Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul

by Unknown

APPENDIX

MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS

BE STRONG![1]

Be strong!

We are not here to play, to dream, to drift,

We have hard work to do, and loads to lift.

Shun not the struggle, face it, 'tis God's gift.

Be strong!

Say not the days are evil—who's to blame?

And fold the hands and acquiesce—O shame!

Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name.

Be strong!

It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,

How hard the battle goes, the day, how long;

Faint not, fight on! To-morrow comes the song.

—Maltbie D. Babcock.

———

NOT TO BE MINISTERED UNTO

O Lord, I pray

That for this day

I may not swerve

By foot or hand

From thy command,

Not to be served, but to serve.

This, too, I pray,

That for this day

No love of ease

Nor pride prevent

My good intent,

Not to be pleased, but to please.

And if I may

I'd have this day

Strength from above

To set my heart

In heavenly art,

Not to be loved, but to love.

—Maltbie D. Babcock.

———

COMPANIONSHIP

No distant Lord have I,

Loving afar to be;

Made flesh for me, he cannot rest

Unless he rests in me.

Brother in joy and pain,

Bone of my bone was he,

Now—intimacy closer still,

He dwells himself in me.

I need not journey far

This dearest Friend to see;

Companionship is always mine,

He makes his home with me.

I envy not the twelve,

Nearer to me is he;

The life he once lived here on earth

He lives again in me.

Ascended now to God,

My witness there to be,

His witness here am I, because

His Spirit dwells in me.

O glorious Son of God,

Incarnate Deity,

I shall forever be with thee

Because thou art with me.

—Maltbie D. Babcock.

———

"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 that am myself undone?

—William Dean Howells.

———

EMANCIPATION

Why be afraid of Death as though your life were breath!

Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O glad surprise!

Why should you be forlorn? Death only husks the corn.

Why should you fear to meet the thresher of the wheat?

Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping, you are dead

Till you awake and rise, here, or beyond the skies.

Why should it be a wrench to leave your wooden bench,

Why not with happy shout run home when school is out?

The dear ones left behind! O foolish one and blind.

A day—and you will meet,—a night—and you will greet!

This is the death of Death, to breathe away a breath

And know the end of strife, and taste the deathless life,

And joy without a fear, and smile without a tear,

And work, nor care nor rest, and find the last the best.

—Maltbie D. Babcock.

———

SCHOOL DAYS

Lord, let me make this rule:

To think of life as school,

And try my best

To stand each test,

And do my work

And nothing shirk.

Should some one else outshine

This dullard head of mine,

Should I be sad?

I will be glad.

To do my best

Is thy behest.

If weary with my book

I cast a wistful look

Where posies grow,

Oh, let me know

That flowers within

Are best to win.

Dost take my book away

Anon to let me play,

And let me out

To run about?

I grateful bless

Thee for recess.

Then recess past, alack,

I turn me slowly back,

On my hard bench,

My hands to clench,

And set my heart

To learn my part.

These lessons thou dost give

To teach me how to live,

To do, to bear,

To get and share,

To work and pray

And trust alway.

What though I may not ask

To choose my daily task,

Thou hast decreed

To meet my need.

What pleases thee

That shall please me.

Some day the bell will sound,

Some day my heart will bound,

As with a shout,

That school is out,

And, lessons done,

I homeward run.

—Maltbie D. Babcock.

———

CATHOLIC LOVE

Weary of all this wordy strife,

These notions, forms, and modes, and names,

To Thee, the Way, the Truth, the Life,

Whose love my simple heart inflames,

Divinely taught, at last I fly,

With Thee, and Thine, to live and die.

Redeemed by Thine almighty grace,

I taste my glorious liberty,

With open arms the world embrace,

But cleave to those who cleave to Thee;

But only in thy saints delight,

Who walk with God in purest white.

My brethren, friends, and kinsmen these,

Who do my heavenly Father's will;

Who aim at perfect holiness,

And all Thy counsels to fulfill,

Athirst to be whate'er Thou art

And love their God with all their heart.

