SERVICE
USEFULNESS, BENEVOLENCE, LABOR
WAKING
I have done at length with dreaming;
Henceforth, O thou soul of mine!
Thou must take up sword and buckler,
Waging warfare most divine.
Life is struggle, combat, victory!
Wherefore have I slumbered on
With my forces all unmarshaled,
With my weapons all undrawn?
O how many a glorious record
Had the angels of me kept
Had I done instead of doubted,
Had I warred instead of wept!
But begone, regret, bewailing!
Ye had weakened at the best;
I have tried the trusty weapons
Resting erst within my breast.
I have wakened to my duty,
To a knowledge strong and deep,
That I recked not of aforetime,
In my long inglorious sleep.
For the end of life is service,
And I felt it not before,
And I dreamed not how stupendous
Was the meaning that it bore.
In this subtle sense of being,
Newly stirred in every vein,
I can feel a throb electric—
Pleasure half allied with pain.
'Tis so sweet, and yet so awful,
So bewildering, yet brave,
To be king in every conflict
Where before I crouched a slave!
'Tis so glorious to be conscious
Of a growing power within
Stronger than the rallying forces
Of a charged and marshaled sin!
Never in those old romances
Felt I half the thrill of life
That I feel within me stirring,
Standing in this place of strife.
O those olden days of dalliance,
When I wantoned with my fate;
When I trifled with the knowledge
That had well-nigh come too late.
Yet, my soul, look not behind thee;
Thou hast work to do at last;
Let the brave toil of the present
Overarch the crumbling past.
Build thy great acts high and higher;
Build them on the conquered sod
Where thy weakness first fell bleeding,
And thy first prayer rose to God.
—Caroline Atherton Mason.
———
SMALL BEGINNINGS
A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows;
And age was pleased, in heat of noon, to bask beneath its boughs;
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs the birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.
A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern,
A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink.
He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.
A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new;
A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true.
It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.
The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill,
It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!
A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown—a transitory breath—
It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last!
—Charles Mackay.
———
THE CHOIR INVISIBLE
O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge man's search
To vaster issues.
So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing as beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed and agonized,
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child
Poor, anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer, self,
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burden of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better—saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love—
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb,
Unread forever.
This is life to come,
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.
—George Eliot.
———
MY TASK
To love some one more dearly ev'ry day,
To help a wandering child to find his way,
To ponder o'er a noble thought, and pray,
And smile when evening falls.
To follow truth as blind men long for light,
To do my best from dawn of day till night,
To keep my heart fit for His holy sight,
And answer when He calls.
—Maude Louise Ray.
———
"IT IS MORE BLESSED"
Give! as the morning that flows out of heaven;
Give! as the waves when their channel is riven;
Give! as the free air and sunshine are given;
Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give!
Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing;
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing;
Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing:
Give as He gave thee who gave thee to live.
Pour out thy love like the rush of a river,
Wasting its waters, forever and ever,
Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver:
Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.
Scatter thy life as the summer's shower pouring;
What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring?
What if no blossom looks upward adoring?
Look to the life that was lavished for thee!
So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses:
Evil and thankless the desert it blesses;
Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses;
Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing.
What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses?
What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes?
Sweeter is music with minor-keyed closes,
Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.
Almost the day of thy giving is over;
Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover
Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover:
What shall thy longing avail in the grave?
Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking—
Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking;
Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking,
Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave.
—Rose Terry Cooke.
———
ALONG THE WAY
There are so many helpful things to do
Along life's way
(Helps to the helper, if we did but know),
From day to day.
So many troubled hearts to soothe,
So many pathways rough to smooth,
So many comforting words to say,
To the hearts that falter along the way.
Here is a lamp of hope gone out
Along the way.
Some one stumbled and fell, no doubt—
But, brother, stay!
Out of thy store of oil refill;
Kindle the courage that smoulders still;
Think what Jesus would do to-day
For one who had fallen beside the way.
How many lifted hands still plead
Along life's way!
The old, sad story of human need
Reads on for aye.
