II.
PRAYER AND ASPIRATION.
* * * * *
WHAT IS PRAYER?
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpressed—
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,
The falling of a tear—
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try—
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The majesty on high.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice
Returning from his ways,
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, "Behold he prays!"
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath—
The Christian's native air—
His watchword at the gates of death—
He enters heaven with prayer.
The saints in prayer appear as one
In word, and deed, and mind,
While with the Father and the Son
Sweet fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made by man alone—
The Holy Spirit pleads—
And Jesus, on the eternal throne,
For shiners intercedes.
O Thou by whom we come to God—
The life, the truth, the way!
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod;
Lord, teach us how to pray!
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
* * * * *
THE TIME FOR PRAYER.
When is the time for prayer?
With the first beams that light the morning's sky,
Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare,
Lift up thy thoughts on high;
Commend the loved ones to his watchful care:
Morn is the time for prayer!
And in the noontide hour,
If worn by toil, or by sad cares oppressed,
Then unto God thy spirit's sorrow pour,
And he will give thee rest:—
Thy voice shall reach him through the fields of air:
Noon is the time for prayer!
When the bright sun hath set,—
Whilst yet eve's glowing colors deck the skies;—
When the loved, at home, again thou 'st met,
Then let the prayer arise
For those who in thy joys and sorrow share:
Eve is the time for prayer!
And when the stars come forth,—
When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given,
And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth
To pure, bright dreams of heaven,—
Kneel to thy God—ask strength, life's ills to bear:
Night is the time for prayer!
When is the time for prayer?
In every hour, while life is spared to thee—
In crowds or solitudes—in joy or care—
Thy thoughts should heavenward flee.
At home—at morn and eve—with loved ones there,
Bend thou the knee in prayer!
G. BENNETT.
* * * * *
SEASONS OF PRAYER.
To prayer, to prayer;—for the morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above,—
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
Oh, then, on the breath of this early air
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer.
To prayer;—for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on;
Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children impose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.
To prayer;—for the day that God has blest
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours.
There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
Oh, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care.
There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand:
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful pair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.
Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow;
Oh, what are earth and its pleasures now!
And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?
Kneel down by the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends;
There is peace in his eye that upward bends;
There is peace in his calm, confiding air;
For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.
The voice of prayer at the sable bier!
A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.
It commends the spirit to God who gave;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where he shall reign,
Who whispered, "Thy brother shall rise again."
The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransomed shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise,
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.
Awake, awake! and gird up thy strength,
To join that holy band at length!
To Him who unceasing love displays,
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,—
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of Heaven.
HENRY WARE, JR.
* * * * *
EXHORTATION TO PRAYER.
Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed
Compose thy weary limbs to rest;
For they alone are blessed
With balmy sleep
Whom angels keep;
Nor, though by care oppressed,
Or anxious sorrow,
Or thought in many a coil perplexed
For coming morrow,
Lay not thy head
On prayerless bed.
For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes shall close,
That earthly cares and woes
To thee may e'er return?
Arouse, my soul!
Slumber control,
And let thy lamp burn brightly;
So shall thine eyes discern
Things pure and sightly;
Taught by the Spirit, learn
Never on a prayerless bed
To lay thine unblest head.
Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care,
That calls for holy prayer?
Has thy day been so bright
That in its flight
There is no trace of sorrow?
And thou art sure to-morrow
Will be like this, and more
Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store
And still make plans for more?
Thou fool! this very night
Thy soul may wing its flight.
Hast thou no being than thyself more dear,
That ploughs the ocean deep,
And when storms sweep
The wintry, lowering sky,
For whom thou wak'st and weepest?
Oh, when thy pangs are deepest,
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer;
For He that slumbereth not is there—
His ear is open to thy cry.
Oh, then, on prayerless bed
Lay not thy thoughtless head.
Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber,
Till in communion blest
With the elect ye rest—
Those souls of countless numbers;
And with them raise
The note of praise,
Reaching from earth to heaven—
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven;
So lay thy happy head,
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed.
MARGARET MERCER.
* * * * *
PRAYER AND REPENTANCE.
FROM "HAMLET," ACT III. SC. 3.
The King. O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't,
A brother's murder. Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will:
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursèd hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence?
And what's in prayer but this twofold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? "Forgive me my foul murder?"
That cannot be: since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.
May one be pardoned and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice.
And oft 't is seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but 't is not so above;
There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compelled,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it when one cannot repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limèd soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
All may be well. [Retires and kneels.]
* * * * *
King (rising). My words fly up, my thoughts remain below; Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
SHAKESPEARE.