—Charles Wesley.

———

WHAT MATTER

What matter, friend, though you and I

May sow and others gather?

We build and others occupy,

Each laboring for the other?

What though we toil from sun to sun,

And men forget to flatter

The noblest work our hands have done—

If God approves, what matter?

What matter, though we sow in tears,

And crops fail at the reaping?

What though the fruit of patient years

Fast perish in our keeping?

Upon our hoarded treasures, floods

Arise, and tempests scatter—

If faith beholds, beyond the clouds,

A clearer sky, what matter?

What matter, though our castles fall,

And disappear while building;

Though "strange handwritings on the wall"

Flame out amid the gilding?

Though every idol of the heart

The hand of death may shatter,

Though hopes decay and friends depart,

If heaven be ours, what matter?

—H. W. Teller.

———

JOHN WESLEY

In those clear, piercing, piteous eyes behold

The very soul that over England flamed!

Deep, pure, intense; consuming shame and ill;

Convicting men of sin; making faith live;

And,—this the mightiest miracle of all,—

Creating God again in human hearts.

What courage of the flesh and of the spirit!

How grim of wit, when wit alone might serve!

What wisdom his to know the boundless might

Of banded effort in a world like ours!

How meek, how self-forgetful, courteous, calm!

A silent figure when men idly raged

In murderous anger; calm, too, in the storm,—

Storm of the spirit, strangely imminent,

When spiritual lightnings struck men down

And brought, by violence, the sense of sin,

And violently oped the gates of peace.

O hear that voice, which rang from dawn to night,

In church and abbey whose most ancient walls

Not for a thousand years such accents knew!

On windy hilltops; by the roaring sea;

'Mid tombs, in market-places, prisons, fields;

'Mid clamor, vile attack,—or deep-awed hush,

Wherein celestial visitants drew near

And secret ministered to troubled souls!

Hear ye, O hear! that ceaseless-pleading voice,

Which storm, nor suffering, nor age could still—

Chief prophet voice through nigh a century's span!

Now silvery as Zion's dove that mourns,

Now quelling as the Archangel's judgment trump,

And ever with a sound like that of old

Which, in the desert, shook the wandering tribes,

Or, round about storied Jerusalem,

Or by Gennesaret, or Jordan, spake

The words of life.

Let not that image fade

Ever, O God! from out the minds of men,

Of him thy messenger and stainless priest,

In a brute, sodden, and unfaithful time,

Early and late, o'er land and sea, on-driven;

In youth, in eager manhood, age extreme,—

Driven on forever, back and forth the world,

By that divine, omnipotent desire—

The hunger and the passion for men's souls!

—Richard Watson Gilder.

———

"WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS"

It fortifies my soul to know

That, though I perish, Truth is so:

That, howsoe'er I stray and range,

Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change.

I steadier step when I recall

That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall.

—Arthur Hugh Clough.

———

HER GLADNESS

My darling went

Unto the seaside long ago. Content

I stayed at home, for O, I was so glad

Of all the little outings that she had!

I knew she needed rest. I loved to stay

At home a while that she might go away.

"How beautiful the sea! How she enjoys

The music of the waves! No care annoys

Her pleasures," thought I; "O, it is so good

That she can rest a while. I wish she could

Stay till the autumn leaves are turning red."

"Stay longer, sister," all my letters said.

"If you are growing stronger every day,

I am so very glad to have you stay."

My darling went

To heaven long ago. Am I content

To stay at home? Why can I not be glad

Of all the glories that she there has had?

She needed change. Why am I loath to stay

And do her work and let her go away?

The land is lovely where her feet have been;

Why do I not rejoice that she has seen

Its beauties first? That she will show to me

The City Beautiful? Is it so hard to be

Happy that she is happy? Hard to know

She learns so much each day that helps her so?

Why can I not each night and morning say,

"I am so glad that she is glad to-day?"

———

"OUT OF REACH"

You think them "out of reach," your dead?

Nay, by my own dead, I deny

Your "out of reach."—Be comforted;

'Tis not so far to die.

