Act 3 — III.

FAITH: HOPE: LOVE: SERVICE.

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FAITH.

O world, thou choosest not the better part! It is not wisdom to be only wise, And on the inward vision close the eyes, But it is wisdom to believe the heart. Columbus found a world, and had no chart, Save one that faith deciphered in the skies; To trust the soul's invincible surmise Was all his science and his only art. Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine That lights the pathway but one step ahead Across a void of mystery and dread. Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine By which alone the mortal heart is led Unto the thinking of the thought divine.

GEORGE SANTAYANA.

* * * * *

THE FIGHT OF FAITH.

[The author of this poem, one of the victims of the persecuting Henry VIII., was burnt to death at Smithfield in 1546. It was made and sung by her while a prisoner in Newgate.]

Like as the armèd Knighte, Appointed to the fielde. With this world wil I fight, And faith shal be my shilde.

Faith is that weapon stronge, Which wil not faile at nede; My foes therefore amonge, Therewith wil I precede.

As it is had in strengthe, And forces of Christes waye, It wil prevaile at lengthe, Though all the devils saye naye.

Faithe of the fathers olde Obtainèd right witness, Which makes me verye bolde To fear no worldes distress.

I now rejoice in harte, And hope bides me do so; For Christ wil take my part, And ease me of my we.

Thou sayst, Lord, whoso knocke, To them wilt thou attende; Undo, therefore, the locke, And thy stronge power sende.

More enemies now I have Than heeres upon my head; Let them not me deprave, But fight thou in my steade.

On thee my care I cast, For all their cruell spight; I set not by their hast, For thou art my delight.

I am not she that list My anker to let fall For every drislinge mist; My shippe's substancial.

Not oft I use to wright In prose, nor yet in ryme; Yet wil I shewe one sight, That I sawe in my time:

I sawe a royall throne, Where Justice shulde have sitte; But in her steade was One Of moody cruell witte.

Absorpt was rightwisness, As by the raginge floude; Sathan, in his excess, Sucte up the guiltlesse bloude.

Then thought I,—Jesus, Lorde, When thou shalt judge us all, Harde is it to recorde On these men what will fall.

Yet, Lorde, I thee desire, For that they doe to me, Let them not taste the hire Of their iniquitie.

ANNE ASKEWE.

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DOUBT AND FAITH.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM," XCV.

You say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.

I know not: one indeed I knew In many a subtle question versed, Who touched a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true:

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds.

He fought his doubts and gathered strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them: thus he came at length

To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone,

But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinai's peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Although the trumpet blew so loud.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND.

My times are in thy hand! I know not what a day Or e'en an hour may bring to me, But I am safe while trusting thee, Though all things fade away. All weakness, I On him rely Who fixed the earth and spread the starry sky.

My times are in thy hand! Pale poverty or wealth. Corroding care or calm repose. Spring's balmy breath or winter's snows. Sickness or buoyant health,— Whate'er betide, If God provide, 'T is for the best; I wish no lot beside.

My times are in thy hand! Should friendship pure illume And strew my path with fairest flowers, Or should I spend life's dreary hours In solitude's dark gloom, Thou art a friend. Till time shall end Unchangeably the same; in thee all beauties blend.

My times are in thy hand! Many or few, my days I leave with thee,—this only pray, That by thy grace, I, every day Devoting to thy praise, May ready be To welcome thee Whene'er thou com'st to set my spirit free.

My times are in thy hand! Howe'er those times may end, Sudden or slow my soul's release, Midst anguish, frenzy, or in peace, I'm safe with Christ my friend. If he is nigh, Howe'er I die, 'T will be the dawn of heavenly ecstasy.

My times are in thy hand! To thee I can intrust My slumbering clay, till thy command Bids all the dead before thee stand, Awaking from the dust. Beholding thee, What bliss 't will be With all thy saints to spend eternity!

To spend eternity In heaven's unclouded light! From sorrow, sin, and frailty free, Beholding and resembling thee,— O too transporting sight! Prospect too fair For flesh to bear! Haste! haste! my Lord, and soon transport me there!

CHRISTOPHER NEWMAN HALL.

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A MYSTICAL ECSTASY.

E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks, That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, And having ranged and searched a thousand nooks, Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, Where in a greater current they conjoin: So I my Best-Belovèd's am; so He is mine.

E'en so we met; and after long pursuit, E'en so we joined; we both became entire; No need for either to renew a suit, For I was flax and he was flames of fire: Our firm-united souls did more than twine: So I my Best-Belovèd's am; so He is mine.

