30, 1813. Graduated Bowdoin, studied Harvard Divinity School. Col- league pastor of the West Church, Boston, 1837. Pastor, 1861. Philanthropist and social reformer. Close friend of Dr. Horace Bushnell, in whose Life many of his letters appear.

86. Charles Timothy Brooks, b. Salem, Mass., June 20, 1813. Graduated Harvard. Pastor of church in Newport, R. I., 1837-73, where he died June 14, 1883. Issued many transla- tions from the German, and several volumes of poems.

87. James Thomas Fields, b. Portsmouth, N. H., Dec. 31, 1816. Was editor of the At'antic Monthly, 1862-70. His work as a publisher in the well-known house of Ticknor and Fields brought him into intimate relations with many eminent writers,

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of whom he has written in Yesterdays ivith Authors, d. Boston, Mass., Apr. 24, 1881.

87. Charles Gamage Eastman, b. Fryeburg, Me., June i, 1816. Graduated University of Vermont. Journalist. Member of the Vermont Senate, 1851-2. d. Montpelier, Vt., i860. His poems pubHshed 1848, revised ed. 1880.

88. Henry David Thoreau. b. Concord, Mass., July 12, 1817. Graduated Harvard, 1837. In 1845 he built, with an outlay of a few dollars, a hut on the edge of Walden Pond, in Concord, on ground belonging to Emerson, and lived there for two and a quarter years, sustaining himself by a little farming and doing odd jobs for neighbors. See Walden^ or Life in the Woods, 1854. Dr. O. W. Holmes thinks that from companionship with Thoreau, Emerson derived a deeper interest in the common things of nature, d. Concord, Mass., May 6, 1862.

89. Arthur Cleveland Coxe, D.D., b. Mendham, N.J., May 10, 1818. Graduated University of New York, rector of various Protestant Episcopal Churches, appointed Bishop of Western New York, 1864. d. JUI3', 1896. Published Advent — a Mystery, 1837, and Christian Ballads^ 1840.

89. Thomas William Parsons, b. Boston, Mass., Aug. 18, 1819. Educated Boston Latin School, studied Italian in Italy and trans- lated Dante's Inferno. Practised Dental Surgery at Boston, which he afterwards pursued in England. Returned to Boston in 1872. d. Scituate, Mass., Sept. 3, 1892. Issued Ghetto di Roma^ 1854 ; Magnolia and other Poems, 1867 ; The Old House at Sudbury, 1870 ; and The Shadow of the Obelisk, 1872. Best known by his stately ' Lines on a Bust of Dante.'

91. Julia (Ward) Howe, b. New York, May 27, 1819. m. 1843, Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe, the philanthropist, distinguished by his work for the blind. She visited Europe and became fluent in Italian, French, and Modern Greek. Issued many volumes of poems, but is best known by her * Battle Hymn of the Republic,' written when the Civil War broke out. Deeply moved by the sight of troops starting for the seat of w^ar, she penned these remarkable verses.

92. Josiah Gilbert Holland, b. Belchertown, Mass., July 24, 1819. Graduated Berkshire Medical College, but devoted him- self to educational and literary pursuits. Planned and became the editor of the monthly journal originally known a.sScribner's, but subsequently and no\v as the Century, d. New York, Oct. 12, 1881. His poetical works were Bitter-Sweet, 1855; Kathrina, 1867 ; The Marble Prophecy., 1872 ; and The Mistress of the Manse, 1874.

84. James Russell Lowell, b. Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819.

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Graduated Harvard, 1838. In 1855 succeeded to Longfellow's chair at Harvard. Appointed Minister to Spain, 1877 ; trans- ferred to London, 1880, a post he held till 1885, during a part of which time he was rector of St. Andrew's University ; D. C.L. Oxford, 1873; LL.D. Cambridge, Eng., 1874. His poetical works were A Years Life, 1841 ; A Legend of Brittany, 1844; 77?^ Vision of Sir Lannfal, 1845 ; A Fable for Critics, which came out anonymously, 1848 ; Under the Willoivs, 1869 ; Hearts- ease and Rue, 1888. The Bigloiv Papers first appeared in the Boston Courier, 1846-48, and the second series in the Atlantic Monthly during the Civil War, d. 1891. IMr. Lowell's range in his poetic work is very wide ; there we find the broad humor of the Biglow Papers, the exquisite tenderness of The Changeling, the stateliness of Bibliolatres. It is often said b}'^ critics that he will be longest remembered by the Bigloiv Papers as being the most racy of the soil. I take leave to differ from this dictum, and to express the conviction that many of Mr. Lowell's serious poems will be treasured as long as the Bigloiv Papers.

103. I question whether anything finer can be found in the poetry of America than 'All Saints.'

105. Samuel Longfellcvp-, brother and biographer of H. W. Longfellow^,b. Portland, Me., June 18,1819. Graduated Harvard. Minister of various churches until 1882, when he settled at Cambridge, Mass. d. 1892. Joint compiler with Samuel Johnson of A Book of Hymns, 1846, and Hymns of the Spirit, 1864. Editor, with T. W. Higginson, of Thalatta. Some of the finest of American hymns are from his pen.

109. Walt(er) Whitman, b. West Hills, Long Island, N.Y., May 31, 1819. In his early days a printer in summer and school-teacher in winter. From 1862-65 served as an army nurse in Washington and Virginia, which impaired his constitu- tion. Then appointed clerk in the Interior Department,Washing- ton ; deposed by a superior who did not approve of his poetry, but shortly afterwards made a Clerk in the Attorney-General's Office — a post he held for eight years. A stroke of paralysis in 1873 led to his retirement to Camden, N.J. His poetical works were Leaves of Grass, 1855, of which he was his own com- positor; Drum Taps, 1865; Passage to India, 1870; After All not to Create only, 187 1 ; As a strong bird on pinions free, 1872 ; November Boughs and Sands at Seventy, 1888.

Concerning no American poet are the estimates so diverse — some regarding him as the greatest of the company, others denying to him even the name of poet. His influence on some eminent men has been very powerful, notably John Addington

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Symonds, witness his Study of WJiitnian. Probably the sanest estimate of his work is by Robert Louis Stevenson.

109. The 'Sea of Faith' — concluding stanzas of 'Passage to India.'

The ' Prayer of Columbus,' 8th, 9th, and loth stanzas.

111. 'The Mystic Trumpeter,' closing stanzas.

111. Alice Gary, b. April 20, 1820, Miami Valley, nr. Cincinnati, d. 1871, is scarcely separable from her younger sister Phcebe. Under great difficulties, caused by an unsympathetic step-mother, who would not permit them even a light to read by, they studied at home, and when about eighteen years old began writing poems and stories for the press. In 1852 they removed to New York City, where the reputation of their writings and the charm of their manners made their home a centre for many of the chief persons of note in letters, art, and philanthropy. Their com- plete poems were published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., with a delightful sketch of their lives by Mary Clemmer.

121. An able critic of poetry declares this 'Dying. Hymn' to be as fine as anything in William Blake. In moments of deepest agony during her last illness she repeated it to herself.

121. Anne Charlotte (Lynch) Botta, b. Bennington. Vt., 1820. m. Prof. Vincenzo Botta, 1855. Her receptions in New York City were attended by the most distinguished people in art and letters, d. 1896. Published Poems, 1848 and 1884, and Hand- book of Univei'sal Literature, i860 and 1887.

122. Sarah (Knowles) Bolton, dr. of John S. Knowles ; at the age of fifteen went to reside with her uncle, Col. H. L. Miller, at Hartford, where his extensive library and the literary folk who frequented his house furnished means of culture, m. C. E. Bolton, a graduate of Amherst College, and removed to Cleve- land, Ohio. An ardent worker in the temperance cause. For a time one of the editors of The Congregationalist. With her son, Charles Knowles Bolton of Harvard College, published Frotn HeaH and Nature (Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 1887',

123. Maria (White) Lowell, b. Watertown, Mass., July 8, 1821. m. James Russell Lowell, 1844. d. Cambridge, Mass., Oct. 27, 1853. Her poems privately printed, 1855.

124. Eliza Scudder, niece of Dr. E. H. Sears, b. Boston, Nov. 14, 1821. Until recently lived in Boston. Her verse pub- lished in a tiny volume with the title Hymns and Sonnets, by E. S., 1880. The quantity small, the quality high.

129. Samuel Johnson, b. Salem, Mass., Oct. 10, 1822. Gradu- ated, Harvard, 1842, and Harvard Divinity School, 1846. Pastor of a Free Religious Society at Lynn, Mass., 1853-70. d. North Andover, Mass., Feb. 19, 1882. Author of Oriental

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Religions. Compiled, with Samuel Longfellow, A Book o/IJyinna, 1846; Hymns of the Spirit, 1864.

130. Caroline Alherton Briggs) Mason, b. Marblchcad, July 27, 1823. Her father was Dr. Calvin Briggs, an eminent physician. It was of her paternal grandfather, the Rev. James Briggs, for 45 years minister at Cummington, that William Cullen Bryant, one of his parishioners, wrote ' The Old Man's Funeral.' She was the youngest of seven sisters who, when at the Bradford Academy, were called ' The Pleiades.' It was of her elder sister Harriet, who became the wife of David T. Stoddard, and, after five years' devoted service in her mission to the Nestorians, died of cholera at Trebizond, that she wrote 'Aroma' and 'The Grave by the Euxine.' In 1853 she became the wife of Charles Mason, a lawyer at Fitchburg. d. June 13, 1893. To her husband I am indebted for a copy of her poems, The Lost Ring., with an introduction by Charles G. Ames, and portrait, published in 1892.

134. David Atwood "Wasson, b. Brookville, Me., May 14, 1823. Studied at Bowdoin College. In 1865-66 was minister to Theo- dore Parker's congregation in Boston. Subsequently accepted a post in the Boston Custom House. d. West I\Iedford, Mass., Jan, 21, 1887. His poems published in the following year.

