FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART I.
Reading edition
He was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery, And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation A godly, thorough Reformation, Which always must be carried on And still be doing, never done; As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended. A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick; That with more care keep holiday The wrong than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclined to, By damning those they have no mind to; Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped God for spite; The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for.
SAMUEL BUTLER.
* * * * *
THE PROBLEM.
I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle: Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,— The canticles of love and woe. The hand that rounded Peters dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew;— The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Knowest thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone; And Morning opes with haste her lids, To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For, out of Thought's interior sphere, These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast Soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise,— The Book itself before me lies,— Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
* * * * *
ON AN INFANT
WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM.
"Be, rather than be called, a child of God," Death whispered!—with assenting nod, Its head upon its mother's breast, The baby bowed, without demur— Of the kingdom of the Blest Possessor, not inheritor.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
* * * * *
WHAT WAS HIS CREED?
"Religion relates to life, and the life of religion is to do good."—SWEDENBORG.
He left a load of anthracite In front of a poor woman's door. When the deep snow, frozen and white, Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor. That was his deed. He did it well. "What was his creed?" I cannot tell.
Blessed "in his basket and his store," In sitting down and rising up; When more he got, he gave the more, Withholding not the crust and cup. He took the lead In each good task. "What was his creed?" I did not ask.
His charity was like the snow, Soft, white, and silent in its fall; Not like the noisy winds that blow From shivering trees the leaves,—a pall For flowers and weed, Drooping below. "What was his creed?" The poor may know.
He had great faith in loaves of bread For hungry people, young and old, Hope he inspired; kind words he said To those he sheltered from the cold. For we should feed As well as pray. "What was his creed?" I cannot say.
In words he did not put his trust; His faith in words he never writ; He loved to share his cup and crust With all mankind who needed it. In time of need A friend was he. "What was his creed?" He told not me.
He put his trust in heaven, and he Worked well with hand and head; And what he gave in charity Sweetened his sleep and daily bread. Let us take heed, For life is brief. What was his creed—What his belief?
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD.
Down deep in the hollow, so damp and so cold, Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown, The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould, Lying loose on a ponderous stone. Now within this huge stone, like a king on his throne, A toad has been sitting more years than is known; And, strange as it seems, yet he constantly deems The world standing still while he's dreaming his dreams,— Does this wonderful toad in his cheerful abode In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in the hollow, from morning till night, Dun shadows glide over the ground, Where a watercourse once, as it sparkled with light, Turned a ruined old mill-wheel around: Long years have passed by since its bed became dry, And the trees grow so close, scarce a glimpse of the sky Is seen in the hollow, so dark and so damp, Where the glow-worm at noonday is trimming his lamp, And hardly a sound from the thicket around, Where the rabbit and squirrel leap over the ground, Is heard by the toad in his spacious abode In the innermost heart of that ponderous stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in that hollow the bees never come, The shade is too black for a flower; And jewel-winged birds with their musical hum, Never flash in the night of that bower; But the cold-blooded snake, in the edge of the brake, Lies amid the rank grass, half asleep, half awake; And the ashen-white snail, with the slime in, its trail, Moves wearily on like a life's tedious tale, Yet disturbs not the toad in his spacious abode, In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in a hollow some wiseacres sit, Like a toad in his cell in the stone; Around them in daylight the blind owlets flit, And their creeds are with ivy o'ergrown;— Their stream may go dry, and the wheels cease to ply, And their glimpses be few of the sun and the sky, Still they hug to their breast every time-honored guest. And slumber and doze in inglorious rest; For no progress they find in the wide sphere of mind, And the world's standing still with all of their kind; Contented to dwell deep down in the well, Or move like a snail in the crust of his shell, Or live like the toad in his narrow abode, With their souls closely wedged in a thick wall of stone, By the gray weeds of prejudice rankly o'ergrown.
REBECCA S. NICHOLS.
* * * * *
HER CREED.
She stood before a chosen few, With modest air and eyes of blue; A gentle creature, in whose face Were mingled tenderness and grace.
"You wish to join our fold," they said: "Do you believe in all that's read From ritual and written creed, Essential to our human need?"
A troubled look was in her eyes; She answered, as in vague surprise. As though the sense to her were dim, "I only strive to follow Him."
They knew her life; how, oft she stood, Sweet in her guileless maidenhood, By dying bed, in hovel lone, Whose sorrow she had made her own.
Oft had her voice in prayer been heard, Sweet as the voice of singing bird; Her hand been open in distress; Her joy to brighten and to bless.
Yet still she answered, when they sought To know her inmost earnest thought, With look as of the seraphim, "I only strive to follow Him."
Creeds change as ages come and go; We see by faith, but little know: Perchance the sense was not so dim To her who "strove to follow Him."
SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON.
