FROM "ION," ACT I. SC. 2.
Reading edition
'T is a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarean juice Renews the life of joy in happier hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense, yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall Like choicest music, fill the glazing eye With gentle tears, relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again; And shed on the departing soul a sense, More precious than the benison of friends About the honored death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels.
SIR THOMAS NOON TALFOURD.
* * * * *
SIR GALAHAD.
My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims. Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessèd vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessèd forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knight—to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear. This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, and turned to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
* * * * *
FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT.
Prune thou thy words; the thoughts control That o'er thee swell and throng;— They will condense within thy soul, And change to purpose strong.
But he who lets his feelings run In soft luxurious flow, Shrinks when hard service must be done, And faints at every woe.
Faith's meanest deed more favor bears, Where hearts and wills are weighed, Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, Which bloom their hour, and fade.
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.
* * * * *
SANTA FILOMENA.
[FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.]
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,
The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent.
On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past.
A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
* * * * *
A DEED AND A WORD.
A little stream 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 all might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid a 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.
* * * * *
SOGGARTH AROON.
Am I the slave they say, Soggarth aroon?[A] Since you did show the way, Soggarth aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Old Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon.
Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth aroon?
Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be not slave to you, Soggarth aroon, Nor, out of fear to you, Stand up so near to you— Och! out of fear to you, Soggarth aroon!
Who, in the winter's night, Soggarth aroon, When the cold blasts did bite, Soggarth aroon, Came to my cabin-door, And on my earthen-floor Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon?
Who, on the marriage day, Soggarth aroon, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth aroon, And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon?
Who, as friends only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon; And when my heart was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth aroon?
Och! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon! Our love they'll never shake, When for ould Ireland's sake We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon!
JOHN BANIM.
[Footnote A: Priest, dear.]
* * * * *
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.
PRELUDE TO PART FIRST.
Over his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream.
* * * * *
Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.
Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its Benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us: The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in. The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,— In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it; We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by: And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,— And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving; 'T is as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,— 'Tis the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remember the keeping of his vow?
PART FIRST.
"My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail: Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep; Here on the rushes will I sleep, And perchance there may come a vision true Ere day create the world anew." Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim; Slumber fell like a cloud on him, And into his soul the vision flew.
The crows flapped over by twos and threes, In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year, And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees: The castle alone in the landscape lay Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray; 'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree; Summer besieged it on every side, But the churlish stone her assaults defied; She could not scale the chilly wall, Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall Stretched left and right. Over the hills and out of sight; Green and broad was every tent, And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night.
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, And through the dark arch a charger sprang, Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers long, And binding them all in one blazing sheaf, Had cast them forth; so, young and strong, And lightsome as a locust leaf, Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail, To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.
It was morning on hill and stream and tree, And morning in the young knight's heart; Only the castle moodily Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, And gloomed by itself apart; The season brimmed all other things up Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.
As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall; For this man, so foul and bent of stature, Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,— So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.
The leper raised not the gold from the dust:— "Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door: That is no true alms which the hand can hold; He gives only the worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty: But he who gives but a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight,— That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite,— The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, The heart outstretches its eager palms; For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before."
PRELUDE TO PART SECOND.
Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hilltop bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The little brook heard it, and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him winter-proof; All night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams; Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars; He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest crypt. Long, sparkling aisles of steel stemmed trees Mending to counterfeit a breeze; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here He had caught the nodding bulrush tops And hung them thickly with diamond drops. That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one: No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter palace of ice; 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay In his depths serene through the summer day, Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, Lest the happy model should be lost. Sad been mimicked in fairy masonry By the elfin builders of the frost.
Within the hall are song and laughter; The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With lightsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer.
But the wind without was eager and sharp; Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing in dreary monotone A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!"
The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold.
PART SECOND.
There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was dumb and could not speak, For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea.
Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gale, For another heir in his earldom sate: An old, bent man, worn out and frail, He came back from seeking the Holy Grail. Little he recked of his earldom's loss, No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross; But deep in his soul the sigh he wore, The badge of the suffering and the poor.
Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare Was idle mail 'gainst the barbèd air, For it was just at the Christmas-time; So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, And sought for a shelter from cold and snow In the light and warmth of long ago. He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, He can count the camels in the sun, As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass, The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade. And with its own self like an infant played, And waved its signal of palms.
