THE GLORY OF BRAVE MEN AND WOMEN.
Dear Lord! I thank thee for a life of use;
Dear Lord! I do not pine for any truce.
Peace, peace has always come from duty done;
Peace, peace will so until the end be won.
Thanks, thanks! a thankful heart is my reward;
Thanks, thanks befit the children of the Lord.
Wind, wind! the peaceful reel must still go round;
Wind, wind! the thread of life will soon be wound.
The worker has no dread of growing old;
First, years of toil, and then the age of gold!
For lo! he hopes to bear his flag unfurled
Beyond the threshold of another world.
John Foster, he who sprang into celebrity from one essay, Popular Ignorance, had a diseased feeling against growing old, which seems to us to be very prevalent. He was sorry to lose every parting hour. "I have seen a fearful sight to-day," he would say--"I have seen a buttercup." To others the sight would only give visions of the coming Spring and future Summer; to him it told of the past year, the last Christmas, the days which would never come again--the so many days nearer the grave. Thackeray continually expressed the same feeling. He reverts to the merry old time when George the Third was king. He looks back with a regretful mind to his own youth. The black Care constantly rides, behind his chariot. "Ah, my friends," he says, "how beautiful was youth! We are growing old. Spring-time and Summer are past. We near the Winter of our days. We shall never feel as we have felt. We approach the inevitable grave." Few men, indeed, know how to grow old gracefully, as Madame de Stael very truly observed. There is an unmanly sadness at leaving off the old follies and the old games. We all hate fogyism. Dr. Johnson, great and good as he was, had a touch of this regret, and we may pardon him for the feeling. A youth spent in poverty and neglect, a manhood consumed in unceasing struggle, are not preparatives to growing old in peace. We fancy that, after a stormy morning and a lowering day, the evening should have a sunset glow, and, when the night sets in, look back with regret at the "gusty, babbling, and remorseless day;" but, if we do so, we miss the supporting faith of the Christian and the manly cheerfulness of the heathen. To grow old is quite natural; being natural, it is beautiful; and if we grumble at it, we miss the lesson, and lose all the beauty.
Half of our life is spent in vain regrets. When we are boys we ardently wish to be men; when men we wish as ardently to be boys. We sing sad songs of the lapse of time. We talk of "auld lang syne," of the days when we were young, of gathering shells on the sea-shore and throwing them carelessly away. We never cease to be sentimental upon past youth and lost manhood and beauty. Yet there are no regrets so false, and few half so silly. Perhaps the saddest sight in the world is to see an old lady, wrinkled and withered, dressing, talking, and acting like a very young one, and forgetting all the time, as she clings to the feeble remnant of the past, that there is no sham so transparent as her own, and that people, instead of feeling with her, are laughing at her. Old boys disguise their foibles a little better; but they are equally ridiculous. The feeble protests which they make against the flying chariot of Time are equally futile. The great Mower enters the field, and all must come down. To stay him would be impossible; We might as well try with a finger to stop Ixion's wheel, or to dam up the current of the Thames with a child's foot.
Since the matter is inevitable, we may as well sit down and reason it out. Is it so dreadful to grow old? Does old age need its apologies and its defenders? Is it a benefit or a calamity? Why should it be odious and ridiculous? An old tree is picturesque, an old castle venerable, an old cathedral inspires awe--why should man be worse than his works?
Let us, in the first place, see what youth is. Is it so blessed and happy and flourishing as it seems to us? Schoolboys do not think so. They always wish to be older. You cannot insult one of them more than by telling him that he is a year or two younger than he is. He fires up at once: "Twelve, did you say, sir? No, I'm fourteen." But men and women who have reached twenty-eight do not thus add to their years. Amongst schoolboys, notwithstanding the general tenor of those romancists who see that every thing young bears a rose-colored blush, misery is prevalent enough. Emerson, Coleridge, Wordsworth, were each and all unhappy boys. They all had their rebuffs, and bitter, bitter troubles; all the more bitter because their sensitiveness was so acute. Suicide is not unknown amongst the young; fears prey upon them and terrify them; ignorances and follies surround them. Arriving at manhood, we are little better off. If we are poor, we mark the difference between the rich and us; we see position gains all the day. If we are as clever as Hamlet, we grow just as philosophically disappointed. If we love, we can only be sure of a brief pleasure--an April day. Love has its bitterness. "It is," says Ovid, an adept in the matter, "full of anxious fear." We fret and fume at the authority of the wise heads; we have an intense idea of our own talent. We believe calves of our own age to be as big and as valuable as full-grown bulls; we envy whilst we jest at the old. We cry, with the puffed-up hero of the Patrician's Daughter:
"It may be by the calendar of years
You are the elder man; but 'tis the sun
Of knowledge on the mind's dial shining bright,
And chronicling deeds and thoughts, that makes true time."