139. Thomas Wentvirorth Higginson, b. Cambridge, Mass., Dec. 22, 1823. Graduated Harvard. Minister of non-denomi- national churches in Newburyport and Worcester, Mass. ; raised two companies for the Civil War, and was appointed Colonel of the first regiment recruited from the negroes. Wounded in October, 1864, and obliged to resign. In 1889 appointed State Historian of the soldiers and sailors of Mass. in the Civil War. His poems and translations collected and published in the Afternoon Landscape, 1889, a small but very charming book.

141. * To my Shadow.' Compare Virgil, Aen. vi, 743 : —

' Quisque sues patimur Manes.'

142. ' Vestis Angelica.' ' It was the custom of the early English Church for pious laymen to be carried in the hour of death to some monastery, that they might be clothed in the habit of the religious order, and might die amid the prayers of the bi other- hood. The garment thus assumed was known as the Vestis Angelica.' See Moroni, Dizionario di Erudizione Siorico Eicle- siastica, ii. 78; xcvi. 212,

144. Sarah Hammond Palfrey, daughter of John Gorham Palfrey, the historian of New England, b. Boston and lives in

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Cambridge. Contributed many articles and poems to maga- zines, and published a volume of verse, Prentices, under the nom de plume oi Y.. Foxton.

145. George Henry Boker, b. Philadelphia, Penn., Oct. 6,

1823. Graduated Princeton ; studied law. Appointed Minister to Constantinople. 1871. and to Russia, 1875. Resigned 1879. d. Philadelphia, Penn., Jan. 2, 1890. Possessed great dramatic faculty, as seen in his tragedies and comedies, which vi^ere col- lected in Plays and Poems, 1856. His Poems of the War, 1864, contain some of the most noted lyrics of that conflict. His best-known work is the Book of the Dead, from which extracts have been taken.

146. Phoebe Gary, b. Miami Valley, nr. Cincinnati, Sept. 24, 1824. The inseparable companion of her sister Alice, whom she sur- vived only a few months, d. July 31, 1871. Their ability had much in common, though the elder sister wrote more verse, and, taken as a whole, of a finer kind. Phoebe was less strenuous than Alice, but possessed more humor.

149. ' Field Preaching,' says an able critic, ' has something of the charm of Christina Rossetti.'

150. ' Nearer Home,' though by no means equal to her sister's 'Dying Hymn,' is the best-known verse associated with the name of Cary.

151. Adeline D. (Train) AiVhitney, b. Boston, Mass., Sept. 15,

1824. Writer of books for the young. Her poems are Pansies, 1872 ; Daffodils and Bird-talks, 1887 ; Holy Tides, 1886 (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.). All the poems given are from Pansies, save ' Kyrie Eleison,' which is from Daffodils.

155. Lucy Larcom, b. Beverly, Mass., 1826, Worked in a mill at Lowell, where, however, she managed to cultivate her mind ; afterwards studied at Monticello Seminary, Illinois, and be- came a teacher. Gradually, however, she came to devote herself to literature. Editor of Our Young Folks, 1866-74. d. 1893. Her poems — An Idyl of Work, 1875; Wild Roses of Cape Ann, 1880 ; Childhood Songs. Collected edition of her poems, 1885 (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.), from which extracts are taken. Her life written by Daniel Dulany Addison. A woman greatly beloved, whose verse, especially when the scantiness of her early education is remembered, must be pro- nounced remarkable. Had her work bee.n condensed some- vi^hat her place would have been still higher. The present selections represent her at her best, and are noteworthy for their freshness of thought and vigor of expression.

161. Richard Henry Stoddard, b. Hingham, Mass., July 2,

1825. Early years spent in an iron foundry ; spare time given

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to self-culture. Held government appointment at New York, ^853-73. Literary editor of the New York World, 1860-70, and of the New York Mail and E.xprcss in 1880. A collected edition of his poems appeared in 1880. For an interesting account of Mr. Stoddard sec American Authors at Home i^Cassell & Co.;.

' Adsum ' was suggested by the sudden death of William Makepeace Thackeray on Dec. 24, 1863.

162. Bayard Taylor, b. Kennett Square, Chester Co., Penn., Jan. II, 1825. The greater part of his life spent in travel as a correspondent of important newspapers. Secretary of U.S. Legation at St. Petersburg, 1862. Soon after presenting his credentials as U.S. Minister to Germany, died at Berlin, Dec, 19, 1878. His most important work a translation of Faui,t in the original metres. A collected edition of his poems published 1880.

' Thou who sendest sun and rain ' is the closing lyric of the third, and ' God, to whom we look up blindly,' of the second, evening of The Poet's Journal.

163. 'Wait' has been attributed to Bayard Taylor, but I am in some doubt whether it is actually from his pen. I do not find it in his works. It appeared in the Boston Transcript about twenty years ago, signed B.T., which may or may not have stood for Bayard Taylor.

163. Julia Caroline (Kipley) Dorr, b. Charleston, S C, Feb. 13, 1825. m. in 1847 Seneca R. Dorr, of Rutland, Vt. Published Poems, 187 1 ; Friar Anselmo, 1879; Daybreak, 1882; Afternoon Songs. 1885.

166. Horatio Nelson Powers, b. Amenia, Dutchess Co., N.Y., Apr. 30, 1826. Graduated Union College. Rector of various Episcopal churches. President of Griswold College (1864-67). In 1885 became rector at Piermont-on-the-Hudson, where he remained till his death, 1891. For many years American cor- respondent of the French Review VArt. His verse — Early and Late, 1876 ; A Decade of Song, 1885. A memorial introduction was prefixed to a posthumous volume of his poems by Oscar Fay Adams.

167. '■ My Walk to Church' is from Harper s Monthly Magazine. 169. John Townsend Trowbridge, b. Ogden, Monroe Co., N. Y ,

Sept. 18, 1827. Remarkable as a delineator of New England life. His poetical works — The Vagabonds, 1869; The Emigrant's Story, 1885 ; and The Lost Earl, 1888 ; A Home Idyl (Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.). 172. Rose (Terry) Cooke, b. West Hartford, Conn. , Feb. 1 7, 1827. Educated at the Female Seminary there, m. and removed to Winsted, Conn, 1873. d. 1892. Collected edition of her poems published 1888.

Aa

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173. ' Rest ' appeared in the New York Independent.

175. Ellen Clementine (Doran)Howarth,b.Cooperstown, N.Y., May 17, 1827. Employed as a calico-printer, m. Joseph Howarth, of the same occupation, lived in humble circumstances at Trenton, N.J., until assisted by appreciative friends. Her Poems of Clementine, from which two stanzas of ' The Passion Flower ' are taken, were edited by Richard Watson Gilder, 1867.

175. Charles Gordon Ames, b. Oct. 3, 1828. Unitarian minister in Philadelphia, now in Boston, sometime editor of the Christian Register^ Boston. Much absorbed in various lines of public work, and consequently his publications, for the most part, are of fugitive nature, as sermons, addresses, &c.

178. Albert Laighton, b. Portsmouth, N.H., Jan. 8, 1829, privately educated there. His Poems published in 1859. Another edition in 1878 — dedicated to his cousin, Celia Thaxter.

178. Martha (Perry) Lowe, b. Keene, N.H., Nov. 21, 1829. After travel in the West Indies and Europe, m. in 1857 Rev. Charles Lowe, a man of singularly beautiful character. Her poetical works are The Olive and the Pine, and Love in Spain.

179. Emily Dickinson, b. Amherst, Mass., Dec. 10, 1830. d. there, May 13, 1886. Wrote much in verse, but only two or three poems printed during life. Occasionally she sent a poem to a friend ; great was the surprise to find after her death her portfolio full of poems, written in continuous lines like prose. These were entrusted to Mabel Loomis Todd and Thomas Wentworth Higginson, who issued them in two series (Roberts Brothers). Her verse is bold and unconventional, sometimes faulty, but some- times well-nigh perfect in form. Her poetry needs to be looked at in the light of her life. I gather from a sketch prefixed to her poems that in her earlier days she mixed much in society, but found it utterly unsatisfying, and then entered on a hermit- like life, even restricting her walks to her father's grounds. Thus her ideas and thoughts were only known to a few close friends. Naturally of an introspective nature, she little needed the ordinary amusements of the world around ; her world was within. Storm, wind, the wild March sky, sunsets and dawns, birds, bees, butterflies and flowers, with a few trusted friends, were a sufficient companionship.

179-182. The first eight pieces are from the First Series.

182-183. The remaining five are from the Second Series.

184. Elizabeth (Lloyd) Howell, b. Philadelphia, Penn., 1830. m. Robert Howell, 1853. d. 1878. Her poems appeared in the Wheatsheaf iox 1852. Best known by poem here given, which on its first appearance created a great impression, and was

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thought to be a newly-discovcied poem of Milton's. Canon Wilton says he remembers the stir caused by the puI)lication of this poem.

185. Paul Hamilton Hayne, b. Charleston, S.C, Jan. i, 1830. Graduated University of South Carolina. Gave up the practice of law for literary pursuits, editing various periodicals. Served in the Southern Army during the Civil War till obliged to resign on account of failing health. House and all his property de- stroyed at the bombardment of Charleston. Later years over- shado^ved by poverty and ill-health, d. Copse Hill, Forest Station, Ga., July 6, 1886. Author of Poetns, 1855 : Sonnets and other Poems, 1857 5 Legends (Did Lyrics, 1872 ; The Mountain of the Lovers, 1873. Complete edition of his poems, 1882.

186. Helen Hunt (Fiske) Jackson, better known as ' H. H,,' b. Amherst, Mass., Oct. 18, 1831. m. early to Capt. E. B. Hunt of the U.S. army, who d. Oct. 1863. m. in 1875 W. S, Jackson, d. San Francisco, Aug. 12, 1885. A warm friend of the Indians, on behalf of whom she wrote A Century of Dishonor, 1881, and Ramona, 1884. Her poetic work is included in Verses by H. H., 1870, enlarged edition, 1874, and Sonnets and Lyrics, 1876. The extracts given are from Verses (Roberts Brothers, 1886).