* * * * *
THE CALIPH AND SATAN.
VERSIFIED FROM THOLUCK'S TRANSLATION OUT OF THE PERSIAN.
In heavy sleep the Caliph lay,
When some one called, "Arise, and pray!"
The angry Caliph cried, "Who dare
Rebuke his king for slighting prayer?"
Then, from the corner of the room,
A voice cut sharply through the gloom:
"My name is Satan, Rise! obey
Mohammed's law; awake, and pray!"
"Thy words are good," the Caliph said,
"But their intent I somewhat dread.
For matters cannot well be worse
Than when the thief says, 'Guard your purse!'
I cannot trust your counsel, friend,
It surely hides some wicked end."
Said Satan, "Near the throne of God,
In ages past, we devils trod;
Angels of light, to us 't was given
To guide each wandering foot to heaven.
Not wholly lost is that first love.
Nor those pure tastes we knew above.
Roaming across a continent.
The Tartar moves his shifting tent,
But never quite forgets the day
When in his father's arms he lay;
So we, once bathed in love divine.
Recall the taste of that rich wine.
God's finger rested on my brow,—
That magic touch, I feel it now!
I fell, 't is true—O, ask not why.
For still to God I turn my eye.
It was a chance by which I fell,
Another takes me back from hell.
'T was but my envy of mankind,
The envy of a loving mind.
Jealous of men, I could not bear
God's love with this new race to share.
But yet God's tables open stand,
His guests flock in from every land;
Some kind act towards the race of men
May toss us into heaven again.
A game of chess is all we see,—
And God the player, pieces we.
White, black—queen, pawn,—'t is all the same,
For on both sides he plays the game.
Moved to and fro, from good to ill,
We rise and fall as suits his will."
The Caliph said, "If this be so,
I know not, but thy guile I know;
For how can I thy words believe,
When even God thou didst deceive?
A sea of lies art thou,—our sin
Only a drop that sea within."
"Not so," said Satan, "I serve God,
His angel now, and now his rod.
In tempting I both bless and curse,
Make good men better, bad men worse.
Good coin is mixed with bad, my brother,
I but distinguish one from the other."
"Granted," the Caliph said, "but still
You never tempt to good, but ill.
Tell then the truth, for well I know
You come as my most deadly foe."
Loud laughed the fiend. "You know me well,
Therefore my purpose I will tell.
If you had missed your prayer, I knew
A swift repentance would ensue;
And such repentance would have been
A good, outweighing far the sin.
I chose this humbleness divine,
Borne out of fault, should not be thine,
Preferring prayers elate with pride
To sin with penitence allied."
JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.
* * * * *
DARKNESS IS THINNING.
Darkness is thinning; shadows are retreating;
Morning and light are coming in their beauty;
Suppliant seek we, with an earnest outcry.
God the Almighty!
So that our Master, having mercy on us.
May repel languor, may bestow salvation.
Granting us, Father, of thy loving-kindness
Glory hereafter!
This, of his mercy, ever blessèd Godhead,
Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit, give us,—
Whom through the wide world celebrate forever
Blessing and glory!
From the Latin of ST. GREGORY THE GREAT.
Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE.
* * * * *
PRAISE.
To write a verse or two is all the praise
That I can raise;
Mend my estate in any wayes,
Thou shalt have more.
I go to church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither flie;
Or, if I mount unto the skie,
I will do more.
Man is all weaknesse: there is no such thing
As Prince or King:
His arm is short; yet with a sling
He may do more.
A herb destilled, and drunk, may dwell next doore,
On the same floore,
To a brave soul: Exalt the poore,
They can do more.
O, raise me then! poore bees, that work all day,
Sting my delay,
Who have a work, as well as they,
And much, much more.
GEORGE HERBERT.
* * * * *
PRAYER.
O God! though sorrow be my fate,
And the world's hate
For my heart's faith pursue me.
My peace they cannot take away;
Prom day to day
Thou dost anew imbue me;
Thou art not far; a little while
Thou hid'st thy face, with brighter smile
Thy father-love to show me.
Lord, not my will, but thine, be done;
If I sink down
When men to terrors leave me,
Thy father-love still warms my breast;
All's for the best;
Shall men have power to grieve me,
When bliss eternal is my goal.
And thou the keeper of my soul,
Who never will deceive me?
Thou art my shield, as saith the Word.
Christ Jesus, Lord,
Thou standest pitying by me,
And lookest on each grief of mine
And if 't were thine:
What, then, though foes may try me.
Though thorns be in my path concealed?
World, do thy worst! God is my shield!