And yet withal life is very unhappy, whether we live amongst the grumbling captains of the clubs, who are ever seeking and not finding promotion; amongst the struggling authors and rising artists who never rise; or among the young men who are full of riches, titles, places, and honor, who have every wish fulfilled, and are miserable because they have nothing to wish for. Thus the young Romans killed themselves after the death of their emperor, not for grief, not for affection, not even for the fashion of suicide, which grew afterwards prevalent enough, but from the simple weariness of doing every thing over and over again. Old age has passed such stages as these, landed on a safer shore, and matriculated in a higher college, in a purer air. We sigh not for impossibilities; we cry not:
"Bring these anew, and set me once again
In the delusion of life's infancy;
I was not happy, but I knew not then
That happy I was never doom'd to be."
We know that we are not happy. We know that life, perhaps, was not given us to be continuously comfortable and happy. We have been behind the scenes, and know all the illusions; but when we are old we are far too wise to throw life away for mere ennui. With Dandolo, refusing a crown at ninety-six, winning battles at ninety-four; with Wellington, planning and superintending fortifications at eighty; with Bacon and Humboldt, students to the last gasp; with wise old Montaigne, shrewd in his grey-beard wisdom and loving life, even in the midst of his fits of gout and colic--Age knows far too much to act like a sulky child. It knows too well the results and the value of things to care about them; that the ache will subside, the pain be lulled, the estate we coveted be worth little; the titles, ribbons, gewgaws, honors, be all more or less worthless. "Who has honor? He that died o' Wednesday!" Such a one passed us in the race, and gained it but to fall. We are still up and doing; we may be frosty and shrewd, but kindly. We can wish all men well; like them, too, so far as they may be liked, and smile at the fuss, bother, hurry, and turmoil, which they make about matters which to us are worthless dross. The greatest prize in the whole market--in any and in every market--success, is to the old man nothing. He little cares who is up and who is down; the present he lives in and delights in. Thus, in one of those admirable comedies in which Robson acted, we find the son a wanderer, the mother's heart nearly broken, the father torn and broken by a suspicion of his son's dishonesty, but the grandfather all the while concerned only about his gruel and his handkerchief. Even the pains and troubles incident to his state visit the old man lightly. Because Southey sat for months in his library, unable to read or touch the books he loved, we are not to infer that he was unhappy. If the stage darkens as the curtain falls, certain it also is that the senses grow duller and more blunted. "Don't cry for me, my dear," said an old lady undergoing an operation; "I do not feel it."
It seems to us, therefore, that a great deal of unnecessary pity has been thrown away upon old age. We begin at school reading Cicero's treatise, hearing Cato talk with Scipio and Lælius; we hear much about poor old men; we are taught to admire the vigor, quickness, and capacity of youth and manhood. We lose sight of the wisdom which age brings even to the most foolish. We think that a circumscribed sphere must necessarily be an unhappy one. It is not always so. What one abandons in growing old is, perhaps, after all not worth having. The chief part of youth is but excitement; often both unwise and unhealthy. The same pen which has written, with a morbid feeling, that "there is a class of beings who do not grow old in their youth and die ere middle age," tells us also that "the best of life is but intoxication." That passes away. The man who has grown old does not care about it. The author at that period has no feverish excitement about seeing himself in print; he does not hunt newspapers for reviews and notices. He is content to wait; he knows what fame is worth. The obscure man of science, who has been wishing to make the world better and wiser; the struggling curate, the poor and hard-tried man of God; the enthusiastic reformer, who has watched the sadly slow dawning of progress and liberty; the artist, whose dream of beauty slowly fades before his dim eyes--all lay down their feverish wishes as they advance in life, forget the bright ideal which they can not reach, and embrace the more imperfect real. We speak not here of the assured Christian. He, from the noblest pinnacle of faith, beholds a promised land, and is eager to reach it; he prays "to be delivered from the body of this death;" but we write of those humbler, perhaps more human souls, with whom increasing age each day treads down an illusion. All feverish wishes, raw and inconclusive desires, have died down, and a calm beauty and peace survive; passions are dead, temptations weakened or conquered; experience has been won; selfish interests are widened into universal ones; vain, idle hopes, have merged into a firmer faith or a complete knowledge; and more light has broken in upon the soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, "through chinks which Time has made."