189. Saxe Holm. While this nont de plume has not been wholly cleared of mystery, I am disposed by internal evidence to agree with the suggestion that the writer is none other than the above.

' The Angel of Pain' is from 'The One-legged Dancer,'

191, ' The Gospel of Mystery' is from 'The Elder's Wife,'

193. Louisa May Alcott, b, Germantown, Penn., Nov. 29, 1832. Educated by her father, influenced by Thoreau. Occupied first with teaching, then as a hospital nurse in Washington. Her Little Women, 1868, and Little Men, 1871, are known in all English-speaking countries. At the age of thirteen she wrote the remarkable hymn 'A little kingdom I possess,' Cf. No. 1184 in The Treasury of Hymns, d, March 6, 1888. The poem given ap- peared in an anonymously edited collection, A Masque of Poets.

194, Edmund Clarence Stedman, b. Oct, 8, 1833, Hartford, Conn, Educated at Yale ; class of 1853. Member of the New York Stock Exchange. His poems— 77?^ Diamond Wedding: Poems Lyric and Idyllic, i860 ; Alice of Monmouth, 1864 ; The Blameless Prince, 1869; Lyrics and Idylls, 1879; Haivthorn and other Poems, 1877 ; Collected Poems, 1873, and subsequently with additions. His war poems and Pan in Wall Street have gained most popularity. He is even better known as a critic of poetry, through his American Poets and Victorian Poets, and his lectures at the Johns Hopkins University on 'The Art of

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Poetry.' In recognition of his work as a critic, Yale conferred on him the degree of LL.D.

196. Nancy Priest "Wakefield, b. Royalston, Mass., 1834, though Winchendon, the adjoining town, claims her, since for five or six generations her family resided there, d. 1870. Her Over the River attained great popularity.

197. Phillips Brooks, D.D., b. Boston, 1835, Graduated Harvard, 1855 • Preacher to the University, 1886-91 ; Rector of Holy Trinity, Philadelphia, 1859 69 ; Trinity Church, Boston, 1869-91 ; Bishop of Massachusetts, 1891-93. d. 1893. One of America's greatest preachers and most catholic-minded men. Spent Christmas, 1866, at Bethlehem : on return wrote for Christmas festival, 1868, of the Sunday School of Holy Trinity, Philadelphia, the Carol here given.

198. George Arnold, b. June 24, 1834, New York. Brought up at the Fourierite Settlement, at Strawberry Farms, N.J. Studied painting at the age of eighteen, but soon turned to literature. Served in the army during the Civil War. d. Nov. 3, 1865. His poems, Dress— a Sea- shore Idyl, 1866 ; Poems Grave and Gay, were edited, with a memorial Introduction, by William Winter, in 1866.

'" In the Dark" was written within a few daj'S of his death, when the shadow of the night that knows no earthly dawn was already closing round him.'

199. Harriet McEwen Kimball, b. Portsmouth, N.H., Nov. 2, 1834. Chief founder of Cottage Hospital at Portsmouth. Her works — Hymns^ 1867 ; Swallow-Flights of Song, 1874 ; 77?^ Blessed Company of all Faithful People, 1879; Poems, complete, 1889.

201. 'All's Well,' one of the favorite hymns of John Bright.

201. John James Piatt, b. James' Mill, now Milton, Ind., Mar. I, 1835. Educated at Kenyon College. In 1861 appointed clerk in U. S. Treasury at Washington ; i!^70, enrolling clerk to U. S. House of Representatives; 1871, its librarian. U. S. Consul, Cork, Ireland, 1882, through two administrations. His -works - Poems by Two Friends, in conjunction with W. D. Howells, i860 ; The Nests at Washington (with his wife), 1864 ; Poems in Sunshine and Firelight, 1866 ; Western Wiyidows, 1869; Landmarks, 1871 ; Poems of House and Home, 1879 ; Idyls and Lyrics of the Ohio Valley, 1884 ; At the Holy Well, 1887.

202. ' Transfiguration,' from Idyls and Lyrics of the Ohio Valley, 1881, seems to be the original version of ' A Dream of Church Windows,' the title poem of the volume published in 1888.

203. Sarah Margaret (Bryan) Piatt, b. Aug. ir, 1835, Lexington, Ky. Educated at Henry Female College, New-

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castle, Ky. m. John James Piatt, 1861. First poems published in Louisville Journal. Her works y^ Woman s Poems. 1871 ; A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles, 1874; That New World, 1876: Poems in company with Cliildrcn, 1877; Dramatic Persons and Moods, 1880; An Irish Garland, 1884 ; The Witch in the Glass, 1889; Child-World Ballads, first series, 1887 ; second series, 1895.

204. ' Faith ' is a short extract from An Irish Fatry Tale.

'When saw we Thee' is taken from Child-World Ballads, second series.

206. Louise (Chandler) Moulton, b. Pomfret, Conn, Edu- cated at Mrs. Emma Hart Willard's Seminary at Troy, N. Y. m. to W. A. Moulton, Boston, 1855. Paid frequent visits to France and England, accounts of which she communicated to American journals. Literary executor of Philip Bourke Mars- ton, whose poems she edited. Author of man^'^ stories. Her poetical works — Poems, 1877; Swalloiv Flights, 1878; In the Garden of Dreams, 1890. Her poems, especially her sonnets, are among the most artistic produced in America. Like much of the finest poetry of our time, touched with a deep sadness, but in her case relieved by a buoyant hope. Her sonnets bear not a little likeness to those of Mrs. Browning.

206-209. The first six poems are from Swallow Flights.

209-212. The next seven from In the Garden of Dreams.

212-213. The last three sonnets were sent me in MS. by Mrs. Moulton.

214. Harriet Elizabeth (Prescott) Spofford, b Calais, Me., Apr. 3, 1835. Graduated Pinkerton Academy, Derry N. H. m. R. S. Spofford, 1865, who died 1888. Since his death she has lived in Boston and Washington. Wrote early for periodi- cals. Popularity began with a story, ' In a Cellar,' in the Atlantic Monthly, 1859. She has since written much fiction. Her poetical works — Poems, 1882; Ballads about Authors, iQQi. The extracts are from Poems (Houghton, Mifflin & Co. .

216. Theodore Tilton. b. Oct. 2, 1835. Graduated at the University of the City of New York. Journahst and lecturer. His verse — The Sexton's Tale, 1867; Thou and I, 1879; Swabian Stories, 1882; The Chameleon s Dish. 1893.

216. W^ashington Gladden, b. at Pitts Grove. Penn., Feb. 11, 1836, Educated at Williams College. Minister of Congrega- tional churches at Brooklyn, New York City, North Adams, Springfield, Mass., and Columbus. For a time editor of the New York Independent and the Sunday Afternoon. In the latter his well known hymn, 'O Master, let me walk with Thee,' appeared.

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217. Thomas Bailey Aldrich, b. Portsmouth, N. H., Nov. ii, 1836. Early life spent in Louisiana. The death of his father prevented his entering college, and led to his taking a post in the counting-room of an uncle in New York. Success in writing for periodicals, followed by his appointment as reader in a publishing house. After various editorial connections,' succeeded William Dean Howells as editor of The Atlantic Monthly, 1881. His poetical works — 77?^ Bells, 1854 ; The Ballad of Babie Bell, 1856, which started his poetic reputation ; Pampinea, 1861 ; Cloth of Gold, 1874 ; Flower and Thorn, 1876; Friar Jeroni.es Beautiful Book, 1881 ; Mercedes and later Lyrics, 1884; Wyndham Towers, 1889. His work is characterized by great delicacy of finish. No writer in America has ever told stories in verse more exquisitely.

219. Celia (Laighton) Thaxter, b. Portsmouth, N. H., June 29, 1836. m, Levi Lincoln Thaxter, 1851 — well-known as an interpreter of Browning's poetry, d. 1894. Her poetical works — Among the Isles of Shoals (off Portsmouth,- where a large part of her life was spent), 1873; Poems, 1874; Drift Weed, 1878; Poems for Children, 1884; The Cruise of the Mystery, 1886.

'A Song of Easier ' is from Poems for Children.

220. 'The Sunrise never failed us yet' is from Drift Weed.

' The Sandpiper,' a perfect gem, from Poems. All these published by Houghton, MiflSin & Co.

221. William Winter, b. Gloucester, Mass., July 15, 1836. Graduated Harvard Law School — admitted to, but did not practise at Bar. Devoted himself to lecturing and literature. His poetic works — The Convent, 1854 ; The Queens Domain, 1858; My Witness, 187 1 ; Thistledown, 1878; Wanderers, a selection from his poems, 1888.

223. Mary Frances Butts, b. Hopkinton, R.I., 1837. Resident at Westerly, R.I. Contributor to current literature.

224. William Dean Howells, b. Martin's Ferry, Belmont Co., O., Mar. I, 1837. Compositor at Hamilton, O. Wrote for his father's journal. The writing of a Campaign Life of President Lincoln led to a Consular appointment at Venice, 1861-1865, which furnished materials for Venetian Life, r866, and was io\- lowed hy Italian Journeys, 1867. Assistant Editor of the ^//aw^/c Monthly, 1866. Chief Editor, 1871-1881. Formed connection with firm of Harper Brothers, 1886, writing 'The Editor's Study ' in their Magazine. Author of many novels, and books of descriptive travel. His poetic works — Poems of Two Friends (with J. J. Piatt), i860 ; No Love Lost— a Poem of Travel, 1868 ; and recently, Stops of Various Quills (Harper Brothers).