And will be ever nigh me.
Translated from MARY, QUEEN OF HUNGARY.
* * * * *
DESIRE.
Thou, who dost dwell alone;
Thou, who dost know thine own;
Thou, to whom all are known,
From the cradle to the grave,—
Save, O, save!
From the world's temptations;
From tribulations;
From that fierce anguish
Wherein we languish;
From that torpor deep
Wherein we lie asleep,
Heavy as death, cold as the grave,—
Save, O, save!
When the soul, growing clearer,
Sees God no nearer;
When the soul, mounting higher,
To God comes no nigher;
But the arch-fiend Pride
Mounts at her side,
Foiling her high emprize,
Sealing her eagle eyes,
And, when she fain would soar,
Make idols to adore;
Changing the pure emotion
Of her high devotion,
To a skin-deep sense
Of her own eloquence;
Strong to deceive, strong to enslave,—
Save, O, save!
From the ingrained fashion
Of this earthly nature
That mars thy creature;
From grief, that is but passion;
From mirth, that is but feigning;
From tears, that bring no healing;
From wild and weak complaining;—
Thine old strength revealing,
Save, O, save!
From doubt, where all is doable,
Where wise men are not strong;
Where comfort turns to trouble;
Where just men suffer wrong;
Where sorrow treads on joy;
Where sweet things soonest cloy;
Where faiths are built on dust;
Where love is half mistrust,
Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea;
O, set us free!
O, let the false dream fly
Where our sick souls do lie,
Tossing continually.
O, where thy voice doth come,
Let all doubts be dumb;
Let all words be mild;
All strife be reconciled;
All pains beguiled.
Light brings no blindness;
Love no unkindness;
Knowledge no ruin;
Fear no undoing,
From the cradle to the grave,—
Save, O, save!
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
* * * * *
WHY THUS LONGING?
Why thus longing, thus forever sighing
For the far off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low perpetual hymn?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,
All thy restless yearnings it would still;
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw,—
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee
To some little world through weal and woe;
If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,—
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that gain thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,
Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,
When all nature hails the Lord of light,
And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning,
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;
But with fervent love if thou adorest,
Thou art wealthier,—all the world is thine.
Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone.
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.
Nature wears the color of the spirit;
Sweetly to her worshipper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.
HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL.
* * * * *
PRAYER AND ANSWER.
O God, I cannot walk the Way,—
The thorns, the thirst, the darkness,
And bleeding feet and aching heart!
I hear the songs and revels of the throng,—
They sneer upon my downcast face with scorn,—
Yet, O my God, I must and shall walk with Thee!
O God, I cannot take the Truth!
Far easier honeyed hopes and falsehoods fair,
But Truth,—the Truth is stern and strong and awful.
It ploughs my soul with ploughshares flaming hot—
Yet give me Truth. I must have Truth, O God!
O God, I cannot live the Life,—
The flinging all to death that life may come;
The surging of Thy Spirit in my heart
In fire and flame will all consume me,—
Yet, O my God, I cannot live without Thee!
And as I agonized in dust and shame
With tears and sighs in all the bitter prayer,
I felt, as 't were, an arm that stole around me,
And raised me to my feet.
And at the touch, hope blossomed in my heart,
And new-found strength in flood-tides thrilled and throbbed
Through soul and limbs. I looked to see….
O tender lordly Face!
It was Himself,—the Way, the Truth, the Life!
OLIVER HUCKEL.
* * * * *
THE AIM.
O thou who lovest not alone
The swift success, the instant goal,
But hast a lenient eye to mark
The failures of th' inconstant soul,
Consider not my little worth,—
The mean achievement, scamped in act,
The high resolve and low result,
The dream that durst not face the fact.
But count the reach of my desire.
Let this be something in Thy sight:—
I have not, in the slothful dark,
Forgot the Vision and the Height.
Neither my body nor my soul
To earth's low ease will yield consent.
I praise Thee for my will to strive.
I bless Thy goad of discontent.
CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS.
* * * * *
THE LOVE OF GOD SUPREME.
Thou hidden love of God, whose height,
Whose depth unfathomed no man knows,
I see from far thy beauteous light,
Inly I sigh for thy repose.
My heart is pained, nor can it be
At rest till it finds rest in thee.
Thy secret voice invites me still
The sweetness of thy yoke to prove,
And fain I would; but though my will
Be fixed, yet wide my passions rove.
Yet hindrances strew all the way;
I aim at thee, yet from thee stray.
'T is mercy all that thou hast brought
My mind to seek her peace in thee.
