THE WORLD.
"And when he is come, he will reprove the world of sin, and of
righteousness, and of judgment."—JOHN xvi. 8.
The world is wise, for the world is old;
Five thousand years their tale have told;
Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—
Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The world is kind if we ask not too much;
It is sweet to the taste, and smooth to the touch;
Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—
Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The world is strong, with an awful strength,
And full of life in its breadth and length;
Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—
Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The world is so beautiful one may fear
Its borrowed beauty might make it too dear,
Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be—
Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The world is good in its own poor way,
There is rest by night and high spirits by day;
Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—
Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The cross shines fair, and the church-bell rings,
And the earth is peopled with holy things;
Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—
Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
What lackest thou, world? for God made thee of old;
Why,—thy faith hath gone out, and thy love grown cold;
Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be,
For the want of Christ's simplicity.
It is blood that thou lackest, thou poor old world!
Who shall make thy love hot for thee, frozen old world?
Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be,
For the love of dear Jesus is little in thee.
Poor world! if thou cravest a better day,
Remember that Christ must have his own way;
I mourn thou art not as thou mightest be,
But the love of God would do all for thee.
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
* * * * *
THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.
"There is no God," the foolish saith,
But none, "There is no sorrow";
And nature oft the cry of faith
In bitter need will borrow:
Eyes which the preacher could not school,
By wayside graves are raised;
And lips say, "God be pitiful,"
Who ne'er said, "God be praised."
Be pitiful, O God!
The tempest stretches from the steep
The shadow of its coming;
The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,
As help were in the human:
Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grind
We spirits tremble under!—
The hills have echoes; but we find
No answer for the thunder.
Be pitiful, O God!
The battle hurtles on the plains—
Earth feels new scythes upon her:
We reap our brothers for the wains,
And call the harvest, honor,—
Draw face to face, front line to line,
One image all inherit,—
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign,
Clay, clay,—and spirit, spirit.
Be pitiful, O God!
The plague runs festering through the town,
And never a bell is tolling:
And corpses jostled 'neath the moon,
Nod to the dead-cart's rolling.
The young child calleth for the cup—
The strong man brings it weeping;
The mother from her babe looks up,
And shrieks away its sleeping.
Be pitiful, O God!
The plague of gold strides far and near,
And deep and strong it enters:
This purple chimar which we wear,
Makes madder than the centaur's.
Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange;
We cheer the pale gold-diggers—
Each soul is worth so much on 'Change,
And marked, like sheep, with figures.
Be pitiful, O God!
The curse of gold upon the land,
The lack of bread enforces—
The rail-cars snort from strand to strand,
Like more of Death's White Horses:
The rich preach "rights" and future days,
And hear no angel scoffing:
The poor die mute—with starving gaze
On corn-ships in the offing.
Be pitiful, O God!
We meet together at the feast—
To private mirth betake us—
We stare down in the winecup lest
Some vacant chair should shake us!
We name delight, and pledge it round—
"It shall be ours to-morrow!"
God's seraphs, do your voices sound
As sad in naming sorrow?
Be pitiful, O God!
We sit together, with the skies,
The steadfast skies, above us:
We look into each other's eyes,
"And how long will you love us?"
The eyes grow dim with prophecy,
The voice is low and breathless—
"Till death us part!"—O words, to be
Our best for love the deathless!
Be pitiful, dear God!
We tremble by the harmless bed
Of one loved and departed—
Our tears drop on the lids that said
Last night, "Be stronger hearted!"
O God,—to clasp those fingers close,
And yet to feel so lonely!—
To see a light upon such brows,
Which is the daylight only!
Be pitiful, O God!
The happy children come to us,
And look up in our faces:
They ask us—Was it thus, and thus,
When we were in their places?
We cannot speak:—we see anew
The hills we used to live in;
And feel our mother's smile press through
The kisses she is giving.
Be pitiful, O God!
We pray together at the kirk,
For mercy, mercy, solely—
Hands weary with the evil work,
We lift them to the Holy!
The corpse is calm below our knee—
Its spirit bright before thee—
Between them, worse than either, we—
Without the rest of glory!
Be pitiful, O God!
We leave the communing of men,
The murmur of the passions;
And live alone, to live again
With endless generations.
Are we so brave?—The sea and sky
In silence lift their mirrors;
And, glassed therein, our spirits high
Recoil from their own terrors.
Be pitiful, O God!
We sit on hills our childhood wist,
Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding:
The sun strikes through the farthest mist,
The city's spire to golden.
The city's golden spire it was,
When hope and health were strong;
But now it is the churchyard grass,
We look upon the longest.
Be pitiful, O God!
And soon all vision waxeth dull—
Men whisper, "He is dying":
We cry no more, "Be pitiful!"—
We have no strength for crying:
No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine,
Look up and triumph rather—
Lo! in the depth of God's Divine,
The Son adjures the Father—
BE PITIFUL, O GOD.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
* * * * *
THE SIFTING OF PETER.
A FOLK-SONG.
"Behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you
as wheat."—LUKE xxii. 31.
In Saint Luke's Gospel we are told
How Peter in the days of old
Was sifted;
And now, though ages intervene,
Sin is the same, while time and scene
Are shifted.
