Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul

by Unknown

BROTHERHOOD

That plenty but reproaches me

Which leaves my neighbor bare.

Not wholly glad my heart can be

While his is bowed with care.

If I go free, and sound, and stout,

While his poor fetters clank,

Unsated still, I'll still cry out,

And plead with Whom I thank.

Almighty, thou who Father be

Of him, of me, of all,

Draw us together, him and me,

That, whichsoever fall,

The other's hand may fail him not—

The other's strength decline

No task of succor that his lot

May claim from son of thine.

I would be fed. I would be clad.

I would be housed and dry.

But if so be my heart is sad—

What benefit have I?

Best he whose shoulders best endure

The load that brings relief;

And best shall be his joy secure

Who shares that joy with grief.

—Edward Sandford Martin.

———

THE LIFE I SEEK

Not in some cloistered cell

Dost thou, Lord, bid me dwell

My love to show,

But 'mid the busy marts,

Where men with burdened hearts

Do come and go.

Some tempted soul to cheer

When breath of ill is near

And foes annoy;

The sinning to restrain,

To ease the throb of pain—

Be such my joy.

Lord, make me quick to see

Each task awaiting me,

And quick to do;

Oh, grant me strength, I pray,

With lowly love each day,

And purpose true,

To go as Jesus went,

Spending and being spent,

Myself forgot;

Supplying human needs

By loving words and deeds—

Oh, happy lot!

—Robert M. Offord.

———

THY BROTHER

When thy heart with joy o'erflowing

Sings a thankful prayer,

In thy joy, O let thy brother

With thee share.

When the harvest sheaves ingathered

Fill thy barns with store,

To thy God and to thy brother

Give the more.

If thy soul with power uplifted

Yearns for glorious deed,

Give thy strength to serve thy brother

In his need.

Hast thou borne a secret sorrow

In thy lonely breast?

Take to thee thy sorrowing brother

For a guest.

Share with him thy bread of blessing,

Sorrow's burden share;

When thy heart enfolds a brother,

God is there.

—Theodore Chickering Williams.

———

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.

"Ask and receive," 'tis sweetly said;

Yet what to plead for know I not;

For wish is wasted, 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 heartful 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 and skies

And sweet replies

Of thought to thought are my gold-dust,

The oaks and brooks

And speaking looks

Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust.

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 stop 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 then 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 drinks the morning star.

—David Atwood Wasson.

———

HOW DOTH DEATH SPEAK OF OUR BELOVED?

How doth death speak of our beloved

When it has laid them low,

When it has set its hallowing touch

On speechless lip and brow?

It clothes their every gift and grace

With radiance from the holiest place,

With light as from an angel's face,

Recalling with resistless force

And tracing to their hidden source

Deeds scarcely noticed in their course—

This little loving fond device,

That daily act of sacrifice,

Of which too late we learned the price.

Opening our weeping eyes to trace

Simple unnoticed kindnesses,

Forgotten tones of tenderness,

Which evermore to us must be

Sacred as hymns in infancy

Learnt listening at a mother's knee.

Thus doth death speak of our beloved

When it has laid them low.

Then let love antedate the work of death,

And speak thus now.

* * * * * * *

How does death speak of our beloved

When it has laid them low,

When it has set its hallowing touch

On speechless lip and brow?

It sweeps their faults with heavy hand

As sweeps the sea the trampled sand,

Till scarce the faintest print is scanned.

It shows how much the vexing deed

Was but a generous nature's weed

Or some choice virtue run to seed;

How that small fretting fretfulness

Was but love's overanxiousness,

Which had not been had love been less;

This failing at which we repined

But the dim shade of day declined

Which should have made us doubly kind.

It takes each failing on our part

And brands it in upon the heart

With caustic power and cruel art.

The small neglect that may have pained

A giant stature will have gained

When it can never be explained;

The little service which had proved

How tenderly we watched and loved,

And those mute lips to smiles had moved;

The little gift from out our store

Which might have cheered some cheerless hour

When they with earth's poor needs were poor.

It shows our faults like fires at night;

It sweeps their failings out of sight;

It clothes their good in heavenly light.

O Christ, our life, foredate the work of death

And do this now;

Thou, who art love, thus hallow our beloved;

Not death, but Thou!

—Elizabeth Rundle Charles.

———

God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives

That lamp due measure of oil: Lamp lighted—hold high, wave wide,

Its comfort for others to share!

—Muleykeh.

———

THE NEW ERA

It is coming! it is coming! The day is just a-dawning

When man shall be to fellow-man a helper and a brother;

When the mansion, with its gilded hall, its tower and arch and awning,

Shall be to hovel desolate a kind and foster-mother.

