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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 


%Avvkt  ipvtecott  ^poffotrb 

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 


338      NOTES,  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY 

PAGE 

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 

PAGE 

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 

PAGE 

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 

PAGE 

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 

PAGE 

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 


NOTES,   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY     347 

PAGE 

(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, 


348     NOTES,   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY 

PAGE 

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. 


NOTES,   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY     349 

PAGE 

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 


350 

PAGE 

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 


NOTES,   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND   EXPLANATORY     351 

PAGE 

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 


352     NOTES,   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY 

PAGE 

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 


353 

PAGE 

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 


354     NOTES,  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY 

PAGE 

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 


NOTES,  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY      355 

PAGE 

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 


356     NOTES,   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY 

PA.GE 

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- 


NOTES,  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY     357 

PAGE 

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. 


358      NOTES,  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY 

PAGE 

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 


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27  r 

can  fall 

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277 

303 

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oxford:  HORACE  HART 
PRINTER  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY 


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