* * * * *
MY CREED.
I hold that Christian grace abounds Where charity is seen; that when We climb to heaven, 't is on the rounds Of love to men.
I hold all else, named piety, A selfish scheme, a vain pretence; Where centre is not—can there be Circumference?
This I moreover hold, and dare Affirm where'er my rhyme may go,— Whatever things be sweet or fair, Love makes them so.
Whether it be the lullabies That charm to rest the nursling bird, Or the sweet confidence of sighs And blushes, made without a word.
Whether the dazzling and the flush Of softly sumptuous garden bowers, Or by some cabin door, a bush Of ragged flowers.
'Tis not the wide phylactery, Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers, That make us saints: we judge the tree By what it bears.
And when a man can live apart From works, on theologic trust, I know the blood about his heart Is dry as dust.
ALICE CAREY.
* * * * *
GIVE ME THY HEART.
With echoing steps the worshippers Departed one by one; The organ's pealing voice was stilled, The vesper hymn was done; The shadow fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air, One lamp alone, with trembling ray, Told of the Presence there!
In the dark church she knelt alone; Her tears were falling fast; "Help, Lord," she cried, "the shades of death Upon my soul are cast! Have I not shunned the path of sin, And chose the better part? "— What voice came through the sacred air?— "My child, give me thy heart!"
"Have not I laid before thy shrine My wealth, O Lord?" she cried; "Have I kept aught of gems or gold, To minister to pride? Have I not bade youth's joys retire, And vain delights depart?"— But sad and tender was the voice,— "My child, give me thy heart!"
"Have I not, Lord, gone day by day Where thy poor children dwell; And carried help, and gold, and food? O Lord, thou know'st it well! From many a house, from many a soul, My hand bids care depart":— More sad, more tender was the voice,— "My child, give me thy heart!"
"Have I not worn my strength away With fast and penance sore? Have I not watched and wept?" she cried; "Did thy dear saints do more? Have I not gained thy grace, O Lord, And won in heaven my part?"— It echoed louder in her soul,— "My child, give me thy heart!
"For I have loved thee with a love No mortal heart can show; A love so deep my saints in heaven Its depths can never know: When pierced and wounded on the cross, Man's sin and doom were mine, I loved thee with undying love, Immortal and divine!
"I loved thee ere the skies were spread; My soul bears all thy pains; To gain thy love my sacred heart In earthly shrines remains: Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs, Without one gift divine; Give it, my child, thy heart to me, And it shall rest in mine!"
In awe she listened, as the shade Passed from her soul away; In low and trembling voice she cried,— "Lord, help me to obey! Break thou the chains of earth, O Lord, That bind and hold my heart; Let it be thine and thine alone, Let none with thee have part.
"Send down, O Lord, thy sacred fire! Consume and cleanse the sin That lingers still within its depths: Let heavenly love begin. That sacred flame thy saints have known, Kindle, O Lord, in me, Thou above all the rest forever, And all the rest in thee."
The blessing fell upon her soul; Her angel by her side Knew that the hour of peace was come; Her soul was purified; The shadows fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air,— But peace went with her as she left The sacred Presence there!
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR.
* * * * *
O, MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE!
O, may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn Of miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's minds To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing a beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, A vicious parent shaming still its child, Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burden of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better,—saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shaped it forth before the multitude, Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love, That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, Unread forever. This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us, who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven,—be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense! So shall I join the choir invisible, Whose music is the gladness of the world.
MARIAN EVANS LEWES CROSS (George Eliot).
* * * * *
O YET WE TRUST THAT SOMEHOW GOOD.
FROM "IN MEMORIAM," LIII.
O yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last—far off—at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.
So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
* * * * *
DAY BREAKS.
What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower. Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour? Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand, If the bright morning dawns upon the land.
"The stars are clear above me; scarcely one Has dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun; But I yet see on the horizon's verge Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge."
Look forth again, O watcher on the tower,— The people wake and languish for the hour; Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine For the full daylight that they know must shine.
"I see not well,—the moon is cloudy still,— There is a radiance on the distant hill; Even as I watch the glory seems to grow; But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow."
And is that all, O watcher on the tower? Look forth again; it must be near the hour; Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes, And the green woods beneath them on the slopes?
"A mist envelops them; I cannot trace Their outline; but the day comes on apace: The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes, And all the stars grow dim; the morning breaks."
We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower: But look again, and tell us, hour by hour, All thou beholdest: many of us die Ere the day comes; oh, give them a reply!
"I see the hill-tops now, and chanticleer Crows his prophetic carol on mine ear; I see the distant woods and fields of corn, And ocean gleaming in the light of morn."
Again, again, O watcher on the tower! We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour, Patient, but longing. Tell us, shall it be A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free?
"I hope, but cannot tell; I hear a song, Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong, As of a lark—young prophet of the noon— Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune."