Again, old men are valuable, not only as relics of the past, but as guides and prophets for the future. They know the pattern of every turn of life's kaleidoscope. The colors merely fall into new shapes; the ground-work is just the same. The good which a calm, kind, and cheerful old man can do is incalculable. And whilst he does good to others, he enjoys himself. He looks not unnaturally to that which should accompany old age--honor, love, obedience, troops of friends; and he plays his part in the comedy or tragedy of life with as much gusto as any one else. Old Montague, or Capulet, and old Polonius, that wise maxim-man, enjoy themselves quite as well as the moody Hamlet, the perturbed Laertes, or even gallant Mercutio or love-sick Romeo. Friar Lawrence, who is a good old man, is perhaps the happiest of all in the dramatis personae--unless we take the gossiping, garrulous old nurse, with her sunny recollections of maturity and youth. The great thing is to have the mind well employed, to work whilst it is yet day. The precise Duke of Wellington, answering every letter with "F.M. presents his compliments;" the wondrous worker Humboldt with his orders of knighthood, stars, and ribbons, lying dusty in his drawer, still contemplating Cosmos, and answering his thirty letters a day--were both men in exceedingly enviable, happy positions; they had reached the top of the hill, and could look back quietly over the rough road which they had traveled. We are not all Humboldts or Wellingtons; but we can all be busy and good. Experience must teach us all a great deal; and if it only teaches us not to fear the future, not to cast a maundering regret over the past, we can be as happy in old age--ay, and far more so--than we were in youth. We are no longer the fools of time and error. We are leaving by slow degrees the old world; we stand upon the threshold of the new; not without hope, but without fear, in an exceedingly natural position, with nothing strange or dreadful about it; with our domain drawn within a narrow circle, but equal to our power. Muscular strength, organic instincts, are all gone; but what then? We do not want them; we are getting ready for the great change, one which is just as necessary as it was to be born; and to a little child perhaps one is not a whit more painful--perhaps not so painful as the other. The wheels of Time have brought us to the goal; we are about to rest while others labor, to stay at home while others wander. We touch at last the mysterious door--are we to be pitied or to be envied?
The desert of the life behind,
Has almost faded from my mind,
It has so many fair oases
Which unto me are holy places.
It seems like consecrated ground,
Where silence counts for more than sound,
That way of all my past endeavor
Which I shall tread no more forever.
And God I was too blind to see,
I now, somewhat from blindness free,
Discern as ever-present glory,
Who holds all past and future story.
Eternity is all in all;
Time, birth and death, ephemeral--
Point where a little bird alighted,
Then fled lest it should be benighted.
LV.
RHYMES AND CHIMES
(ALL BRAND NEW)
SUITABLE FOR AUTOGRAPH ALBUMS.
As free as fancy and reason,
And writ for many a season;
In neither spirit nor letter
To aught but beauty a debtor.
INTRODUCTORY.
The reader knows
His woes.
How oft "someone has blundered!"
How oft a thought
Is caught,
And rhyme and reason sundered!
With line and hook,
Just look!
And see a swimming hundred--
A school of rhymes
And chimes
As free as summer air.
So, if you wish
To fish,
Please angle anywhere.
I.
Thou pet of modern art,
Since I the spell have broken,
Now on thy journey start,
And gather many a token
From many an honest heart,
The best or thought or spoken.
II.
Go forth, thou little book,
And seek that wondrous treasure,
Affection's word and look,
Which only heaven can measure.
III.
This Album comes a-tapping
At many a friendly door;
Yea, gently, gently rapping--
"Hast aught for me in store?
Dear Love and Truth I show,
To point a life's endeavor--
Thanks for thy heart! I go
And bear it on forever."
IV.
"Whose name was writ in water!"
It was not so of Keats.
How many a son and daughter
His gentle name repeats!
And Friendship and Affection
Will keep thy name as bright,
If Beauty give protection
And wed thee to the Right.
So you desire my heart!
Well, take it--and depart.
It is not cold and heavy,
It is not light,
Seeks to be right,
And answers Beauty's levy.
VI.
Be it a fable or rumor,
Or an old device,
'Tis true; gentle wit and humor
Are as good as cold advice.
VII.
This dainty little Album thine
Is of a quality so fine
That happy Laughter here may write,
And all the pages still be white.
VIII.
There is no open mart
In which to sell a heart,
For none the price can pay;
So mine I give away,
Since I with it must part--
'Tis thine, my friend, for aye.