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 359

PAGE

225. Francis Bret Harte, b. Albany, N. Y., Aug. 25, 1839, successive!}^ teacher, miner, printer's apprentice, express messenger, then obtained editorial position on The Golden Era (San Francisco), afterwards editor of The Californiun. Fiist Editor of The Overland Monthly^ where his most popular poem 'The Heathen Chinee,' appeared Sept., 1870. U. S. Consul, Crefeld, Germany, 1878, and Glasgow, 1880-1885. Author of many popular novels. His poetical works— PomiS, 1870; East and IVesi Poems, 1871 ; Poetical Works, 1873.

'The Two Ships' — the reference of this line is to the "Golden Gate" which connects the land-locked bay of San Francisco with the Pacific Ocean.

The ' Angelus ' refers to an old Spanish Mission in San Francisco.

226. John Burroughs, b. Roxbury, N.Y., Apr. 3, 1837. Brought up on his father's farm, then became teacher. In Treasury Department, 1863. Various posts in connection with banks. Later occupied himself with a fruit farm at West Park on the Hudson, and with literature. Contributor to Atlantic Monthly, The Century, and other journals. An enthusiastic admirer of Walt Whitman, on whom he wrote Notes.

227. Seth Curtis Beach, b. Marion, N.Y., 1837. Graduated Union College, 1863. Harvard Divinity School, 1866. Minister at Bangor, Me.

This hymn written for Visitation Day, Hansard Divinity School, 1866.

228. Edna Dean Proctor, b. Henniker, N.H., Oct. 10, 1838. Resided first at Concord, N. H. afterwards at Brooklyn, N.Y. Travelled much in Europe. Poems, 1866, revised and en- larged 1890, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., from which extracts are taken.

229. Henry Ames Blood, b. Temple, N.H., June 7, 1838. Graduated Dartmouth. A teacher, and afterwards in the Depart- ment of State at Washington. Verse contributed to periodicals. Author oi How much I Loved Thee, a play privately printed.

230. Mary (Mapes) Dodge, b. New York, 1838. m. William Dodge, a well-known New York lawyer ; on his early death devoted herself to literature, especially for children. Her ' Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates,' a great success and trans- lated into the principal European languages. Editor of St. Nicholas from foundation in 1873. Her verse — Rhytnes and Jingles, 1874 ; Along the JVay, 1879.

' The Two Mysteries' was suggested by the following incident : In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat

36o NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

PAGE

Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl in his lap. The child looked curiously at the spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do 3'ou, my dear 1 ' said he, ' We don't either.'

231. Margaret Elizabeth. (Munson) Sangster, b. New Ro- chelle, N. Y., Feb. 22, 1838. m. George Sangster, 1858. Engaged in various editorial w^ork ; now Editor of Harpers Bazar. Her verse — Poems of the Household, 1883; Home Fairies and Heart Floivers, 1887.

231. Charlotte Fiske (Bates) Kog6, b. New York, Nov. 30, 1838. m. M. Roge. Assisted Longfellow in editing Poems of Places, for which she made several translations. Editor of the Cambridge Book of Poetry, 1882. Author of Risk and other Poems, 1879 ; The Seven Voices of Sympathy. 1881.

233. John White Chadwick, b. Marblehead, Mass., Oct. 19, 1840. Graduated Harvard Divinity School. Minister of Second Unitarian Church, Brooklyn. His verse — A Book of Poems, 1876 ; In Nazareth Town, 1883.

'A Prayer for Unity,' written for the Graduating Class of the Divinity School, Harvard, June 19, 1864.

235. William Channing Gannett, son of the revered Dr. Ezra Stiles Gannett, junior Pastor with Dr. Channing and his suc- cessor, b. Boston, Mar. 13, 1840. Graduated Harvard, i860; Divinity School. 1868. For three and a half years at work among the freedmen during the Civil War. Pastor at Mil- waukee, 1868-70. Then resided in Boston. Since 1889 minister at Rochester, N.Y. Joint author with F. L. Hosmer (see next note) of The Thought of God in Hymns and Poems, first series, 1886: second series, 1894 (Roberts Brothers) — small books, but full of verse of great tenderness and beauty, which richly deserve wider recognition.

240. Frederick Lucian Hosmer. b. Framingham, Mass., 1840. Graduated Harvard, 1862 ; Divinity School, 1869. Minister Unity Church, Cleveland, 1878-1892 ; Church of the Unit3% St. Louis, 1894.

Poems taken from The Thought of God, mentioned above.

246. Charlotte Mellen Packard, b. Hamilton, Ohio, 1839. The lines here given first published in the Monthly Religious Magazine, edited by Dr. E. H. Sears, Dec, 1862.

247. George McKnight, b. Sterling, N.Y., 1840, where he practises as a physician. Author of /»m Ground : Thoughts on Life and Faith, a series of sonnets, 1877 ; revised edition, 1878, from which extracts are taken.

249. Sophie Winthrop (Shepherd) Weitzel, b. Nov. 20, 1840.

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 361

PAGE

m. Rev. Charles T. Weitzel, 1872. d. Santa Barbara, California. June I, 1892. Under the name of Sophie Winthrop she contributed much to the religious press, both in prose and verse. Author of several stories and historical studies. Rendered into modern English many Latin and old English hymns under the title Hymns to Jesus. Her verse collected and published under the title From Time to Time, by A. D. E. Randolph & Co., N.Y.

250. Nora Perry, b. Dudley, Mass., 1841. Contributor to Harpers Magazine, Chicago Tribune, and Providence Journal. d. 1896. Her vers^— After the Ball, 1875; New Songs and Ballads, 1886 (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) From the last of these * A Prayer ' is taken.

251. Miiiot Judson Savage, b. Norridgewock, Me., June 10, 1841. Graduated Bangor, Me. Pastor of the Church of the Unity, Boston, 1874; Church of the Messiah, N.Y., 1896. Poems, 1882.

252. James Herbert Morse, b. Hubbardston, Mass., Oct. 8, 1841. Graduated Harvard. Established a university school in New^ York. Author oi Summer- Haven Songs, 1886.

253. Mary Anne Lathbury, b. 1841. I have been unable to find any particulars of the life of the author of these two exceedingly fine hymns. The first I discovered in a book sent me by Miss F. E. Willard ; the second in the Savoy Hymn Book.

254. Edward Rowland Sill, b. Windsor, Conn., April 29, 1841. Graduated Yale. Professor of English Literature, University of California, 1874-1882. d. Cleveland, O., Feb. 27, 1887. His verse— The Hermitage, 1867; Venus of Milo, 1883. An edition of his poems issued posthumously, 1888. A v^rriter of much force and beauty, from whom, had his life been spared, still greater things might have been expected.

258. Cincinnatus Hiner Miller, usually known as Joaqum Miller, b. Wabash District, Ind., Nov. 10, 1841. Gold miner in California. Studied law and admitted to Bar of Lane County. Judge of Grant County, Oreg , 1866- 1870. Journalist at Washington, D.C. His poetical works— 5o«o-s of the Sierras, 1873 ; Songs of the Desert, 1875 ; Songs of Italy, 1878 ; Songs of the Mexican Seas, 1887.

259. Sidney Lanier, b. Macon, Georgia, Feb. 3. 1842. Gradu- ated Oglethorpe College i860. At the outbreak ol the Civil War joined the second Georgia battalion of the Confederate Volunteers, and served in Virginia. Attempted to run the blockade, was captured and imprisoned for five months at Point Lookout. Here the weakness of lungs which troubled,

362 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

PAGE

and at last ended, his life, arose. A chequered career fol- lowed—at first a clerk, then a teacher, then studied law and practised with his father at Macon (i868-i872\ then removed to Baltimore, where he afterwards chiefly resided, and became first flute-player at the Peabody Symphony Concerts. Literature and music now occupied his time. 1879-1881 Lecturer on English Literature at Johns Hopkins University, where he set forth his theory as to the relations between music and verse. Harassed by poverty and ill health till death came at Lynn, N. C, Sept. 7, 1881. Attention first called to his poetic ability by ' Corn,' in LippincoW s Magazine, 1874, which led to his selection as the writer of the words of the cantata for the Centennial Exhibition, 1876. His Poems were published in 1877, and a complete edition edited b3' his wife with a memorial sketch by William Hayes Ward in 1884 (Scribner's Sons, New York ; Gay and Bird, London). Held by some, and with good ground, as extracts given will show, to be the most original poet of America. The Spectator said, concerning his work, that nothing so original had appeared either in America or England for thirty years. Highly regarded by Mr. Robert Bridges, who desires his works to be better known in Great Britain.

263. May Louise (Riley) Smith, b. Brighton, Monroe Co., N.Y., May 29, 1842. m. Albert Smith, of Springfield, 111., now of New York City. Her verse — A Gift of Gentians, 1882 ; The Inn of Rest, 1888.

264. Charles Munroe Dickenson, b. Louisville, Lewis Co., N.Y., Nov. 15, 1842. Admitted to the bar 1865, and practised law in New York City until 1878. Editor and proprietor of the Binghamton Republican. Author of The Children and other Verses, 1889.

264. Francis Howard Williams, b. Philadelphia, Penn., Sept. 2, 1844. A literary critic. Resides at Germantown, and is now devoting himself to poetry. Author of The Princess Elizabeth — a Dramatic Poem, 1880; Theodora— a Christmas Pastoral; The Flute Player arid other Poems (G. P. Putnam's Sons), 1894, from which extracts are taken,

265. Richard Watson Gilder, b. Bordentown, N.J., Feb. 8, 1844. Began life as a clerk in a railroad office. Served in the artillery in the Civil War. Then editor'of the Neivark Morning Register, and at the same time oi Hours at Home — a New York monthl3^ Then chosen by Dr. Holland as assistant editor of Scribners Magazine, which afterwards became The Century^ of which, on Dr. Holland's death, he became the editor — a position he still holds with distinguished ability. Author

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 363

PAGE

of The Nezv Day, 1875; The Poet and /its Master, 1878; Lyrics, 1885: The Cele^ial Passion, 1885. Mr. Gilder has gathered into Five Books of Song^ 1895, all his previously published poems. For strength, beauty, and variety his verse has rarely been surpassed in America. 270. John Banister Tabb, b. 1845. A priest of the Roman Catholic Church, whose tiny volume of striking verse was published by Copeland and Day, in Boston, and John Lane, in London, 1894.