O by their dear remembered smiles,

And outheld hands and welcoming speech,

They wait for us, thousands of miles

This side of "out of reach."

—James Whitcomb Riley.

———

SORROWFUL, YET REJOICING

I lift my head and walk my ways

Before the world without a tear,

And bravely unto those I meet

I smile a message of good cheer;

I give my lips to laugh and song,

And somehow get me through each day;

But, oh, the tremble in my heart

Since she has gone away!

Her feet had known the stinging thorns,

Her eyes the blistering tears;

Bent were her shoulders with the weight

And sorrow of the years;

The lines were deep upon her brow,

Her hair was thin and gray;

And, oh, the tremble in my heart

Since she has gone away!

I am not sorry; I am glad;

I would not have her here again;

God gave her strength life's bitter cup

Unto the bitterest dreg to drain;

I will not have less strength than she,

I proudly tread my stony way;

But, oh, the tremble in my heart

Since she has gone away!

———

IN THE HOSPITAL

I lay me down to sleep

With little thought or care

Whether my waking find

Me here or there.

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'm 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.

—M. W. Howland.

———

FATHER OF MERCIES

Father of mercies, thy children have wandered

Far from thy bosom, their home;

Most of their portion of goods they have squandered;

Farther and farther they roam.

We are thy children, and we have departed

To the lone country afar,

We would arise, we come back broken-hearted;

Take us back just as we are.

Not for the ring or the robe we entreat thee,

Nor for high place at the feast;

Only to see thee, to touch thee, to greet thee,

Ranked with the last and the least.

But for thy mercy we dare not accost thee,

But for thy Son who has come

Seeking his brothers who left thee and lost thee,

Seeking to gather them home.

Father of mercies, thy holiness awes us;

Yet thou dost wait to receive!

Jesus, the light of thy countenance charms us,

Father of him, we believe.

Back in the home of thy heart, may we labor

Others to bring from the wild,

Counting each creature that needs us our neighbor,

Claiming each soul as thy child.

—Robert F. Horton.

———

ANGELS

How shall we tell an angel

From another guest?

How, from common worldly herd,

One of the blest?

Hint of suppressed halo,

Rustle of hidden wings,

Wafture of heavenly frankincense—

Which of these things?

The old Sphinx smiles so subtly:

"I give no golden rule—

Yet would I warn thee, World: treat well

Whom thou call'st fool."

—Gertrude Hall.

———

HIS PILGRIMAGE

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,

My staff of faith to walk upon,

My scrip of joy, immortal diet,

My bottle of salvation,

My gown of glory, hope's true gage;

And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer;

No other balm will there be given;

Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,

Traveleth toward the land of heaven;

Over the silver mountains,

Where spring the nectar fountains,

There will I kiss

The bowl of bliss,

And drink mine everlasting fill

Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before;

But after, it will thirst no more.

Then by that happy, blissful day,

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,

That have cast off their rags of clay,

And walk appareled fresh like me.

I'll take them first

To quench their thirst

And taste of nectar suckets,

At those clear wells

Where sweetness dwells,

Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

—Sir Walter Raleigh.

———

OUR WORDS

O Sentinel at the loose-swung door of my impetuous lips,

Guard close to-day! Make sure no word unjust or cruel slips

In anger forth, by folly spurred or armed with envy's whips;

Keep clear the way to-day.

And Watchman on the cliff-scarred heights that lead from heart to mind,

When wolf-thoughts clothed in guile's soft fleece creep up, O be not blind!

But may they pass whose foreheads bear the glowing seal-word, "kind";

Bid them Godspeed, I pray.

And Warden of my soul's stained house, where love and hate are born,

O make it clean, if swept must be with pain's rough broom of thorn!

And quiet impose, so straining ears with world-din racked and torn,

May catch what God doth say.

———

A GOOD MAN

A good man never dies—

In worthy deed and prayer,

And helpful hands, and honest eyes,

If smiles or tears be there;

Who lives for you and me—

Lives for the world he tries

To help—he lives eternally.