What doth he say, O watcher on the tower? Is he a prophet? does the dawning hour Inspire his music? Is his chant sublime, Filled with the glories of the future time?
"He prophesies,—his heart is full; his lay Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day; A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm, But sunny for the most, and clear and warm."
We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower, For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour When error shall decay, and truth grow strong, And light shall rule supreme and conquer wrong?
"He sings of brotherhood and joy and peace, Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease; When war shall cease, and man's progressive mind Soar as unfettered as its God designed."
Well done, thou watcher on the lonely tower! Is the day breaking? Dawns the happy hour? We pine to see it; tell us yet again If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain?
"It breaks! it comes! the misty shadows fly: A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky; The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear, The plain is yet in shade, but day is near."
CHARLES MACKAY.
* * * * *
MY HOME.
A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR A HOUSE IN THE GREEN PARISH OF DEVONSHIRE.
Lord, thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell, A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the sparres of which I lie, Both soft and drie; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate; Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my doore Is worn by the poore, Who hither come and freely get Good words or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little butterie, and therein A little byn, Which keeps my little loafe of bread Unchipt, unflead. Some sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose loving coals I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confesse too, when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that bee There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain, and the messe Of water-cresse, Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; And my content Makes those and my beloved beet More sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltlesse mirth, And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soiles my land, And gives me for my bushel sowne, Twice ten for one. Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day, Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each yeare; The while the conduits of my kine Run creame for wine. All these and better thou dost send Me to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankfulle heart, Which, fired with incense, I resigne As wholly thine; But the acceptance, that must be, MY CHRIST, by thee.
ROBERT HERRICK.
* * * * *
PEACE.
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave. Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave; And asked if Peace were there. A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No! Go, seek elsewhere."
I did; and, going, did a rainbow note: "Surely," thought I, "This is the lace of Peace's coat. I will search out the matter." But, while I looked, the clouds immediately Did break and scatter.
Then went I to a garden, and did spy A gallant flower,— The crown-imperial. "Sure," said I, "Peace at the root must dwell." But, when I digged, I saw a worm devour What showed so well.
At length I met a reverend, good old man; Whom when for Peace I did demand, he thus began: "There was a prince of old At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase Of flock and fold.
"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But, after death, out of his grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat; Which many wondering at, got some of those To plant and set.
"It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth. For they that taste it do rehearse, That virtue lies therein,— A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth, By flight of sin.
"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you: Make bread of it; and that repose And peace which everywhere With so much earnestness you do pursue, Is only there."
GEORGE HERBERT.
* * * * *
PEACE.
Is this the peace of God, this strange sweet calm? The weary day is at its zenith still, Yet 't is as if beside some cool, clear rill, Through shadowy stillness rose an evening psalm. And all the noise of life were hushed away, And tranquil gladness reigned with gently soothing sway.
It was not so just now. I turned aside With aching head, and heart most sorely bowed; Around me cares and griefs in crushing crowd. While inly rose the sense, in swelling tide, Of weakness, insufficiency, and sin, And fear, and gloom, and doubt in mighty flood rolled in.
That rushing flood I had no power to meet, Nor power to flee: my present, future, past, Myself, my sorrow, and my sin I cast In utter helplessness at Jesu's feet: Then bent me to the storm, if such his will. He saw the winds and waves, and whispered. "Peace, be still!"
And there was calm! O Saviour, I have proved That thou to help and save art really near: How else this quiet rest from grief and fear And all distress? The cross is not removed, I must go forth to bear it as before, But, leaning on thine arm, I dread its weight no more.
Is it indeed thy peace? I have not tried To analyze my faith, dissect my trust, Or measure if belief be full and just, And therefore claim thy peace. But thou hast died, I know that this is true for me, And, knowing it, I come, and cast my all on thee.
It is not that I feel less weak, but thou Wilt be my strength; it is not that I see Less sin, but more of pardoning love with thee, And all-sufficient grace. Enough! and now All fluttering thought is stilled, I only rest, And feel that thou art near, and know that I am blest.
FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.
* * * * *
LIVING WATERS.
There are some hearts like wells, green-mossed and deep As ever Summer saw; And cool their water is,—yea, cool and sweet;— But you must come to draw. They hoard not, yet they rest in calm content, And not unsought will give; They can be quiet with their wealth unspent, So self-contained they live.
And there are some like springs, that bubbling burst To follow dusty ways, And run with offered cup to quench his thirst Where the tired traveller strays; That never ask the meadows if they want What is their joy to give;— Unasked, their lives to other life they grant, So self-bestowed they live!
And One is like the ocean, deep and wide, Wherein all waters fall; That girdles the broad earth, and draws the tide, Feeding and bearing all; That broods the mists, that sends the clouds abroad, That takes, again to give;— Even the great and loving heart of God. Whereby all love doth live.