273. Elizabeth Stuart (Phelps) AVard, b. Andover, Mass., Aug. 13, 1844, daughter of Prof. Austin Phelps of the Andover Theological Seminary, m. Herbert D. Ward, of New York City, 1888. Became known by The Gates Ajar, 1868. Her verse— Poetic Studies, 1875 ; Songs of the Silent World, 1885. Poems given are from Poetic Studies (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.).

274. Sarah Chauncey AiVoolsey, usually known as Susan Coolidge, b. Cleveland, O. Niece of Theodore D. Woolsey, President of Yale College. Writer of books for children. Verses, \QQo.

276. Edgar Fawcett, b. New York, May 26, 1847. Graduated Columbia College, N. Y. Author of many novels and plays. His verse— Short Poems for Short People, 187 1 ; Fantasy and Passion, 1878 ; Song and Story, 1884 ; The Buntling Ball, 1884 ; Romance and Revery, 1886 (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.),

276. Henry Augustin Beers, b. Buffalo, N. Y., July 2, 1847. Graduated Yale, where he was first tutor and then assistant Professor of English, 1865, full Professor, 1880. His verse— Odds and Ends, 1878 ; The Thankless Muse, 1885.

277. John Vance Cheney, b. Groveland, Livingston Co., N.Y., Dec. 29, 1848. First a teacher, then admitted to the Bar and practised at New York. Ill-health drove him to a warmer climate, and he became Librarian of the Free Public Library, San Francisco, 1877. He is now Librarian of the Newberry Library, Chicago. mswerse-Thistle-drift,iQQl\ Wood-blooms (F. A. Stokes & Co.\ 1888. r t • u

278 Emma Lazarus, b. New York, July 22, 1849, of Jewish parents. An ardent Semite, who cared more for her race in a national than a religious sense. She was deeply infiuenced by Emerson, who encouraged her in her writing. She travelled much in Europe in search of health. Her sufferings were great d. New York, 1887. Yier verse— Poems and Translations (written when from 14 to 17 yeais of age), 1867 ; Adimtus, 1871 ; Poems and Ballads of Heine, 1881 ; Songs of a Semite, 1882. Her collected poems brought out posthumously 1888 Houghton, Mifflin & Co.\ from which extracts are taken. ^ ^ , ,

280. Arlo Bates, b. East Machias, Me., Dec. 16, 1850. Graduated

364 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

PAGE

Bowdoin College. Editor of various papers. His verse —5^;;7>5 of the Brier^ 1886 ; Sonnets in Shadoiv, 1887, a memorial volume to his wife, who died in 1886.

280. Mary (Woolsey) Howland, b. 1832; m. Rev. R. S. Howland of New York ; d. 1864. This touching little poem, which has borne various names — ' Requiescam,' 'In Hospital,' and 'Rest' — is said to have been found under the pillow of a wounded soldier near Port Royal, South Carolina, 1864,

281. Oscar Fay Adams, b. Worcester, Mass. Taught in various places. First venture in literature was with a story in the N. Y. Independent. In 1882 began to write verse. Published Poet Laureate Idyls in 1886. In same year edited Through the Year with the Poets, 12 vols. Wrote Memorial Introduction to his friend Horatio Nelson Powers' last volume of poems, 1891. Now resides at Cambridge, Mass.

282. Nathan Haskell Dole, b. Chelsea, Mass., Aug. 31, 1852.

283. Eugene Field, b. St. Louis, Mo., Sept. 2, 1850. Studied at the University of Missouri. A journalist by profession, d. 1896. His verse — Cttltnre's Garland, 1887 ; Little Book of Profitable Tales, 1889 ; Little Book of Western Ve>se, 1889 ; Second Book of Verse, 1892 ; JVith Trumpet and Drum, 1892 ; Holy Cross, 1893 ; Love Songs of Childhood, 1894. Since his death his works have been published in ten volumes: — The Writings in Prose and Verse of Eugene Field. Blended with virile strength, ' there was in Field's nature,' says a reviewer, ' a genuine child-like element — great simplicity, affection and tenderness.' Says another, ' Of all American poets Field, it seems to me, best understood the heart of a child.'

287. Charles Francis Richardson, b. Hallowell, Me., May 29,

1851. On editorial staff of the N.Y. Independent, 1872-1878. Professor of Anglo-Saxon and English Literature at Dartmouth College. Author o{ A P/tmer of American Literature, 1876. His verse is contained in a tiny book. The Cross. 1879, consisting of short but vigorous pieces, from which the extracts are taken.

289. Maurice Francis Egan, b. Philadelphia, Penn., May 24,

1852. Graduated La Salle College. Professor of English Litera- ture, Georgetown College, 1878. Editor of the N.Y. Freeman's Journal, 1881-88. Professor of English Literature in University of Notre Dame. His verse — Songs and Songs, 1886; Lyrics and Sonnets, 1895. from which extracts are taken.

291. 'Perpetual Youth.' Flower-land, i.e. Florida, a Spanish name.

292. Annie (Trumbull) Slosson, b, Stonington, Conn. m. Edward Slosson, of New York. Author of Seven Dreamers, which includes the well-known 'Fishin' Jimmy.' The two

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 365

PAGE

delightful poems for children, included, printed on leaflets, were sent me by her friend, the late lamented J. Ashcroft Noble. 295. James Whitcomb Riley (Benjamin F. Johnson , b. Greenfield, Ind., 1853, son of a leading attorney. First a sign- painter, then a strolling actor, then on the staff of the Indianapolis Journal. Reciter of his own verse. His poems in the Hoosier , dialect became very popular. His worse —The Old Sivinmiin'- Hole, 1883 ; The Boss Girl, 1886 ; Character Sketches and Poems, 1887 ; Afterwhiles, 1888 ; Pipes 0' Pan at Zekesbury, 1889— published by the Bowen Merrill Company.

295. 'The Prayer Perfect' is from Rhymes of Childhood, 1891.

' The Kingly Presence ' is an extract from ' Das Krist Kindel' in Old' Fashioned Roses.

296. ' The Beautiful City ' is from the same work,

297. 'The Dead Wife' is from Poems Here and There., ^893. All the extracts are from British editions of Mr. Riley's poems published by Longmans, Green & Co. It would seem that this writer's poems are issued in England in differently arranged collections from those published by the Bowen Merrill Company in America.

298. Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. Joint editor with Edmund Clarence Stedman of The Library of American Literature.

From Songs and Lyrics (J. R. Osgood & Co.), i88i, now published by Houghton, Miiilin & Co. 298. Edith Matilda Thomas, b. Chatham, Ohio, Aug. 12, 1854, When at school contributed poetry to newspapers, some of which caught the eye of Mrs. Helen Hunt Jackson, who introduced her to the editors of the Atlantic Motithly and The Century, and this led to her writing for those magazines. Her poems at once became popular. Her verse — A Neiv Year's Masque, 1885 ; The Round Year, 1886 ; Lyrics and Sonnets, 1887 ; The Inverted Tore/?— published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

300. William Ordway Partridge, a sculptor of high merit, b. i86x. Resides at Milton. Mass. His verse — The Song Life of a Sculptor, 1894 (Roberts Brothers).

301. Carl Spencer. I have failed to find any particulars of this writer beyond the fact that he was born about 1854.

302. George Edward Woodberry, b. Beverly, Mass., May 12, 1855. Graduated Harvard. Professor of English Literature in the State University of Nebraska, and then in Columbia College. Contributor to Atlantic Monthly and Nation, New York. Author of a Life of Poe ; and Studies in Letters and Life. Published The North Shore Watch and other Poems, 1890, from which our striking extract is taken. Canon Wilton tells of a similar experience after looking at a picture with the same subject in the Louvre.

366 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

PAGE

303. "Willis Boyd Allen. Author oi In the Morning (A. D. F. Randolph & Co.), 1890.

303. Anna Jane Granniss, b. 1856. Resides at Plainville. Conn. Said to have been, for the greater^part of her Hfe, a worker in a factory. Author of Skipped Stitches (Darling & Co., Keenc, N.H.. 1894, fourth edition). I am indebted to Mrs. Tileston for bringing this remarkable Httle book under my notice. Read in the hght of the fact stated above it is very significant.

306. Margaretta Wade (Campbell) Deland, b. Allegheny, Penn., Feb. 23, 1857. Studied at the Cooper Union in New York. m. Lorin F. Deland, of Boston, 1880. Well known by her theological novel, John Ward, Preacher. Her poems — The Old Garden and other Verses (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1886), of which an edition, with illustrations by Walter Crane, has been issued.

308. Ina Donna Coolbrith, b. near Springfield, 111., c, 1858. Now resides at San Francisco. Since 1874 Librarian to the Oakland Free Library. Contributor to magazines. Published in 1 88 1 A Perfect Day and other Poems ; Songs from the Golden Gate, 1896 (Houghton, Mifflin and Co.), from which 'A Prayer' is taken.

310. Tudor Jenks, on editoral statf of The St. Nicholas Magazine. Poem published in The Outlook, Christmas, 1895.

310. Charles Henry Crandall, b. Greenwich, Washington Co., N.Y., June 19, 1858. Journalist. His verse — Wayside Music ; Lyrics, Songs, and Sonnets (G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1893), from which extract is taken.

311. Charles Henry Liiders, b. Philadelphia, Penn., June 25, 1858. Studied at the University of Pennsylvania. Contributor of verse and prose to magazines. Joint authorw^ith S. D. Smith, jun., oi Hallo my Fancy, 1887.

From The Dead Nymph and other Poems (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1892).

311. ■William Roscoe Thayer, b. Boston, Jan. 16, 1859. Gradu- ated Harvard. Editorial work, 1882-5. Instructor in English, Harvard, 1888. His verse — Confessions of Hermes, 1884 ; Hesper, 1888.