If all those glittering Monarchs that command The servile quarters of this earthly ball, Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land, I would not change my fortunes for them all: Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: The world's but theirs; but my Belovèd's mine.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

* * * * *

THE MYSTIC'S VISION

Ah! I shall kill myself with dreams! These dreams that softly lap me round Through trance-like hours in which meseems That I am swallowed up and drowned; Drowned in your love, which flows o'er me As o'er the seaweed flows the sea.

In watches of the middle night, 'Twixt vesper and 'twist matin bell, With rigid arms and straining sight, I wait within my narrow cell; With muttered prayers, suspended will, I wait your advent—statue-still.

Across the convent garden walls The wind blows from the silver seas; Black shadow of the cypress falls Between the moon-meshed olive-trees; Sleep-walking from their golden bowers, Flit disembodied orange flowers.

And in God's consecrated house, All motionless from head to feet, My heart awaits her heavenly Spouse, As white I lie on my white sheet; With body lulled and soul awake, I watch in anguish for your sake.

And suddenly, across the gloom, The naked moonlight sharply swings; A Presence stirs within the room, A breath of flowers and hovering wings:— Your presence without form and void, Beyond all earthly joys enjoyed.

My heart is hushed, my tongue is mute, My life is centred in your will; You play upon me like a lute Which answers to its master's skill, Till passionately vibrating, Each nerve becomes a throbbing string.

Oh, incommunicably sweet! No longer aching and apart, As rain upon the tender wheat, You pour upon my thirsty heart; As scent is bound up in the rose, Your love within my bosom glows.

MATHILDE BLIND.

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THE CALL.

Come, my way, my truth, my life— Such a way as gives us breath; Such a truth as ends all strife; Such a life as killeth death.

Come my light, my feast, my strength— Such a light as shows a feast; Such a feast as mends in length; Such a strength as makes His guest.

Come my joy, my love, my heart! Such a joy as none can move; Such a love as none can part; Such a heart as joys in love.

GEORGE HERBERT.

* * * * *

HOPE.

FROM "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE."[A]

Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! O, then thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day,— Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within!

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Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er,—the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill!

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Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began,—but not to fade. When all the sister planets have decayed; When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[Footnote A: This poem was written when the author was but twenty-one years of age.]

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A QUERY.

Oh the wonder of our life, Pain and pleasure, rest and strife, Mystery of mysteries, Set twixt two eternities!

Lo, the moments come and go, E'en as sparks, and vanish so; Flash from darkness into light, Quick as thought are quenched in night.

With an import grand and strange Are they fraught in ceaseless change As they post away; each one Stands eternally alone.

The scene more fair than words can say, I gaze upon and go my way; I turn, another glance to claim— Something is changed, 't is not the same.

The purple flush on yonder fell, The tinkle of that cattle-bell, Came, and have never come before, Go, and are gone forevermore.

Our life is held as with a vice, We cannot do the same thing twice; Once we may, but not again; Only memories remain.

What if memories vanish too, And the past be lost to view; Is it all for nought that I Heard and saw and hurried by?

Where are childhood's merry hours, Bright with sunshine, crossed with showers? Are they dead, and can they never Come again to life forever?

No—'t is false, I surely trow; Though awhile they vanish now; Every passion, deed, and thought Was not born to come to nought!

Will the past then come again, Rest and pleasure, strife and pain, All the heaven and all the hell? Ah, we know not: God can tell.

GOOD WORDS.

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HUMILITY.

The bird that soars on highest wing Builds on the ground her lowly nest; And she that doth most sweetly sing Sings in the shade, where all things rest; In lark and nightingale we see What honor hath humility.

When Mary chose "the better part," She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; And Lydia's gently opened heart Was made for God's own temple meet: Fairest and best adorned is she Whose clothing is humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown, In deepest adoration bends: The weight of glory bows him down Then most, when most his soul ascends: Nearest the throne itself must be The footstool of humility.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

* * * * *

KING ROBERT OF SICILY.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, emperor of Allemaine, Apparelled in magnificent attire, With retinue of many a knight and squire, On Saint John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. And as he listened o'er and o'er again Repeated, like a burden or refrain, He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes De sede, et exaltavit humiles;" And slowly lifting up his kingly head, He to a learned clerk beside him said, "What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet, "He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree." Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, "'T is well that such seditious words are sung Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; For unto priests and people be it known, There is no power can push me from my throne!" And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

When he awoke, it was already night; The church was empty, and there was no light, Save where the lamps that glimmered, few and faint, Lighted a little space before some saint. He started from his seat and gazed around, But saw no living thing and heard no sound. He gropèd towards the door, but it was locked; He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, And imprecations upon men and saints. The sounds reëchoed from the roof and walls As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.