A good man never dies.

Who lives to bravely take

His share of toil and stress,

And, for his weaker fellows' sake

Makes every burden less—

He may, at last, seem worn—

Lie fallen—hands and eyes

Folded—yet, though we mourn and mourn,

A good man never dies.

—James Whitcomb Riley.

———

THE IMMANENT GOD

Each in His Own Tongue

A fire-mist and a planet,

A crystal and a cell,

A jellyfish and a saurian,

And caves where the cavemen dwell;

Then a sense of law and beauty,

And a face turned from the clod—

Some call it Evolution

And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,

The infinite, tender sky,

The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,

And the wild geese sailing high—

And all over upland and lowland

The charm of the golden rod—

Some of us call it Autumn,

And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea beach,

When the moon is new and thin,

Into our hearts high yearnings

Come welling and surging in—

Come from the mystic ocean,

Whose rim no foot has trod—

Some of us call it Longing,

And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty—

A mother starved for her brood—

Socrates drinking the hemlock,

And Jesus on the rood;

And millions who, humble and nameless,

The straight, hard pathway trod—

Some call it Consecration,

And others call it God.

—William Herbert Carruth.

———

THE HIGHER FELLOWSHIP

Do you go to my school?

Yes, you go to my school,

And we've learned the big lesson—Be strong!

And to front the loud noise

With a spirit of poise,

And drown down the noise with a song.

We have spelled the first line in the Primer of Fate;

We have spelled it, and dare not to shirk—

For its first and its greatest commandment to men

Is "Work, and rejoice in your work."

Who is learned in this Primer will not be a fool—

You are one of my classmates. You go to my school.

You belong to my club?

Yes, you're one of my club,

And this is our program and plan:

To each do his part

To look into the heart

And get at the good that's in man.

Detectives of virtue and spies of the good

And sleuth-hounds of righteousness we.

Look out there, my brother! we're hot on your trail,

We'll find out how good you can be.

We would drive from our hearts the snake, tiger, and cub;

We're the Lodge of the Lovers. You're one of my club.

You belong to my church?

Yes, you go to my church—

Our names on the same old church roll—

The tide-waves of God

We believe are abroad

And flow into the creeks of each soul.

And the vessel we sail on is strong as the sea

That buffets and blows it about;

For the sea is God's sea as the ship is God's ship,

So we know not the meaning of doubt;

And we know howsoever the vessel may lurch

We've a Pilot to trust in. You go to my church.

—Sam Walter Foss.

———

Never elated while one man's oppressed;

Never dejected while another's blessed.

—Alexander Pope.

———

THE OTHER FELLOW'S JOB

There's a craze among us mortals that is cruel hard to name;

Wheresoe'er you find a human you will find the case the same;

You may seek among the worst of men or seek among the best,

And you'll find that every person is precisely like the rest:

Each believes his real calling is along some other line

Than the one at which he's working—take, for instance, yours and mine.

From the meanest "me-too" creature to the leader of the mob,

There's a universal craving for "the other fellow's job."

There are millions of positions in the busy world to-day,

Each a drudge to him who holds it, but to him who doesn't, play;

Every farmer's broken-hearted that in youth he missed his call,

While that same unhappy farmer is the envy of us all.

Any task you care to mention seems a vastly better lot

Than the one especial something which you happen to have got.

There's but one sure way to smother Envy's heartache and her sob:

Keep too busy at your own to want "the other fellow's job."

—Strickland W. Gilliland.

———

THE SCORN OF JOB

"If I have eaten my morsel alone,"

The patriarch spoke in scorn.

What would he think of the Church were he shown

Heathendom—huge, forlorn,

Godless, Christless, with soul unfed,

While the Church's ailment is fullness of bread,

Eating her morsel alone?

"Freely as ye have received, so give,"

He bade who hath given us all.

How shall the soul in us longer live

Deaf to their starving call,

For whom the blood of the Lord was shed,

And his body broken to give them bread,

If we eat our morsel alone?

—Archbishop Alexander.

———