From Poems New and Old (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.), 1894.

312. Helen Gray Cone, b. New York, Mar. 8, 1859. Instructor in English Literature, Normal College, New York. Author of Oberon and Puck, 1885 ; The Ride to the Lady and other Poems (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.), 1891, from the latter extracts are taken.

313. Danske Carolina (Bedinger) Dandridge, b. Copenhagen, Denmark, c. i860, where her father was U.S. Minister, m. in

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY 367

PAGE

1877 Stephen Dandridge, of Shepherdstown, W. Va., now her home. Her verse — Joy and other Poems, 1888; Rose Brake (G. P. Putnam's Sons), 1890. From the latter the poems given are taken. 318. Katharine Lee Bates, b. Falmouth, Mass. Graduated Wellesley College, at which she became Associate Professor of English Literature. Author of T/ic College Beautiful.

318. Frank Dempster Sherman, b. Peekskill, N.Y., May 6, i860. Studied at Harvard ; Fellow of Columbia, where he became Instructor in Architecture. Author of Madrigals and Catches, 1887, and Lyncs for a Lute^ 1890, from which poems given are taken.

319. Louise Imogen Guiney, b. Boston, Jan. 7, 1861. Gradu- ated Elmhurst Academy, Providence. Her poems — Songs at the Start, 1884 ; The White Sail, 1887 ; A Roadside Harp, 1893 (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.), from which extracts are taken.

Thanks are due to this writer for stirring up the lovers of Henry Vaughan, the Silurist, to restore his desecrated grave.

320. Langdon Elwyn Mitchell (John Philip Varley), b. Philadelphia, Feb. 17, 1862. Studied at Harvard Law School, admitted to the Bar, New York. Author of Sylvian and other Poems, 1885 ; Poems, 1894. Poems given are from Sylvian and other Poems.

321. Richard Hovey. Author of The Marriage of Guenevere, a Drama ; Seaward, an elegy on the death of Thomas William Parsons ; Joint-Author with Bliss Carman of Vagabondia. Translator of The Plays of Maurice Maeterlinck.

321. Am^lie Rives (Princess Troubetzkoy), b. Richmond, Va., Aug. 23, 1863. m. Prince Troubetzkoy, a brilliant portrait painter. Has written several novels of a striking character. Her poems contributed to magazines and as yet uncollected.

< Death' appears in this work for the first time.

322. ' Unto the least of these little ones ' appeared in Harper s Monthly Magazine, and is inserted here by the permission of the proprietors and the Author. A worthy companion to ' The Cry of the Children,' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

323. 'A Winter Hymn ' also appears here for the first time.

324. Lizette Woodworth Reese, b. Waverly, Md. c, i860. Re- moved to Baltimore. Author of A Branch of May, 1887 ; A Handful 0/ Z.«w«<^tfr (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.), 1891, from which extracts are taken.

324. Alice Brown. Author of The Road to Castaly (Copeland & Day, Boston), 1896, from which extracts are taken.

327. Anne Reeve Aldrich, b. 1866. Author of Songs about Life, Love, and Death (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1892). d. 1892.

368 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND EXPLANATORY

PAGE

This volume prepared for publication before beginning of her fatal illness. ' Death at Daybreak,' included in it, was dictated by her just before her death.

329. Katherine Eleanor Conway, b. Rochester, N.Y., Sept. 6, 1853. Educated St. Mary's Academy, Buffalo N.Y. Joined the editorial staff of the Boston Pilot as associate editor with- James Jeffrey Roche, 1883, a post she still retains. Author of The Sunrise Slope^ 1883.

330. Minnie Gilmore, b. Boston, Mass., daughter of S. P. Gilmore, the well-known musician. Has written novels — A Son of Esau and The Woman that Stood Betiveen. Her verse — Pipes from Prairie Land (Cassell & Co., Ld., New York).

' Life ' is from '■ A Quintette of Song,' contained in the above volume.

331. Hannah Parker Kimball, b. 1861. Author of ^o/// rt//^ Sense, published by Copeland & Day, Boston, 1896, from which extracts are taken. I am indebted to this firm for bringing this striking little book under my notice.

333. "William Hunter Birckhead. From Changing Moods ^George H. Carr), 1888.

334. R. T. W. Duke, b. Charlottesville, Virginia, 1855. Educated University of Virginia. Practised law. Now Judge of Charlottes- ville Corporation. Has contributed verse to TJie Century, Lippincott' s , and other magazines.

334. Paul Lawrence Dunbar, b. Duyton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. A negro, whose book, Majors and Minors, printed by Hadley & Hadley, Toledo, Ohio, was reviewed at great length by W. D. Howells, in Harper's Weekly, June 22, 1896. Most of the poems are in dialect, and give a vivid picture of negro life.

335. Ellen (^Sturgis) Hooper. m. Dr. Hooper, of Boston. Both she and her sister, Caroline Sturgis, wrote many short poems for The Dial, the short-lived magazine edited by Margaret Fuller, to which Ralph Waldo Emerson and other distinguished writers of the so-called Transcendentalists contributed. Ellen's were reprinted after her death, at the age of forty, for private circulation only.

' Duty ' was published anonymously in the first number of The Dial, July, 1840. A like idea finds expression in the well-known lines : —

Curved is the line of beauty, Straight is the line of dut^', Walk by the last, and thou shalt see The former ever follow thee. 335. Joseph Brownlee Brown, b. Charleston, S.C, Oct. 4, 1824. Graduated at Dartmouth. Studied law, but became

NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND KXI'LANATORV 369

a teacher. Belongs to the Transcendcntalist school influenced by Emerson. A confirmed invahd after 1865. d. I88^.

Concerning 'Thalatta,' Thomas Wentworth Higginson says, in The New World aiid the Neiv Book — ' Who knows but that, when all else of American literature has vanished in forgetful- ness. some single little masterpiece like this may remain to show the high-water mark, not merely of a single poet but of a nation and a generation.'

B b

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Adams, Oscar Fay Alcott, Louisa May . Aldrich, Anne Reeve Aldrich, Thomas Bailey . Allen, Willis Boyd . Ames, Charles Gordon Arnold, George

Bartol, Cyrus Augustus . Bates, Arlo Bates, Charlotte Fiske : see Rogi^ Bates, Katharine Lee Beach, Seth Curtis . Beers, Henry Augustin Birckhead, William Hunter Blood, Henry Ames . BoKER, George Henry Bolton, Sarah Knowles . Botta, Anne Charlotte Lynch Brooks, Charles Timothy Brooks, Phillips Brown, Alice ... Brown, Joseph Brownlee Bryant, V/illiam Cullen . Bulfinch, Stephen Greenleaf Burleigh, William Henry Burroughs, John Butts, Mary Frances

Cary, Alice ... Cary, Phcebe Chadwick, John White Cheney, John Vance

B b 2

PAGE
281,	282
193,	194
327-	-329
7, 218,	336
	303
175-	-177
198,	199
	85
	280
	318
	227
	276
	333
	229
145,	146
122,	123
	121
	86
197,	198
324	-327
	335
	7-14
62-64
69-72
226,	227
	223
III	-121
146	151
233,	234
	277

372

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Child, Lydia Maria . Clarke, James Freeman Cone, Helen Gray Conway, Katherine Eleanor Cooke, Rose Terry .

COOLBRITH, InA DoNNA

CooLiDGE, Susan (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey) Coxe, Arthur Cleveland . Cranch, Christopher Pearse Crandall, Charles Henry Croswell, William .

Dandridge, Danske Carolina Deland, Margaret(ta) Wade Dickenson, Charles Munroe Dickinson, Emily DoANE, George Washington Dodge, Mary Mapes . Dole, Nathan Haskell Dorr, Julia Caroline Duke, R. T. W. . Dunbar, Paul Lawrence

Eastman, Charles Gamage Egan, Maurice Francis Emerson, Ralph Waldo .

Fawcett, Edgar .... Field, Eugene .... Fields, James Thomas Frothingham, Nathaniel Langdon Furness, William Henry .

Gannett, William Channing Gilder, Richard Watson GiLMORE, Minnie Gladden, Washington Granniss, Anna Jane Guiney, Louise Imogen

Hall, Louisa Jane . Harte, Francis Bret Hayne, Paul Hamilton Hedge, Frederic Henry HiGGiNSON, Thomas Wentworth

page

17

64, 65

312, 313

329, 330 172-174

308, 309

274? 275

89

78-81 310, 311

28, 29

313-317

306-308 264

179-183

16, 17

230

282

163-166 334 334

87,88

289-291

20-28

276

283-287

87

5-7 19, 20

235-240 265-270

330, 331 216, 217

303-305 319? 320

18 225, 226 185, 186

29j 30

139-143

INDEX OF AUTHORS

373

Holland, Joslmi Gilbert . Holm, Saxe

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. Hooper, Ellen Sturgis HosMER, Frederick Lucian HovEY, Richard Howarth, Ellen Clementine Howe, Julia Ward . Howell, Elizabeth Lloyd HowELLS, William Dean . HowLAND, Mary Woolsey . Hutchinson, Ellen Mackay

Jackson, Helen Hunt Jenks, Tudor Johnson, Samuel

Kimball, Hannah Parker Kimball, Harriet McEwen

Laighton, Albert

Lanier, Sidney .

Larcom, Lucy

Lathbury, Mary Anne

Lazarus, Emma .

Longfellow, Henry Wadswort

Longfellow, Samuel

Lowe, Martha Perry

Lowell, James Russell

Lowell, Maria White

LtJDERS, Charles Henry .

McKnight, George

Mason, Caroline Atherton

Miles, Sarah Elizabeth .

Miller, Joaquin f^CiNciNNATUS Hiner)

Mitchell, Langdon Elwyn (John Philip

Morse, James Herbert

Moulton, Louise Chandler

Muhlenberg, William Augustus

Norton, Andrews ....