When the men who work for wages shall not toil from morn till even,

With no vision of the sunlight, nor flowers, nor birds a-singing;

When the men who hire the workers, blest with all the gifts of heaven,

Shall the golden rule remember, its glad millennium bringing.

The time is coming when the man who cares not for another

Shall be accounted as a stain upon a fair creation;

Who lives to fill his coffers full, his better self to smother,

As blight and mildew on the fame and glory of a nation.

The hours are growing shorter for the millions who are toiling,

And the homes are growing better for the millions yet to be;

And the poor shall learn the lesson, how that waste and sin are spoiling

The fairest and the finest of a grand humanity.

It is coming! it is coming! and men's thoughts are growing deeper;

They are giving of their millions as they never gave before;

They are learning the new gospel, man must be his brother's keeper,

And right, not might, shall triumph, and the selfish rule no more.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

———

To a darning-needle once exclaimed the kitchen sieve,

"You've a hole right through your body, and I wonder how you live."

But the needle (who was sharp) replied, "I too have wondered

That you notice my one hole, when in you there are a hundred!"

—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

———

LOOKING FOR PEARLS

The Master came one evening to the gate

Of a fair city; it was growing late,

And sending his disciples to buy food,

He wandered forth intent on doing good,

As was his wont. And in the market-place

He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space,

Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground,

Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found

A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck—

A dead dog with a halter round his neck,

And those who stood by mocked the object there,

And one said, scoffing, "It pollutes the air!"

Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night

Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?"

"Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,

"You could not cut even a shoe from it,"

And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed,"

A fourth chimed in, "an unclean wretch indeed!"

"He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried.

And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side.

Then Jesus, standing by them in the street,

Looked on the poor, spent creature at his feet,

And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men,

"Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." And then

The people at each other gazed, asking,

"Who is this stranger pitying this vile thing?"

Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath,

"This surely is the Man of Nazareth;

This must be Jesus, for none else but he

Something to praise in a dead dog could see!"

And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head,

And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.

———

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien

As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;

Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,

We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

—Alexander Pope.

———

WHAT MIGHT BE DONE

What might be done if men were wise—

What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,

Would they unite

In love and right,

And cease their scorn of one another!

Oppression's heart might be imbued

With kindling drops of loving-kindness,

And knowledge pour

From shore to shore

Light on the eyes of mental blindness.

All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs,

All vice and crime, might die together;

And wine and corn

To each man born

Be free as warmth in summer weather.

The meanest wretch that ever trod,

The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow,

Might stand erect

In self-respect,

And share the teeming world to-morrow.

What might be done? This might be done.

And more than this, my suffering brother;

More than the tongue

E'er said or sung

If men were wise and loved each other.

—Charles Mackay.

———

If I could see

A brother languishing in sore distress,

And I should turn and leave him comfortless,

When I might be

A messenger of hope and happiness—

How could I ask to have that I denied

In my own hour of bitterness supplied?

If I might share

A brother's load along the dusty way,

And I should turn and walk alone that day,

How could I dare—

When in the evening watch I kneel to pray—

To ask for help to bear my pain and loss,

If I had heeded not my brother's cross?

———

SHARED

I said it in the meadow path,

I say it on the mountain-stairs:

The best things any mortal hath

Are those which every mortal shares.

The air we breathe—the sky—the breeze—

The light without us and within—

Life with its unlocked treasuries—

God's riches, are for all to win.

The grass is softer to my tread

For rest it yields unnumbered feet;

Sweeter to me the wild-rose red

Because she makes the whole world sweet.

Into your heavenly loneliness

Ye welcomed me, O solemn peaks!

And me in every guest you bless

Who reverently your mystery seeks.

And up the radiant peopled way

That opens into worlds unknown

It will be life's delight to say,

"Heaven is not heaven for me alone."

Rich through my brethren's poverty!

Such wealth were hideous! I am blest

Only in what they share with me,

In what I share with all the rest.

—Lucy Larcom.

———

UNCHARITABLENESS NOT CHRISTIAN

I know not if 'twas wise or well

To give all heathens up to hell—

Hadrian—Aurelius—Socrates—

And others wise and good as these;

I know not if it is forbid,

But this I know—Christ never did.

———

May every soul that touches mine—

Be it the slightest contact—get therefrom some good,

Some little grace, one kindly thought,

One inspiration yet unfelt, one bit of courage

For the darkening sky, one gleam of faith

To brave the thickening ills of life,

One glimpse of brighter skies beyond the gathering mists,

To make this life worth while,

And heaven a surer heritage.

———

SOCIAL CHRISTIANITY

O for a closer walk with man!

Sweet fellowship of soul,

Where each is to the other bound,

Parts of one living whole.

