Part 1 / Book 5 — FROM "PARADISE LOST," BOOK V.
Reading edition
The seraph Abdiel, faithful found Among the faithless, faithful only he; Among innumerable false, unmoved, Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal; Nor number, nor example with him wrought To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind, Though single. From amidst them forth he passed, Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained Superior, nor of violence feared aught; And with retorted scorn his back he turned On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.
MILTON.
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LOW SPIRITS.
Fever and fret and aimless stir And disappointed strife, All chafing, unsuccessful things, Make up the sum of life.
Love adds anxiety to toil, And sameness doubles cares. While one unbroken chain of work The flagging temper wears.
The light and air are dulled with smoke: The streets resound with noise; And the soul sinks to see its peers Chasing their joyless joys.
Voices are round me; smiles are near; Kind welcomes to be had; And yet my spirit is alone, Fretful, outworn, and sad.
A weary actor, I would fain Be quit of my long part; The burden of unquiet life Lies heavy on my heart.
Sweet thought of God! now do thy work As thou hast done before; Wake up, and tears will wake with thee, And the dull mood be o'er.
The very thinking of the thought Without or praise or prayer, Gives light to know, and life to do, And marvellous strength to bear.
Oh, there is music in that thought, Unto a heart unstrung, Like sweet bells at the evening time, Most musically rung.
'Tis not his justice or his power, Beauty or blest abode, But the mere unexpanded thought Of the eternal God.
It is not of his wondrous works, Not even that he is; Words fail it, but it is a thought Which by itself is bliss.
Sweet thought, lie closer to my heart! That I may feel thee near, As one who for his weapon feels In some nocturnal fear.
Mostly in hours of gloom thou com'st, When sadness makes us lowly, As though thou wert the echo sweet Of humble melancholy.
I bless thee. Lord, for this kind check To spirits over free! More helpless need of thee! And for all things that make me feel
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
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I SAW THEE.
"When thou wast under the fig-tree, I saw thee."
I Saw thee when, as twilight fell, And evening lit her fairest star, Thy footsteps sought yon quiet dell, The world's confusion left afar.
I saw thee when thou stood'st alone, Where drooping branches thick o'erhung, Thy still retreat to all unknown, Hid in deep shadows darkly flung.
I saw thee when, as died each sound Of bleating flock or woodland bird, Kneeling, as if on holy ground, Thy voice the listening silence heard.
I saw thy calm, uplifted eyes, And marked the heaving of thy breast, When rose to heaven thy heartfelt sighs For purer life, for perfect rest.
I saw the light that o'er thy face Stole with a soft, suffusing glow, As if, within, celestial grace Breathed the same bliss that angels know.
I saw—what thou didst not—above Thy lowly head an open heaven; And tokens of thy Father's love With smiles to thy rapt spirit given.
I saw thee from that sacred spot With firm and peaceful soul depart; I, Jesus, saw thee,—doubt it not,— And read the secrets of thy heart!
RAY PALMER.
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LOSSE IN DELAYES.
Shun delayes, they breed remorse, Take thy time while time doth serve thee, Creeping snayles have weakest force, Flie their fault, lest thou repent thee. Good is best when soonest wrought, Lingering labours come to nought.
Hoyse up sayle while gale doth last, Tide and winde stay no man's pleasure; Seek not time when time is past, Sober speede is wisdome's leasure. After-wits are dearely bought, Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.
Time weares all his locks before, Take thou hold upon his forehead; When he flies, he turnes no more, And behind his scalpe is naked. Workes adjourned have many stayes, Long demurres breed new delayes.
Seeke thy salve while sore is greene, Festered wounds aske deeper launcing; After-cures are seldome seene, Often sought, scarce ever chancing. Time and place gives best advice. Out of season, out of price.
Crush the serpent in the head, Breake ill eggs ere they be hatched: Kill bad chickens in the tread; Fledged, they hardly can be catched: In the rising stifle ill, Lest it grow against thy will.
Drops do pierce the stubborn flint, Not by force, but often falling; Custome kills with feeble dint. More by use than strength prevailing: Single sands have little weight, Many make a drowning freight.
Tender twigs are bent with ease, Aged trees do breake with bending; Young desires make little prease, Growth doth make them past amending. Happie man that soon doth knocke, Babel's babes against the rocke.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL.
* * * * *
THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY.
Dear, secret greenness! nurst below Tempests and winds and winter nights! Vex not, that but One sees thee grow; That One made all these lesser lights.
What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself, an outward test? Who breaks his glass, to take more light, Makes way for storms into his rest.
Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch Till the white-winged reapers come!
HENRY VAUGHAN.
* * * * *
PATIENCE.
She hath no beauty in her face Unless the chastened sweetness there, And meek long-suffering, yield a grace To make her mournful features fair:—
Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young, She roams through dim, unsheltered ways; Nor lover's vow, nor flatterer's tongue Brings music to her sombre days:—
At best her skies are clouded o'er, And oft she fronts the stinging sleet, Or feels on some tempestuous shore The storm-waves lash her naked feet.
Where'er she strays, or musing stands By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart, We see her pale, half-tremulous hands Crossed humbly o'er her aching heart!
Within, a secret pain she bears,— pain too deep to feel the balm An April spirit finds in tears; Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!
Yet in her passionate strength supreme, Despair beyond her pathway flies, Awed by the softly steadfast beam Of sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!
Who pause to greet her, vaguely seem Touched by fine wafts of holier air; As those who in some mystic dream Talk with the angels unaware!
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.
* * * * *
SOMETIME.
Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, And sun and stars forevermore have set, The things o'er which our weak judgments here have spurned, The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us, out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans are right, And how what seems reproof was love most true.
And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me; How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, Because his wisdom to the end could see. And e'en as prudent parents disallow Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good.
And if sometimes, commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this potion for our lips to drink. And if some friend we love is lying low, Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, But wear your sorrow with obedient grace!
And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest bloom his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within, and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key.
But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold. We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart, Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. And if, through patient toil, we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest, When we shall clearly know and understand, I think that we will say, "God knew the best!"
MAY RILEY SMITH.
* * * * *
FATHER, THY WILL BE DONE!
He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, Alike they're needful for the flower; And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father, thy will, not mine, be done!
Can loving children e'er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love? Creator, I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father, thy will, not mine, be done!
Oh, ne'er will I at life repine; Enough that thou hast made it mine; When falls the shadow cold of death, I yet will sing with parting breath: As comes to me or shade or sun, Father, thy will, not mine, be done!