Yet while I seek but find thee not
No peace my wand'ring soul shall see.
Oh! when shall all my wand'rings end,
And all my steps to-thee-ward tend?
Is there a thing beneath the sun
That strives with thee my heart to share?
Ah! tear it thence and reign alone,
The Lord of every motion there.
Then shall my heart from earth be free,
When it has found repose in thee.
Oh! hide this self from me, that I
No more, but Christ in me, may live.
My vile affections crucify,
Nor let one darling lust survive.
In all things nothing may I see,
Nothing desire or seek but thee.
O Love, thy sovereign aid impart,
To save me from low-thoughted care;
Chase this self-will through all my heart,
Through all its latent mazes there.
Make me thy duteous child, that I
Ceaseless may Abba, Father, cry.
Ah! no; ne'er will I backward turn:
Thine wholly, thine alone I am.
Thrice happy he who views with scorn
Earth's toys, for thee his constant flame.
Oh! help, that I may never move
From the blest footsteps of thy love.
Each moment draw from earth away
My heart, that lowly waits thy call.
Speak to my inmost soul, and say,
"I am thy Love, thy God, thy All."
To feel thy power, to hear thy voice,
To taste thy love is all my choice.
From the German of GERHARD TERSTEEGEN.
Translation of JOHN WESLEY.
* * * * *
IN A LECTURE-ROOM.
Away, haunt thou not me,
Thou vain Philosophy!
Little hast thou bestead,
Save to perplex the head,
And leave the spirit dead.
Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go.
While from the secret treasure-depths below,
Fed by the skyey shower,
And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high,
Wisdom at once, and Power,
Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?
Why labor at the dull mechanic oar,
When the fresh breeze is blowing,
And the strong current flowing,
Right onward to the Eternal Shore?
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
* * * * *
FROM THE RECESSES OF A LOWLY SPIRIT.
From the recesses of a lowly spirit,
Our humble prayer ascends; O Father! hear it.
Upsoaring on the wings of awe and meekness,
Forgive its weakness!
We see thy hand,—it leads us, it supports us;
We hear thy voice,—it counsels and it courts us;
And then we turn away; and still thy kindness
Forgives our blindness.
O, how long-suffering, Lord! but thou delightest
To win with love the wandering: thou invited,
By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors,
Man from his errors.
Father and Saviour! plant within each bosom
The seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom
In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal,
And spring eternal.
SIR JOHN BOWRING.
* * * * *
THE HIGHER GOOD.
Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame,
Though once they would have joyed my carnal sense:
I shudder not to bear a hated name,
Wanting all wealth, myself my sole defence.
But give me, Lord, eyes to behold the truth;
A seeing sense that knows the eternal right;
A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth;
A manly faith that makes all darkness light:
Give me the power to labor for mankind;
Make me the mouth of such as cannot speak;
Eyes let me be to groping men, and blind;
A conscience to the base; and to the weak
Let me be hands and feet; and to the foolish, mind;
And lead still further on such as thy kingdom seek.
THEODORE PARKER.
* * * * *
ASCRIPTION.
O thou who hast beneath Thy hand
The dark foundations of the land,—
The motion of whose ordered thought
An instant universe hath wrought,—
Who hast within Thine equal heed
The rolling sun, the ripening seed,
The azure of the speedwell's eye.
The vast solemnities of sky,—
Who hear'st no less the feeble note
Of one small bird's awakening throat,
Than that unnamed, tremendous chord
Arcturus sounds before his Lord,—
More sweet to Thee than all acclaim
Of storm and ocean, stars and flame,
In favor more before Thy face
Than pageantry of time and space.
The worship and the service be
Of him Thou madest most like Thee,—
Who in his nostrils hath Thy breath,
Whose spirit is the lord of death!
CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS.
* * * * *
O MASTER, LET ME WALK WITH THEE.
O Master, let me walk with thee
In lowly paths of service free;
Tell me thy secret; help me bear
The strain of toil, the fret of care;
Help me the slow of heart to move
By some clear winning word of love;
Teach me the wayward feet to stay,
And guide them in the homeward way.
O Master, let me walk with thee
Before the taunting Pharisee;
Help me to bear the sting of spite,
The hate of men who hide thy light,
The sore distrust of souls sincere
Who cannot read thy judgments clear,
The dulness of the multitude
Who dimly guess that thou art good.
Teach me thy patience; still with thee
In closer, dearer company,
In work that keeps faith sweet and strong,
In trust that triumphs over wrong,
In hope that sends a shining ray
Far down the future's broadening way,
In peace that only thou canst give,
With thee, O Master, let me live!