Our Father, God, help us to see

That all in thee are one;

O warm our hearts with thy pure love,

Strong as your glorious sun.

Pride, envy, selfishness will melt

Beneath that kindling fire;

Our brother's faults we scarce shall see,

But good in all admire.

No bitter cry of misery

Shall ever pass unheard;

But gentle sympathy spring forth

In smile and strengthening word.

And when our brother's voice shall call

From lands beyond the sea,

Our hearts in glad response will say,

"Here, Lord, am I, send me."

O Jesus Christ, thou who wast man,

Grant us thy face to see;

In thy light shall we understand

What human life may be.

Then daily with thy Spirit filled,

According to thy word,

New power shall flow through us to all,

And draw men near our Lord.

Thus will the deep desire be met

With which our prayer began;

A closer walk with Thee will mean

A closer walk with man.

———

If any little word of mine may make a life the brighter,

If any little song of mine may make a heart the lighter,

God help me speak the little word, and take my bit of singing,

And drop it in some lonely vale to set the echoes ringing.

If any little love of mine may make a life the sweeter,

If any little care of mine make other life completer,

If any lift of mine may ease the burden of another,

God give me love and care and strength to help my toiling brother.

———

CHARITY NOT JUSTICE

Outwearied with the littleness and spite,

The falsehood and the treachery of men,

I cried, "Give me but justice!" thinking then

I meekly craved a common boon which might

Most easily be granted; soon the light

Of deeper truth grew on my wondering ken,

(Escaping baneful damps of stagnant fen),

And then I saw that in my pride bedight

I claimed from erring man the gift of Heaven—

God's own great vested right; and I grew calm,

With folded hands, like stone, to patience given,

And pitying, of pure love distilling balm;

And now I wait in quiet trust to be

All known to God—and ask of men sweet charity.

—Elizabeth Oakes Smith.

———

GOD SAVE THE PEOPLE

When wilt thou save the people,

O God of mercy, when?

Not kings alone, but nations?

Not thrones and crowns, but men?

Flowers of thy heart, O God, are they:

Let them not pass, like weeds, away—

Their heritage a sunless day.

God save the people!

Shall crime bring crime forever,

Strength aiding still the strong?

Is it thy will, O Father,

That man shall toil for wrong?

"No," say thy mountains, "No," thy skies;

Man's clouded sun shall brightly rise,

And songs ascend instead of sighs.

God save the people!

When wilt thou save the people?

O God of mercy, when?

The people, Lord, the people,

Not thrones and crowns, but men?

God save the people; thine they are,

Thy children, as thine angels fair;

From vice, oppression, and despair,

God save the people!

—Ebenezer Elliott.

———

HYMN OF THE CITY

Not 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 murmurs deep and loud—

Choking the ways that wind

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

The golden sunshine comes

From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies

And lights their inner homes;

For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies

And givest them the stores

Of ocean, and the harvest 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 when 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.

—William Cullen Bryant.

———

No one is so accursed by fate,

No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,

Responds unto his own.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

Believe not each accusing tongue,

As most weak people do;

But still believe that story wrong

Which ought not to be true.

—Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

———

CHRIST IN THE CITY

Where cross the crowded ways of life

Where sound the cries of race and clan,

Above the noise of selfish strife,

We hear thy voice, O Son of man.

In haunts of wretchedness and need,

On shadowed thresholds dark with fears,

From paths where hide the lures of greed

We catch the vision of thy tears.

From tender childhood's helplessness,

From woman's grief, man's burdened toil,

From famished souls, from sorrow's stress,

Thy heart has never known recoil.

The cup of water given for Thee

Still holds the freshness of thy grace;

Yet long these multitudes to see

The sweet compassion of thy face.

O Master, from the mountain side

Make haste to heal these hearts of pain,

Among these restless throngs abide,

O tread the city's streets again,

Till sons of men shall learn thy love

And follow where thy feet have trod;

Till glorious from thy heaven above

Shall come the city of our God.

—Frank Mason North.

———

Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul

May keep the path, but will not reach the goal;

While he who walks in love may wander far,

But God will bring him where the blessed are.

—Henry van Dyke.

———

Persuasion, friend, comes not by toil or art,

Hard study never made the matter clearer;

'Tis the live fountain in the preacher's heart

Sends forth the streams that melt the ravished hearer.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

———

SPEAK OUT

If you have a friend worth loving,

Love him. Yes, and let him know

That you love him, ere life's evening

Tinge his brow with sunset glow.

Why should good words ne'er be said

Of a friend—till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you,

Sung by any child of song,

Praise it. Do not let the singer

Wait deserved praises long.

Why should one who thrills your heart

Lack the joy you may impart?