Packard, Charlotte Mellen Palfrey, Sarah Hammond

Varley)

page

92-94

189-193

56-61

335 240 246

321

175

91, 92

184, 185

224 280, 28 r

298

186-189

310

129, 130

331 333 199 201

178 259-262 155-160 253, 254 278-280

3^-37

105-108

178. 179

94-105

123, 124

311

247, 248

130-134

37,38

258, 259

320

252

206-213

^5

3, 4

246, 247 144, 145

374

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Palmer, Ray .... Parker, Theodore Parsons, Thomas William Partridge, William Ordway . Peabody, William Bourne Oliver Perry, Nora .... Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart (Mrs. Ward) Piatt, John James Piatt, Sarah Morgan Bryan . Pierpont, John .... PoE, Edgar Allan Powers, Horatio Nelson . Proctor, Edna Dean .

Reese, Lizette Woodworth

Richardson, Charles Francis .

Riley, James Whitcomb

Rives, Amelie (Princess Troubetzkoy

Robbins, Chandler .

Robbins, Samuel Dowse .

RoGE, Charlotte Fiske Bates .

Sangster, Margaret Elizabeth Savage, Minot Judson Scudder, Eliza .... Sears, Edmund Hamilton . Sherman, Frank Dempster Sill, Edward Rowland Slosson, Annie Trumbull . Smith, May Louise Riley . Spencer, Carl .... Spofford, Harriet Prescott . Sprague, Charles Stedman, Edmund Clarence Stoddard, Richard Henry Stowe, Harriet Beecher .

Tabb, John Banister

Taylor, Bayard

Thaxter, Celia ....

Thayer, William Roscoe .

Thomas, Edith Matilda .

Thoreau, Henry David

Tilton, Theodore

Troubetzkoy, the Princess : see Rives, Amelie

Trowbridge, John Townsend . . . .

page

38-40

65,66

89 91

300, 301

16

250, 251 273, 274 201, 202 203-206

^-3

64

166-168

228, 229

321, 322

287-289

295-297

321-323

66

72, 73 231, 232

231

251, 252 124-129

66-68 318, 319

254-257 292 294 263, 264 301 214, 215

4, 5

194-196

160, 161

74-78

270-273 162, 163 219-231

311

298-300

88

216

169-172

INDEX OF AUTHORS 375

PACK

Vakley, John Philip: see Mitchell, Langdon Klwyn

Very, Jones 8i 85

Wakefield, Nancy Priest 196^ ^97

Ware, Henry, Junior M' '5

Wasson, David Atwood i34-i39

Waterston, Robert Cassie 73^ 74

Weitzel, Sophie Winthrop 249, 250

Whitman, Wai.t(er^ 109-111

Whitney, Adeline D. Train 151 ^54

Whittier, John Greenleaf 41-56

Williams, Francis Howard 264, 265

Willis, Nathaniel Parker 38

Winter, William 221-223

WOODBERRY, GeORGE EdWARD 302

WooLSEY, Sarah Chauncey : .sfc Coolidge, Susan

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A candle in the night ....

A form not always dark but ever dread

A golden twinkle in the wayside grass

A hundred noble wishes fill my heart .

A ladder from the land of light

A little house of life

A little, low-ceiled room. Four walls

A morning-glory bud, entangled fast ,

A mute companion at my side

A rhyme of good Death's inn

A single star how bright

A song of a white throne circled

A sower went forth to sow^ .

A stealing glory, still, intent and sure .

A tender child of summers three .

A view of present life is all thou hast .

A voice from the sea to the mountains

A wail from beyond the desert

Across the narrow beach w^e flit .

Across the winter's gloom .

Across this sea I sail, and do not know

Adieu ! To God ....

Afraid ? Of whom am I afraid .

Alas ! that men must see

All moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees

All that springeth from the sod .

All things are Thine : no gift have we

All this costly expense

Always I see her in a saintly guise

And they serve men austerely

PAGE

287 232 201 289 272 236 154 303 141

324 29

331 265 249

56 247

86 6 220 318 210 330 i8r 306 198 273

51 332 297

27

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

377

An easy thing, O Power Divine ....

Angels of growth, of old in that surprise

Angel of Pain, I think thy face ....

Anoint my eyes that I may see ....

Another day its course hath run ....

Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold

Are you glad, my big brother, my deep-hearted oak

Around this lovely valley rise ....

Art is true art when art to God is true

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest

As I was going to Bethlehem-town

As little children in a darkened hall .

As shadows, cast by cloud and sun

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod

As when on some great mountain peak we stand

At cool of day, with God I walk .

At end of Love, at end of Life

At evening in the port she lay

At last ! at last ! Oh, joy! oh, victory

At least to pray is left, is left

At the last, tenderly ....

Away in the dim and distant past

PAGE 140 138 189 250

3

272 316 170 291

35 225 284 310

13 262 188

131 211 276

329 183 no 148

Be not much troubled about manj^ things

Be true, O poet, to your gift divine

Because I could not stop for Death

Because I seek Thee not, O seek Thou me .

Because I wear the swaddling-bands of Time

Behold the western evening light

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music

Beneath the deep and solemn midnight sky

Beneath the moonlight and the snow .

Beside my window, in the early spring

Bhndfolded and alone I stand

Blow, golden trumpets, sweet and clear

Body, I pray 3^ou, let me go

Bowing thyself in dust before a book .

Brave racer, who hast sped the living light

Break thou the bread of life

Breaks the joyful Easter dawn

Breathing the summer-scented air

Build a little fence of trust .

B3' the splendor in the heavens, and the hush up

on the sea

III

71 179 210 144

16 225 268

49 122 x86 308

315 J02 312 253 158 167 223 295

378

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

Christ to the young man said '. Yet one thing more City of God, how broad and far ....

Come with a smile, when come thou must . Could we but know ......

Crimsoning the woodlands dumb and hoary

Day is dying in the west

Day will return with a fresher boon

Dear and blessed dead ones, can you look and listen

Dear Friend ! whose presence in the house

Dear Lord and Father of mankind

Dear Lord ! kind Lord

Dearest, how hard it is to say

Death is a dialogue between

Death is but life's renewal ; but the pause

Down in the darkness, deep in the darkness

Down on the shadowed stream of time and years

Each moment holy is, for out from God Early they came, yet they were come too late Earth, w^ith its dark and dreadful ills . Eternal Ruler of the ceaseless round . Exultation is the going ....

Fain would I climb the heights that lead to God

Faithless, perverse, and blind

Feeling the way, — and all the way uphill

First the grain, and then the blade

Fling out the banner ! let it float

Flower of the deep red zone

Fold up thy hands, my weary soul

For the dead and for the dying .

Forenoon and afternoon and night

For the dear love that kept us through the night

From her own fair dominions

From out Cologne there came three kings

From past regret and present faithlessness

From the soft south the constant bird comes back

From thy whole life take all the sweetest days

Full-armed I fought the Paynim foe

Gay, guiltless pair ..... Go not. my soul, in search of Him God bless my little one ! how fair

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

379

God first made man of common clay .

God hath so many ships upon the sea .

God sets some souls, in shade alone .

God, to whom we look up blindly

God's will is — the bud of the rose for your hai

' Good-bye,' I said to my conscience

Good tidings every day ....

Gray distance hid each shining sail

Great Master ! teach us how to hope in man

Guest from a holier world ....

PAGE

3" 301

162 205

334 191 198 178 178

Had I been there when Christ our Lord lay sleeping . . 293

Hail to the Sabbath day 63

Hath not thy heart within thee burned .... 62

Heart all full of heavenly haste, too like the bubble bright . 319

He hath not guessed Christ's agony 327

He hides within the lily ....... 235

He leant at sunset on his spade ...... 204

Her languid pulses thrill with sudden hope . . . 278

He wills we may not read life's book aright . . . 332

Higher, higher 333

How can I cease to pray for thee ? Somewhere . . . 163

How do the rivulets find their way 177

How infinite and sweet. Thou everywhere .... 275

How to labor and find it sweet ...... 252

How we, poor players on life's little stage .... 208

I am but clay in Thy hands, but Thou art the all-loving Artist

I am old and blind .....

I bless Thee, Lord, for sorrows sent .

I bring my hymn of thankfulness .

I cannot choose ; I should have liked so much

I cannot find Thee ! Still on restless pinion

I cannot think but God must know

I cannot think of them as dead .

I do not come to weep above thy pall .

I found beside a meadow brooklet bright

I had a little daughter ....

I had a treasure in my house

I have a little kinsman ....

I have been out to day in field and wood

I hear the low voice call that bids me come

I hear the soft September rain intone .

I lay me down to sleep

80 184 129 172

134 126 191 243 94 247

lOI

133 195 149 210 207 280

38o

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

little see, I little know

look to Thee in every need ....

made the cross myself, whose weight

mourn no more my vanished years .

never saw a moor ......

plucked it in an idle hour .....

questioned : IV/iy is evil on the earth .

saw in Siena pictures

saw^ on earth another light ....

sit within my room and joy to find .

slept, and dreamed that life was beauty

stand betv/een the future and the past

stand upon the summit of my years .

thought to find some healing clime .

was quick in the flesh, was warm, and the live heart shook

would be quiet, Lord .....

would not breathe, when blows Thy mighty wind f death be final, what is life, with all . f He could doubt on His triumphant cross . f I can stop one heart from breaking . f I knew it now, how strange it would seem f I lay waste, and wither up with doubt f Jesus Christ is a man .....

f one had never seen the full completeness

f sin be in the heart ......

f still they live whom touch nor sight

f suddenly upon the street .....

f with light head erect I sing ....

mmortal Love, for ever full ....

mpossible,— the eagle's flight ....

n Christ I feel the heart of God ....

n common prayer our hearts ascend .

n darkest days and nights of storm

n His glory ! When the spheres

n May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes

n the bitter waves of woe .....

n the heart of the hills of life, I know

n the long pageant of man's destiny .

n this glad hour, when children meet .

n those high heavens, wherein the fair stars flower

n youth, when blood was warm and fancy high .

nto the heaven of Thy heart, O God .

nto the woods my Master went ....

s it a dream ? Am I once more a child

s it so far from thee ......