"Do I not feel the lack.
And want to get it back?"
No, no! for kindly Heaven
A better one has given.
IX.
There is a cup, I know,
Which, full to overflow,
Has yet the space to hold
Its measure many fold;
And when from it I drink,
It is so sweet to think--
What it retains is more
Than all it held before.
If you my riddle guess,
You surely will confess
The greater in the less,
Which is our blessedness.
X.
Dost give away thy heart,
With all its sweet perfume?
Angels dwell where thou art,
The more, the greater room.
XI.
A life lost in a life--
True husband or true wife--
A life come back again
As with a shining train.
XII.
A cheery maiden's love
As large as heaven and earth--
That were a gift to prove
How much this life is worth.
XIII.
Fast by Eternal Truth,
And on a sunny mountain,
Springs that perennial fountain
Which gives immortal youth;
And all who bathe therein
Are washed from every sin.
XIV.
It is to do the best,
Unmindful of reward,
Which brings the sweetest rest
And nearness to the Lord;
And this has been thy aim,
And will be to the end,
Knows she who writes her name
As thy unchanging friend.
Words--words--and pen and ink,
But not a thought to think!
And yet, perhaps, perchance,
Who knows his ignorance
Is not the greatest fool,
Although long out of school.
XVI.
Our greatest glory, friend,
Is chiefly found herein--
That when we fall, offend,
We quickly rise from sin,
And make the very shame,
Which gathered round our name
Like many scorpion rings,
The stairs to better things
In that high citadel
Which has a warning bell.
XVII.
Whence honor, wealth, or fame,
Which God delights to see?
Out of a blameless name,
Born of Eternity.
And these are prizes
At God's assizes,
Reported day by day,
Which no man takes away.
XVIII.
Life is movement, action,
Joy, and benefaction.
Rest is bravely doing,
While the past reviewing,
Still the years forecasting
With the Everlasting.
Such be days of thine,
Such thy rest divine.
XIX.
The brook's joy
Does not cloy.
Too much sun,
Too much rain;
Work is done
Not in vain.
Sun receives
And cloud leaves
Just enough.
Skies are black
And winds rough,
Yet no lack
Of good will;
For 'tis still
Understood
God is good.
XX.
The brook's rest
Is rest indeed;
The brook's quest
Is daily need.
Thoughts of to-morrow
They bring no sorrow;
And so it babbles away,
And does the work of to-day.
XXI.
The brook knows the joy
Down in the heart of a boy,
And the swallow kens the whirl
Up in the head of a girl.
XXII.
How many a psalm is heard
From yon rejoicing bird,
That finds its daily food
And feels that God is good!
That little life's employ
Is toil and song and joy.
Hast music in thy heart,
O toiler day by day,
Along life's rugged way?
Then what thou hast thou art.
XXIII.
True, Good, and Beautiful!
A perfect line
Of love and sainthood full--
And it is thine.
XXIV.
Thou doest well, dear friend,
Thy labor is not lost.
As notes in music blend,
So here Affection's host.
Their names thy book within,
Their thoughts of love and truth,
Are worth the cost to win--
First trophies of thy youth.
This little Album thine
Suggests to Book Divine--
The Book of Life, God's own.
What names are written there!
What names are there unknown!
Hast thou no thought or care?
I do thee wrong to ask--
God speed the nobler task
Until thy labor prove
Indeed a work of love!
XXV.
True friends
Are through friends
To the next world--
That unvexed world.
What will friends be good for
When the witness is needless they stood for?
XXVI.
Wouldst have another gem
In Friendship's diadem?
Then take this name of mine;
Thy light will make it shine.
XXVII.
Thou comest beauty-laden,
Thou sprightly little maiden,
And dancing everywhere
Like sunbeams in the air;
And for thy cheery laugh
Here is my autograph.
XXVIII.
Something for nothing? No!
A false device.
For all things here below
We pay the price.
For even grace we pay,
Which is so free;
And I have earned to-day
A smile from thee.
XXIX.
Friend, make good use of time!
Eternity sublime
Is cradled in its use,
And Time allows no truce.
The past, with shadowy pall,
Is gone beyond recall;
To-morrow is not thine;
'To-day is all thou hast,
Which will not always last:
Make thou to-day divine!
XXX.
Every hour a duty
Brings thee from the courts on high.
Every hour a beauty
Waits her transit to the sky;
Waits till thou adorn her
With the glory of thy heart,
Or until thou scorn her--
Shall she with thy sin depart?