"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms:"— The happy camels may reach the spring, But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, That cowers beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease.
And Sir Launfal said,—"I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,— Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,—
And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side: Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through him, I give to thee!"
Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie, When he girt his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust: He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink; 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread 'T was water out of a wooden bowl,— Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul
As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place; The leper no longer crouched at his side, But stood before him glorified, Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,— Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man.
His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, That mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; And the voice that was softer than silence said:— Lo, it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail: Behold, it is here,—this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, This water His blood that died on the tree; The Holy Supper is kept indeed In whatso we share with another's need. Not, what we give, but what we share,— For the gift without the giver is bare: Who gives himself with his alms feeds three.— Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me."
Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:— "The Grail in my castle here is found! Hang my idle armor up on the wall, Let it be the spider's banquet-hall; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail."
The castle gate stands open now, And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hang-bird is to the elm-tree bough; No longer scowl the turrets tall. The summer's long siege at last is o'er: When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with him in disguise, And mastered the fortress by surprise; There is no spot she loves so well on ground; She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has hall and bower at his command; And there's no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
* * * * *
THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
She once was a lady of honor and wealth; Bright glowed in her features the roses of health; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold: Joy revelled around her, love shone at her side, And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride; And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.
She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, That called her to live for her suffering race; And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Rose quickly, like Mary, and answered, "I come." She put from her person the trappings of pride, And passed from her home with the joy of a bride, Nor wept at the threshold as onward she moved,— For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.
Lost ever to fashion, to vanity lost, That beauty that once was the song and the toast, No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame: Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.
Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love; Those hands, that once dangled the perfume and gem, Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them; That voice, that once echoed the song of the vain. Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.
Her down-bed, a pallet—her trinkets, a bead; Her lustre—one taper, that serves her to read; Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed; Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crownèd head; Her cushion—the pavement that wearies her knees; Her music—the psalm, or the sigh of disease: The delicate lady lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.
Yet not to the service of heart and of mind Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined: Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity there is a friend.
Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves, mid the vapors of death; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows her Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face, With looks that are lighted with holiest grace; How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.
Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain! Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers, self-seeking men; Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen; How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?
GERALD JOSEPH GRIFFEN.
* * * * *
WHAT I LIVE FOR.
I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true, For heaven that smiles above me, And waits my spirit, too; For all the ties that bind me, For all the tasks assigned me. And bright hopes left behind me, And good that I can do.
I live to learn their story Who've suffered for my sake, To emulate their glory, And follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The noble of all ages, Whose deeds crown history's pages, And Time's great volume make.
I live to hold communion With all that is divine, To feel there is a union 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truths from fields of fiction, And, wiser from conviction, Fulfil each grand design.
I live to hail that season, By gifted minds foretold, When men shall rule by reason, And not alone by gold; When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old.
I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true, For heaven that smiles above me, And waits my spirit too; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do.
GEORGE LINNAEUS BANKS.
* * * * *
IF WE HAD BUT A DAY.
We should fill the hours with the sweetest things, If we had but a day; We should drink alone at the purest springs In our upward way; We should love with a lifetime's love in an hour, If the hours were few; We should rest, not for dreams, but for fresher power To be and to do.
We should guide our wayward or wearied wills By the clearest light; We should keep our eyes on the heavenly hills, If they lay in sight; We should trample the pride and the discontent Beneath our feet; We should take whatever a good God sent, With a trust complete.
We should waste no moments in weak regret, If the day were but one; If what we remember and what we forget Went out with the sun; We should be from our clamorous selves set free, To work or to pray, And to be what the Father would have us be. If we had but a day.
MARY LOWE DICKINSON.
* * * * *
ABOU BEN ADHEM.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so." Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,— And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!
LEIGH HUNT.
* * * * *
LOVE.
If suddenly upon the street My gracious Saviour I should meet, And he should say, "As I love thee, What love hast thou to offer me?" Then what could this poor heart of mine Dare offer to that heart divine?
His eye would pierce my outward show, His thought my inmost thought would know; And if I said, "I love thee, Lord," He would not heed my spoken word, Because my daily life would tell If verily I loved him well.
If on the day or in the place Wherein he met me face to face, My life could show some kindness done, Some purpose formed, some work begun For his dear sake, then it were meet Love's gift to lay at Jesus' feet.