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!

WASHINGTON GLADDEN.