when we seem to see,
“Smiling upward from the page,
The image of the thought within the soul!”
But these times, at least after one has written a good deal, are comparatively rare times, and it is more often February than May within us. A subject that seemed full of leaf when it occurred to the mind some weeks ago, in a May-day mood, stands often a stripped bare Winter tree when we sit down to work it out.
Yes, in most of the business of life that is not mere routine and machine-work, no doubt the soul has its May-days—its times of being in the humour for its work, and of doing that work easily and glibly. How many a Clergyman would endorse this, merely in the every-day case of taking a class in his school! Words, earnest and abundant and interesting, throng forth at one time; at another, how bare the mind, and how unready the tongue!
And now, to what do these thoughts lead us? I think to two considerations—one of warning, one of encouragement.
The warning is an obvious one, and yet one much and often neglected. Let such times of warmth and light and glow and possession of blossom be not only enjoyed but employed. The soul’s Flower-time should never be allowed to pass away without having left some noble fruit set. It is common-place to repeat that the May-days of the soul are most abundant and most glowing in youth, the May-time of life. And, in connection with this whole subject, I quote, with an addition, Longfellow’s verse:—
“Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth: it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For oh! it is not always May.”
This is gentle and tender advice; and far am I from wishing to correct it, or to do otherwise than allow it, in its degree. Only there is deeper and more grave advice to be given with it, not instead of it. It is well to enjoy the soul’s May-time, but only well if it be employed as well as enjoyed; otherwise it will pass, and no trace be left. We may make a great May-day show by merely gathering our flowers and weaving them into garlands; and there may be much dancing and excitement and glee. But then, it seems purely and simply sad to see them next day lying neglected, limp, and withering, in patches and dribblets, on the ground; whereas, although the apple-tree and the primrose bank may look sobered and saddened when their blossom-time is past, you yet know that all trace of that sweet adornment is not lost; they are busy henceforth, maturing fruit and seed from the germs that the bloom has left.
Therefore, to return to the principal thing, namely, Religion: remember, when the blossom-time comes, or returns, that its fairy brightness is evanescent. It must pass, therefore use it; enjoy it, but put it out to usury; let it not fade and fall without having left a germ of noble fruit behind. When the heaven seems open to prayer, when the dull sky has cleared, and, thick and sweet as May-flowers, the earnest longings and ready words burst from your bare heart, seize the auspicious hour; let it not pass unemployed. Do not merely taste, but exhaust its sweetness. When God seems to make His listening apparent, refrain not; besiege His throne with prayers, supplications, praises. And again, when the heart has thawed from its deadness and indifference, and a very May-gathering of zeal for God, of love for God and man, of high and holy yearnings and longings and resolves and purposes, crowd upon the Winter sleep of the soul; oh, then, indulge not in a mere sensuality of spiritual enjoyment; stay not at mere revelling in the warm sky and profuse up-springing of flowers; set to work to form, in that propitious hour, some germs of fruit, some careful reforms, some holy resolves, some earnest and lofty purposes, some self-denials, some pressing towards the mark. Prayerfully and painfully set to work, so that, by God’s grace, when the beauty has gone, the use may remain, and the boughs bend with fruit that were once winged with bloom.
Oh, we all know, I say, these May-days of the soul: times when the love of God seems natural to us, and our hearts overflow into a spontaneous love of man; times when hard things are easy, and Apollyon in the way, or Giant Maul coming out of his cave, rather stir the soul to exultation than daunt it with dismay; times when God seems to us not an abstraction, but a reality; when we can fancy the Saviour beside us, as in old days He stood beside Peter or John; times when it seems a light thing to spend and to be spent for Christ’s sake and the brethren; times when the World has no allurements and the Flesh no power, and Satan seems already beat down under our feet; times when we go out to face the hardest duties with no secret desire that the call on us may not be made, but rather with grave steady resolution and with face set like a flint. There are times, I say, when God’s image seems to shine out for a while, clearly and brightly, from the rust and mildew of marring sin and sloth; times when, Samson-like, we rise from sleep, and the fetters that have hitherto tied us down from life’s great deeds become upon our shoulders like as tow when it hath seen the fire. Yes, May seasons there are for the soul, in which there is a press and hurry of blossom, that is well and fair if it be secured for God.