Satan desires us, great and small,
As wheat, to sift us, and we all
Are tempted;
Not one, however rich or great,
Is by his station or estate
Exempted.
No house so safely guarded is
But he, by some device of his,
Can enter;
No heart hath armor so complete
But he can pierce with arrows fleet
Its centre.
For all at last the cock will crow
Who hear the warning voice, but go
Unheeding,
Till thrice and more they have denied
The Man of Sorrows, crucified
And bleeding.
One look of that pale suffering face
Will make us feel the deep disgrace
Of weakness;
We shall be sifted till the strength
Of self-conceit be changed at length
To meekness.
Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache;
The reddening scars remain, and make
Confession;
Lost innocence returns no more;
We are not what we were before
Transgression.
But noble souls, through dust and heat,
Rise from disaster and defeat
The stronger.
And conscious still of the divine
Within them, lie on earth supine
No longer.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
* * * * *
VANITY.
The sun comes up and the sun goes down,
And day and night are the same as one;
The year grows green, and the year grows brown.
And what is it all, when all is done?
Grains of sombre or shining sand,
Gliding into and out of the hand.
And men go down in ships to the seas,
And a hundred ships are the same as one;
And backward and forward blows the breeze,
And what is it all, when all is done?
A tide with never a shore in sight
Getting steadily on to the night.
The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream,
And what is it all, when all is done?
The net of the fisher the burden breaks,
And alway the dreaming the dreamer wakes.
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
DIFFERENT MINDS.
Some murmur when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue;
And some with thankful love are filled
If but one streak of light,
One ray of God's good mercy, gild
The darkness of their night.
In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,
And all good things denied;
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How Love has in their aid
(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.
* * * * *
MY RECOVERY.
Recovery,—daughter of Creation too,
Though not for immortality designed,—
The Lord of life and death
Sent thee from heaven to me!
Had I not heard thy gentle tread approach,
Not heard the whisper of thy welcome voice,
Death had with iron foot
My chilly forehead pressed.
'Tis true, I then had wandered where the earths
Roll around suns; had strayed along the paths
Where the maned comet soars
Beyond the armèd eye;
And with the rapturous, eager greet had hailed
The inmates of those earths and of those suns;
Had hailed the countless host
That throng the comet's disc;
Had asked the novice questions, and obtained
Such answers as a sage vouchsafes to youth;
Had learned in hours far more
Than ages here unfold!
But I had then not ended here below
What, in the enterprising bloom of life,
Fate with no light behest
Required me to begin.
Recovery,—daughter of Creation too,
Though not for immortality designed,—
The Lord of life and death
Sent thee from heaven to me!
From the German of FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.
Translation of W. TAYLOR.
* * * * *
THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE.
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
All common things, each day's events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.
The low desire, the base design,
That makes another's virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
And all occasions of excess;
The longing for ignoble things;
The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
The action of the nobler will:—
All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern—unseen before—
A path to higher destinies.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
* * * * *
SAINT CHRISTOPHER.
"Carry me across!"
The Syrian heard, rose up, and braced
His huge limbs to the accustomed toil:
"My child, see how the waters boil?
The night-black heavens look angry-faced;
But life is little loss.
"I'll carry thee with joy,
If needs be, safe as nestling dove:
For o'er this stream I pilgrims bring
In service to one Christ, a King
Whom I have never seen, yet love."
"I thank thee," said the boy.
Cheerful, Arprobus took
The burden on his shoulders great,
And stepped into the waves once more;
When lo! they leaping rise and roar,
And 'neath the little child's light weight
The tottering giant shook.
"Who art thou?" cried he wild,
Struggling in middle of the ford:
"Boy as thou look'st, it seems to me
The whole world's load I bear in thee,
Yet—" "For the sake of Christ, thy Lord,
Carry me," said the child.
No more Arprobus swerved,
But gained the farther bank, and then
A voice cried, "Hence Christopheros be!
For carrying thou hast carried Me,
The King of angels and of men,
The Master thou hast served."
And in the moonlight blue
The saint saw,—not the wandering boy,
But him who walked upon the sea
And o'er the plains of Galilee,
Till, filled with mystic, awful joy,
His dear Lord Christ he knew.
Oh, little is all loss,
And brief the space 'twixt shore and shore,
If thou, Lord Jesus, on us lay,
Through the deep waters of our way,
The burden that Christopheros bore,—
To carry thee across.
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
* * * * *
SCORN NOT THE LEAST.
When words are weak and foes encountering strong,
Where mightier do assault than do defend,
The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,
And silent sees that speech could not amend.
Yet higher powers most think though they repine,—
When sun is set, the little stars will shine.
While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly,
And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish;
Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by;
These fleet afloat while those do fill the dish.
There is a time even for the worms to creep.
And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep.
The merlin cannot ever soar on high,
Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase;
The tender lark will find a time to fly.
And fearful hare to run a quiet race.
He that high-growth on cedars did bestow,
Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.
In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe;
The Lazar pined while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go.
We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May,
Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL.