XXXI.
If you seek in life success,
Own yourself the instrument
Which the Lord alone can bless,
And the world as helper meant;
Perseverance as your friend
And experience your eyes,
Onward press to reach your end,
Resting not with any prize;
Counting it a joy to lend
Unto Him who sanctifies.
XXXII.
That day is lost forever,
Whose golden sun
Beholds through thine endeavor
No goodness done.
XXXIII.
Count not thy life by heart-throbs;
He thinks and lives the most
Who with the noblest actions
Adorns his chosen post.
XXXIV.
The secret of the world,
Although in light impearled,
No one can e'er discover,
No one--except a lover.
To him are given new eyes
In self's true sacrifice.
XXXV.
If Love is blind
And overlooks small things,
He has a mind
To apprehend all things.
XXXVI.
As Love sails down life's river
He from his gleaming quiver
Shoots into every heart
A strange and nameless smart.
How is thy heart protected?
The wound is unsuspected!
XXXVII.
Dost thou truly love?
Nothing hard can prove,
All the stress and rigor
Doth thy heart transfigure.
XXXVIII.
Love is the key of joy
Which keeps the man a boy
When outward things decay
And all his locks are gray.
XXXIX.
Of Heaven below
Which is so sweet to know,
And Heaven above,
The title-deed is love.
XL.
Who is bravest
Of my four friends?
Thou that slavest,
And self all spends;
Thou that savest,
And usest never;
Thou that cravest,
With no endeav-or,
Thou that gavest,
And hast forever?
XLI.
Numen
Lumen,
I can do without praise,
I can do without money:
I have found other honey
To sweeten my days;
And the Kaiser may wear his gold crown
While I on his splendor look down.
XLII.
God thy Light!
Then is Right
Life's own polar star;
All thy fortunes are
Gifts that come from Him,
Filling to the brim
Life's great golden cup,
And thy heart looks up!
XLIII.
A debtor to hate,
A debtor to money,
Forever may wait
And never have honey.
A debtor to love
And sweet benefaction,
Hath treasures above,
A heart's satisfaction.
XLIV.
God is a liberal lender
To those who use,
But not abuse,
And daily statements render;
And here's the beauty of it--
He lends again the profit!
XLV.
Days of heroic will
Which God and duty fill,
Are evermore sublime
Memorials of Time.
That such thy days may be
Is my best wish for thee.
XLVI.
Self-sacrifice
Finds Paradise;
Hearts that rebel
Are gates of Hell.
Goals of all races
Are these two places.
XLVII.
The blushes of roses
And all that reposes
Sublime in a hero
Affixed by his zero--
Ah, you will complete him,
As soon as you meet him.
XLVIII.
Maidens passing into naught,
What a work by them is wrought!
Not prefixes,
But affixes
On the better side of men--
See! they multiply by ten.
XLIX.
The golden key of life,
True maiden crowned a wife.
What then are toil and trouble,
With strength to meet them, double?
L.
True Heaven begins on earth
Around a common hearth,
Or in a humble heart--
Thy faith means what thou art,
And that which thou wouldst be;
Thou makest it, it thee.
LI.
No Heaven in Truth and Love?
Then do not look above.
Yet Truth and Love have wings,
Although the highest things;
Therewith to mount, dear friend,
Is life that has no end.
LII.
Art thou a mourner here?
But One can give thee cheer:
Affliction turns to grace
Before the Master's face.
LIII.
My friend, my troubled friend,
If true, Love has not found you,
Then I can comprehend
That Duty has not bound you.
LIV.
Love is the source of duty,
The parent of all life,
Which Heaven pronounces beauty,
The crown of man and wife,
Beginning and the end
To hero, saint, and friend;
An inspiration which
Is so abundant, rich,
That from the finger-tips
And from the blooming lips,
Yea, from the voiceful eyes,
In questions and replies--
From every simple action
And hourly benefaction
It pours itself away,
A gladness day by day,
Exhaustless as the sun,
Work done and never done.
And I have painted you,
O maiden fair and true!
LV.
The voice of God is love,
As all who listen prove.
Be thou assured of this,
Or life's chief comfort miss.
LVI.
"O is not love a marvel
Which one can not unravel?
Behold its bitter fruit!
Ah, that kind does not suit."
My friend, I'm not uncivil--
Self makes of love a devil,
And it is love no more;
His guise love never wore,
But Satan steals the guise
Of love for foolish eyes--
Therein the danger lies,
But do not be too wise.