At length the sexton, hearing from without The tumult of the knocking and the shout, And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?" Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, "Open: 'tis I, the king! Art thou afraid?" The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; A man rushed by him at a single stride, Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke. But leaped into the blackness of the night, And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire, Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, Strode on and thundered at the palace gate: Bushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage To right and left each seneschal and page, And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed: Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, Until at last he reached the banquet-room, Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his rotes, his crown, his signet-ring. King Robert's self in features, form, and height, But all transfigured with angelic light! It was an angel; and his presence there With a divine effulgence filled the air, An exaltation, piercing the disguise, Though none the hidden angel recognize.

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, The throneless monarch on the angel gazed, Who met his looks of anger and surprise With the divine compassion of his eyes; Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?" To which King Robert answered with a sneer, "I am the king, and come to claim my own From an impostor, who usurps my throne!" And suddenly, at these audacious words, Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; The angel answered with unruffled brow, "Nay, not the king, but the king's jester; thou Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape: Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; A group of tittering pages ran before, And as they opened wide the folding-door, His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring With the mock plaudits of "Long live the king!" Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, He said within himself, "It was a dream!" But the straw rustled as he turned his head, There were the cap and bells beside his bed; Around him rose the bare, discolored walls. Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, And in the corner, a revolting shape, Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape. It was no dream; the world he loved so much Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!

Days came and went; and now returned again To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; Under the angel's governance benign The happy island danced with corn and wine, And deep within the mountain's burning breast Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, Sullen and silent and disconsolate. Dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear, With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, His only friend the ape, his only food What others left,—he still was unsubdued. And when the angel met him on his way, And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, "Art thou the king?" the passion of his woe Burst from him in resistless overflow, And lifting high his forehead, he would fling The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the king!"

Almost three years were ended; when there came Ambassadors of great repute and name From Valmond, emperor of Allemaine, Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane By letter summoned them forthwith to come On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. The angel with great joy received his guests, And gave them presents of embroidered vests, And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. Then he departed with them o'er the sea Into the lovely land of Italy, Whose loveliness was more resplendent made By the mere passing of that cavalcade, With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur.

And lo! among the menials, in mock state, Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, The solemn ape demurely perched behind, King Robert rode, making huge merriment In all the country towns through which they went.

The pope received them with great pomp, and blare Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, Giving his benediction and embrace, Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. While with congratulations and with prayers He entertained the angel unawares, Robert, the jester, bursting through the crowd, Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud: "I am the king! Look and behold in me Robert, your brother, king of Sicily! This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, Is an impostor in a king's disguise. Do you not know me? does no voice within Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" The pope in silence, but with troubled mien. Gazed at the angel's countenance serene; The emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport To keep a madman for thy fool at court!" And the poor, baffled jester in disgrace Was hustled back among the populace.

In solemn state the holy week went by, And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; The presence of an angel, with its light, Before the sun rose, made the city bright, And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw; He felt within a power unfelt before, And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, He heard the rustling garments of the Lord Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

And now the visit ending, and once more Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, Homeward the angel journeyed, and again The land was made resplendent with his train, Flashing along the towns of Italy Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. And when once more within Palermo's wall, And, seated on his throne in his great hall, He heard the Angelus from convent towers, As if the better world conversed with ours, He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, And with a gesture bade the rest retire; And when they were alone, the angel said, "Art thou the king?" Then bowing down his head, King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best! My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, And in some cloister's school of penitence, Across those stones that pave the way to heaven Walk barefoot till my guilty soul is shriven!" The angel smiled, and from his radiant face A holy light illumined all the place, And through the open window, loud and clear, They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, Above the stir and tumult of the street: "He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree!" And through the chant a second melody Rose like the throbbing of a single string: "I am an angel, and thou art the king!"

King Robert, who was standing near the throne, Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! But all apparelled as in days of old, With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; And when his courtiers came they found him there Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

SERVICE.

FROM "PIPPA PASSES."

All service ranks the same with God: If now, as formerly he trod Paradise, his presence fills Our earth, each only as God wills Can work—God's puppets, best and worst, Are we; there is no last nor first.

Say not "a small event"! Why "small"? Costs it more pain than this, ye call A "great event," should come to pass, Than that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed!

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE TWO ANGELS.

God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above: The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest one was Love.

"Arise," He said, "my angels! a wail of woe and sin Steals through the gates of heaven, and saddens all within.