* * * * *
THE RIGHT MUST WIN.
O, it is hard to work for God,
To rise and take his part
Upon this battle-field of earth,
And not sometimes lose heart!
He hides himself so wondrously,
As though there were no God;
He is least seen when all the powers
Of ill are most abroad.
Or he deserts us at the hour
The fight is all but lost;
And seems to leave us to ourselves
Just when we need him most.
Ill masters good, good seems to change
To ill with greater ease;
And, worst of all, the good with good
Is at cross-purposes.
Ah! God is other than we think;
His ways are far above,
Far beyond reason's height, and reached
Only by childlike love.
Workman of God! O, lose not heart,
But learn what God is like;
And in the darkest battle-field
Thou shalt know where to strike.
Thrice blest is he to whom is given
The instinct that can tell
That God is on the field when he
Is most invisible.
Blest, is he who can divine
Where the real right doth lie,
And dares to take the side that seems
Wrong to man's blindfold eye.
For right is right, since God is God;
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin!
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
* * * * *
THE COST OF WORTH.
FROM "BITTER SWEET."
Thus is it all over the earth!
That which we call the fairest.
And prize for its surpassing worth,
Is always rarest.
Iron is heaped in mountain piles,
And gluts the laggard forges;
But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles
And lonely gorges.
The snowy marble flecks the land
With heaped and rounded ledges,
But diamonds hide within the sand
Their starry edges.
The finny armies clog the twine
That sweeps the lazy river,
But pearls come singly from the brine
With the pale diver.
God gives no value unto men
Unmatched by meed of labor;
And Cost of Worth has ever been
The closest neighbor.
* * * * *
All common good has common price;
Exceeding good, exceeding;
Christ bought the keys of Paradise
By cruel bleeding;
And every soul that wins a place
Upon its hills of pleasure,
Must give it all, and beg for grace
To fill the measure.
* * * * *
Up the broad stairs that Value rears
Stand motives beck'ning earthward,
To summon men to nobler spheres,
And lead them worthward.
JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.
* * * * *
THE LABORER.
Stand up—erect! Thou hast the form
And likeness of thy God!—Who more?
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure, as breast e'er wore.
What then?—Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan
That with creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.
Who is thine enemy? The high
In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.
If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee?
A feather which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast
The light leaf from the tree.
No: uncurbed passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect.
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus checked;—
These are thine enemies—thy worst:
They chain thee to thy lowly lot;
Thy labor and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect, and from them burst,
And longer suffer not.
Thou art thyself thine enemy:
The great!—what better they than thou?
As theirs is not thy will as free?
Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow?
True, wealth thou hast not—'tis but dust;
Nor place—uncertain as the wind;
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust
Of both—a noble mind.
With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up then; that thy little span
Of life may be well trod.
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
* * * * *
A TRUE LENT.
Is this a fast,—to keep
The larder lean,
And clean
From fat of veals and sheep?
Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
To fill
The platter high with fish?
Is it to fast an hour.
Or ragg'd to go,
Or show
A downcast look, and sour?
No! 't is a fast to dole
Thy sheaf of wheat,
And meat,
Unto the hungry soul.
It is to fast from strife,
From old debate
And hate,—
To circumcise thy life.
To show a heart grief-rent;
To starve thy sin,
Not bin,—
And that's to keep thy Lent.
ROBERT HERRICK.
* * * * *
FROM "THE CHURCH PORCH."
Thou whose sweet youth and early hopes enhance
Thy rate and price, and mark thee for a treasure.
Hearken unto a Verser, who may chance
Rhyme thee to good, and make a bait of pleasure:
A verse may find him who a sermon flies
And turn delight into a sacrifice.
When thou dost purpose aught (within thy power),
Be sure to doe it, though it be but small;
Constancie knits the bones, and make us stowre,
When wanton pleasures beckon us to thrall.
Who breaks his own bond, forfeiteth himself:
What nature made a ship, he makes a shelf.
* * * * *
By all means use sometimes to be alone.
Salute thyself: see what thy soul doth wear.
Dare to look in thy chest; for 't is thine own;
And tumble up and down what thou find'st there.
Who cannot rest till he good fellows finde,
He breaks up house, turns out of doores his minde.
In clothes, cheap handsomenesse doth bear the bell.
Wisdome's a trimmer thing than shop e'er gave.
Say not then, This with that lace will do well;
But, This with my discretion will be brave.
Much curiousnesse is a perpetual wooing;
Nothing, with labor; folly, long a doing.
* * * * *
When once thy foot enters the church, be bare.
God is more there than thou; for thou art there
Only by his permission. Then beware,
And make thyself all reverence and fear.
Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state;
All equal are within the church's gate.
Resort to sermons, but to prayers most:
Praying's the end of preaching. O, be drest!
Stay not for th' other pin: why thou hast lost
A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest
Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee,
Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.
Judge not the preacher; for he is thy judge:
If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not.
God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge
To pick out treasures from an earthen pot.
The worst speak something good: if all want sense,
God takes a text, and preacheth Pa-ti-ence.
GEORGE HERBERT.
* * * * *