CAROLINE S. SPENCER.
* * * * *
DEVOTION.
The immortal gods Accept the meanest altars, that are raised By pure devotion; and sometimes prefer An ounce of frankincense, honey, or milk, Before whole hecatombs, or Sabæan gems, Offered in ostentation.
PHILIP MASSINGER.
* * * * *
THE SEASIDE WELL.
"Waters flowed over mine head; then I said, I am cut off."—LAMENTATIONS iii. 54.
One day I wandered where the salt sea-tide Backward had drawn its wave, And found a spring as sweet as e'er hillside To wild-flowers gave. Freshly it sparkled in the sun's bright look, And mid its pebbles strayed, As if it thought to join a happy brook In some green glade.
But soon the heavy sea's resistless swell Came rolling in once more, Spreading its bitter o'er the clear sweet well And pebbled shore. Like a fair star thick buried in a cloud, Or life in the grave's gloom, The well, enwrapped in a deep watery shroud, Sunk to its tomb.
As one who by the beach roams far and wide, Remnant of wreck to save, Again I wandered when the salt sea-tide Withdrew its wave; And there, unchanged, no taint in all its sweet, No anger in its tone, Still as it thought some happy brook to meet, The spring flowed on.
While waves of bitterness rolled o'er its head, Its heart had folded deep Within itself, and quiet fancies led, As in a sleep; Till, when the ocean loosed his heavy chain, And gave it back to day, Calmly it turned to its own life again And gentle way.
Happy, I thought, that which can draw its life Deep from the nether springs, Safe 'neath the pressure, tranquil mid the strife, Of surface things. Safe—for the sources of the nether springs Up in the far hills lie; Calm—for the life its power and freshness brings Down from the sky.
So, should temptations threaten, and should sin Roll in its whelming flood, Make strong the fountain of thy grace within My soul, O God! If bitter scorn, and looks, once kind, grown strange, With crushing chillness fall, From secret wells let sweetness rise, nor change My heart to gall!
When sore thy hand doth press, and waves of thine Afflict me like a sea,— Deep calling deep,—infuse from source divine Thy peace in me! And when death's tide, as with a brimful cup, Over my soul doth pour, Let hope survive,—a well that springeth up Forevermore!
Above my head the waves may come and go, Long brood the deluge dire, But life lies hidden in the depths below Till waves retire,— Till death, that reigns with overflowing flood, At length withdraw its sway, And life rise sparkling in the sight of God An endless day.
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
ULTIMA VERITAS.
In the bitter waves of woe, Beaten and tossed about By the sullen winds that blow From the desolate shores of doubt,—
When the anchors that faith had cast Are dragging in the gale, I am quietly holding fast To the things that cannot fail:
I know that right is right; That it is not good to lie; That love is better than spite, And a neighbor than a spy;
I know that passion needs The leash of a sober mind; I know that generous deeds Some sure reward will find;
That the rulers must obey; That the givers shall increase; That Duty lights the way For the beautiful feet of Peace;—
In the darkest night of the year, When the stars have all gone out, That courage is better than fear, That faith is truer than doubt;
And fierce though the fiends may fight, And long though the angels hide, I know that Truth and Eight Have the universe on their side;
And that somewhere, beyond the stars, Is a Love that is better than fate; When the night unlocks her bars I shall see Him, and I will wait.
WASHINGTON GLADDEN.
* * * * *
THE END OF THE PLAY.
The play is done,—the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell; A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.
One word, ere yet the evening ends,— Let's close it with a parting rhyme; And pledge a hand to all young friends, As flits the merry Christmas time; On life's wide scene you, too, have parts That fate erelong shall bid you play; Good night!—with honest, gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!
Good night!—I'd say the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age; I'd say your woes were not less-keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men,— Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again.
I'd say we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than boys,— With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys; And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school, I'd say how fate may change and shift,— The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift: The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be Be who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit,— Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen!—whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the awful will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize,— Go, lose or conquer as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays;) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days; The shepherds heard it overhead,— The joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men!
My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health and love and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still,— Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
* * * * *
THE NEW YEAR.
FROM "IN MEMORIAM," CV.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night— Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new—, Ring happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land— Ring in the Christ that is to be.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
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LIFE.
It is not life upon thy gifts to live, But to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee; And when the sun and showers their bounties give, To send out thick-leaved limbs; a fruitful tree Whose green head meets the eye for many a mile, Whose spreading boughs a friendly shelter rear, And full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile As to its goodly shade our feet draw near. Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more, For 't is the Father spreads the pure repast, Who, while we eat, renews the ready store, Which at his bounteous board must ever last; And, as the more we to his children lend, The more to us doth of his bounty send.
JONES VERY.
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