Dost wait for perfect good
In man or womanhood?
Then thou must onward press
In single blessedness,
And find, perhaps too late,
Love dies without a mate--
Perhaps this better fate
When love a banquet makes
Which all the world partakes,
Proved never out of date.
LVII.
Prove all things--even love
Thou must needs prove.
But let the touch be fine
That tests a thing divine.
Yea, let the touch be tender;
True love will answer render.
LVIII.
'Tis Give-and-take,
Not Take-and-give,
That seeks to make
Folk blessed live.
Where is he now?
Invisible.
Yet on thy brow
His name I spell.
Bear-and-forbear,
To make folk blest,
Seeks everywhere
To be a guest.
Angelic one,
Who art so near,
Thy will be done,
Both now and here.
LX.
Comes knowledge
At college;
Wisdom comes later,
And is the greater.
Art thou of both possessed?
Then art thou richly blest.
LXI.
What can I wish thee better
Than that through all thy days,
The spirit, not the letter,
Invite thy blame or praise?
Seek ever to unroll
The substance or the soul;
If that be fair and pure,
It will, and must endure;
And lo! the homely dress
Grows into loveliness.
LXII.
Into the heart of man
The things that bless or ban;
Out of the life he lives,
The boon or curse he gives.
Guard well thy open heart,
What enters must depart.
LXIII.
Is this--is this thine album?
'Tis nothing but a sign
Of something more divine.
Thou art the real album,
And on its wondrous pages
Is writ thy daily wages.
Thou canst not blot a word,
Much less tear out a leaf.
But all thy prayers are heard,
And every pain and grief
May be to thee as stairs
To better things, until
Thou reachest, unawares,
The Master's mind and will.
LXIV.
Seek thou for true friends,
Aim thou at true ends,
With God above them all;
Then, as the shadows lengthen,
Will thy endurance strengthen,
With heaven thy coronal.
LXV.
Ten thousand eyes of night,
One Sovereign Eye above;
Ten thousand rays of light,
One central fire of Love.
No eyes of night appear,
God's Eye is never closed;
No rays of light to cheer,
For self hath interposed.
Yet Love's great fire is bright
By day as well as night.
LXVI.
O we remember
In leafy June,
And white December
Love's gentle tune;
For nevermore,
On any shore,
Is life the same
As ere love came.
And this is the day
My child came down from heaven,
And this is the way
The sweetest kiss is given.
LXVIII.
Thy natal day, my dear!
Good heart, good words for cheer,
And kisses now and here,
With love through many a year!
LXIX.
Earthly duty,
Heavenly beauty.
LXX.
Truth! her story
Is God's glory;
Her triumph on the earth,
Man's heavenly birth.
LXXI.
What's in a name?
A symbol of reality,
All human fame,
And God's originality.
LXXII.
Thou art so neat and trim,
So modest and so wise,
Such gladness in thine eyes,
Thou art a prize--for him,
And for the world, I think;
So here thy health I drink,
O mother Eve's fair daughter,
In this good cup of water.
LXXIII.
All, all thou art
Is in thy heart;
Thy mind is but a feeder,
Thy heart alone the leader,
LXXIV.
If you want a fellow.
Not too ripe and mellow,
Just a little green,
Courteous, never mean,
One who has a will
For the steepest hill,
And can rule a wife,
Love her as his life,
And from fortune's frown
Weave a blessed crown,
Then you want the best;
Win him, and be blest.
LXXV.
If you wish a dandy,
Moustache curled and sandy,
Just the thing for parties,
Who, so trim and handy,
Knows not where his heart is,
Whether with your banker,
Or for you it hanker,
Why, then take the dude;
Naught is void of good.
LXXVI.
His faults are many--
Hast thou not any?
But how will the bundles mix?
Is a question for Doctor Dix,
For both were picked up at Ann Arbor.
LXXVII.
I can not wish thee better
In a world of many a sorrow,
Than that thou be a debtor
To only love and to-morrow.
Then pain has little anguish,
And life no time to languish,
When debts are paid to Heaven,
And grace sufficient for thee
Thy daily strength has given;
For all is bright before thee.
Seek not for happiness,
But just to do thy duty;
And then will blessedness
Impart her heavenly beauty.
LXXIX.
Indulge no selfish ease,
Each golden hour employ,
Seek only God to please,
And thou shalt life enjoy;
Yea, thou shalt then please all,
And blessings on thee fall.
LXXX.
To use thy time discreetly,
To show forbearance sweetly,
To do thy duty neatly,
To trust in God completely,
Is good advice to give,
And best of all to live.