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

381

It is finished ! Man of Sorrows It came upon the midnight clear . It is not Hfe upon Thy gifts to live It lies around us like a cloud It singeth low in every heart It 's O my heart, mj' heart . Its shadow makes a sheltered place It was an old distorted face .

Jesus, there is no dearer name than Thine

Jesus, these eyes have never seen

Just come from heaven, how bright and fair

Knowledge — who hath it ? Nay not thou Knows he who tills this lonely field

Last night, as my dear babe lay dead .

Let down the bars, O Death

Let no man say, He at his lady's feet

Let whosoever will, inquire .

Life is a sea ; like ships we meet .

Life is unutterably dear

Lift your glad voices in triumph on high

Like a blind spinner in the sun .

Like a cradle, rocking, rocking

Like a meteor, large and bright .

Like Noah's weary dove

Lo ! all thy glory gone

Lo ! the day of rest declineth

Long is the way, O Lord

Look back on time with kindly eyes .

Lord for the erring thought .

Lord, my weak thought in vain would climb

Lord of all being throned afar

Lord, oft I come unto Thy door .

Lord, send us forth among Thy fields to work

Lord, who ordainest for mankind

Love came to me when I was young .

Love, work thy wonted miracle to-day

Many things in life there are

Mary, the mother, sits on the hill

May nevermore a selfish wish of mine .

Mighty man's will, and sweeps a world-wide arc

PAGE 30 66 82

74 233 308

327 151

65

39

214

218 20

283

183 260 126 86 231

14 188 190 270

15 271

66 206 182 224

40

60

324 179 12 265 332

241 320 248 250

382

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord

My faith looks up to Thee .

My inmost soul, O Lord, to Thee.

My thoughts are all in yonder town

Mysterious Death ! who in a single hour

Mysterious Presence, source of all

Naiiac, the faithful, pausing once to pray Nay, I will pray for them until I go Never, my heart, wilt thou grow old ! . No heavenly maid we here behold No help in all the stranger-land . No human eyes Th}'^ face may see Not all the beauties of this joyous earth Not alone in pain and gloom Not always on the mount may we Not charity we ask .... Not from a vain or shallow thought Not from the pestilence and storm Not in the solitude .... Not in the time of pleasure . Not in the world of light alone . Not so in haste, my heart . Not yet ! Along the purpling sky Now on land and sea descending. Now, trumpeter ! for thy close .

O beauteous things of earth

O bright ideals, how ye shine

O children's eyes unchildlike ! — Children's

O Christian soldier ! should'st thou rue

O distant Christ ! the crowded, darkening

O friends, with whom my feet have trod

O friend, your face I cannot see .

O gather, gather ! Stand

O God, I thank thee that the night

O little town of Bethlehem .

O Lord of life, and truth, and grace

O Love Divine, that stooped to share .

O Name, all other names above .

O night, look down through cloud and star

O patient Christ ! when long ago

O shadow^ in a sultrj' land .

O soul ! however sweet

O Thou, in all Thy might so far .

eyes

years

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

383

O Thou to whom in ancient time

O why are darkness and thick cloud .

' O world-god, give me wealth ! ' the Egyptian cried

O world, great world, now thou art all my own

Oft have I wakened ere the spring of day

Often I sit and spend my hour

Oh, deem not that earth's crowning bliss

Oh, egotism of agony ! while we.

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul

Oh, Spirit of Love and of Light .

Old mountains ! dim and gray ye rise .

Old, — we are growing old .

On the warm and perfumed dark .

One effort more, my altar this bleak sand

One feast, of holy days the crest .

One holy church of God appears .

One sweetly solemn thought

Our souls are sick for permanence ; this world

Out of the deeps of heaven ....

PAGE

I

251 279 290 299 119

69 280 283 323

85

166 109 103 106

333 160

Passage, immediate passage I the blood burns in my veins 109 Passion and pain, the outcome of despair . . . .321

Pensive and faltering . . . . . . . .110

Poor prisoned bird, that sings and sings .... 130

* Remember me,' the Saviour said 5

Round among the quiet graves . . . . . .211

Rout and defeat on every hand . . . . . -331

Sad souls, that harbor fears and woes 144

Safe 'neath the violets ........ 143

Save through the flesh Thou would'st not come to me . . 272

Saviour, sprinkle many nations ...... 89

Securely cabined in the ship below ..... 121

Seeing our lives by Nature now are led .... 248

Serene, I fold my hands and wait ..... 226

Shall we know in the hereafter 315

She died, — this was the way she died ..... 182

She stood before a chosen few 122

Shut in a close and dreary sleep 205

Sick of myself and all that keeps the light .... 217

Since Eden, it keeps the secret 177

Sing, children, sing 219

Sleep, my little Jesus 240

Slowly, by Thy hand unfurled 19

384

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

Softly ,

Some day or other I shall surely come

Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned

Sometimes, when rude, cold shadows run .

Somewhere in the world there hide

Speechless sorrow sat with me . . . ,

Standing forth on life's rough way

Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh

Still Sundays rising o'er the world

Still will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary

Sunset ! a hush is on the air . . .

Sweet friends, I could not speak before I went

Sweet is the time for joyous folk .

Sweet- voiced hope, thy fine discourse .

Take Temperance to thy breast .

Tears wash away the atoms in the eye

Thank God that God shall judge my soul, not rr

That longed-for door stood open, and he passed

That mystic word of Thine, O sovereign Lord

The aloes grow upon the sand

The angel came by night ....

The beautiful city ! forever ....

The blast has swept the clouds away .

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by

The bustle in a house .....

The city's shining towers we may not see .

The day is done ; the weary day of thought and toil is

The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep

The day is fixed that there shall come to me

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled

The dearest things in this fair world must change

The eagle nestles near the sun

The glad dawn sets his fires upon the hills .

The golden sea its mirror spreads

The hands that do God's work are patient hands

The legend says : In Paradise

The lilied fields behold ....

The Lord is in His Holy Place .

The Master walked in Galilee

The moon is at her full, and riding high

The mountain that the morn doth kiss .

The night is made for cooling shade

The old wine filled him, and he saw with eyes

The passion of despair is quelled at last

past

NDEX OF FIRST LINES

385

The perfect world by Adam trod .

The river lifts its morning mist .

The ro3'al feast was done ; the King .

The ship may sink .....

The south wind brings ....

The solemn wood had spread

The star I worship shines alone .

The sweet-briar rose has not a form more fair

The wind ahead, the billows high

The winds are hushed ; the peaceful moon .

The yearly miracle of spring

Their advent is as silent as their going

Then shall He answer how He lifted up

There are some qualities — some incorporate things

There is a city builded by no hand

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death .

There is no flock, however watched and tended

There is nothing new under the sun . t,

There lies a little city in the hills

There's a song in the air ....

They bade me cast the thing away

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars

They whose hearts are whole and strong .

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream

This is Palm Sunday. Mindful of the day .

This is the earth He walked on : not alone .

This is the ship of pearl, which poets feign .

This is the feast-time of the year .

This little seed of life and love

Thou art alive, O grave ....

Thou art, O God, my East ! In Thee I dawned

Thou art to me as is the sea ....

Thou God, whose high eternal love

Thou Grace divine, encircling all

Thou hast on earth a Trinity

Thou heart ! why dost thou lift thy voice

Thou long disowned, reviled, opprest .

Thou need'st not rest : the shining spheres are Thi

Thou who didst stoop below

Thou, who dost all things give

Thou who dost build the blind bird's nest .

Thou who sendest sun and rain .

Thought is deeper than all speech

Thought never knew material bond or place

Through Baca s vale m}^ way is cast .

PAGE

38 264 256 176

22

113

222

82

134

2

145

334

204

64

90

31

33

266

254 93 187 182 155 257 91 269

57 200

89 216

73

271

262

124

272

315

125

84

37

19

164

162

78

17

72

386

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

Through love to light ! Oh, wonderful the way

Through the straight pass of suffering .

Thy face is whitened with remembered woe

Thy works, O Lord, interpret Thee

'T is said there is a fount in Flower Land

'Tis winter now; the fallen snow

To him w^ho in the love of Nature holds

To love and seek return

To Thine eternal arms, O God

PAGE

267

183 270

in

291

105

7 108

139

Under the drifted snows, with weeping and holy rite Underneath the sod, low-lying .... Upon the sadness of the sea ....

Waiting on Him who knows us and our need We gather to the sacred board ....

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still We love the venerable house ....

We trust and fear, we question and believe . What if some morning, when the stars were paling What is time, O glorious Giver ....

What man can live denying his own soul What may we take into the vast forever What means this glory round our feet What song is well sung not of sorrow What song sang the twelve with the Saviour When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast ......

When Eve went out from Paradise

When first I mark upon my child's clear brow

When for me the silent oar .....

When Jesus trod by thy blue sea ....

When Life and Death clasp hands to part no more When mother-love makes all things bright . When on my day of life the night is falling . When on my ear your loss was knelled When on my soul in nakedness ....

When steps are hurrying homeward .

When the hours of day are numbered .

When the night is still and far .

When to soft sleep we give ourselves away .

When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean

Whenever my heart is heavy ....

Where ancient forests round us spread

infm:x of first links

387

Where are you going, my little children

Where did yesterday's sunset go.

Whichever way the wind doth blow

Whispers of heavenly death murinur'd

Whither, midst falling dew .

Who are thy playmates, boy

Who doubts has met defeat ere blows

Who drives the horses of the sun

Wh}' seek ye for Jehovah .

Wilt thou not visit me

With song of birds and hum of bees

Yea, Lord ! — Yet some must serve Yes, God is good, I'm told. You see

	PAGE
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	-'37
	132
1 hear	r 10
	9
.	27 r
can fall	290
	277
	303
	84
•	145
	'65
	204

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