But let us follow the Saviour's plan—
Love unstinted to every man;
Content if, at most, the world should say:
"He helped his brother along the way!"
———
SAVED TO SERVE
Is thy cruse of comfort failing?
Rise and share it with another,
And through all the years of famine
It shall serve thee and thy brother.
Love divine will fill thy storehouse
Or thy handful still renew;
Scanty fare for one will often
Make a royal feast for two.
For the heart grows rich in giving—
All its wealth is living gain;
Seeds which mildew in the garner
Scattered fill with gold the plain.
Is thy burden hard and heavy?
Do thy steps drag wearily?
Help to bear thy brother's burden;
God will bear both it and thee.
Numb and weary on the mountains,
Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow?
Chafe that frozen form beside thee,
Art thou stricken in life's battle?
Many wounded round thee moan:
Lavish on their wounds thy balsam,
And that balm shall heal thine own.
Is thy heart a well left empty?
None but God the void can fill.
Nothing but the ceaseless Fountain
Can its ceaseless longings still.
Is the heart a living power?
Self-entwined its strength sinks low.
It can only live in loving,
And by serving love will grow.
———
BY DOING GOOD WE LIVE
A certain wise man, deeply versed
In all the learning of the East,
Grew tired in spirit, and athirst
From life to be released.
So to Eliab, holy man
Of God he came: "Ah, give me, friend,
The herb of death, that now the span
Of my vain life may end."
Eliab gently answered: "Ere
The soul may free itself indeed,
This herb of healing thou must bear
To seven men in need;
"When thou hast lightened each man's grief,
And brought him hope and joy again,
Return; nor shalt thou seek relief
At Allah's hands in vain."
The wise man sighed, and humbly said:
"As Allah willeth, so is best."
And with the healing herb he sped
Away upon his quest.
And as he journeyed on, intent
To serve the sorrowing in the land
On deeds of love and mercy bent,
The herb bloomed in his hand,
And through his pulses shot a fire
Of strength and hope and happiness;
His heart leaped with a glad desire
To live and serve and bless.
Lord of all earthly woe and need,
Be this, life's flower, mine!
To love, to comfort, and to heal—
Therein is life divine!
—Josephine Troup.
———
FOR STRENGTH WE ASK
For strength we ask
For the ten thousand times repeated task,
The endless smallnesses of every day.
No, not to lay
My life down in the cause I cherish most,
That were too easy. But, whate'er it cost,
To fail no more
In gentleness toward the ungentle, nor
In love toward the unlovely, and to give,
Each day I live,
To every hour with outstretched hand, its meed
Of not-to-be-regretted thought and deed.
—Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald.
———
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 employ—
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 worshiper.
—Caroline Atherton Mason.
———
This is the gospel of labor—ring it, ye bells of the kirk—
The Lord of Love came down from above to live with the men who work.
This is the rose that he planted, here in the thorn-cursed soil;
Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil.
—Henry van Dyke.
———
MARTHA
Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve!
Not all with tranquil heart,
Even at Thy dear feet,
Wrapped in devotion sweet,
May sit apart!
Yes, Lord! Yet some must bear
The burden of the day,
Its labor and its heat,
While others at Thy feet
May muse and pray.
Yes, 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!
Yes, Lord! Yet man must earn
And woman bake the bread;
And some must watch and wake
Early for others' sake,
Who pray instead!
Yes, Lord! Yet even thou
Hast need of earthly care;
I bring the bread and wine
To Thee a Guest divine—
Be this my prayer!
—Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.
———
If we sit down at set of sun
And count the things that we have done,
And counting, find
One self-denying act, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind,
That fell like sunshine where it went,
Then we may count the day well spent.
But if through all the livelong day
We've eased no heart by yea or nay;
If through it all
We've nothing done that we can trace
That brought the sunshine to a face,
No act most small
That helped some soul, and nothing cost,
Then count that day as worse than lost.
———
This for the day of life I ask:
Some all-absorbing, useful task;
And when 'tis wholly, truly done,
A tranquil rest at set of sun.
———