LXXXI.
If words are light as cloud foam,
So too is mountain air;
If in the air is beauty,
So too may words be fair.
If in the air contagion,
Distemper words may bear.
Our words are real things,
And full of good or ill;
The tongue that heals or stings,
So needs the Master's will!
LXXXII.
The world has many a fool,
The schemer many a tool;
A mirror shows them,
The wise man knows them.
Ten thousand disguises,
Ten thousand surprises.
In wisdom is detection,
In righteousness protection.
LXXXIII.
To do good to another
Is thy self to well serve;
And to succor thy brother
For thyself is fresh nerve
And new strength for the battle,
In the dash and the rattle,
When thy foes press thee hard,
And thy all thou must guard.
LXXXIV.
Canst show a finer touch,
A grain of purer lore--
"I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more?"
LXXXV.
Frittered away,
Grace to begin
Duty to-day--
Wages of sin!
Truth out of sight,
Falsehood crept in,
Wrong put for right--
Wages of sin.
Self become god,
Eager to win
All at its nod--
Wages of sin.
Scorn of the seer,
Vanity's grin,
Darkness grown dear--
Wages of sin.
Trouble without,
Canker within,
Fear, hate, and doubt--
Wages of sin.
What is to be,
All that has been,
Shadows that flee--
Wages of sin.
Loss of the soul,
Wrangle and din,
Tragedy's dole--
Wages of sin.
Warning enough!
(Mortals are kin)
Ragged and rough
Wages of sin!
LXXXVI.
Words great to express Him,
Revealer
And Healer,
By these ye confess Him.
Enough, this beginning?
Before ye
The glory
Known only in winning.
In deed-bearing Duty
Behold Him,
Enfold Him,
The King in his Beauty;
Until ye discover
How meetly,
How sweetly
He rules as a Lover!
And then will confession,
O new men,
Now true men,
Be one with possession.
LXXXVII.
O wouldst thou know
The rarity
Of Charity?
Thyself forego!
Then will the field,
To God inviting,
To man requiting,
Sweet harvest yield.
LXXXVIII.
In consecration
To single-hearted toil
Is animation,
Yea, life's true wine and oil;
And that vocation
Which heart and mind secures
Hath consolation
That verily endures.
LXXXIX.
To fast and pray
The live-long day
Is preparation--
O doubt it not!
For some high lot,
But in thy deed,
Not in thy creed,
Is consummation.
XC.
It is the cheerful heart
That finds the key of gold,
The bravely-acted part
Which gets the grip and hold.
And opens wide the door
Where treasures are unrolled
Thine eager eyes before.
Then life is evermore
A strife for wealth untold.
God keep thee true and bold!
XCI.
Sometimes our failures here
Are God's successes;
And things that seemed so drear
His sweet caresses.
It is our Father's hand
That gives our wages,
Before us many a land
And all the ages.
And shall we forfeit hope
Because the fountains
Are up the mighty slope
Of yonder mountains?
XCII.
The storm is raging.
The sun is shining,
And both presaging
Some true refining;
Through them are passing
The hosts forever,
All wealth amassing
Through brave endeavor.
XCIII.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
Along my path to-day
I hear your quiet melodies,
And care all charmed away,
I catch your mood,
Dear forest brotherhood.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
Arrayed in springtide dress,
How full ye are of prophecies
Of everlastingness!
I find a balm
In your rejoicing psalm.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
In living green so grand,
Like saints with grateful memories,
Ye bless the Father's hand;
Which stripped you bare
To make you now so fair.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
Who have another birth,
Through you my bounding spirit sees
The day beyond the earth,
Eternity
So calm, so fair, so free.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
Dear children of the Lord,
I thank you for the ministries
Which ye to me accord;
New life and light
Burst from my wintry night!
O friend, rejoicing friend,
A better poem thou
To hint the joys that have no end
Through gladness here and now.
Be thou to me
Perpetual prophecy!
XCIV.
The battle is set,
The field to be won;
What foes have you met,
What work have you done?
To courage alone
Does victory come;
To coward and drone
Nor country nor home!
XCV.
For thee, of blessed name,
I ask not wealth or fame,
Nor that thy path may be
From toil and trouble free;
For toil is everywhere,
Some trouble all must bear,
And wealth and fame are naught,
With better stuff unwrought--
I crave for thy dear heart
Eternal Duty's part.
For then indeed I know
Thy pathway here below
Will bloom with roses fair,
And beauty everywhere;
And this will be enough
When winds are wild and rough,
To keep thy heart in peace.