"My harps take up the mournful strain that from a lost world swells, The smoke of torment clouds the light and blights the asphodels.

"Fly downward to that under world, and on its souls of pain, Let Love drop smiles like sunshine, and Pity tears like rain!"

Two faces bowed before the Throne, veiled in their golden hair; Four white wings lessened swiftly down the dark abyss of air.

The way was strange, the flight was long; at last the angels came Where swung the lost and nether world, red-wrapped in rayless flame.

There Pity, shuddering, wept; but Love, with faith too strong for fear, Took heart from God's almightiness and smiled a smile of cheer.

And lo! that tear of Pity quenched the flame whereon it fell, And, with the sunshine of that smile, hope entered into hell!

Two unveiled faces full of joy looked upward to the Throne, Four white wings folded at the feet of Him who sat thereon!

And deeper than the sound of seas, more soft than falling flake, Amidst the hush of wing and song the Voice Eternal spake:

"Welcome, my angels! ye have brought a holier joy to heaven; Henceforth its sweetest song shall be the song of sin forgiven!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

THE SELF-EXILED.

There came a soul to the gate of Heaven Gliding slow— A soul that was ransomed and forgiven, And white as snow: And the angels all were silent.

A mystic light beamed from the face Of the radiant maid, But there also lay on its tender grace A mystic shade: And the angels all were silent.

As sunlit clouds by a zephyr borne Seem not to stir, So to the golden gates of morn They carried her: And the angels all were silent.

"Now open the gate, and let her in, And fling It wide, For she has been cleansed from stain of sin," Saint Peter cried: And the angels all were silent.

"Though I am cleansed from stain of sin," She answered low, "I came not hither to enter in, Nor may I go:" And the angels all were silent.

"I come," she said, "to the pearly door, To see the Throne Where sits the Lamb on the Sapphire Floor, With God alone:" And the angels all were silent.

"I come to hear the new song they sing To Him that died, And note where the healing waters spring From His piercèd side:" And the angels all were silent.

"But I may not enter there," she said, "For I must go Across the gulf where the guilty dead Lie in their woe:" And the angels all were silent.

"If I enter heaven I may not pass To where they be, Though the wail of their bitter pain, alas! Tormenteth me:" And the angels all were silent.

"If I enter heaven I may not speak My soul's desire For them that are lying distraught and weak In flaming fire:" And the angels all were silent.

"I had a brother, and also another Whom I loved well; What if, in anguish, they curse each other In the depths of hell?" And the angels all were silent.

"How could I touch the golden harps, When all my praise Would be so wrought with grief-full warps Of their sad days?" And the angels all were silent.

"How love the loved who are sorrowing, And yet be glad? How sing the songs ye are fain to sing, While I am sad?" And the angels all were silent.

"Oh, clear as glass in the golden street Of the city fair, And the tree of life it maketh sweet The lightsome air:" And the angels all were silent.

"And the white-robed saints with their crowns and palms Are good to see, And oh, so grand are the sounding psalms! But not for me:" And the angels all were silent.

"I come where there is no night," she said, "To go away, And help, if I yet may help, the dead That have no day." And the angels all were silent.

Saint Peter he turned the keys about, And answered grim: "Can you love the Lord and abide without, Afar from Him?" And the angels all were silent.

"Can you love the Lord who died for you, And leave the place Where His glory is all disclosed to view, And tender grace?" And the angels all were silent.

"They go not out who come in here; It were not meet: Nothing they lack, for He is here, And bliss complete." And the angels all were silent.

"Should I be nearer Christ," she said, "By pitying less The sinful living or woful dead In their helplessness?" And the angels all were silent.

"Should I be liker Christ were I To love no more The loved, who in their anguish lie Outside the door?" And the angels all were silent.

"Did He not hang on the cursèd tree, And bear its shame, And clasp to His heart, for love of me, My guilt and blame?" And the angels all were silent.

"Should I be liker, nearer Him, Forgetting this, Singing all day with the Seraphim, In selfish bliss?" And the angels all were silent.

The Lord Himself stood by the gate, And heard her speak Those tender words compassionate, Gentle and meek: And the angels all were silent.

Now, pity is the touch of God In human hearts, And from that way He ever trod He ne'er departs: And the angels all were silent.

And He said, "Now will I go with you, Dear child of love, I am weary of all this glory, too, In heaven above:" And the angels all were silent.

"We will go seek and save the lost, If they will hear, They who are worst but need me most, And all are dear:" And the angels were not silent.

WALTER C. SMITH.

* * * * *

SYMPATHY.