If you hear a prayer that moves you

By its humble, pleading tone,

Join it. Do not let the seeker

Bow before his God alone.

Why should not thy brother share

The strength of "two or three" in prayer?

If your work is made more easy

By a friendly, helping hand,

Say so. Speak out brave and truly,

Ere the darkness veil the land.

Should a brother workman dear

Falter for a word of cheer?

Scatter thus your seeds of kindness

All enriching as you go—

Leave them. Trust the Harvest-Giver;

He will make each seed to grow.

So, until the happy end,

Your life shall never lack a friend.

———

INFLUENCE

The smallest bark on life's tumultuous ocean

Will leave a track behind forevermore;

The lightest wave of influence, once in motion,

Extends and widens to the eternal shore.

We should be wary, then, who go before

A myriad yet to be, and we should take

Our bearings carefully where breakers roar

And fearful tempests gather: one mistake

May wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

———

TELL HIM SO

If you have a word of cheer

That may light the pathway drear,

Of a brother pilgrim here,

Let him know.

Show him you appreciate

What he does, and do not wait

Till the heavy hand of fate

Lays him low.

If your heart contains a thought

That will brighter make his lot,

Then, in mercy, hide it not;

Tell him so.

Bide not till the end of all

Carries him beyond recall

When beside his sable pall,

To avow

Your affection and acclaim

To do honor to his name

And to place the wreath of fame

On his brow.

Rather speak to him to-day;

For the things you have to say

May assist him on his way:

Tell him now.

Life is hard enough, at best:

But the love that is expressed

Makes it seem a pathway blest

To our feet;

And the troubles that we share

Seem the easier to bear,

Smile upon your neighbor's care,

As you greet.

Rough and stony are our ways,

Dark and dreary are our days;

But another's love and praise

Make them sweet.

Wait not till your friend is dead

Ere your compliments are said;

For the spirit that has fled,

If it know,

Does not need to speed it on

Our poor praise; where it has gone

Love's eternal, golden dawn

Is aglow.

But unto our brother here

That poor praise is very dear;

If you've any word of cheer

Tell him so.

—J. A. Egerton.

———

So when a great man dies,

For years beyond our ken

The light he leaves behind him lies

Upon the paths of men.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

THE MAN WITH A GRUDGE

There once was a man who bore a grudge.

Stoutly he bore it many a year.

"Beware!" said the parson. He answered, "Fudge!

Well it becomes me, never fear.

"Men for this world, and saints for heaven;

Too much of meekness shows a fool;

My loaf shall rise with a livelier leaven;

'Give as you get,' is a good old rule."

The longer he bore it, the more it grew,

Grew his grudge, as he trudged along;

Till in sight of a pearly gate he drew,

And he heard within it a wondrous song.

The shining porter said, "Walk in."

He sought to do so; the gate was strait:

Hard he struggled his way to win,

The way was narrow, the grudge was great.

He turned in haste to lay it down;

He strove to tear it away—to cut—

But it had fast to his heart strings grown,

"O wait," he cried; but the door was shut.

Through windows bright and clear he saw

The blessed going with their Lord to sup.

But Satan clapped on his grudge a claw;

Hell opened her mouth and swallowed him up.

—Sara Hammond Palfrey.

———

Man judges from a partial view,

None ever yet his brother knew;

The Eternal Eye that sees the whole

May better read the darkened soul,

And find, to outward sense denied,

The flower upon its inward side.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

———

O brothers! are ye asking how

The hills of happiness to find?

Then know they lie beyond the vow—

"God helping me, I will be kind."

—Nixon Waterman.

———

A BLESSING

Not to the man of dollars,

Not to the man of deeds,

Not unto craft and cunning,

Not unto human creeds;

Not to the one whose passion

Is for the world's renown,

Not in the form of fashion

Cometh a blessing down.

But to the one whose spirit

Yearns for the great and good;

Unto the one whose storehouse

Yieldeth the hungry food;

Unto the one who labors

Fearless of foe or frown;

Unto the kindly-hearted,

Cometh a blessing down.

—Mary Frances Tucker.

———

WEAPONS

Both swords and guns are strong, no doubt,

And so are tongue and pen,

And so are sheaves of good bank notes,

To sway the souls of men.

But guns and swords and piles of gold,

Though mighty in their sphere,

Are sometimes feebler than a smile,

And poorer than a tear.

—Charles Mackay.

———

Enough to know that, through the winter's frost

And summer's heat, no seed of truth is lost,

And every duty pays at last its cost.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

———

A kindly act is a kernel sown

That will grow to a goodly tree,

Shedding its fruit when time is flown

Down the gulf of Eternity.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

———

The kindly word unspoken is a sin—

A sin that wraps itself in purest guise,

And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within,

That, not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

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