All things to-day have voices,
To tell the joy of heaven,
Which unto earth is given;
This Winter flower rejoices,
This snowy hellebore
Which blooms for evermore
On merry Christmas Day,
Reminding us of One
Here born a Virgin's Son,
To take our sins away.
The death its leaves within
Is but the death of sin;
Which death to die was born
The pure and guiltless Child
Who Justice reconciled
And oped the gates of morn,
What time a crimson flame
Throughout a word of shame
Did purge away the dross,
And leave the blood-red gold,
Whose worth can not be told,
He purchased on the cross!
And thus a prophecy
Of Him on Calvary,
Who takes our sins away,
Is this fair snow-white flower
Which has of death the power,
And blooms on Christmas Day.
XCVII.
True friendship writes thee here
A birthday souvenir:
All blessings on thee, dear,
For this and many a year!
XCVIII.
A myth that grew within the brain
Relates that Eden's bowers
Did not, 'mid all their wealth, contain
The glory of the flowers;
Because there were no opened eyes
To take that glory in,
The sweet and innocent surprise
Which looks rebuke to sin;
For Love, and Innocence, and Truth
There made their dwelling-place,
Than which fair three immortal Youth
Required no other grace.
But when through sin the happy seat
Was lost to wretched man,
Our Lord, redeeming love to meet,
Redeeming work began:
The flowers, which have a language now,
Shall deck the weary earth,
And, while men 'neath their burdens bow,
Remind them of their birth;
And, with their vernal beauty rife,
To all the Gospel preach,
The Resurrection and the Life,
In sweet, persuasive speech.
XCIX.
Reader! if thou hast found
Thy life to reach and sound,
Some thought among these rhymes,
My school of rhymes and chimes,
Then this, I pray thee, con:
Somewhat to feed upon
It has--a kind of lunch,
Served with Olympian punch,
To brace thee every night,
And make thy mornings bright--
Complines at even-song
To make thee brave and strong:
Thou, Father, givest sleep
So calm, so sweet, so deep;
And all Thy children share
Thy goodness everywhere,
And to Thy likeness grow
Who love to others show.
Grant me more love, I pray,
Than I have shown to-day.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
MONDAY NIGHT.
Before I go to sleep,
That I in joy may reap,
Lord, take the tares away
Which I have sown to-day,
Productive make the wheat,
For Thine own garner meet,
And give me grace to-morrow
To sow no seeds of sorrow.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
TUESDAY NIGHT.
While I am wrapped in sleep,
And others watch and weep,
Dear Lord, remember them,
Their flood of sorrow stem,
Take all their grief away,
Turn Thou their night to day,
Until in Thee they rest
Who art of friends the best.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT.
Night is for prayer and sleep!
Behind the western steep
Now has the sun gone down
With his great golden crown.
O Sun of Righteousness,
Arise! Thy children bless;
With healing in thy wings
Cure all our evil things.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
THURSDAY NIGHT.
While I am safe asleep,
Good Shepherd of the sheep,
If some poor lamb of Thine
Stray from the Fold Divine
Into the desert night,
In the sweet morning light,
Choose me to bring it thence
Through Thy dear providence.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
FRIDAY NIGHT.
That I may sweetly sleep,
Thy child, O Father, keep
To wake and love thee more
Than I have done before.
And do Thou prosper all
Who on Thy goodness call,
And take their sins away
Who have not learned to pray.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
If death upon me creep
While I in darkness sleep,
Dear Lord! whose time is best,
Be Thou my bed and rest!
Then at Thy smile of light
Will my dark cell grow bright,
And angel-sentinels
Ring the sweet morning bells.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
C.
There is no bitterness
Without some lump of sweet;
Without some blessedness
There is no sad defeat.
And there is no confusion
Without some order fair,
No infinite diffusion
But unity is there.
The goodness of the Lord
Is round about us here;
Beholding it reward
To fill the heart with cheer.
All things are ever tending
To some divine event,
The sweet and bitter blending
With some divine intent.
All things are ever tending
To some divine event,
The sweet to have no ending--
Avaunt! O Discontent.
Brave men and women all,
How are we comforted
With honey out of gall,
Served with our daily bread!
FINIS.
[1.] The way of the cross the way of light.
[2.] O Liberty! how they have counterfeited thee!
It is generally understood, however, that her last words were: O Liberté! que de crimes on commet en ton nom! (O Liberty! what crimes are committed in thy name!)